Don’t Get Hung Up on Your Beginning – Again

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Bring Up the Bodies, Joyce Carol Oates, the importance of a first page, Wolf Hall, Writing Historical Fiction

 

I have just started reading Hilary Mantel’s long-awaited third book and am not disappointed – though it highlights my own insecurities about trying to write quality historical fiction. 

After collecting The Mirror & the Light from Waterstones, I referred back to something I posted on this blog back in March 2015 about learning from the opening pages of a masterpiece like Wolf Hall. Thoughts triggered by a quote from Joyce Carol Oates: ‘The first sentence can’t be written until the final sentence is written‘. She was talking about not getting hung-up on your beginning.

I hope you will agree that the post quoted below still has relevance:

                                                        ******

Recently I read Wolf Hall for the second time. I didn’t mean to, not quite so soon after my initial head-long rush through its pages, but I casually opened the book and Hilary Mantel hooked me in once again. But at least the second time around I was able to look at it with more of a writer’s eye.

‘So now get up.’

Felled, dazed, silent, he has fallen; knocked full length on the cobbles of the yard… One blow, properly placed, could kill him now…his left eye is blinded, but if he squints sideways with his right eye he can see the stitching of his father’s boot is unravelling. The twine has sprung clear of the leather and a hard knot in it has caught his eyebrow and opened another cut.

What an opening. Our hero is in jeopardy. And from his own father. Hilary Mantel has drawn a vivid picture of that cobbled yard and the battered leather boot. The reader can imagine how easily that rough knot would lacerate tender flesh.

Three paragraphs later Hilary Mantel continues:

Inch by inch. Inch by inch forward. Never mind if he calls you an eel, or a worm, or a snake. Head down, don’t provoke him.

When digesting this the second time around it dawned on me that not only is the prose powerful, not only does it push the story urgently forward, but that here on the first two pages Hilary Mantel is foretelling Cromwell’s progress at the Court of Henry VIII. The tortuous, careful advance. The need to ignore hurtful insults. The danger inherent in provoking a man with total power.

Those first pages were surely the last that she penned – and the lesson to us must be to soldier on, to finish one’s book and then go back to craft that vital opening. So, no more delays trying to find that elusive opening sentence. It’s almost certainly too soon. Finish your book, then perfect the opening. Another Wolf Hall is too much to aim for – but one can dream.

Maggie

Another Book For Your Christmas List

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Books for Christmas, Francis Spufford, Golden Hill, The Miniaturist, Waterstones, Wolf Hall, Writing Historical Fiction

On one of my frequent trawls through the treasures in our local Waterstones I noticed that the wonderful Golden Hill by Francis Spufford is out in paperback. For anyone who enjoys a classy historical novel, this would make a perfect Christmas gift.

Having loved the book in hardback, and enthused about it on this site when it first came out, I thought I’d reproduce those earlier thoughts here. Since that time I’ve re-read Golden Hill several times, seeking pointers on how to write a top-flight historical novel. Francis Spufford makes it look easy, but sadly that isn’t so…

With apologies for repeating myself, here, again, are my thoughts on this outstanding book. I’m still waiting for him to write a sequel, or Hollywood to come up with the film. It’s a cracking tale.

An impatient, personable young man from London has himself rowed from the brig Henrietta to the New York shore of 1746, carrying a bill of exchange in his pocket. It’s for the vast amount of one thousand pounds – and must be honoured within sixty days by trader Master Lovell, who owes this sum to the London company who issued the bill.

Deeply suspicious of this ‘strip of a boy who comes demanding payment of an awk’ard-sized fortune, on no surety‘ – and with London a six-week sail across the ocean, meaning a fraud couldn’t be uncovered before the money falls due – Lovell and his fellow merchants have a decision to take which could ruin them. Is the mysterious Richard Smith genuine? A bold-faced crook? Up to devious political mischief? Or attempting something much darker?

For everyone agrees he’s up to something. He openly admits to it. Yet despite hints and red herrings, nothing will get the truth out of him – not offers of violence, rooftop chases, a duel, a branding, nor the threat of the hangman’s noose. Smith keeps his surprising secret to the final page.

Francis Spufford’s novel is a fine plum pudding of a book, rich with spice and full of silver-sixpence-like surprises. I gobbled it up, swallowing (along with envy of an author who can create such a clever game of pass-the-parcel) layer-upon-layer of story from which the reader must tease out clues to the secret at its core.

The language is gloriously dense in places. But if it is occasionally purple, it’s the colour of a Georgian brocade waistcoat, the texture of the cloth opulent under one’s exploring fingers, yet not necessarily giving helpful information about the wearer’s identity. This is arguably necessary, since modern language would struggle to convey the landscape of a city where church spires look down on a display of trophy human scalps; where the reality of a duel of honour is a blundering struggle through deep snow, with spurting blood and unexpected consequences; where one of the great cities of the world is in the bold process of creating itself.

Then there are Spufford’s wonderful characters: the feline Tabitha, who hates novels yet quotes Shakespeare; the voluptuous Mrs Tomlinson, who makes Smith a saucy but generous offer he cannot, for politeness, refuse; the intriguingly erudite Achilles, ‘a tall African of about Smith’s age, wearing livery, with long limbs and a tight knob of a head like the bole of a dark tree‘ who has a complex and surprising relationship with Septimus Oakeshott, the Governor’s young aide. My heart still breaks over Septimus.

Historical novels don’t have to be bodice-rippers. They can be Wolf Hall. They can be The Miniaturist. They can be Golden Hill. Those of us trying to write about the distant past can only see such mastery, and gnash our teeth with envy.

 

Golden Hill by Francis Spufford

Tags

Francis Spufford, Golden Hill, Historical Novels, Wolf Hall

An impatient, personable young man from London has himself rowed from the brig Henrietta to the New York shore of 1746 with a bill of exchange in his pocket. It’s for the huge amount of one thousand pounds – and must be honoured within sixty days by trader Master Lovell, who owes this sum to the London company who issued the bill.

Deeply suspicious of this ‘strip of a boy who comes demanding payment of an awk’ard-sized fortune, on no surety‘ – and with London a six-week sail across the ocean, meaning a fraud couldn’t be uncovered before the money falls due – Lovell and his fellow merchants have a make-or-break decision to take. Is the mysterious Richard Smith genuine? A bold-faced crook? Up to political mischief? Or attempting something much darker?

For he’s up to something, everyone agrees. He openly admits to it. Yet despite hints and red herrings nothing will prise the exact truth out of him – not offers of violence, rooftop chases, a duel, a branding, nor the threat of the hangman’s noose. Smith keeps his secret until the final page.

Francis Spufford’s novel is a fine plum pudding of a book, rich with spice and full of silver-sixpence-like surprises. I gobbled it up, swallowing it down (along with envy of an author who can create such a clever game of pass-the-parcel) layer upon layer of story from which the reader must tease-out clues and try to get a feel for the secret lying at its core.

The language is gloriously dense in places. But if it is occasionally purple it is the colour of a Georgian brocade waistcoat, the texture of the cloth opulent under one’s exploring fingers, yet not necessarily giving an accurate clue to the wearer’s true identity. This is arguably necessary, since modern language would struggle to convey the landscape of a city where church spires look down on a display of trophy human scalps; where the reality of a duel is a blundering struggle through deep snow, with spurting blood and unexpected consequences; where one of the great cities of the world is in the bold process of creating itself.

Then there are Spufford’s wonderful characters: the feline Tabitha, who hates novels yet quotes Shakespeare; the voluptuous Mrs Tomlinson, who makes Smith a generous offer he cannot, for politeness, refuse; the intriguing Achilles, ‘a tall African of about Smith’s age, wearing livery, with long limbs and a tight knob of a head like the bole of a dark tree’  who has, for a slave, a complex relationship with Septimus Oakeshott, the Governor’s young aide. My heart still breaks over Septimus.

Historical novels don’t all have to be bodice-rippers. They can be Wolf Hall. They can be Golden Hill. I was going insane trying to work out what was at the bottom of it all – now I’m mad to find out whether there might possibly be a sequel.

 

Positively the Final Word on Wolf Hall…

Tags

Thomas Cromwell, Wolf Hall

The Sunday Times’ Culture section today printed several letters from women who have fallen for Hilary Mantel’s Cromwell. (See also our own Crystallised Ginger’s comment on the 26 February) The final word, however, came from a Mr Ian Duckworth:

I feel I am unqualified to comment on the attractiveness of Thomas Cromwell, but he strikes me as a man who could easily lose his head over a woman…

Don’t Get Hung Up On Your Beginning

Tags

Hilary Mantel, Wolf Hall

‘The first sentence can’t be written until the final sentence is written.’ Joyce Carol Oates

Recently I read Wolf Hall for the second time. I didn’t mean to, not quite so soon after my initial head-long rush through its pages, but I casually opened the book and Hilary Mantel hooked me in yet again. But at least the second time around I was able to look at it with more of a writer’s eye.

‘So now get up.’
Felled, dazed, silent, he has fallen; knocked full length on the cobbles of the yard… One blow, properly placed, could kill him now. …his left eye is blinded, but if he squints sideways with his right eye he can see the stitching of his father’s boot is unravelling. The twine has sprung clear of the leather and a hard knot in it has caught his eyebrow and opened another cut.

What an opening. Our hero is in jeopardy. And from his own father. Hilary Mantel has drawn a picture of that cobbled yard and the battered leather boot. The reader understands how that rough knot would cut into tender flesh.

Three paragraphs later Hilary Mantel continues:

Inch by inch. Inch by inch forward. Never mind if he calls you an eel, or a worm, or a snake. Head down, don’t provoke him.

When reading this the second time around, it dawned on me that not only is the prose powerful, not only does it push the story forward, but that here on the first two pages Hilary Mantel is foretelling Cromwell’s progress at the Court of Henry VIII. The tortuous, careful advance. The need to shrug off hurtful insults. The danger inherent in provoking the man with so much power.

Those first pages were surely the last that she penned – and the lesson must be to soldier on, finish one’s book and then go back to craft that vital opening. So, no more delays trying to find that elusive opening sentence. It’s almost certainly too soon. Finish the book, then perfect the opening. Another Wolf Hall is too much to aim for – but one can dream.

Hilary Mantel on Bring Up The Bodies

Tags

Anne Boleyn, BBC Radio 4, Bookclub, Bring Up the Bodies, Henry VIII, Hilary Mantel, Man Booker Prize, Thomas Cromwell, Wolf Hall

Just listened to Bookclub on Radio 4, with Hilary Mantel talking about ‘Bring Up The Bodies’ and looking forward to the third volume in her Thomas Cromwell trilogy. Well worth tuning in if you liked ‘Wolf Hall’ or ‘Bodies’: certainly an appetiser for Vol 3. As she described it, ‘Wolf Hall’ led up to Thomas More’s demise, ‘Bodies’ to Anne Boleyn’s, and Vol 3 will take us to her hero’s own, with the focus on his relationship with Henry VIII. http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b03c2mys is the link to the Radio 4 page; the programme will be repeated on Thursday at 3-30 pm and will soon be available on I-Player.