THE OFFICIAL BLOG OF AUTHOR
ANDREW C. PETERSON
Making Ink Out of Think.
- The Importance of Dialogue
I love words. I also love moments in TV and film where characters I enjoy engage in a meaningful conversation. It’s not a fistfight, a chase scene, or a conflict. It’s just them talking, using words to show us who the character is, what they believe, and how they feel.
A film like Before Sunrise.
Richard Linklater and Kim Krizan co-wrote the story, which follows Jesse (Ethan Hawke) and Céline (Julie Delpy) as they meet on a train in Europe, talk for a short while, and disembark in Vienna to spend the night together. Beginning in the afternoon, they wander the city together, talking to each other, and, more importantly, listening to each other’s responses and then asking the next logical question. They do this throughout the night.
You know the conversation I’m talking about. The one where it’s you and your best friends at 1 AM. You’re young and have all the answers, but in those moments, you have questions, too. And the people you trust are with you, and so you start talking.
Celine: I believe if there’s any kind of God it wouldn’t be in any of us, not you or me but just this little space in between. If there’s any kind of magic in this world it must be in the attempt of understanding someone sharing something. I know, it’s almost impossible to succeed but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt.
Or, like in this film, you have found that person. The one who ignites your senses. The one you feel safe with. The one you can discuss life’s mysteries with, ask questions of, and state your honest answers. The person your soul is dancing with through every word, every look, and every touch.
There is no drama to be found in Before Sunrise. No one is robbed, attacked, or accosted on the streets of Vienna. Instead, we get to spend 101 minutes in the company of two people engaged in a conversation so real I would have thought it was a documentary, with dialogue recorded and transcribed for the co-writers.
It’s hopeful.
It’s heartbreaking.
It’s glorious.
And it is all told through their dialogue.
In my opinion, Before Sunrise is well worth your valuable time and attention.
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What film or TV show (or a scene from either) or book do you love for the dialogue? Let me know in the comments.
- Heroic Myth and Adrian Tannhauser
During class last week, one of my students asked about the importance of creating a character for our stories. I responded with this quote:
“For me, the novel is character creation. Style is nice, plot is nice, structure is OK, social significance is OK, symbolism worms its way in, timeliness is OK too, but unless the characters convince and live the book’s got no chance.”
–Larry McMurtry, quoted in Larry McMurtry: A Life by Tracy DaughertyThen I was asked: How much of the character’s attributes are necessary to have in your head before you begin writing about them (with them)?
That is a good question. For me, I usually allow for the broad strokes first. Here’s a glimpse into the creation of Adrian Tannhauser and how I settled on creating a private eye to tell my stories.
Just as the cowboy is the direct descendant of the chivalric knight, the private investigator is the next generation of the American cowboy. Both the cowboy and the PI live on society’s frayed edges, forging a place for themselves on the outskirts of civilization where the lamplight ends and darkness is at hand. I wanted to explore what being a PI in the 21st century meant. I also wanted to make him a combat veteran since America has been at war in the Middle East for most of the 21st century.
When crafting my veteran turned private investigator, I wanted a name beyond the English/Irish/Scottish tradition. Since I am interested in Norse mythology, I looked to the body of myths of the North Germanic peoples for a German-sounding name. At the same time, I rewatched Blade Runner and the brilliant “Tears in Rain” speech that refers to a forever-unexplained Tannhäuser Gate:
I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.
A folk tale from the 16th century tells of Tannhäuser, a knight and poet who discovered the Venusberg, the subterranean home of Venus, the Roman goddess of love and spent a year there worshipping her. Eventually, Tannhäuser was remorseful for living a hedonistic life, left the Venusberg, and traveled to Rome to ask Pope Urban IV to absolve him of his sins. Urban replied that forgiveness is impossible, as much as it would be for his papal staff to blossom. Dejected, Tannhäuser left Rome. Three days after Tannhäuser’s departure, Urban’s staff bloomed with flowers. Urban dispatched messengers to retrieve the knight, but he had already returned to Venusberg and was never seen again.
I decided to invert the idea.
What if the pleasures of Venusburg were instead the pain found on the field of combat on foreign soil? What if he came home seeking forgiveness but lacked the wherewithal to ask for it? What if an injury prevented him from remembering the best of his world while accentuating its worst? Now, the staff of Pope Urban IV is Tannhauser’s wooden cane. His left leg injury is the physical reminder of his time in the otherworld; of his failure. Unforgiven, he now fights a war on the streets of America, determined to save others’ souls because he cannot forgive himself.
The pursuit of mercy through justice might save others, but will it save him?
This is who Adrian Tannhauser is.
Later, as I wrote his stories, I knew he was a man of honor, defending people who cannot defend themselves. I understood his underlying anger, estrangement from his family, and desire to come home–physically and emotionally.
Now, as I write the last story in the collection of short stories that culminated in my thesis, I see how far I have taken this premise and how much more there is to explore.
Onward.
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Race Bannon by Doug Wildey, private commission. This updated version of Bannon is the closest thing to Tannhauser in my mind.
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- Ten Sentences
I had an epiphany before class last week. Instead of simply giving my students a ten-minute writing prompt, I would change the game up a bit, forcing them to use even more creativity and description. Here is the assignment:
Using only ten sentences, tell us a story with a beginning and ending. Every word should count and contribute to the story. Choose them wisely.
Boy, did they deliver. They submitted some of the tightest work that I have seen from any of them. Really good stuff. The assignment worked so well that we’re doing a version of it again this week.
The other morning, as I was working on my latest Tannhauser story (YES! There’s another one in the works!) I decided to try my hand at the ten-sentence scene/story restriction. I didn’t edit, and it leaped from my fingers to the keyboard.
Submitted for your enjoyment.
Tannhauser – 10 Sentences
“You’re not the one I want,” he screamed at me.
“But I’m the one you have,” I said, leaning on my cane, standing in front of the young store clerk, who was frightened into silence as he waved the gun around, trying to get a shot at her through me.
“You think I won’t kill you,” he sneered, looking at his ex, the woman he’s clearly repeatedly threatened but now gone too far.
“You can try,” I said, gripping the cane that I’ve used to disarm—maim—people with many times before today, “but how sure are you that you’ll be able to pull that trigger before I close this distance, disarm you, and leave you with hickory bruises for your trouble?”
“Man, I will fucking end you,” he said, spittle forming on his lips, flying through the air.
“Are you sure about that,” my voice low and cold, the tone only ever used in Iraq.
“Lonnie,” she cried from behind me, “Don’t do this!”
“Put the gun down, Lonnie,” I said, drawing his attention back to me one last time, “or make your play.”
He looked at me, then his gaze hardened back on her, “You fucking bitch, you ruined my life,” he said, raising his gun hand as I made my move.* * *
I made my statement to the officer on scene as the ambulance took Lonnie away, numerous bruises covering his body, his nose hickory-broken and bloodied, and me grateful.
–Andrew C. Peterson, “Tannhauser: Ten Sentences”If you ever want to test your own skills, give this assignment a try.
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- What’s YOUR Story?
“Don’t ever apologize to an author for buying something in paperback, or taking it out from a library (that’s what they’re there for. Use your library). Don’t apologize to this author for buying books second hand, or getting them from bookcrossing or borrowing a friend’s copy. What’s important to me is that people read the books and enjoy them, and that, at some point in there, the book was bought by someone. And that people who like things, tell other people. The most important thing is that people read.”
— Attributed to Neil Gaiman* * *
Last week during my workshop at Haywood Community College, one of my students said, “You haven’t shared any of YOUR work with us.” The others all nodded, “Yeah, that’s right.”
“How about it, Andy?”
I paused. To be honest, I kind of dreaded this moment. What if they read my stuff and don’t like it? I thought about making a joke of it or sharing a link to any of the volumes of Ground Fiction on Amazon. Then I realized:
* Imposter syndrome apparently never goes away.
* My work is already available for public consumption.
* It’s a valid question.
Before I took a class with Seth Harwood or Chris Mooney, I read their first published works, figuring that if they were going to teach me about writing, then I wanted to know where they were coming from. I’m glad I did–“Jack Wakes Up” by Seth is a rollicking good read.
So, since I bought a copy of Ground Fiction I followed Neil’s advice and sent them a copy of “Green River,” my first published story featuring Adrian Tannhauser, my Boston-based PI wearing cowboy boots, leaning on a cane, and looking for a way to come home again.
Graciously, some of my students reached out privately with their thoughts:
The character of Adrian is complex and funny and tragic and I loved that mix.
I enjoyed meeting your characters. I will read it again because I think there is much to study in there with sentence length and the showing not telling which stood out. Tough subject and well done.
I hear the voice you bring to class in your writing. Expressions. Mannerisms (I will stay away from closed doors around you). Storytelling…The ease of the writing is what got me. No bumps. Fluid and flowing from one scene to the next.
Yeah, I could have asked them to buy the book, but they have trusted me with their words for two semesters now. The very least that I could do was trust them with mine. If my writing walks the walk that I’m talking in class, then so much the better.
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- The Right Words
“At Cornell University, my professor of European literature, Vladimir Nabokov, changed the way I read and the way I write. Words could paint pictures, I learned from him. Choosing the right word, and the right word order, he illustrated, could make an enormous difference in conveying an image or an idea.”
— Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, from “Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s Advice for Living”, published in the New York Times Opinion section on Oct. 1, 2016.
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“The right word, and the right word order…” – God, I love this.
I remember taking “Academic Writing and Critical Reading” with Paul Thur as a requirement for my undergrad. As the syllabus outlined, we were to read “challenging and provocative texts, written by anthropologists and literary critics, philosophers and art historians”. On the first night of class, Paul said that it was his job to teach us to read to “improve your ability to express complex, original ideas in readable prose.”
In my arrogance, I thought, “I’m forty-four years old, Paul. I know how to read.”
I was wrong.
This course kicked my ass and challenged every preconceived notion that I had about reading and writing. However, thanks to Paul Thur, I became a better reader and writer.
I love that Justice Ginsburg followed a similar path in her writing, taught by Nabokov, no less.
A study of the humanities sharpens the focus on the wonder of human accomplishment. We can use the knowledge accumulated over millennia by cultures across the world to grapple with the idea of what it means to be human. Through the humanities, we can expand our intellect so that it fuses with our imagination. In doing so, it is possible to look at–and attempt to understand–the human condition.
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- Even Authors are Fans
“Soon Dawn appeared and touched the sky with roses.”
— From Emily Wilson’s translation of Homer’s “The Odyssey” (W.W. Norton & Company, 2017, Page 220).Dr. Emily Wilson’s translation of The Odyssey is the first published English translation of Homer’s epic by a woman. She is also the first author to receive a fan letter from me.
Dear Dr. WIlson,
I have never written a fan letter before and likely won’t again. Also, I am not a translator. I am simply a reader.
My first adult experience with The Odyssey was the Fagles edition. Since then I have read translations by Lattimore and Fitzgerald but preferred Fagles for my studies because of its accessibility. No longer. My go-to edition of The Odyssey is now your translation.
I found your translation to be so concise and muscular, giving the poem the heft that it deserves and a jaunty vitality that oozes from the pages. It was simply a joy to read and I wanted you to know that.
Thank you for bringing your translation into the world of literature. We are the better for it.
And she replied!
Dear Andrew Peterson,
I am so grateful to you for this marvelous message. Thank you! You cheered me up enormously. How kind of you to write.
All best wishes,
Emily
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You can purchase your copy of The Odyssey here.
- My Friend, Mr. Crosby
Once a library aide, always a library aide. Brendan J. Crosby was the Library Media Specialist at Silver Lake Regional High School in Pembroke. He stood over six feet tall, dressed in a three-piece suit every day, and smoked a pipe, back in the days when you could smoke a pipe in a library in a high school. He was also my friend. Today, he was coming to my house.
He had left SLRHS after my freshman year. We didn’t keep in touch. One day, my phone rang. It was Mr. Crosby, and he was asking to come by and visit. He’d like to see me, and he was bringing a gift.
Mom would not be home that day, but Dad would be. They agreed to my visit. And now Dad and I were seated in the living room, waiting to hear an unfamiliar car on our small street. In the meantime, I thought of my friend.
I don’t remember exactly what sparked our friendship? I probably asked a question and received a very precise answer complete with a lesson of some type. Not long after we met, I referred to Mr. Crosby as a librarian. “No, Andy, I’m a library media specialist,” he said while enunciating every word. I know that the look on my face said, “What’s the difference?” For the next five minutes, I found out. That’s how Mr. Crosby rolled.
I hung out in the library during every study hall, before school, and sometimes afterward. Naturally, Mr. Crosby drafted me to be a library aid. I took to it easily and well. While I sadly do not remember the Dewey Decimal System as well as I should, I enjoyed shelving books, organizing the returns cart, and stamping a book that gave me a glimpse into what my classmates were reading. Between tasks, Mr. Crosby and I would talk. He’d ask me what I was reading, how my artwork was coming along, and what I wanted to do in college. We talked about history, books, you name it. He knew a little bit about a lot, and he knew a lot about a few things. He encouraged my questions and creativity. I had both in abundance.
One day I drew a cartoon of him–three-piece suit, pipe, and huge forehead. It made him laugh. So, for his birthday, I did one of him as a leprechaun (in full color). He was appreciably moved, and so was I at his response.
The day he left school, I hung out in the library, and we talked in-between well-wishes from some members of the faculty and a few students. He drew me a simple landscape and wrote (if my memory serves):
Andy–with a pen you are great; you are good.
Do what you know you should.
Don’t be a goon, get a job
with a cartoon.He left the library, and I never expected to see him again. Now he was at my front door.
Mr. Crosby was dressed as he always was, in an impeccably pressed three-piece dark green suit, spit-shined, cognac brown designer shoes, and stood tall in our small house. I introduced him to Dad, who was dressed in a short-sleeve button-down shirt, dull brown pants, and drab shoes. I looked at these two men and was embarrassed for my Dad, who looked so small and ordinary next to him.
Dad worked in a factory. He gave up his possible life as a history teacher because P&G paid more. He talked about history but not much. He went to the plant, ran machines, came home with off-color jokes, and never asked me what I was thinking about or wanted with my life. I’m embarrassed by it now (and not long afterward) but at that moment I thought my father was a very small man in the shadow of my friend.
Mr. Crosby stayed for an hour or so. He and Dad chatted amiably. They discussed their time in the military. Mr. Crosby was still in the army or guard in some capacity and was teaching somewhere–my memory fails me here. Still, he was respectful of my Dad and listened to the Old Man talk about his job and bits about his time in the service. Then, Mr. Crosby did what he always did–he asked me what I was reading, how my drawing was coming along, and what my plans were. We talked for a long while.
At one point Mr. Crosby turned to Dad and said, “You’ve got a bright, talented young man here, Mr. Peterson. You should be proud of him. I am.”Dad tripped over his words, finally getting out, “I am. Thank you.”
Before he left, he handed me a gift. It was a small brown plaque, with gold leaf and lettering. In the center was a color reproduction of the cartoon I drew of him as a leprechaun. The words around it said, simply, “Andy Peterson – Friend”Mr. Crosby got into his car–a new model, not one of the used cars we had in our driveway–waved, and drove away. Our promises to stay in touch were derailed after Mom died and we moved out of Pembroke. I lost his number, and he had no way to find me. I like to think that he tried to do so. I wish I had.
I never hung the plaque in my childhood home. I’m not exactly sure why not but I have my suspicions now. Still, once in a while I rummage through a box in the basement, looking at my Lakers pennant, various pictures, and a plaque that declared me someone’s friend.
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- One Thousand Words
The author is ready for the senior prom in 1983 A Moment (Seemingly) Caught in Amber
This is a photo of me taken on the day of my senior prom in 1983. No one would blame you if your eyes came to a rest on my Javier Bardem “No Country for Old Men” haircut or the grey tuxedo. However, I see so much more.
This is the fireplace in my childhood home. If there was a formal picture to be taken in our house it was done right here.
Dad always treated making a fire as a chore so it wasn’t as common as I would have liked. However, on cold and chilly winter mornings when the Old Man felt ambitious (because Mom asked for one) you would find me in my pajamas laying in front of the fire on the braided wool rug with the Sunday Funnies from the Boston Globe and a sketchpad. Suki would lay nearby. That dog loved the warm fire as much as I did and I always gave her tummy rubs.
That ceramic cat was made by my sister Barbara at Mom’s request. We made quite a few pieces during our ceramic classes. Sadly, none of them survived Dad’s moves after Mom passed.
The milk can has a patriotic eagle on it. I don’t remember its origins either but a good guess would be Mary Comeau. Mary had painted the Peterson slate that hung across the room near the family crest. She is a talented painter to this day.
I don’t know what books or magazines are on top of the milk can but Dad would place things here for easy access from his chair.
Of course, the milk can reminds me that Mom used to take a giant glass water jug and fill it with water and red food dye and placed it on the front steps in the summer.
The chair to the left was in the corner between the picture window and a window that looked out onto the Giniewicz’s yard. This is the chair that I sat in most often, reading comic books, sci-fi, mythology, or whatever else I was interested in at the moment. Mom brought The Star home every shopping day and I know that I read that, too.
The chair to the right of me is where the Old Man always sat. Not quite as militant about his chair as Archie Bunker but close enough. Here Dad would read the Patriot Ledger before dinner, smoke his pipe while watching TV, and dispense paternal wisdom or discipline as needed.
Behind my head and unseen is the painting “Head of Christ” by American artist Warner Sallman. This painting was a gift to my Mom from Lois Hindmarsh, whose husband she had provided hospice care. It hung over the mantle until December when it was briefly replaced by a wreath with various dried fruits on it. The painting now hangs in my dining room.
The hurricane lamps on either side of the painting were only turned on during actual storms or at odd moments. I liked the low, yellow light. Sometimes when Mom & Dad were out in the evening (a rare occurrence) I would turn on these lights and watch TV on the small B&W set. As soon as I heard their car I would turn them off again.
A picture of my maternal grandparents, Andrew and Margaret, is on the left of the mantle. The only time that picture ever came down was at Christmas when Mom’s decorations would take over. By the time this photo was taken Grampa had been gone for over six years. Nana would live for another forty-seven.
I am uncertain of the next few knick-knacks. I believe that the blue circle is commemorating either the Pembroke Library or the Meeting House. To the right of me is a statue of a grey mouse, its meaning long since lost to me. Mom liked it or it wouldn’t be there. Good enough for me.
That picture on the far right of the mantle is the most recent one of me and my siblings and the best that Sears portrait studio could provide in 1982. We did one of these every few years at Mom’s request/insistence. It was annoying then. Now I’m glad that I have a few of them.
We weren’t rich when I was a kid. Far from it. We were middle-class teetering on the edge all the time but I never knew that. When I think of those days I think of the things that I have described here and so many more. These are some of the things that made a house our home and the day-to-day moments that took place between these walls created my childhood.
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- High Rises and Hard Falls
Digital Art: Nick Edlund, Edlund Design Edlund Design does it again.
When I was developing a media presence for my work featuring Adrian Tannhauser, I turned to Nick Edlund, one of my oldest and dearest friends for the visuals.
Edlund Design specializes in creative and effective design for print and digital media. Nick reads each of the Tannhauser stories, zeroes in on a salient point, and creates a visual for each story. I am never disappointed.
This graphic is from “High Rises and Hard Falls” which is featured in “Ground Fiction Vol. 3” (available here). Adrian’s quiet moment of browsing at the Brattle Book Shop in Boston doesn’t go quite as he anticipated.
“I was reading, flipping through a hardcover copy of Flint by Louis L’Amour, stopping at this passage: Never let them know how you feel or what you are thinking. If they know how you feel they know how to hurt you, and if they hurt you once, they will try again.
Good words, Mr. L’Amour. Sold. I tucked the book under my arm. A step behind me, a voice.
“Hey, excuse me, you got five bucks?
―Andrew C. Peterson, from “High Rises and Hard Falls”Intrigued? I hope so. Want to know what happens next? If so, check out “Ground Fiction Vol. 3” for the rest of the story.
Also, if you need to add any visual communication to your website or for your company, check out Edlund Design and tell ’em Tannhauser sent you.
Finally, if you’re ever in Boston you owe it to yourself to spend an afternoon at both Brattle Book Shop and Commonwealth Books. There’s a good chance that I will see you there when you do.
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- Why Not Shakespeare?
Chandos portrait, attributed to John Taylor, (1585–1651), oil on canvas, 1610 In this weekend’s By the Book interview in The New York Times Book Review, author Geraldine Brooks wrote, “I taught writing at Harvard last year and half my students had never read a Shakespeare play. That set my hair on fire.”
Mine too.
How are we now letting high school students get by without any exposure to the Bard? Of course, I didn’t feel this way in high school when I groaned at the thought of reading musty old plays for school.
My exposure to Shakespeare at SLRHS included “The Merchant of Venice”, “Macbeth”, “Romeo and Juliet”, and “King Lear”. I ended up reading “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” and “The Tempest” thanks to the Reader’s Digest copies that my Mom had on the small bookcase near the front door.
Sure there were ghosts, witches, faeries, magic, and things that go bump in the night in some of his works and I found that wonderfully exciting as a high school student. It appealed to my comic book reading, Elric of Melniboné, and D&D sensibilities. Heck, there are “Star Trek” episodes based on works by Shakespeare. However, more importantly, there is a depth to his characters who experience, fall prey to, succumb to, rise above, and embrace deeply emotions that we all see, hear, and feel throughout our lives.
Most helpful to me were the discussions of these characters and their feelings among my peers which led me to a greater understanding of the length and breadth of human emotion. We can all love someone and have that love accepted or rejected. We can hate, be jealous, envious, vainglorious, ambitious, sage, and reckless. We can all feel what Shakespeare’s characters felt and our perceptions of these characters were shaped by our circumstances and empathy. Through these classes, I learned that I wasn’t an island unto myself with the feelings that surged and raged inside of me.
To me, his words are of the utmost importance. Shakespeare is humanity writ large but written close and essential to understanding the human condition.
“When Shakespeare is charged with debts to his authors, Landor replies, “Yet he was more original than his originals. He breathed upon dead bodies and brought them into life.”
―Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), Letters and Social Aims.What works of Shakespeare (good or bad) stuck with you? Should Shakespeare be required learning?
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