Samson or Sampson? What's in a name...

As the days (okay, still months...) tick down towards publication of Revolutionary (January, folks!) all the final details are getting extra attention.  Many of these points are trivial enough not to deserve expansive description, but one task came across my plate this week that is worth getting into.

Namely (pun!), the question of how to spell Deborah's maiden name.  In my novel, I chose to spell it Samson.  Most sources list it as Sampson.  Thus, it might be easy to assume that I made a mistake in my spelling, but really it is a deliberate choice.

I find it fascinating that no signature of Deborah's exists prior to the war -- there is nowhere a place where she penned her own name (Samson or Sampson).  We have, of course, her signature as Robert Shurtliff (which is variously spelled Shurtlieff and Shurtleff -- there are both variant spellings as well as hard to read penmanship).  We have her signature as Deborah Gannett.  But no indication of how she spelled her maiden name.

After the war, there is no question that others spelled it Sampson and did so prominently.  Here, for instance, is the frontispiece of the "memoir" written by Herman Mann (with whom she collaborated closely) Mann Text that has her named spelled "Sampson."

But before the war, Baptist records (Deborah converted, or was "received" as a Baptist in 1780) mark her as "Samson" and then, two years later, when she was excommunicated, list her as "Sampson."  Even further back, all family records indicate that her father and her father's ancestors spelled it "Samson."  (I am indebted, as with many facts about Deborah, to Alfred Young.)   It was for this reason -- the clear family and historical precedent -- that I chose to spell her name "Samson."

My selection aside, the point I wanted to make here is one about the historical period (and history in general).  First, there is the variation in spelling (and my study of letters and journals of Revolutionary War soldiers bears this out) -- as long as it sounded right, the spelling didn't seem to matter much.  Second, there's the lack of documentation and "official" status to identity.  Deborah was Samson or Sampson; she was Robert Shurtliff or Shurleff or Shurtlieff.  No licenses, no passports, no papers.  Just say-so.  Just here-I-am.  And third, the idea that one's material self disappears.  That she lived in a time when she would right her own name so infrequently and on substance so ephemeral that it doesn't remain, except when others wrote it.

Identity and how we forge our own expressions of ourselves lies at the core of Revolutionary.  This minor (what does spelling matter?) factor is just one more way to consider how different the presentation and recording of self was back in the 1780s.

The Source? The Muse?

My reading for grad school has me immersed in poetry -- not just the end product, but the process as well.  (I will pause here to say what a true delight it is to be a student again and have the luxury of exploration and patient study.)  This week brought not only a visit from Mark Doty and a simply exquisite reading of his new work, but also reading and discussion of Marina Tsvetaeva's poetry (and some of her prose as well).

In all the wonderful lines that I read, what struck me most was Tsvetaeva's wrestling with the question of what a poet is (and, relatedly, where poetry/poems come from).  The formulation that seemed most fitting:  "A poet is answer."  In explaining what this answer is -- where the response comes from, she elaborates: "it always existed, only hadn't yet reached time; thus the opposite shore has not yet reached the ferry."

That final image struck me as wonderful metaphor for the writing process.  Are we reaching towards a fixed goal (the far shore)?  Does our writing, like the steady oar or paddle or motor, gain us, inch-by-inch, progress towards a destination?  Tsvetaeva's formulation both suggests that and resists it: there is a fixed goal (the shore) but then she gives it motion.  Is the motion an illusion?

I think this is where the idea of inspiration or the muse comes in.  Even if the shore's motion is an illusion, it is one that prompts creativity, that suggests possibility.  We write towards the poem, and the poem seems to be written towards us; that perception leads to new synergy.  I like this.  We are our own muses.  The process of writing begets inspiration.

Points of Origin

Having just put aside a novel draft, I'm taking a "break" and reworking some creative non-fiction essays.  Perhaps it is this endeavor that made me so attuned to the radio commentary I heard this morning, the excellent broadcast of "On Being" that featured Nadia Bolz-Weber.  (Here's the interview if you want to listen.)

Among the many great comments (on many great subjects) made, this one stood out to me (here in paraphrase): I write from scars and not wounds.  In other words, when trying to get down on paper something that is authentic, something that caused trauma, it is important to leave enough space and time to get to a place where the writing can be done productively (and without generating more injury).

A few years back, I was lucky enough to take a creative non-fiction workshop with Connie May Fowler and Sue William Silverman.  Connie's mantra (echoed and augmented by Sue) was: Write from the hurt place.

I like the combination of these two pieces of advice.  To Connie's point, you do have to write from the place where the hurt occurred (and perhaps where it still resonates).  But to Bolz-Weber's claim: there is no merit (and possibly some danger) to writing to a hurt that hasn't healed.

The language here might sound extreme.  And I wouldn't want to suggest that creative non-fiction writing is all about trauma.  In fact, the broader concept of these maxims is about perspective.  You have to have the proper distance (scar) and you have to have the proper mindset (hurt).  The second point might be more twitchy... it isn't about pain, but about emotional truth.  You have to have something to say - some feeling to evoke and you have to be willing to reside in that feeling. (That is, things don't just happen.  A piece of writing/story/essay/memoir/etc. isn't just a string of events.)

Both of these pieces of advice apply equally, I think, to fiction as to creative non-fiction.  I would call them the values of reflection (scar) and resonance (hurt). For me, at this moment and stage of composition, I found these to be words of wisdom, a reminder not to rush into a piece and not to overlook the important of an emotional center.

Your Brain on Writing

I love it when I get a nice staticky point of contact between my professional (teaching) life and my personal writing practice.  I know there are many writers who feel that the teaching of writing can drain them of the energy for their own composition, but for me, it often supplies a little bubble of energy or insight.

This week, I found myself talking with folks (students, friends, and writers) who were struggling with the process of getting things on paper.  Not the classic writer's block, not the sense of "I have nothing to say," but the feeling that it wasn't worth putting words on the page because those weren't the perfect words.

My first encounter with this concept was in college, when I got to know a student down the hall.  He wrote beautifully.  Exquisitely.  His 2-3 page response papers were gorgeous.  But he hated them.  And he also took hours and hours and hours to generate them. We got to be good friends, and often studied in the same room.  Let me describe our processes:  see if you recognize yourself in them.

Imagine a paper due the next day.  Here's my desk: books and class notes out.  On top of them, a clean sheet of paper that I'm gradually filling with an outline.  Next to this, square in front of me, my computer.  I look at the outline, I type a few sentences -- maybe I reach over and grab a book and reread a passage.  Go back to the computer, change a few things, write a few more sentences.  And so on.  In two hours' time, I print out a copy, take a walk, and then come back to revise.  At my friend's desk, he's got his computer in front of him, his head in his hands (two fistfuls of hair, usually) and he's staring at the cursor, which is blinking in the middle of a lovely sentence.  

These were analytical papers, but the same holds true for fiction or creative non-fiction composition.  This isn't about habit or writing practice, I believe, so much as it is about how one understands writing itself.  A process, yes, I hope we all know that.  But not a linear process.  One doesn't begin at A (concept/idea/thought) and proceed sequentially to Z (published product).  It loops back, again and again.  And not just through a procession of drafts, but also because you read and think and write and talk with a friend and then rewrite, and then discover you need to read some more... and so on.  

My friend (and many of my colleagues and students) get stuck because they believe that before committing anything to paper, it must first be "right" or "good."  Even if they know they will revise, they won't set a word on a page unless the piece/idea is fully conceived of.  For them, thought precedes writing.  For me, writing is thought.  The idea doesn't fully exist until I have written it. The process of writing and the process of understanding are simultaneous for me.

Is it possible to begin writing too soon?  to compose when you don't understand something enough to write on it?  Of course.  The reading and research and thinking need to happen beforehand... but the idea -- whatever it is -- doesn't exist until the words are on the page.  At least that's what I believe... I welcome your comments!

The First Review!

I've heard from other writers that it is best to avoid reading reviews of your work... but when I got an email from Simon & Schuster saying that Publishers' Weekly had put out a review of Revolutionary, I had to read it.

Perhaps I will regret reading other reviews, but I was glad to see this one!  It is one more step on the path of making this novel seem real. And making it seem like it soon be out.  Very exciting.

Here is a link to the review:  http://publishersweekly.com/978-1-4516-6332-7

Understanding Your Characters...

This post is tailored specifically to those who are developing characters in historical fiction, but is, I believe, applicable to the craft of understanding your characters in general.  It also builds on some previous posts I have done about women in the revolutionary war.

You can read the earlier posts (I hope you do!) about Molly Pitcher(s) and their role not only during the war (camp followers) but after the war (loyal wives, in-the-moment-soldiers).  Given how these women are celebrated, as I noted earlier, it is not surprising that Deborah Sampson was given little attention for many decades:  she didn't fit neatly into the women-who-followed-her-husband-into-combat mold that felt "safe" to 19th century readers and writers.

When I began the research for my first novel, Revolutionary, I wanted to look at as wide a range of sources as I could on Deborah.  The earliest material is filtered through her biographer, Herman Mann and the later material is filtered through the biases and predispositions of the era in which they were written.

So here's the first part of the craft lesson for writers of historical fiction: make sure you look at your "real life" characters not just from one historical vantage point.  Get the fullest picture of them that you can by considering how they were written about by their contemporaries, by their children, by their friends, by their rivals, and by later writers.  It is poor history (and poor historical fiction) to rely only on one source or from sources all from the same era (even if it is "eye-witness").

For Deborah, two visual images will suffice to prove my point.  Here they are:

Both are early-mid 19th century depictions of Deborah Sampson that accompanied pamphlets or short writings on her. In both she is in uniform and with a weapon (or two!).  But, as those who read the earlier blogposts might note... she is also posed near a cannon.  It is not impossible that Deborah might have been near cannons in her service.  Certainly, she was at sites that would have had them.  But it is quite hard to argue that she used cannons at all.  Cannons were for pitched battle and Deborah was involved in small skirmishes only.  (Granted, she did claim to have been at Yorktown, or Mann placed her there, or both, but this is not true.)

So, when I was researching her character, I asked myself: why is she depicted this way?  What is being said about her?  I believe that both artists are making a subtle nod to the Molly Pitcher(s) legends.  By putting Deborah near a cannon, they are indicating to the viewer that this is a woman on the battlefield.  It is somewhat comforting -- suggesting that she served in the familiar and acceptable manner -- to have her depicted thus.  Much more comforting than Deborah just waving a sword or holding a gun, I'd argue.

To leave my particular case and look at craft in general, what I'd suggest is this.  Read (and look) widely as you explore your historical character.  Chip away at bias.  Consider how your character has shifted and been reinvented over the course of history.  And then...

Take good stock of how you wish to depict your character.  Realize that you are situated on this continuum that you have just explored.  Your depiction will be no less biased, no less a product of your own time and expectations (and this, I would argue is true for fictional characters that aren't historical) than any other.  It is better to be upfront and aware of your bias though.

In my own case, I knew that being transgender, I would come to Deborah's story from a particular angle.  Likewise, writing with a 21st-century understanding of gender and women's rights, I would also be biased against certain depictions of her and want to show her actions as reasonable and even virtuous -- quite the opposite of how many of her contemporaries saw her and wrote about her.

In order to fully understand, fully develop, and fully realize your characters, you need to understand your own perspective on that character!

Let me know what you think... Leave a Comment!

To the Desk Drawer!

It is an old saw, I know, the writer who relegates the draft to some obscure drawer.

And yet... many writers I know have done just that.  Some chuck the manuscript into the drawer with a feeling of regret, others anger, some despair.  There are those who do so reluctantly.  (There are many who do so virtually, perhaps having a folder labelled "drawer" on their computers?)

I would like to argue the case that retiring a manuscript to a drawer is a good, healthy, and productive writing practice.  As I write this post, I am entering into the final throes of a (very) rough draft of a novel.  If all goes well, in a couple of days, I will be "done" with it.  And from there... into the drawer!  I say this with zeal.  It is time for that baby to sit by itself for a while.  My brain has been full of these characters and places and, to be honest (don't tell them!) while I love them, I'm a bit sick of them.

And though I intend to put them in that drawer and forget about them, it's only for a while.  Because, just as I am planning to wind this rough draft down, and just as I am reaching into the far recesses of that drawer to shove the rough manuscript in, I am simultaneously bringing back out to the light of day the rough draft I last worked on about six months ago.

Perhaps this makes me some sort of serial monogamist when it comes to writing.  I can only work on one thing at a time, that is for sure.  And while I like to reach an endpoint with a draft (I almost always, even if I feel that it isn't going the way I want it to, write the story/novel/essay to the end.) I also almost always shelve things with the intention to come back to them... often relatively soon.

So, for me, the drawer is where work goes to get better.  Or where work goes while I get better.  Too many writers I know (and I preach this to my students as well) will work a manuscript well past the point of productivity, flailing, as it were, at a dead horse.  I preach the gospel of putting drafts away early (and often), letting them sit there while you still have some energy and enthusiasm for the project, working on other things, getting new ideas out onto the page, and only when you have almost forgotten about the other draft, going back to it.

By the time I pull a manuscript out of the drawer to work on it again, I have forgotten what I loved and hated about it.  Given enough time, and it even feels like I'm reading someone else's work.  And that's good.  It gives me the distance I need to edit and revise and rewrite effectively.

I suppose that what I'm advocating as a writing practice is the same as what I find with people: it's great to spend time with someone... but I'm sure we've all spent too much time with someone.  Better to have a wonderful day together, say goodbye, promise you'll meet again soon, even pick a date a few weeks or months in the future... and look forward to it.  In the meantime, you'll read and write new things, you'll have different adventures, and you'll return for time together refreshed and engaged.

So go ahead, toss that manuscript in the drawer, turn the lock.  But don't throw away the key.