Daily Book Excerpt: YA/Children’s books:
Next book on the shelf is Chronicles of Avonlea
Perhaps her stories would seem sentimental or too obvious today – I know they do at times for me – but in a way, for me, it’s like watching old movies when the acting style was different … I certainly prefer modern short stories, and I certainly wouldn’t put any of her work up next to, say, Lorrie Moore – or any other master of the form … She wrote this stuff for MONEY and she tailored her stories for certain audiences. She wrote horror stories, ghost stories, love stories, stories which would fit right into a Good Housekeeping mag or a Ladies Home Journal – simple little domestic tales. The plots are sometimes clunky and a lot of times they depend on coincidence – unbelievable coincidence – showing up at just the right moment. But this, remember, is the style of the time. If you read Dickens now – while yes, his characters leave an indelible impression – a lot of the times it is in SPITE of the machinations of the Victorian-era plot devices. Again: this is not a criticism. It would be like watching an old movie and being literally unable to get used to the black and white, or noticing that: Hmmm, he’s supposed to be poor – yet look at his immaculate jacket! Etc. If you get hung up on the surface of things, you can miss so much of the jewels beneath. I’m not saying that some of Lucy Maud’s short stories aren’t crap (especially the ones published posthumously in the last 10 years or so) – because, oh boy, they ARE … but I think it would also be wrong to say that they are uninteresting. Maybe you need to be a Lucy Maud fan to find them interesting, but I find them interesting on a literary level as well. Lucy Maud wrote at a time when there were literally hundreds of magazines devoted to literature. That world no longer exists. If you look at The New Yorker, it’s the same names publishing stories there week after week – there just aren’t as many options for starting writers to make a little cash. Lucy Maud, too, did not have any illusions … Ghost stories sold, and those magazines paid well – so she wrote a ton of ghost stories. Her novels are where she shines as a storyteller, a creator of worlds – but she had no shame in working in many different genres, if it paid. Also: that world no longer exists either.
“Old Lady Lloyd” is almost novella length – it’s quite long. It tells the story of an interesting old woman who is known to the people in Spencervale as “Old Lady Lloyd”. She lives off by herself, she is known to be famously stingy, and she is also known to be haughty and almost frigidly proud. She wears elaborate silk dresses every day. She doesn’t go to church. She never donates to worthy causes. People are chased away from her door. Gossip rages about her. But we get to know her, through the story – and we learn a lot about her. We learn that she was left with no fortune at all when her parents died – and her oily cousin controls her money – and so she basically lives in poverty. She wears silk dresses every day because those are left over from her wealthy time and she can’t afford new clothes. And she is so humiliated about her poverty-struck state that she never lets on that she needs anything. She lives off of fruit that she picks in the woods, and she rations out her bread for herself. Spencervale has NO idea that she is so hard up. They no longer ask her to join sewing circles or what have you, because they are sick of her haughty airs – they do not recognize that it is all a front, to hide her poverty. We also learn that long ago she loved someone once – and he – in typical Lucy Maud fashion – spurned her. Or – no – they quarreled, and like a typical Lucy Maud heroine, she refused to forgive him when he begged for it. And he BEGGED. But her pride is too strong to give in. She turned him away. And of course – that meant the end of her happiness forever. He married someone else, moved away – etc. etc. He then died.
Old Lady Lloyd lives in the past. She wears old silk dresses, she is laughed at by townspeople, she is feared, little kids think she’s a witch – and her life is very very bitter.
But then one spring … her dead lover’s daughter Sylvia (who is now 20 years old) moves back to Spencervale. She has a job as a music teacher. Old Lady Lloyd recognizes the family resemblance immediately – and through the course of the story – begins to leave Sylvia little gifts on the woodland path that Sylvia uses to get to town. She leaves her fresh strawberries (which basically means a full meal to Old Lady Lloyd) … she leaves her flowers … she never lets on that it is her, and she doesn’t even think that Sylvia would know of her existence. But Old Lady Lloyd, a lonely old soul, sees in Sylvia the daughter she COULD have had … and so wants to do anything she can for her.
Anyway … that’s the set up. The way it all turns out is, yes, sentimental, but I gotta tell ya – I get a little lump in my throat at the end of the story every time.
Here’s an excerpt from “Old Lady Lloyd”. She has heard that Sylvia has been accepted to music school – yet she does not have the money to go. Old Lady Lloyd worries herself almost sick about this. It just so happens that Andrew Cameron, her businessman cousin, had a daughter who was also a singer – and I guess she died – so in her memory he set up a very lucrative music scholarship. He has sent 10 young needy people to music school already. Old Lady Lloyd feels that Sylvia MUST go to music school. So she decides to do what she has promised herself she would never do: go into town and ask her slick cousin for help. This is a proud proud woman, and having to beg for money is so against who she is – but love has opened her up. She no longer clings to pride. There are more important things.
Excerpt from Chronicles of Avonlea
When the Old Lady reached the town, she ate her slender little lunch and then walked out to the suburb where the Cameron factories and warehouses were. It was a long walk for her, but she could not afford to drive. She felt very tired when she was shown into the shining, luxurious office where Andrew Cameron sat at his desk.
After the first startled glance of surprise, he came forward beamingly, with outstretched hand.
“Why, Cousin Margaret! This is a pleasant surprise. Sit down — allow me, this is a much more comfortable chair. Did you come out this morning? And how is everybody out in Spencervale?”
The Old Lady had flushed at his first words. To hear the name by which her father and mother and lover had called her on Andrew Cameron’s lips seemed like profanation. But, she told herself, the time was past for squeakishness. If she could ask a favor of Andrew Cameron, she could bear lesser pangs. For Sylvia’s sake she shook hands with him, for Sylvia’s sake she sat down in the chair he offered. For no living human being’s sake could this determined Old Lady infuse any cordiality into her manner or her words. She went straight to the point with Lloyd simplicity.
“I have come to ask a favour of you,” she said, looking him in the eye, not at all humbly or meekly, as became a supplicant, but challengingly and defiantly, as if she dared him to refuse.
“De-lighted to hear it, Cousin Margaret.” Never was anything so bland and gracious as his tone. “Anything I can do for you I shall be only too pleased to do. I am afraid you have looked upon me as an enemy, Margaret, and I assure you I have felt your injustice keenly. I realize that some appearances were against me, but –”
The Old Lady lifted her hand and stemmed his eloquence by that one gesture.
“I did not come here to discuss that matter,” she said. “We will not refer to the past, if you please. I came to ask a favour, not for myself, but for a very dear young friend of mine – a Miss Gray, who has a remarkably fine voice which she wishes to have trained. She is poor, so I came to ask you if you would give her one of your musical scholarships. I understand her name has already been suggested to you, with a recommendation from her teacher. I do not know what he has said of her voice, but I do know he could hardly overrate it. If you send her abroad for training, you will not make any mistake.”
The Old Lady stopped talking. She felt sure Andrew Cameron would grant her request; but she did hope he would grant it rather rudely or unwillingly. She could accept the favour so much more easily if it were flung at her like a bone to a dog. But not a bit of it, Andrew Cameron was suaver than ever. Nothing could give him greater pleasure than to grant his dear Cousin Margaret’s request – he only wished it involved more trouble on his part. Her little protege should have her musical education assuredly – she should go abroad next year – and he was de-lighted —
“Thank you,” said the Old Lady, cutting him short again. “I am much obliged to you – and I ask you not to let Miss Gray know anything of my interference. And I shall not take up any more of your valuable time. Good afternoon.”
“Oh, you mustn’t go so soon,” he said, with some real kindness or clannishness permeating the hateful cordiality of his voice – for Andrw Cameron was not entirely without the homely virtues of the average man. He had been a good husband and father; he had once been very fond of his Cousin Margaret; and he was really very sorry that “circumstances” had “compelled” him to act as he had done in that old affair of her father’s investment. “You must be my guest tonight.”
“Thank you. I must return home tonight,” said the Old Lady firmly, and there was that in her tone which told Andrew Cameron that it would be useless to urge her. But he insisted on telephoning for his carriage to drive her to the station. The Old Lady submitted to this, because she was secretly afraid her own legs would not suffice to carry her there; she even shook hands with him at parting, and thanked him a second time for granting her request.
“Not at all,” he said. “Please try to think a little more kindly of me, Cousin Margaret.”
When the Old Lady reached the station she found, to her dismay, that her train had just gone and that she would have to wait two hours for the evening one. She went into the waiting-room, and sat down. She was very tired. All the excitement that had sustained her was gone, and she felt weak and old. She had nothing to eat, having expected to get home in time for tea; the waiting-room was chilly, and she shivered in her thin, old, silk mantilla. Her head ached and her heart likewise. She had won Sylvia’s desire for her; but Sylvia would go out of her life, and the Old Lady did not see how she was to go on living after that. Yet she sat there unflinchingly for two hours, an upright, indomitable old figure, silently fighting her losing battle with the forces of physical and mental pain, while happy people came and went, and laughed and talked before her.
At eight o’clock the Old Lady got off the train at Bright River station, and slipped off unnoticed into the darkness of the wet night. She had two miles to walk, and a cold rain was falling. Soon the Old Lady was wet to the skin and chilled to the marrow. She felt as if she were walking in a bad dream. Blind instinct alone guided her over the last mile and up the lane to her own house. As she fumbled at her door, she realized that a burning heat had suddenly taken the place of her chilliness. She stumbled in over her threshold and closed the door.
“but she had no shame in working in many different genres, if it paid. Also: that world no longer exists either.”
Well, isn;t it script writing and screen writing that have taken its place? I wish we still had something of that world, because bad short story writing can’t be covered up with special effects. One of the resons I study history is to see a bit of what we’ve lost on the road of progress, and perhaps recapture a bit of the good that went out with the bad.
John –
Well, I guess you could look at it that way, in terms of script-writing – I see what you mean – but it assumes that people can just switch genres. Very very few people can do that convincingly. The fact that John Irving was able to write the screenplay of his own book for Cider House Rules and have it come off so well is totally unexpected and – it just so rarely happens that way.
A novelist doesn’t think like a screenwriter, and vice versa.
Also: and this is another point altogether – and the point I was making in that bit you excerpted: a lot of people don’t WANT to switch genres. Michael Chabon has written about this a lot – and he is, in my opinion, the best living American novelist today. He’s important. He’s a big deal. But he has written a lot of great essays about how he misses the “genre fiction” of his childhood: detective stories, ghost tales, etc. A lot of his short stories are genre stories – fantasy, or sci-fi, or detective noir-y stuff – because he so loves to re-create those old stories he loved from his childhood.
But back to the whole screenplay thing – Faulkner considered his years in Hollywood to be a veritable purgatory – he HATED it, but he needed the cash. And I love his books – but I also love him because of his adaptation of The Big Sleep and To Have and Have Not – He hated every second of his time there, he drank, he fucked around on his wife, he felt like he was selling his soul to the devil – but those scripts came out marvelously.
But to compare those to his books? Sound and Fury? Not even close.
If you want to write short stories now, there aren’t as many places to publish them now as there were in the late 19th century, early 20th.
Oh, I wasn’t talking about switching genres, I was talking mroe about that’s all a young writer sees for opportunity, so that’s the direction that they move towards. A yound person just does not think: “I’m going to make my living at short story writing” the way you could in LMM’s day, they think: I’ll go to Hollywood and get a job writing – that will be cool. Whether they would have fit well in some other art form doesn’t even enter their minds becuase those art forms are largely non-productive in today’s world.
Where are all the Classical composers of our generation? Don’t tell me there aren’t some people out there right now who could compose well in that genre, given the chance. They are working in other genres that pay in today’s world. They didn’t even consider Classical composition. If Beethoven were born tomorrow, he’d proabably wind up writing a rock opera.
Ha – yeah, totally true!!
How does one make money now as a writer? Screenwriting – yes. An ex-boyfriend of mine is a script doctor – and he makes a really nice living, which then allowed him to write and direct his own screenplay. He’s doing very well.
I know a lot of writers go into advertising – because it seems like it would be creative – but it usually ends up being a TERRIBLE compromise for most artists – It is something definitely to be avoided, even though the money is good. But it’s just not a good use of your talent. You actually can LOSE your talent if you treat it so cheaply. I’ve seen it happen.
It’s also just kind of sad that genre writing is so looked down upon. I mean – it has its fan base, obviously – huge fan base!! look at Lord of the Rings, etc! – but there was a time when someone like Edgar Allen Poe was considered just a “writer” – not a “horror writer”. Will Stephen King be read 100 years from now? I believe so. But will his books ever be added to any school curriculum? I’m not sure about that – time will tell.
Just try to tell a literary snob that you love Stephen King!! they just don’t see it as “real” writing. I think King definitely needs an editor, and he is in love with the sound of his own voice, and success has weakened him, I think – his best books were earlier on – but still – I think he’s great, and should be considered just a “writer”, not a “genre writer”.
I certainly prefer Lucy Maud’s straight short stories (like the one I excerpted above) to her ghost stories or her horror stories – those tip over into melodrama, and she loses a lot of the flavor of reality which is what I love about the rest of her work – but I love that she wasn’t precious about her talent, and her main thing was: financial independence. She lived with controlling relatives who always thought she would outgrow her “scribbling”, they didn’t respect her – they ruled her with an iron fist, they controlled her life in ways which boggle the mind to a modern-day reader, she didn’t marry until late (and then when she did – she married a minister who obviously was insane – although there was no real diagnosis at that time – but he was insane, and incapacitated, and basically a Man-Boy for the entirety of their marriage – a drooling invalid) – and she wanted to be free, financially. She was quite practical – and also terrified of having someone else control her money. She was a woman, the only job available (and deemed appropriate) to her at that time was teacher or nurse (also – her family would never have let her leave the house until she got married – she didn’t marry until she was 36 or 37 or something like that – so her options were limited – and because her options were so limited, her imagination was limited. I read her journals and think: “Screw THIS. Move to Halifax and get an apartment! Other people did it!” But that was just not who she was) – but eventually, with the sale of all her ghost stories and horror stories – she was able to stop with the day job, and concentrate on her craft. And also – have the free time to write Anne of Green Gables – which, all by itself, made her a rich and famous woman.
To her – these “ghost stories” were probably nothing to be proud of – and I’m sure she would be mortified to know that the “Anne of Green Gables” industry has unearthed all of them and published them – she probably wouldn’t have wanted that – but I kind of love her for it. I love her for doing what she had to do to make some money.
It doesn’t make Anne of Green Gables any LESS an amazing book – it makes it more amazing, in my opinion.
I keep thinking as I read her journals, “Wow, thank God she’s got her own money.” Imagine being financially dependent on that husband.
I laughed when she was working in the newspaper office and realized, hmm, this salary isn’t going to cut it, I’d better churn out some stories. I love how she says, “Yeah, I sent out a story today. It was a potboiler, but I need the money.”
I was sort of taken aback by this attitude at first. I really admire it. She was determined to make a living at writing, and she did. She didn’t do the whole “I’m not selling out my art just to make money, dude,” thing.
I love “Old Lady Lloyd”. What’s your opinion on the Avonlea TV series? I remember this story was made into an episode.
Karen – I actually never saw the TV series. Is it worth it? So they turned her stories into episodes? That sounds wonderful – because so many of these stories are mini-movies.
Like “Each In His Own Tongue” – which will be tomorrow’s excerpt – what a story!! It seems so cinematic to me – I can SEE it.
So should I check out the series? Did you like it?
And yes – I so agree with you – I loved her whole “potboiler” theory – and how it was those potboilers that gave her the freedom to make her own life and write the books that would make her name. Amazing!!
Oh and I try to feel sorry for Ewan – because he was probably misdiagnosed, and the treatment of mental illness was so barbaric at that time (enemas? Like – tying him down and giving him enemas?? What???) – but I’m so on Lucy Maud’s side – and he drove me absolutely insane. She made her bed – so she lay in it – she would never have left him – but God, what a nightmare he was. I want to smack him upside his head. After his enema, of course.
Ha ha! I haven’t gotten to the enemas yet. . .wow. She’s just giving him thyroid and chloral right now.
I LOVED the series when it came out. However, I was about nine years old. I haven’t seen it in awhile. It was done by the same people who did the Anne miniseries. It features the characters from the Story Girl–sort of–but they live in Avonlea. Colleen Dewhurst shows up in a couple of early episodes as Marilla. Rachel Lynde reappears too. I remember “The Quarantine at Alexander Abraham’s” in particular. She’s in fine form in that one. “Old Lady Lloyd” was another of the early episodes. The early episodes are far more faithful to the books, although they find ways to insert Sara Stanley and company into each one. For instance, Sara stumbles onto Old Lady Lloyd’s house and tries to draw her out. Sara is also more of a rich little priss than I remember from the books.
As it went on it moved further and further away from LM Montgomery’s stories. At some point we cancelled our premium cable (it ran on the Disney Channel), so I didn’t see the last few years of the show.
So kinda like how the series of Little House on the Prairie ended up having very little (uhm nothing) to do with Laura Ingalls Wilder’s books?? But it was the “spirit” of them that counted?
I’ll have to check them out – I love that story about the quarantine at Alexander Abraham’s. HA!!
Sheila, quit GIVING ME FITS while I’m trying to work.
(I have to get hold of those journals now though. Have to.)
If you go hunting TV shows, avoid the Emily series…. The casting was good, I saw a couple that were fine, but somewhere in the middle of the first season Aunt Elizabeth dies and Aunt Laura gets married.
You read that right.
I never thought about it like that before, but yes, it’s a lot like Little House on the Prairie.
The guy who plays Alexander Abraham is a wonderful old coot.
When did they do an Emily series? And where on earth did Emily live after the middle of the first season? I guess Laura got the house?
Yeah, Laura got the house. It got…strange after that. More soap-opera like than LMM’s stories.