On Authors, Ivanhoe & Sir Walter Scott

Back to the 2015 Classics Challenge. Here's a funny thing ... the reason I signed up for this comes down to a Card Game.

For years, my family has played a card game called Authors. (Kinda similar to Go Fish but with famous authors of classic novels.) And every time we play, I hope to collect the works of Sir Walter Scott.

Something about his cards has always intrigued me. Perhaps it's the blue gaze in his eyes or his dashing cravat. Perhaps it's the titles, which include Lady of the Lake and Ivanhoe, tales by their very name that inspire the romantic in me with thoughts of chivalry, knights in armor and damsels in distress.

I signed on for the 2015 Classics Challenge so I could finally have no further excuse to delay the reading of a book authored by Sir Walter Scott. And when the gauntlet for this category was thrown -- a book with only a character's name as its title, I selected Ivanhoe. And I was not disappointed.

Let's begin with the plot, which is well crafted and rolls out artfully. See, Scott was originally a poet. He didn't start writing novels until his middle years -- guess that gives hope to any aspiring author of my age out there!  His first love and early success was as a poet. Bet you didn't know that Sir Walter Scott was the best known, widest read and most popular poet of the Romantic Period. He was highly influenced by his friend Lord Byron. So, the words selected and descriptions used in this tale evoke intense visual images -- a movie in the mind if you will.

The novel (set in the 12th Century) follows the tale of Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe. Disinherited by his Saxon father as a result of his love of his father's ward Rowena and his refusal to deny that love amidst his father's own "career" goals for the girl, Ivanhoe returns from the Crusade to find the land a mess due to the machinations of the Norman Overlords, the crafty Templars and the wicked Prince John.

Of course, it begins with a tournament in which the disguised Ivanhoe triumphs (with the help of a mysterious Black Knight) then collapses. During that tournament we meet long-bowman Locksley (aka Robin Hood) and a bit later run into his friends Allan-a-Dale and Friar Tuck. The tale also follows the travels of this mysterious Black Night aka Sir Sluggish who we always kinda suspect and eventually know for a fact is Richard the Lion-heart, who has a passion and preference for acts of valor and is in disguise (of course). Underlying the plot rests the hatred and conflict of Norman vs Saxon. But perhaps more significantly to me is the blatant social commentary on religious intolerance, specifically addressing the animosity between Christian (referred to as Nazarene) and Jew.

On the surface, the book reads as an entertaining, escapist romance with swordplay, kidnappings, beautiful women locked in towers, and a Champion who rescues the damsel before she is burnt at the stake. There's Locksley, who wins the Archery Tournament with his bow, splitting an arrow in half.  Sir Walter Scott, poet that he was, created with this writing the genre that became known as Historical Fiction. For that I will ever be grateful.

But Ivanhoe is more than chivalry and knights in armor, though if you are looking just for that, it is a well-written example that I highly endorse.  

What truly struck me in reading this novel was the remarkable ways Scott portrayed the oppression of the Jewish people and the words he chose/characters he created to get his point across that "people are people no matter their religious preference." Pretty forward-thinking for the time. Made me like Scott even more than I did before!

Such intolerance is beyond my understanding and I reject it fully. Different isn't bad. But when it came to religion in the 12th Century world, guess it was. Reading about such cruelty simply because of faith choices -- or because one was a Norman and the other a Saxon -- set my teeth on edge. I mean, Christianity is founded on the principle of selfless love ... intolerance and unkindness is NOT what was written or condoned on the pages of any Bible I've ever owned. Why it has ever been so is beyond my understanding. But clearly, Scott didn't like it. So he portrayed his Jewish characters as more heroes than villains and called to question the behavior of the Christians.

The Jews of the time were wealthy money-lenders -- the Normans depended on their loans to enjoy the life they wanted to live. But, they mistreated and victimized the very people who helped them. The Christians were completely intolerant of the Jewish people. Yet while Scott portrayed the moneylender Isaac the Jew as a victim whose very treatment affected is behavior and psychology, Isaac's daughter Rebecca rose above that ... choosing instead to be gracious, forgiving and selfless to the end. That's all part of the story Scott crafted so beautifully.

I can see why many critics consider Rebecca -- who doesn't end up with the guy but I suspect (and my romantic heart likes to believe) ends up with a portion of his heart anyway -- as the book's true heroine. Scott even states in his final paragraph that recollection of Rebecca's beauty and magnanimity recurred to Ivanhoe's mind more than once in a while. And, Scott's positive portrayal of the Jewish people amidst the strife they suffered reflects a call for humanity and a concern for religious tolerance to the world of his own time. Gotta say, I didn't expect to find that in this tale. 

And while the unkindness bothered me, I enjoyed the read immensely. I was happy to see that the most worthy characters DID rise above the muck they faced. I was also pleased that the women of the book weren't weak. And in no place were the characters two-dimensional. They were all complex with their own merits and foibles.   

I started playing Authors over 40 years ago and finally made the time to pick up Ivanhoe. Why did I put it off? I don't know. Why do we put off things we truly want to do and wait for the right time? We only get so much time after all ...

Thanks Ron, for helping me find the right time. I highly recommend this book to someone seeking 1) a book with a character name as the title, 2) classic historical fiction with romance and chivalry and 3) a darn good read with poetic and evocative word choices by an author considered upon his death in 1832 as the most famous novelist the world had ever known.

Thanks Sir Walter Scott for the great adventure up close and personal with my favorite medieval heroes. Thanks for strong female characters who didn't fall down when they ran, stood up for their beliefs and kept their faith and strength to the very end. Ivanhoe now holds a place in my heart. 

Sharing him with Rebecca and Rowena is okay ... I'm in good company.
                                                                                        -- Jenni

I Don't Wanna ...

Children are so honest. 

When they are happy, they smile and laugh. Their eyes are bright and their affection quickly bestowed. They reach out and touch you -- cling to you. There's an easiness about them.

When they are sad, they cry. They don't hold back. They wail and tears flow freely down their soft cheeks. They curl up and pull away.

And when they don't want to do something, they express that disdain very clearly. They scream. They howl. They run from you or push away. And the words they use are genuine and spoken from their very core: "I don't wanna ..."

Perhaps it's I don't wanna eat that or do that or go there or play with them or wear those clothes or clean my room or do my homework  ... The specific is irrelevant. They just tell it like it is and their emotions play on their faces like a movie. They are Real. They are Honest.

As they grow up, though, they learn to don the facade. To behave as expected. To curb those emotions and spin the truth of their feelings. They learn to lie. They hide their genuine feelings or desires or preferences deep inside. We "grown-ups" teach them that ... we teach them to disguise their own truths and twist words. 

Oh, we do that kindly ... Don't want to offend or hurt someone's feelings. Don't want to rock the boat. You want to play nice and go with the flow. You want people to like you. You want to get along. 

I'm not talking being considerate or showing courtesy. And I'm not suggesting we give into complete self-indulgence. (At least not ALL the time.) No, I'm just wondering when we learned to water down our impulses and hide our genuine feelings and dreams. When did we accept that it's better to say what someone out there defined as "the right thing," following some pre-written script because that's what others said we should do? When did we set aside the honest child-like essence of who we truly are for the person others expect and want us to be? And when did we teach our children to model that behavior until they too begin to follow the flow chart?

What would happen, do you think, if for a day we recalled the honesty of childhood? What if for a moment we removed the facade we've learned to wear and allowed our true self to shine? What would the result be, if the truth would out? Would people not like us if they truly knew us? 

And if that is the case ... Do you want that person to like you because you are someone else? Do you really want them if they don't love you for who you truly are and how you truly feel?

Maybe it's the three years of yoga in me, but on my mat I've learned how important it is to honor who I truly am -- shiny pretty aspects and darker corners that I tend to hide away. I've learned to find strength through the rough moments and push through when I can ... or go to child's pose when it's just too much. I've cried on my mat and I've smiled too. I've learned to offer my best and let go of the rest. I've become more at ease with myself. And every day I try to share those discoveries with my kids so they honor who they really are ...

But most of us don't. We present the facade. We say what we know people want to hear. We wear a mask.

You know something, I don't wanna do a lot of things that I end up doing. I have responsibilities. Certain behaviors and choices and actions are expected of me. And I don't want to let people down. I don't want to disappoint. I don't want to upset the status quo. 

If I removed the facade and was truly honest ... if like that child crying at the store because they don't wanna be there ... what would happen? Would I offend? Or would I just be more real. More myself. 

Oh, I'm not talking being unkind. Children aren't unkind. They aren't truly selfish because they don't understand that yet. They are just who they are before we tell them to become something different.

I don't wanna clean the house today. I don't wanna make dinner. I don't wanna plan meals this week or go to the grocery store. I don't wanna stay quiet when someone has upset me. I don't wanna walk away from the things I really wanna do and the people I wanna do them with. I don't wanna lose people and things that I care for ... that I want. I don't wanna ... 

But I'm not a child anymore. So I put away those childish ways. And I stick to the status quo and tow the line. I smile and nod when inside I might want to scream. I wander the grocery store aisle list in hand when I'd rather get that manicure and pedicure ... when I'd rather spend my money on that dress or the Pandora bead I saw in the window. 

The Rolling Stones sang "You Can't Always Get What You Want." As young children, you don't know that yet. So you scream when you are unhappy. You laugh when you feel joy. You reach out with sticky fingers and cling to that person you love with wild, unbridled abandoned. And you tell anyone who will listen what you don't want to do.

When did we decide the facade is the better way to go? 

I don't wanna .... And when I end up doing that thing I don't wanna do anyway, a part of me ... that little girl inside of me ... screams and throws a tantrum.

You just don't see that.
                                                                                                           -- Jenni

What Do You Save?

What do you save? What notes or cards or little keepsakes do you keep hidden away? Where do you keep them? And why?

I'm a sentimental person. What about you? Not all of us are. Anyway, I keep objects that have touched me in some manner. But I also despise clutter. The other day I was cleaning out closets and drawers, general spring straightening I guess, and I came across a cedar box given to me upon high school graduation. It was locked but I knew where to find the key. And I looked inside.

There in this box were my early school day treasures. I found my KAO pledge ribbons and a puzzle piece given to me by my director from the 1982 production of Godspell, when I played the Day by Day girl. There's a polaroid photo taken at my best friend Tiffany's graduation party and a notecard from my friend who now lives in LA but once directed me in a play he wrote. There are medals from music and piano contests. I found letters from my cousin Mike, Aunt PJ and grandparents. I perused poems and stories I wrote and a star chart drafted at Post Prom. And I found a valentine. I think it will always be one of my dearest, fondest keepsakes. It's a ballerina and it was given to me by Danny Williams in 2nd Grade.

I have other boxes like that ... tucked away places. I don't open them a lot. But I save items in them. They are full of items that bring a smile to my face. These can be notes from cast members, envelopes with a character name that was especially dear to me, and little mementos from people important and special at a particular time. Even ribbons from gift boxes find their way into these Rainy Day boxes. I have pressed flowers, dried roses, scraps of paper with little messages and photos hidden away. I even have a couple of ketchup packets, a little joke between a friend and me.

There's a place that holds drawings made by my kids. I have My son's hand-print copied on a xerox and the sheet of paper that my daughter first wrote her name. There are also some photos of special moments, including my curl bouncing Music Man Gracie Shinn. I have cards from my husband as well as messages from my parents and brother and sister. 

I scrapbook so many memorable items are preserved in one of the 70 albums I've created. But there are some kept safe in special boxes. Hidden. For my eyes only.

Oh, I also have a few items on display in my closet ... flowers dried and preserved, including a dainty rose from a tea rose plant I once had, a rose my son gave me when he came to the hospital to meet his sister for the first time and a carnation he gave me at this year's Swim Parent Night. There's a white rose from a theatre banquet and a red rose my husband gave me when I did Rabbit Hole. They are in a vase given to me by my Marta/Brigitta in Sound of Music ... and sit next to a photo of my "Annie" when she played Marian in Music Man.

There's a note from my mom ... and one from my dad -- pinned to the wall. As well as buttons my friend made for some of my plays. There's a cheery note from my friend In Chicago and a crown presented to me on my last birthday. There are other special things on that shelf too ...

I take these things out occasionally. Guess that's why I save them ... these tokens of kindnesses or friendship. They are reminders of special moments and times. And though I may not recall what I ate for breakfast, I receive a sensory image ... a movie in my mind ... when I peruse or glance through these boxes. Rainy day boxes I call them. A ticket thru time.

I dislike clutter. So I'm selective in what I save. Perhaps there isn't a rhyme or reason that I've chosen what I have. But these items remind me of words spoken, days past and people who've been important and special to me -- whether I still see them or distance or time or life separated us. I like to recall ... to remember. They still seem close that way, I suppose. Like shadows that caress my mind.

What about you? What do you save? Do you have special things hidden away? Do you pull out a card from a friend on a rainy day and smile? Do you grin as you reflect on the boy of four that drew you a picture book called The Adventures of Jack The Caveman as you gaze upon the nearly 16 year old young man sitting beside you? 

What do you save? I hope you have at least one Memory Box. When you peruse these boxes, alone one quiet night, what do you remember? I'm sentimental, I guess. And as I sort through these hidden treasures, I recall fondly the special moments and people in my life so far. And I'm grateful for they way they continue to touch my life ... from a distance, from the sidelines, from a memory or from the other room.

Even if their touch comes to me only through a dried flower, a note or a ballerina valentine ...
                                                                                          -- Jenni

Unfinished Stories

'Nigh on twenty years ago, my mother gave me a book to read. It was called Outlander, written by a new author named Diana Gabaldon. She told me I'd enjoy it. She was right.

By her own admission noted on her web page, Gabaldon wrote Outlander by accident when she decided to write the book for practice to learn what it took to write a novel and decide whether she really wanted to do it. And now eight 900-page historical romance novels later, I guess she figured out 1) how to write a novel and 2) that she really did have a story to tell and really did want to tell it.

After the first three novels, there was a pause in her publications. The first three flowed easily together. The next books were different. For a bit, I thought the story just might be over. The historical elements dominated and clouded the tale and I lost some connection to the characters in the process.

Last June, Gabaldon published the eighth book in the series. I pre-ordered it. I owned the entire series in hardcover after all. But when I picked it up at B & N, I realized that I hadn't read book seven. And when I started book seven, I was confused by where I was. And therein lay the rub ... I was lost in a series twenty years in the making and my only recourse was to start over. So, last July, I posted on Facebook my intention to read all the books and I began at the beginning.

Now this is a HUGE commitment in reading. Each book is complex and, as I said, about 900 pages, give or take a few. And these pages are chock full of detail and description and stuff that make the reading "chewy." 

When I'd first begun the series, my focus was on the main characters -- for those of you who live under a rock and either 1) haven't read the books or 2) haven't heard the hype brought on by the Starz mini-series -- that would be Jamie and Claire. Then along came a daughter, Brianna and her love interest Roger. My first time thru, I lacked interest in that "subplot." That changed the second time around -- probably because I had kids of my own. As a parent, particularly of a precocious daughter, I saw things differently. Brianna and Roger became intriguing.

Several of the middle books began to read like a series of short stories pieced together. Convoluted. Disjointed. I lost interest and had to push though at times. The chapters were full of the mundane. But then -- I reminded myself -- isn't life like that sometimes? I found a different appreciation when I embraced that perspective and the characters' lives became a bit more ordinary. Made me a bit sad, though and I kinda feared their story had run its course. What more could there be to tell? Perhaps, after twenty years, the story was tired, complete, at an end. 

Then I started book seven, An Echo In The Bone. I was drawn in immediately. As I reached the final words on page 814, I wanted more right away. There WAS more to say and it was exciting stuff!

Made me reflective, that discovery. See, the best stories don't have endings. Our favorite tales don't truly have a final epitaph. Even as you turn that last page, you know there is more to the story ... it just may not be written yet. 

Take Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca. After the blazing of Manderley, Maxim and Mrs. de Winter had to go somewhere ... something happened next.

As Rhett marched out the door at the conclusion of Gone With The Wind, Scarlett was NOT done. After all, tomorrow was another day and she was not going to sit on those stairs forever. 

Even after seven books, Harry Potter's story continues as his kids go to Hogwarts and begin their own post-Voldemort adventures. I'm sure Harry, Ginny and their friends have things happening to them too. 

Our own lives actually unfold like the writing in a book. Sometimes you turn the final page and move on quickly. Sometime you have to wait for the next chapter to be written. Sometimes the pace is slow -- other times, fast. Sometimes characters come in for a bit and disappear until a later chapter. Sometimes they depart for good and you mourn their loss. Sometimes you write off a character and then they pop in later by surprise. At times, you just have to take a step back and allow time for the tale to define its direction and take its course -- that can take months or even years. Sometimes it may seem like the end but there's still more to say. You must be patient ...

If you think about it, our very lives are actually an evolving tale and not everything is already written -- thank goodness. What you think is an end may just be one of those Nancy Drew chapter cliffhangers with the resolution TBD.

And if our life is a book, then it's full of plot-twists with characters that we are close to and that change the scenario by their very presence -- whether they are on every page or featured now and then. But, like what happens to Jamie and Claire ... sometimes distance, disappointment, change, the mundane or even separation are necessary for the story. So we read on ... 

Oh it's hard to let our favorite characters go. At some point, Gabaldon will write a final novel about Jamie and Claire. But even if she does, I know that their story continues. The End doesn't stop my imagination from writing them an "and then ..." 

The Story goes on, after all. How many of us have said goodbye to characters in our lives only to encounter them again down the line? I personally was just inspired by an email from my best friend from high school ... and I don't think I've seen her in at least ten or so years. But, Tiffany's character still has a place in my own story. Still influences the plot-line even from a distance.

Over the years, many characters have disappeared only to reappear chapters later. I never write anybody out. Who can say what words will be written next in my own ongoing unfinished "story?"  What will happen next?  Only the Author knows ... 
                                                                                                   -- Jenni  

A View From The Beach

On my recent vacation, I spent a lot of time at the beach. I love the beach ... the waves, the feel of the sand on my toes, the warm breeze off the ocean. The Beach has healing properties that no doctor or pill can duplicate. Perhaps this blog would better be called, changes in latitude, changes in attitude -- but Jimmy Buffet already trademarked that remark.

The View from the Beach is very different from my home view ... and, honestly, my home outlook. I think differently there ... I am different there. On the Beach, there is a calmer, simpler rhythm. On the Beach, there is less drama and more laughter, blending in with the sounds of gulls or the rolling surf. On the Beach, people are less uptight as high heels and laced dress shoes are replaced with flip flops and bare feet. Fewer people scrolling smart phones and more people fishing or shelling. It's acceptable to play or to sit on the ground, to catch nothing when you fish, to spend days with a book and/or beverage in hand.


On my recent vacation, one of my favorite moments was sitting on the lanai after an early morning rain in Key West. I was drinking hotel coffee -- you know the ones from those little ready-brew pods -- along with a sugar packet and powder creamer. I can truly say it might have been the best cup of  coffee I ever drank, sitting there looking out at a majestic magnolia, a banyan tree and numerous palm trees outside my tiny yet not inexpensive motel room near the southernmost point of the United States. 

I found myself smiling, reflecting, and celebrating the day as the sun came out from behind morning clouds -- my daughter lounging in the big queen bed inside. We were in Key West for two days and making the most of it. It was a place in Florida new to me. But there is an ease there -- to Key West -- that found its way into my soul. This rather gritty, casual paradise, with its many artsy shoppes, open air bars with piano men and acoustic guitar players crooning away all day and all night along with backyard restaurants (complete with families of chickens and palm frond floors) found its way into my soul. My blood pressure slowed and my heart rate eased.


What is that? How does some rather dirty old town street heated with 85 degree temps appeal to me so much? Is it the balcony-lined architecture? Is it the colorful flowers and palm trees? Is it the street vendors? Is it Darth Vadar playing the banjo and Spiderman playing a 3-stringed sitar? I can't say but this place has a way of changing my attitude -- of easing my mind and both relaxing and restoring my spirit. Why is it that flip flops and t-shirts and hair made wild by wind, salty air and humidity create an ease and acceptance to my pace? Why does beer (or rum runners) in paper cups taste so much the better than the fussier pints and glasses in my hometown Michigan establishments? Why am I more accepting as I recognize a more eclectic way of life, noting bars full of people imbibing even before Noon?

Why does the rhythm of life in this warm, tropical oasis change my outlook, inspire me and slow my rate of breathing? Why is it drama seems less here and smiles and laughter pop up easier? In this little 7.4 mile island crammed with tiny houses and roosters who don't know what time sunrise is but regularly let you know they are quite happy to see the sun, why does life just seem better here? 

And how do I pack up that feeling, at the end of the day on the Beach? How do I keep it going? As I wander around in shorts and t-shirts -- or my bathing suit -- the sun gently tanning my SPF 50 coated skin and kissing my daughter's face until freckles dot her cheeks, I feel peaceful, Content, Happy and very at Ease. I don't want to argue or debate or challenge the unique ways people view the world and act in it. I'm cool with it.  I am more accepting and less judgmental. Less apt to define life by my way of limited thinking. I sense the joy that comes from fewer demands and imposed expectations. In this place, there is a live and let live mood which allows the status quo to be whatever it is ... and that's fine by me. 

Sadly, I've discovered that my View from the Beach is different from my every day outlook. Guess that's a choice, my getting wrapped up, or stressed out or seeing drama at every dark or unexpected corner. My Type A personality kicks into gear, over-analyzing or regretting, getting caught up in "stuff" and basing my decisions and choices on the societal imposed way it's supposed to be and the way I'm supposed to be in it. Less freedom. More judgement and stress. Long live the status quo.


But, as I return from the Beach this time, maybe I can make a different choice. Don't have to wear flip flops or drink my beer from plastic cups to retain my Key West attitude because attitude and how I choose to look around is a choice. Maybe it's three years of yoga that helped awake this shift, all those sessions of holding difficult poses and choosing to allow the shaky me to embrace the idea that stress and challenges are temporary and it's how I embrace and deal with this moment that's really what is important. Or maybe it's the feeling I picked up on Duvall Street. But what I've learned and know is this...

When my tan fades and the pictures on my wall become more distant memories, I have a piece of Key West I can still hold onto ... my View From The Beach ... where the livin' can be easy. If we let it. If I let it. And when the drama or stress hits, I'm gonna to remember that.

What about you? Could you use a slower pace? A simpler rhythm? Just because you aren't on the Beach or walking around Old Town Key West, doesn't mean you can't find it. Put on some flip flops if you need physical inspiration. Take a walk in the sunshine. Breathe deep ... imagine that fishy, salty air ... the caress of waves and sand on your feet ... and choose your View ...
                                                                                                                                       -- Jenni

The Game Is On ...

Is there a literary character better renowned than Sherlock Holmes? Is there one who has been captured more distinctly and diversely on screens large and small? Is there a crime-solver with statements quoted more often than those of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's master detective? 

Benedict Cumberbatch, Robert Downey Jr, Basil Rathbone, Jonny Lee Miller, Peter Cushing, Jeremy Brett, James D'Arcy and even John Barrymore have added their signature and breathed life into this enigmatic, brilliant detective. In fact, while Downey's films retain their DVD-rental popularity and Cumberbatch and Miller create the character on the small screen, Sir Ian McKellen (popularly known for his work in X-Men and the Tolkein films) will appear in the soon-to-be released 2015 film Mr. Holmes. 

Therefore, as I was challenged this month to read a book of short stories as part of the Ron's Bookshelf Classic Challenge 2015, what could be more natural than I select Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes as my read of choice. And what an intriguing read it was.

Watson describes Holmes as "the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen." That observation was made early in Holmes "career" when he initiated his first case -- my first Short Story called Study in Scarlet,  which debuted in Beeton's Christmas Annual in 1887. The Sherlock Holmes mystery series, written over a 40-year span from 1887-1927, explored the good, the bad and the ugly of Victorian England's society, its ideals, its accomplishments and its deepest fears.

Sherlock Holmes was -- and still is -- a character very much of his own time and place. But not limited to one. His time and place can be classic adaptations, futurized Steampunk variations, or even modern day England or America. He appeals to readers -- and viewers -- in the unique way he confronts the messy, changeable world we all live in. 

For Sherlock Holmes -- classic or modern -- "the world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes" (Hound of the Baskervilles). Holmes is continually stating that people are flawed since they "see but do not observe." (A Scandal in Bohemia). He studies human behavior and cracks the case in the most uncanny of ways, devoid of emotional pitfalls since "sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side." Well, that's BBC and not Conan Doyle. But the tone is consistent. Sherlock's methods in 2015 fascinate as much as they did in 1887. 

The words written in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes might be the same phrases spoken by Jonny Lee Miller or Benedict Cumberbatch today. They have a timeless fluidity that allows them to resonate in any mystery-lovers mind. How often have we heard Sherlock's most famous phrase, Elementary, my dear Watson? How often have we used it ourselves? Perhaps that's why the stories captivated me as I read them.

What good mystery does not imply, state or suggest that quintessential foundation of solving crime -- the one Holmes stated in the 1890 publication Sign of the Four: "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth..." 

Reading The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes is like watching a marathon of BBC's Sherlock. Okay, perhaps Sherlock of old doesn't say "I'm not a psychopath. I'm a high-functioning sociopath" as Cumberbatch eloquently proclaims. But in Conan Doyle's crafty prose, you hear that statement bubbling under the surface. When it comes to his emotions, you hear a modern Sherlock stating in simple terms that "Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side."  The classic Holmes' view was the same, though. In A Scandal in Bohemia, he is described as believing that "All emotions, and love in particular, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind."

I like that despite his decision to distance emotion from reasoning, Sherlock doesn't go it alone. The literary Sherlock valued Watson as the film and television counterparts do equally well -- heck, Jonny Lee Miller's Watson is a woman and she holds her own in the crime-solving duo. In 1890, Sherlock indicated his appreciation of Watson by saying "You have a grand gift for silence, Watson. It makes you quite invaluable as a companion" (The Man with the Twisted Lip.)  Cumberbatch echoes that idea saying "Listen, what I've said before, John. I meant it. I don't have Friends. I have one."  Of course moments later he explodes in a slightly more dramatic and modern ... "Shut up everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breath. I'm trying to think!"  

There are challenges with reading The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, though. While it's Sherlock's business to know what other people don't know, it's sometimes daunting to find my way with the plot. And the typeface in these short story collections is tiny ... heck, I think it's the original four column type-setting from The Strand magazines. Overall the layout is a bit taxing on today's eyes.

In addition -- and I'm reluctant to admit this -- sometimes Sherlock's intellect works so rapidly that my brain can't keep up. I get fuzzy. I fall asleep. I'm serious. There is a section of the original Robert Downey Jr. film where I always nod off. I have even nodded off during the BBC program and had to rewind or rewatch. So the fact that I nodded off reading the book is only natural. It's almost like my brain is over loaded with ideas and imagery and defends itself the best way it can ... by shutting down.

I'm not saying the stories are boring ... just heavy with thoughts and words and ideas. A bit too heavy for me at times.

I did enjoy experiencing Sherlock from a literary perspective. Reading about him and his original adventures made my creative mind work. Oddly,  my mind still cast Benedict Cumberbatch in the lead role. But no matter which image of Sherlock you prefer, the written words of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle come alive in whatever time they are set. After all, as was written in A Case of Identity over 150 years ago, "life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence."

True that!

Sherlock Holmes transcends efforts to bind him to one era in time, making his tales terrific to read. And though Doyle himself had mixed feelings about his creation -- a love-hate relationship with a character whose name had eclipsed his own -- who would have guessed his 60 short tales would continue to captivate 200 years later!

                                                                                                                                  -- Jenni

A Sharpened Pencil

Last Christmas, my sister gave me a Vera Bradley box set of Pencils and two matching journals. That, along with another Journal and a photo my son took of "Wilson's Garage,"  (a special Great Gatsby-ism we share) were two of the best gifts ever. 

Simple there were. But they gave full inspiration for my very creative mind and voice.  

I use the Vera Bradley Pencils selectively. I use them to write in my journals. I chose one to write down notes and blocking for the recent play I was in. I keep one with my knitting bag for notes and comments. They are mine and those not in use yet are kept in the box. I also use them to write blogs and ideas and copy down quotes that inspire or touch me somehow. A good sharp pencil unlocks my imagination like nothing else.

And I like a very sharp pencil. I have a sharpener (it's Pink - surprise!) and find a sense of calm as I sharpen these #2 pencils to a "you can poke your eye out" tip. Pencil sharpening is truly therapeutic. But it isn't some electric sharpener I use. Not a chance. I have an old fashioned one. Did you realize that if you listen closely you can actually hear the moment that perfect point is achieved. And you can feel it in the crank. The resistance disappaits. It is a spiritual and tactile experience. And seriously, who wants to write with a dull pencil? Dull pencil ... dull mind ... dull ideas.

So my super sharp pencils and I unlock images in the depth of my mind. Then I type them into "the Corner" blog. 

What is it about a pencil and a clean piece of paper that opens my mind to crafting thoughts and words? 

First, it's real. It's not virtual. Once I write something it stays written. It doesn't disappear when my computer hard drive decides for no good reason to delete the operating system and erase everything stored inside. (Personally experienced that one a week ago.) I have various completed journals and numerous started ones in my desk and near my chair. Once something is written there, the thought, concern, stress, issue, idea, image and concept is neatly removed from my mind and logged permanently between the lines.

For those of you Harry Potter fans, it's my version of Dumbledore's Pensieve. Once something goes there, I can revisit it if I choose or be rid of it. In the cases of some personal drama or perceived crisis, it's very nice to divest myself of something. Freeing. And in those cases, once written I don't look back or read. No judgement. Just letting go of something that disrupts my spirit, mind, soul, heart, life, growth ... well, whatever.

Secondly, I can choose to review it. There are time when I feel more drama in my life. At those times, I write A LOT in my journals. When I review them, they read like a teenager's diary. I find humor at myself. I learn from my observations but am a step away from the "stuff." But at the time, writing my ideas with that pokey pencil was therapeutic.  And it got me through the challenging times and back into the light.

Thirdly, my mind works in images. I see pictures. I see words. I see thoughts. Where else do I write these? Sometimes words dance around in my mind -- insistent little things or giant things. If I put them on paper, they stop distracting me. It may not be a completed thought yet. But I might find a day where a turn of a phrase actually leads into a full story or book. A poem. A play. A pokey pencil is the best tool ever to transcribing the movies in my mind in a logical way. 

Fourthly, not everyone appreciates the joy a pokey pencil can give since not everyone enjoys writing. For some, status updates or diatribes on Facebook/Twitter are sufficient. Their phone or computer expresses their thoughts. I find that way of communicating my ideas too limiting. That venue lacks the control of the eraser found on good #2 pencils. Sometimes, I need the option of destroying an idea or a thought. I've actually torn pages out of journals and ripped them to shreds.  Get a thought out of my mind then get it gone. Can't do that with Facebook posts. Whether you delete your account or not, that "stuff" is still out there in the Cloud. (Whatever the heck and wherever the heck that is.)

Fifth, I need paper and pencil. I like the control it gives me and the option I have to read what I've written and decide where it goes. Sometimes I write for me. Sometimes I write to be written and get feedback. I like to write something that touches people or reaches someone. I like to know people read my stuff and like it. Yeah, sometimes I do it for the accolades. But most of the time, I write because I have something to say and I feel it needs to be said ... that others might just get a glimmer of something from the words and images I select.

Finally, a sharpened pencil is unlike that flashing cursor that awaits my words. Antagonizing me until I make it go away. A sharpened pencil is forgiving, erases, and creates words that stay exactly where I put them. They aren't read by prying eyes who access the Cloud or read stupid messages I might have texted or typed under an alcohol-induced or emotional haze. No, when I select that blank page in my journal, it has an option of being closed and put away and hidden from prying eyes. It's private until I decided whether or not to share it with a reader.

A sharpened pencil ... a journal ... a notebook. Simple they are. Mighty too. And two of my favorite things. 

By the way, I write actual letters too. But, for those I use with a .5 micro point blue uniball pen. Yeah, I'm a bit selective with what I use to express my words. Gotta have the right tools when I have something to say ...

It may touch you or roll on by you. And that's fine. Sometimes what I write is just for me. But if it touches you, that's cool too.
                                                                                                      -- Jenni