Blending Speech and Thought

A writer's path to author: the external versus the internal

While I have been writing for a half-century (reaching back to my high school newspaper days), I have only been involved with fiction since 2015: although many would suggest my decades in advertising leave me well-qualified to write fiction. These past six years have been my most productive: ten full novels, one novella, and one short story for just short of 1,000,000 words. Now that I have had a good seven months since the publication of the final book in the Bennet Wardrobe Arc—The Grail: The Saving of Elizabeth Darcy—I am deep into another work with my hopes of being finished before this year’s holiday season.

While working my way through these stories, I discovered that my writing itself has changed and has become more burnished. I find myself involved in an ongoing experiment in both form and function. There is no set formula as to how this evolution is undertaken. Perhaps the changes are so minute as to be imperceptible. My natural inclination is to fiddle and try to find new ways to express myself in #Austenesque fiction, to bring readers to a different understanding of well-known characters and memes.

This previous is not pride, but rather explanation.

I think my most profound change came during the time of enforced isolation in 2020.  A stoppage of life was the norm yet removing the external gave the internal—so readily ignored in the blinding daylight of the everyday—a chance not just to step forward, but to become dominant. And my internal was watchfulness through which I observed, processed, and stored. During the quarantine, I—we—all have had ample time to watch and contemplate.

Early on my muse Pam plunked me down in front of the hi-def and told me that she had found a Netflix documentary Five Came Back. This was a film about five great Hollywood directors—Ford, Capra, Wyler, Stevens, and Huston—who set aside their fame and put their careers on hold to aid the US war effort in World War II by doing what they did so well. I was so entranced with the four parts of the tale that I purchased the book from which it was taken.

While each story was compelling, William Wyler’s struck me as profound, showing how a pivotal experience altered his creative path moving forward.

Wyler was known for his remarkable œvre which began in the 1930s and flew above the Hollywood landscape through the 1960s. However, his first film after his return from flying with the US Eighth Air Force is considered his masterpiece. In 1946, Wyler returned to California, emotionally broken and with a 75% hearing loss. To try to pick up his life’s pieces. The Best Years of our Lives is a motion picture that could only have been accomplished by someone who understood. I will not dwell on the film. Instead, I will shift to the source material.

Wyler had approached MacKinlay Kantor, a noted author, to write something from which a film could be adapted discussing the experience of soldiers, sailors, and airmen returning home to a society that had known war but had not experienced its horrors. Kantor created not a book but rather a 268-page poem in blank verse: Glory for Me. What is missing is the reams of dialog. Writer Robert E. Sherwood found the movie inside of the reflections and the odd and broken conversational exchanges.

He frowned from our predicament

He felt they were a lost battalion, huddled close-

The three who’d known destroying flame,

And still perceived its blisters on their hide-

The boy, the elder boy, the man

Who’d felt exploding flare of doom

That women only guessed; and yet

Imagined properly, as women may,

When spreading the tannic dressing of their tears. (p. 267)

Here is an author (Kantor) in full command of his craft being willing to risk all by delivering a poem to a filmmaker rather than the book or story ordered up and paid for. He also gambled—or did not care—that the reading public would turn its back on this literary and likely uncommercial book.  Kantor remained true to himself and delivered an honest story. He did so, I am convinced, because the structure of a poem reflected the Homeric qualities of the story of these three nearly nameless men—more important because they represented the millions of other nameless men who had left their lives to fight fascism and tyranny. Once I read it in this manner, I could not imagine it giving us its verité in any other format.

The internal dialogue used by Kantor’s character, the middle-aged banker and infantry sergeant, reinforced his common experience with his two younger friends: the maimed Homer Wermels and the psychologically disfigured Fred Derry. Yet, this is 100% the ruminations of Al Stephenson: thoughts not speech. Try to imagine the passage above as a conversation—or even a soliloquy—and you will see where great writing goes to die.

I follow my evolution as an author from my earliest. I have moved from the playwright’s voice being heard through dialogue (some folks complained that my characters talked too much) to taking advantage of the power of the third-person observer who is more than a fly on the wall. Recall that in a theater the audience is never privy to the musings of any of the characters unless they are verbalized. A book adds another dimension to the experience of engaging with the characters; the reader becomes an observer of what happens on that great grey plane that stretches behind the eyelids of all characters.

Now I have folks who complain that they are being forced to spend too much time in the characters’ heads. That, though, is my observation that we as humans spend the bulk of our time inside ourselves. And that seems to be where my writing is headed in many ways: toward an omnipotent third person.

Today I offer many moments where we move through Darcy’s or Elizabeth’s thoughts. We can enjoy initial indecision, confusion in opposition to resolution, and final clarity. The same holds for many of the secondary players: Bingley, Jane, Caroline, and Wickham. However, there needs must be a balance for humans are not creatures of silence. We voice our thoughts for they are like daubs of paint upon a canvas: each may be pleasant to look at but when taken in conjunction with others becomes a complete image. Thoughts contribute to the words spoken by one character which then inspires contemplation in another to bring more words to fill the void between two persons.

Here is where a master like Jane Austen found her strength: the articulation of impressions that contribute to behaviors that roll the story forward.

But it all begins with a worldview—a weltanschauung—through which our characters necessarily filter everything around them. And all of that begins with reflection and contemplation. I ask you to be patient with my work as I explore and experiment to make my work the closest approximation of the truth as it exists in this amazing #Austenesque world.

Please enjoy the following excerpt from my novella The Longbourn Quarantine.

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This excerpt ©2020 by Donald Whitfield Jacobson. Any reproduction or other use of this excerpt is strictly prohibited. Published by Meryton Press in the United States of America and distributed worldwide.

Chapter 2

Bingley’s coach rocked to a halt in front of Longbourn’s portico. He exited the cabin and marched up to the door which had been opened wide by an elderly retainer. Mr. Bennet stood silhouetted against the front hall’s brightness throwing its lemony glimmer into the sky’s stormy darkness. Darcy swung down from the rear step but did not immediately approach the house. Rather he conferred with his valet, Hastings, who had come around from the kitchens upon word of his master’s return. The two men collected a small valise and jogged toward the stables.

Guided by Mr. Bennet, Bingley scampered into the parlor, looking about for the object of his affection, one for whom he had been pining since he had been convinced to abandon Netherfield in November. Bingley regulated himself enough to perform the forms of greeting all the ladies. While he bestowed a mournful, but hopeful look upon Miss Bennet, he eschewed any attempt at conversation until he had spoken with his sister. His whispers were brief, but their message had a profound effect on Caroline. Her shoulders slumped, and tears puddled in her eyes. The sound of a sob catching in her throat brought Jane to her feet. Handkerchief clutched, she hurried to offer comfort to the woman she understood harbored no goodwill about her prospects with Mr. Bingley.

Miss Bennet neatly inserted herself between the brother and sister before spearing him with a knife-edged glare that spoke not of spring’s promise but rather winter’s frost. Her tone echoed her gaze, “Please, Mr. Bingley, perhaps Miss Darcy would appreciate your attention. She must be feeling particularly lonely, even to the point of thinking that you are once again a fickle suitor. You also have managed to overset your sister. Allow me to comfort Miss Bingley.”

Bingley recoiled as if slapped. Her use of the word ‘suitor’ concerning Miss Darcy also confused him. He could not comprehend how Miss Bennet had arrived at such a conclusion. Miss Darcy was not even out and, in any event, was his best friend’s baby sister. Yet, Bingley was no fool. While he did not understand the totality of her barb, he was astute enough to recognize that Miss Bennet justifiably blamed him for leaving her in November. He stiffly bowed his way away from Jane and slunk to where Elizabeth and Georgiana remained seated. His reception there was only modestly better because Lizzy would not exhibit her ire at him in front of Miss Darcy. Nonetheless, she was barely polite. Georgiana’s salutation was less muted, confirming to Elizabeth that the young lady had some expectations of a future with her brother’s friend. Bingley merely nodded and settled onto a side chair resting his chin in his hand and staring at but without seeing the pair on the couch. That put an end to any further conversation.

An uneasy calm settled over the room as all awaited the entry of Mr. Darcy to whom, Elizabeth assumed, Bingley had deputed most of his decision-making. No resolution on the disposition of the London party would be made until the dour tower deigned to appear.

Mr. Bingley may hold the lease to an estate, but it is the owner of Pemberley who controls his actions much like the man behind the curtain at a Punch and Judy booth determines exactly when the slapstick will be employed. While Miss Bingley may have dripped the poison about Jane and our family into her brother’s ear, I do not doubt that it was Mr. Darcy who stoppered it in with a few choice words to fester.

Their wait was not long. After less than five minutes, a footman guided the missing gentleman into the chamber. The stable yard toilet had been functional if not up to town standards. The man was confident that he carried no corruption into Longbourn’s precincts. As that had been his highest concern—to avoid contaminating the woman who had bedeviled his dreams for months—Darcy was not bothered that his appearance would have raised eyebrows had he stepped into his aunt’s parlor instead of Mrs. Bennet’s. Meryton’s standards were far more relaxed, depending on country manners as opposed to the high-in-the-instep airs promoted by the ton. Nonetheless, his valet was less than satisfied to release his master into the wild, even if it was only on a modest country estate. Darcy’s garments at least were clean if not crisp. Hastings had not had the time to run an iron over clothing that had been quickly packed earlier in the day. The gentleman’s neckcloth was tied using the serviceable mail coach knot which hid its loss of starch. Likewise, Darcy’s hair was not coifed in its normally fastidious style. Rather his locks damply clung to his crown, a few curls dropping onto his high forehead.

Passing his eyes over the three groups, he found Miss Darcy tête-à -tête with Bingley and Elizabeth Bennet. Long strides closed the distance. Barely offering Miss Elizabeth the courtesy of a nod, Darcy knelt by his sister and clasped her delicate hands between his large ones.

Predisposed to dislike the man, Elizabeth, nonetheless, found his tenderness with the trembling girl endearing. He acted toward Georgiana as Lizzy often wished that her own Papa would act toward his daughters. She granted Mr. Darcy latitude and let his impolite behavior pass knowing he was correct to concentrate on his sister’s welfare.  She leaned away to afford the siblings some privacy. Even though she refocused her ears on her mother’s commentary, Elizabeth could not ignore the backtone of Darcy’s monologue. The murmurings rose and fell like a breeze swishing through a grain field, heavy heads rubbing and rattling against one another. At some point, Mr. Darcy began rubbing Miss Darcy’s back, soothing her until her shivering ceased. This unexpected behavior flew in the face of everything Elizabeth had believed or heard about the brother and sister. Neither Darcy seemed proud and disdainful in their shared intimacy. To Elizabeth’s eye, the two had dropped all pretense, finding solace in each other, insulated in a bubble of familiarity.

Mr. Darcy’s baritone rumbling disrupted her musings, “I must thank you, Miss Elizabeth, for sitting here with my sister while Bingley and I assessed Netherfield’s condition. I fear that Georgiana, while she has borne up admirably throughout this trying day, was tested to her limits. You have my gratitude.”

Elizabeth, surprised at being accorded praise from a man who had always found the opportunity to darkly examine her every move, smiled her acknowledgment but was unable to frame her response before Bingley jumped in.

“I vow, Darcy, thank goodness that the constable warned us against bringing Caroline or Miss Darcy onto Netherfield’s grounds. I have never seen anything quite so awful. Windows broken, doors and shutters ripped loose. Why it reminds me of when a boiler exploded at one of my father’s manufactories…”

“Bingley!” growled Darcy.

“Mr. Bingley, please! Miss Darcy…” Elizabeth snapped.

Georgiana’s chin, firm just a second before, began to quiver anew, and fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. Elizabeth gathered her into the circle of her arms. Her glare sent Bingley into motion yet again. This time he made his escape to occupy Darcy’s traditional position before one of the parlor’s west-facing windows. His entire frame spoke of dejection at being on the wrong side of both of the elder Bennet daughters. Darcy looked at him over his shoulder. Then he glanced at Elizabeth. Widening her eyes, she made a subtle motion pointing her chin toward the young man. In reply to Darcy’s raised eyebrows, she repeated her urging. Go to him. He needs your steadying hand now.

In a most human movement, Fitzwilliam Darcy shrugged one shoulder, sighed, and, seeing that his sister was nestled in Miss Elizabeth’s arms, clambered to his feet. He joined his friend at the window.

He grasped Bingley’s elbow and softly spoke to him, “Bingley, I have known you for years. You have been enthusiastic but never heedless of the impact your words have on others. I fear that has been my province. I know you are tired. And, you would have to be made of stone not to be upset at Hurst’s news and what you saw at Netherfield.

“Yet, weariness and distraction cannot be excuses for losing self-control so completely that you send a fragile child into hysterics. Now is not the time, but I expect you to apologize to both Georgiana and Miss Elizabeth.

“Is there more at work here beyond Mrs. Hurst and Netherfield?”

Bingley raked his fingers through his hair, finishing the destruction wrought by a day’s travel without the benefit of a valet. He drew a ragged breath and tearily gasped, “She hates me. Miss Bennet took one look at me and, if it were possible, gave me the cut direct while speaking to me. She might as well have reached into my chest and ripped out my beating heart to hold it up before my eyes.”

Darcy snorted, “Miss Bennet and the word hate simply do not go together. Serene perhaps…certainly placid…but hate I think not. For her to hate you, she would have had to love you. I have never seen any evidence that she held you in higher esteem than any other man in the neighborhood.”

Bingley pulled his arm free and sent an anguished look at Darcy before replying, “The biggest mistake of my life was listening to you and my sisters. I was an utter fool to deny the proof that glowed back at me from a pair of fine eyes. I forwent my happiness because I did not trust what I believed to be the truth and instead listened to those who should have cared enough to protect my interests.

“Certainly, my sisters had ulterior motives. Both of them wanted to raise their status by pairing me with a woman of consequence. But you: you are my friend. What possibly could have been your reason to urge me to fly from Netherfield like the Furies were on my heels? You have seen how leaving Hertfordshire after the ball cast me down.”

Darcy was rocked by the vehemence of Bingley’s declamation. His defense rose in his throat only to be choked by the realization that he had not acted in Charles’ interest but his own. He castigated himself because he had used his friend to abet his escape from a different pair of fine eyes. Those orbs burned brightly in the countenance of the woman now comforting his sister. Such a scene was that which he had expected to be the role of his wife. Much of what he had tried to cobble together from the broken pieces of his soul came crashing down around him in the blinding light that sent his doubts about Miss Elizabeth’s suitability scudding off into the distance.

Bingley’s voice broke through Darcy’s reverie, “And what was even more confounding—beyond her justifiable anger at being discarded—Miss Bennet somehow is under the impression that I am courting your sister!”

“What? What did she say? Exactly,” hissed an incensed Darcy.

“When she sent me off from Caroline, she said I should attend Miss Darcy lest she thinks that I was once again a fickle suitor. I know I was inconstant with Miss Bennet, hence her accusation about my disappointing her, but where did she get the idea that I was paying my addresses to your sister? That thought never crossed my mind and never would. Miss Darcy is but a babe!”

At this, Darcy’s eyes snapped up and speared the two Misses—Bennet and Bingley—in close concert in the furthest corner of the room. As if she could feel the force of his gaze, Miss Bingley lifted her flushed and tear-stained face and offered him a watery smile. Seeing him looking back, Caroline began pulling away from Jane, organizing her frock and schooling her features.

The woman is preening, Darcy thought, once again casting her bread upon the waters hoping to land me—and Pemberley.

Then his mind spun back to that November day after the dust from the ball had settled. Charles, itching to be away to town to conclude some business so he could quickly return to Hertfordshire, delegated that which should have been in his purview alone. Rather than ride to Longbourn and personally take his leave of Miss Bennet, to assure her he would return shortly, Bingley agreed to Caroline’s suggestion that she would write a note explaining his abrupt departure. He was blind to the fact that his sister’s syrupy praises of Miss Bennet concealed bile. Less than a day later, Caroline packed up Netherfield and dispatched her tender regards to Jane Bennet. While Darcy had not read the missive, he now did not doubt that one of Miss Bingley’s sentiments included a suggestion that her brother’s ardor was focused on a blonde girl barely out of the schoolroom. If Miss Bingley could not immediately succeed on the Field of Venus, she was not above using her brother and Darcy’s sister in a flanking maneuver. She had no compunction about damaging another’s heart, in this case Miss Bennet’s, if it could further her cause.

Teeth gritted at this presumption, especially after last summer, Darcy ground out, “I have absolutely no idea. I know you have never entertained such feelings, and if you did, Richard might wish to have a conversation with you as you are over nine years Georgiana’s senior.”

Bingley blanched at the idea of being upon the receiving end of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s attentions. He stammered out a repetition of his considering Miss Darcy as his third sister.

The sound of pounding at the front door forestalled any additional discussion, but Darcy stowed his suspicions for later contemplation.