Review Tuesday: Frankenstein by Mary Wollstonecroft Shelley - #ReviewTuesday #Philosophy #precocious

Frankenstein by Mary Wollstonecroft Shelley

Everyone knows the story of Frankenstein's monster, Mary Shelley's famous cautionary tale about the risks of playing God. Realizing recently that I'd never read the book, I downloaded a copy from ProjectGutenberg.

My mind was full of images from Ken Russell's film "Gothic", about the so-called "haunted summer" when Mary Shelley, her lover Percy Shelley, Lord Byron and the ambiguous Dr. Polidori gathered at Byron's mansion and challenged each other to write a horror story. I expected lightning, gore, darkness, and philosophy from the precocious author (only nineteen when she penned the book).

Alas, I was deeply disappointed by this novel. The entire book is a one post-hoc narration (from the God-defying scientist Victor Frankenstein) embedded within another (an adventurer traveling in the Artic, whose name and history matter not at all). At one point, the tale-telling goes to a third level, when Victor Frankenstein repeats the account shared by his monstrous creation, who is both intelligent and gentle initially, craving acceptance and love, but who is universally rejected and feared.

There is no direct action whatsoever, and no detail about the methods used by Frankenstein to create his unnatural offspring. All we know is the horror he claims to have felt when he first looked upon the monster's face. He abandons the being he has fashioned, and sets tragedy in motion.

I was embarrassed to discover that all the bits I thought I knew about the Frankenstein tale were all products of Hollywood. And to be honest, I found myself puzzled by the enduring influence of this slim novel. It raises a few philosophical questions, about the nature of humanity and personal responsibility, as well as the dangers of judging based on exterior appearance, but overall, the book had little emotional or intellectual impact on me.

The main lesson I took from the experience of reading Frankenstein involved the power of culture and media to twist a story from its original form into something quite different.

A Conversation with Polonius - #Shakespeare #self-love #AmWriting

“This above all: To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.”

The old man shook a gnarled finger at me. His snowy beard wagged as he gulped for air, somewhat overcome by his own animation.

“Good Polonius,” I say, helping him to a velvet-upholstered armchair. “I thank you for your advice. But if we all followed such precepts, what kind of world would we have? A me-first sort of place, full of ego and ambition. No one would hesitate to take advantage of his fellows in order to further his own goals. Violence, cruelty, indifference—to an even greater extent than we already have.”

“Nay, child, 'tis not so. Although I am known as a taciturn and reticent individual, a man of few words who would never vaunt his wisdom or pretend to superior understanding, I cannot refrain from enlightening you and demonstrating the validity of my counsel.”

“Indeed, sir, I wait upon your explanation.” It occurs to me to wonder why I've adopted such antiquated speech patterns, but then, I'm easily influenced. When I visit my relatives in South Carolina, I find myself unconsciously adopting a southern accent. When I'm in New York City, I'm often mistaken for a native.

“As you have truly observed, the world is a sorry place, rife with horrific crimes against God and society that sadden and sicken the hearts of virtuous men such as I. The hard-won wealth of industrious men is squandered and pilfered by perfidious financiers. Did I not say, neither a borrower nor a lender be? Headless bodies are unearthed, the scourge of the undeclared wars between rival purveyors of addictive intoxicants. Every day, it seems, we hear tell of some misguided fanatic hoist with his own petard, taking scores of innocents to hell along with him.

Some would argue that the perpetrators of such evil deeds suffer from an excess of self-love. In pursuing personal goals, be it glory, riches or power, the villains care not whom they deprive of life or livelihood. Their overarching egoism permits any injury to another. The desires and dreams of others matter not a whit should such desires stand in opposition to the criminal's objectives.”

“Exactly my point.” I slip in my comment as the elderly Dane is gathering his breath for another paragraph or two. “Self-love leads to many ills.”

“You are deluded, daughter, if I may be allowed to say so. I believe that every individual is entitled to hold his or her opinion, however ridiculous, and it is not my place to correct them. Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice, that is my motto. Nevertheless I cannot allow you to persist in such an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“Yes, sir?” I know I will receive enlightenment whether I agree with him or not.

“These vile creatures who are responsible of the crimes of which we speak, do you think they love themselves? I will be brief. These persons are propelled not by self-appreciation but by self-doubt, inadequacy, an insufficient regard for their own worth which drives them to try and prove that they are better than their peers. It matters not how often they triumph, how full their coffers, how many they slay. No deed, however marvelous or vicious, can assuage their deep-buried convictions of their own worthlessness.”

“So you are of the opinion that self-love engenders virtue rather than vice?”

The elder's cheeks were pink with exertion. He gestured with such energy that, had he a sword, he might well have cut me to the quick.

“I would represent my position not as mere opinion, a bauble to be tossed about in the tavern by drunken wastrels, but as manifest truth. Think on it: what said our Lord Jesus Christ? 'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.'”

“Sir, I do not think it is advisable to descend into religious arguments on this blog...”

“This is not religion, you green girl, 'tis merely common sense. How is it possible to be considerate, compassionate, generous, if one is not at one's own ease? How can I care for my neighbor unless I care for myself? Kindness toward others is the fruit of self-love, as are respect and affection.

"If you suffer from the belief of that you are inferior, others appear only as threats. Their accomplishments and their worldly possessions accuse you. Voracious envy gnaws your heart. Suspicion cloud your eyes. Believing that you have little, you live in fear that it will be taken from you. Suffering from a sense of lack, you attack those who enjoy the blessings of which you feel you have been deprived.

“Self-love protects a man from this terror. Knowing one's worth, one can appreciate the worthy deeds of one's fellows. A man who is true to himself can afford to be even-tempered, tolerant, charitable. He can follow my oft-dispensed counsel: take every man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. He can share his bounty, loving his neighbor as the Scriptures dictate, because he is confident that no one can deprive him of the love he bears himself.”

Despite his volubility, the old man made some sense. “Well...”

“Think on thine own case, wench. You are a scribbler, I believe, penning fantastic tales for the ignorant masses.”

“Well, I'd like to imagine that my readers are not ignorant...”

“No matter, that is not the meat of the matter. I have heard that you are quite willing to help other authors, are you not? You write peer reviews, offer critiques, share information on opportunities for promulgating news of their activities and for disseminating their own scribbles, and so on, do you not?”

“Um—yes, but I don't see...”

“I beg you not to interrupt your elders, girl, when they are attempting to share their hard-won wisdom!”

“Sorry. I offer my apologies, good Polonius.”

“I accept them graciously as is my wont. Beware of entrance to a quarrel, I always say. Where was I? Oh yes. You are moderately generous with your time and your energy. You do not feel that these other authors are your enemies, do you?”

“No, of course not! I am happy to provide assistance where I can. Many people have helped me. It is only just that I reciprocate, maintaining the flow of positive deeds.”

“You do not envy other authors' success?”

“Perhaps a bit, but I know that in most cases they have worked hard to achieve what renown they may claim.”

“And what do you think about your own writing ability?”

“Well, to be honest, I have a fairly high opinion of my work. I know that I am not a great artist – I'll never be a William Shakespeare – but when the inspiration hits, I can write a spicy tale that entertains.”

“You see, you love yourself. You believe yourself to be worthy, in the realm of your writing at least. This allows you to share your time with other writers without feeling threatened. You are true to yourself and hence you cannot be false to your fellows.”

“Hmm. I suppose that you may be right, sir.”

“Of course I am right. Videlicet, a sage, well-tempered in the ways of men, bearing the benedictions of age along with its burdens. But the king calls me, no doubt to solicit my counsel. I must hasten to his chamber. Farewell, Lisabet, and remember well what I have said to you.”

“'Tis in my memory locked, and you yourself shall keep the key to it.”

“Good girl.”

“But Polonius, sir, if I might offer you some advice of my own...”

“What is it, child? Be brief.”

“Do not be too curious or eager to spy. And stay away from the curtains.”

Don't Postpone Joy (#blessings #love #philosophy)

We authors are always so busy. Of course we have to produce our stories, but these days, that's not enough. Every day, there's marketing, too. Send out reminders to your mailing list. Check the comments from the guest blog post you did last week. Log in to Twitter to see if anyone has retweeted your news from yesterday, and reciprocate. I have a to-do list that's never empty, because I'm constantly adding new items.

The pressure sometimes feels unbearable, even though I don't make my living from my books. I'm still out there, reaching for success, waving my arms at readers, trying to get attention for what I feel are pretty damn good stories. When I wake up, the first thing that pops into my head are today's deadlines.

No.

Stop. 

(I tell myself.)

That's not what matters.

I look over at my snoring husband, who probably didn't hear the alarm. Sliding over to his side, I cuddle up and kiss him awake. Blackness leaps onto the bed, her eyes big yellow circles, and settles on his pillow with her belly against his balding head, purring like a buzz saw. Mr. Toes perches on a corner of the mattress, wary of her claws but wanting his share of attention too.

This. This is what's important. Not the blog tour or the edits or the web page statistics. Love is what matters, not sales. 

So I take my time in the morning. We share breakfast. I do my exercises, morning sun slanting in the window and turning our bedroom golden. When my DH suggests we go out for dinner, or a movie, I resist the urge to tell him I can't, that I have way too much to do. I'm old enough to know now that I should not postpone joy.

A dear friend of mine lost her husband a few months ago. It was sudden, dramatic. He was yanked away from her without warning--like tearing off a limb. Together for more than forty years, they were still in love. 

Two decades ago, another close friend surrendered to ovarian cancer. She was only fifty one. She went gracefully to her death, and as I watched her, I learned a lot. 

Don't save that new dress for a special occasion. 

Don't assume you'll take a vacation next year because this year you're too busy or too broke.

Don't give up the chance to kiss your husband or smile at your neighbor or savor that ice cream cone you're really craving.

Life is short. Life is fragile. Take what today offers because you never know whether you'll have tomorrow. But don't waste your time worrying about all the pain you might have to endure in the future. Why spoil today when it's so wonderful?

You think it's not? Think again. Joy hides in the most unexpected places. And once you uncover it, it expands.

Seek joy out. Welcome it with open arms. Be grateful for blessings. Be generous with love.

That's what I tell myself, when the pressure mounts. Today. Every day.
 

The Tough Girl's Guide to Handling Rejection

By Tenille Brown (Guest Blogger)

I’m harder than a man on Viagra, or so I’ve been told.

The words first came from my husband when he noticed I was virtually emotionless during a heated argument.  I might have shrugged or narrowed my eyes, but I’m fairly certain I didn’t raise my voice or do any other thing that might get my heart rate up.  I’m getting older and I’d like to save my flutters for my children’s teenage years, thank you very much.

And I absolutely, for sure, did not cry.

The first time I was broken up with by a boy, over the phone, the week after senior prom, my eyes were dry.  I hung up the phone without much of a response, went to bed and showed up to school the next day like nothing was wrong.

After all, in my eyes, nothing was.

We hadn’t dated long and he had been honest and straight forward enough to give me his reasons for wanting it to be over.  I respected and accepted it and moved on.

Little did I know I would end up applying the same strategy to my writing.

My first rejection was fairly easy, I must say.  It had made it in the original manuscript, but was cut at the publishers’ which should have been devastating, but the editor was so helpful and had so many suggestions on my story and my direction, I felt like I should have thanked her for rejecting me.

When subsequent rejections didn’t go exactly that way, it occurred to me and quickly, that there wouldn’t always be someone there to pad my fall.  So, I did what I knew to do.  Reverting to old, comfortable habits, I began pushing my arms out in order to brace myself when or if I tripped.

I tell myself three basic things:

Don’t Get Too Attached

I write shorts – short fiction, erotica, and essays.  I like to get in and get out, not drawing any plot or idea out more than necessary.  That way I haven’t lain with my characters or my plot long enough to form any emotional ties.  That would be risky.  That might make me soft.

If I allowed myself to soften and get sentimental over every piece, and one of my darlings was cast aside, I’d be down to nothing by now.  The buzzards would be feasting on my poor, pathetic carcass.

That’s not to say that I’m made of steel.  I’ve been disappointed at missed opportunities and tortured by questions of what I could have done to make a piece work.  However, I can’t allow it to affect the way I work going forward.  What if, going forward, I start to change this about my writing and that was really the problem to begin with?

Set It…And Forget It

When I’m writing, I just do it. If a certain call interests, me, I attempt to write something for it.  Most times, it makes it to the submissions stage, sometimes it doesn’t get finished.  I just know that emotionally, I can’t afford to worry about it either way.

I like to love the story for what it is and leave it alone, giving myself the space to be able to not fret while it’s in waiting stage.

Once it’s left my mind, my fingertips, and furthermore made it into the editor’s inbox, it’s out of my hands, literally and figuratively.

It Is What It Is

I don’t expect or ask for feedback after a rejection.  I’ve learned to accept that just because it’s not someone’s cup of tea doesn’t necessarily mean it’s bad tea.

I believe I’m a decent writer, but I don’t always knock it out of the park, nor do expect every ball to be a home run.  Hell, sometimes I don’t even make it off the bench.  I just know that I only have five to ten minutes to spend thinking about a rejection, otherwise I’m in danger of obsession – I know me.  Besides, ten minutes is plenty long enough to log the rejected submission in my rejected file and remind myself to look for appropriate places to resubmit the piece later.

Yes, there might be some denial and delusion mixed in here somewhere with all my tough girl talk, and maybe I haven’t wagered enough, or fallen hard enough, but right now, this is what works for me.

It might not be a habit many could adapt to or get on board with, but just like those rejected pieces, I realize, everything ain’t for everybody.

Does it sound like I’ve been hurt before and I’m willing to do anything to keep it from happening again?  Maybe you’re right, but I can bet you one thing, my stubborn ass will never tell.

Bio: Tenille Brown’s smut is featured online and in nearly fifty print anthologies including Chocolate Flava, 1 and 3, Curvy Girls, Going Down, Best Bondage Erotica, 2011 and 2012, Sapphic Planet, Suite Encounters, Open, and Best Lesbian Erotica 2013.  The southern wife and mother writes for Mischief Books, blogs at http://therealtenille.com and tweets @TheRealTenille.

Here are some links to pictures for recent books I'm featured in:
http://www.mischiefbooks.com/uploads/books/Take_Me_1.125x175.jpg
http://www.mischiefbooks.com/uploads/books/Cougar_1.125x175.jpg
http://ecx.images-amazon.com/ima