The Bronte Sisters, Who Walked and Wrote

 

Ellen and I took a train north to Yorkshire — and the tiny town of Haworth, where the Bronte sisters lived,  walked, wrote novels for the ages, and then died far too young. I have loved their books for many years, Jane Eyre my special favourite.

The parsonage where the Brontes lived is a much-loved museum now. There were six siblings, but the sisters we know (and read) were Charlotte, Emily and Anne. Here is the room where they did most of their writing — Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey were all written in this small room. In the evenings, the sisters walked around and around the table for hours, talking about their work. After Emily and Anne died, Charlotte, the last to survive, continued to walk alone. (Maybe, when the lights go out, they walk here still? I love that thought.)

Anne, Emily and Charlotte, left to right, below:

Charlotte's writing desk, like so many of the time, was portable — a kind of moveable "drawer" topped by a writing surface. Functionally, it's not so different from a laptop. Amazing.

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Mary, Who Wrote Frankenstein — Original Manuscript

 

Well, this was definitely the highlight of this trip to me. In fact, I'd call it a peak moment in my life!

Before leaving home, Ellen and I both researched our favourite writers so we'd know where to find them on our literary pilgrimage. One of my searches was for Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. I felt that I already knew her fairly well, having spent years working on a picture-book biography about her life and her writing of Frankenstein. Like many people, I was amazed by Mary's story. Writing a book about her was a joy.

So imagine my delight when I discovered that the original Frankenstein manuscript was in Oxford — which was on our route! It was physically THERE in the Bodleian Library! Mary's masterpiece, in her own words, handwritten in notebooks that are now 200 years old.

I wrote to the Bodleian and begged for a peek. Although the manuscript is not on display, it is sometimes available to scholars. My biographer credentials got me permission for what I expected to be a quick glance. Instead, I was warmly welcomed and got to spend the better part of an hour reading and studying the original words, complete with cross-outs, write-overs and editorial notes from Mary's partner, Percy Bysshe Shelley.

By the end,  I was literally shaky with excitement . . .

That hour alone was worth this trip. 

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Oxford, Just as Imagined . . .

Did we really have only three days in Oxford? Not long enough!

We were lucky to show up just before the fall term (Michaelmas) began, which meant that college dorms were still available for "summer" visitors like us. Ellen booked us into a sweet little room at Keble College. This was our view in the evenings . . .

And in the morning, when we crossed the quad to eat breakfast in the glorious dining hall, it was easy to pretend, just briefly, that we belonged. A borrowed moment from lives we had lived only in books.

 

 

 

And speaking of books, the Bodleian Library is extraordinary, inside and out.

 

 

 

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Dropping in on Agatha

Ellen and I grew up on Poirot and Miss Marple, and my first published novels were mysteries, so we decided to drop in on Agatha Christie at her Devon home. A lovely old house called Greenway. Broody skies seemed appropriate for a weekend gathering of suspicious guests . . .

Lots of Christie memorabilia inside. I enjoyed this portrait of young Agatha, looking sulky. Or maybe just feeling exhausted at the thought of the 66 novels and 13 volumes of short stories she had to write?

I liked her toilet too. Agatha’s ebony loo! Her second husband was an archeologist whom she accompanied on digs in Egypt. Apparently this was the one item she absolutely HAD to take along.

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Where Jane Lived

It’s sunny and serene here in Jane Austen country (Chawton, Hampshire), but of course there are plenty of undercurrents. Here’s the “cottage” where Jane lived with her mother, sister and a friend for the last years of her life, rent-free courtesy of her brother Edward. She wrote most of the great novels here.

And here is where Edward lived. Called “lucky Edward,” he was adopted by rich relations and inherited not only this grand estate at Chawton but also two others. Servants, tenants, income, etc. 

Jane was grateful for the use of the library in the big house. And she was happy to live in the smaller house where she shared a bedroom with sister Cassandra. Here’s the tiny desk where she wrote those novels. 

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Upstairs & Down in Dickens’ House

This trip just gets better and better. Today we wandered all over three-floors-plus-cellar of the house where Charles Dickens and his family lived for many years — a treasury of Dickens’s manuscripts, letters, furniture, possessions, portraits and books.

Here’s his much-used desk, which seems to be still waiting for another fat novel.  Made my heart skip a beat!

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Hanging Out with Sherlock

I’m not sure what I expected at 221B Baker Street, London. I think that, like so many people, I was confusing Sherlock Holmes with his creator. Some part of my brain thought we’d be visiting the home of Arthur Conan Doyle.

Ahem! Not so. The address where Ellen and I fetched up, was — of course — the fictional home of a fictional detective. And in fact, when Conan Doyle gave Holmes that particular address, it didn't even exist! (It has since been fudged by city planners.) But what the heck, we were already there, right? Might as well take a peek. Inside, we found a motley collection of Victoriana, along with some spookily arranged wax figures. 

They did, however, offer some fun photo ops . . .

What stood out for us at 221B Baker Street were the line-ups — tourists chatting in various languages, having come, apparently, from around the globe. Sherlock lives! And he is very much loved, even after so many years, and in spite of his author's attempt to kill him off! (But that's another story.)

An Unexpected Thrill at the Globe!

Today the gods of theatre were on our side.

We took a tour of Shakespeare’s Globe to see what a recreated 16th century theatre looks like. Fascinating! I wish I had more photos, but cameras were allowed only outside:

The surprise came when our guide led us into the theatre with instructions to be quiet  — a rehearsal was in progress. We slipped into seats and watched an actor with large fake ears talk to a puppet. Something familiar about that actor . . . and about the dialogue too. As we watched, the lights blinked on in my brain. The actor was Mark Rylance, so brilliant as the Cold War spy in “Bridge of Spies” (Oscar for Best Supporting Actor, 2016). And the dialogue? It was Roald Dahl’s book, the “The BFG.”

We watched for ten minutes as one master of his craft interpreted another. Serendipity!

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Where Virginia Walked

In London, we’re staying at the Tavistock Hotel on Tavistock Square, where Virginia Woolf once lived and worked. The square is lovely and has a small tribute to Virginia.

It includes a quote in which she says that she imagined TO THE LIGHTHOUSE while walking around this small square. 

Here’s where she walked. 

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Treasure in the British Library

Today a visit to the British Library, home to the most ASTONISHING collection of famous original writing you can imagine. The Magna Carta. Shakespeare’s Folios. The Beatles’ lyrics scribbled in orange crayon. The Gutenberg Bible. Alice in Wonderland with Lewis Carroll's sketches. The teensy handwriting of the Brontes’ childhood stories. Priceless artifacts you can gaze at for FREE! (It’s a library.)

Ellen and I staggered out afterwards, blinking like owls. No photos allowed, of course. Except for this brilliant bench in the lobby!

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Visiting the Marys — Wollstonecraft & Shelley

Today Ellen and I visited the tombstone of Mary Wollstonecraft, mother of Mary Shelley who wrote Frankenstein. Wollstonecraft died when her daughter was only 11 days old, and the grave is famously the place where young Mary came to “be with Mama." Her father, she said, taught her to read by tracing the letters on this stone. It’s in the graveyard of Old St. Pancras Church in London.

I thought about this tombstone so often in creating my own book, Mary Who Wrote Frankenstein. How amazing to be here! The letters, carved in 1797, are very worn now . . . but still visible.

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Ellen and Linda Go on a Pilgrimage

Last stages of planning as my pal Ellen and I get ready for our Great Literary Pilgrimage!

For years I have waved goodbye to friends who were doing the regular sort of pilgrimages, e.g. walking the Camino. I sometimes considered tagging along. But then I realized . . . . I don't like walking that much. What I like is reading, and it turns out that the pilgrimage I need is a journey to the homes, graves, haunts and hang-outs of writers I have loved. If I'm going to walk, I will walk in their footsteps. Ellen, also a writer, feels the same.

So next week we fly to London, where we begin our search. Austen, the Brontes, the Shelleys, Shakespeare, Carroll, Conan Doyle . . . just for starters.  More anon!


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The Perogy Party!

What could possibly be more amazingly, comfortingly, cheesily delicious  than a few hundred hand-made perogies?

The photo above shows me and my sisters — Debbie (centre) and Wendy (right), just a few weeks ago in Vancouver. My year-end holidays this year were extra-exciting — with a wedding! My daughter Tess got married on New Year's eve to Lucas. It was a brilliant wedding, and everyone was thrilled!!!

Not least, if I do say so myself, by the bowls of home-made perogies. My family had gathered, and as part of the celebrations, we decided to go back to our Polish-Ukrainian prairie immigrant origins — and make perogies. Lots of them. From scratch. With our hands.

So one rainy Saturday in Vancouver, my sisters, my daughters, my nieces, my grand-niece and I — and one very brave niece's boyfriend — gathered around a giant bowl of dough and an even more gigantic bowl of cheesy-potatoes, and proceeded with the extreeeemely labour-intensive job of making perogies.

Our efforts were hampered at first by the fact that most of our labour force were rank amateurs. Luckily, they were quick learners. It only took an hour or two — okay, three — to hand-make all the perogies you see in the top photo. And since you ask . . . YES, they were amazing! And YES, they were the hit of the wedding. 

Why am I reporting all this on my blog? Because there could be a book in it. Hasn't been done, right? I don't know a single book anywhere about a perogy party.

Okay then. It's January. Less eating. More writing. Enough said.

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Welcome to Under-the-Bed Fred!

Welcome to Under-the-Bed Fred — a new chapter book for early grades!

From the moment I started to write this book, I felt I knew Fred well. Why? Because the story is so rooted in my own childhood fears of that "thing" that lurks under the bed, inside the closet or behind the furnace in the basement. For me, the "thing" was a shape-shifter, but it usually manifested as a wild animal — lion, tiger, wolf. If pressed to explain how such a creature could have ended up under my bed, I would have had a ready answer. The Winnipeg Zoo. Obviously! I had been there. I had seen the animals. Clearly, this one must have escaped.

Well, that was then. And now, after all these years . . . here's Fred, turning up in a book. He's the "thing" that hides under Leo's bed. And Leo, like me, is obliged to leap from his bedroom door into bed to avoid getting his ankles grabbed. Once there, he doesn't dare dangle an arm over the side. Nor can he get up to pee at night.

But unlike my young self, Leo tackles his problem head-on. "Hey, you!" he eventually says. And so the conversation starts . . . and with it, one of those odd-couple relationships that are such fun to write. Leo has things to teach Fred. Fred has things to teach Leo.

It's about friendship. The first in a series.


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Yes, really, a haunted castle . . .

This week I'm getting ready for two wonderful Canadian fall literary festivals — Thin Air in Winnipeg and Wordfest in Calgary. I'll be talking to kids at both about my new book, Seven Dead Pirates.

Kids love to hear where you got your ideas. As Seven Dead Pirates is a ghost story, I have decided to tell them the true story of — cue creepy organ music — my night in a haunted castle.

It happened long ago when I was backpacking in Europe with my friend Gloria and staying in youth hostels. Most hostels at the time were neglected historical buildings, converted as spartanly as possible into bleak-but-cheap accommodations.  My friend Gloria and I searched them out as we hitchhiked around northern Ireland.

One evening at dusk, we were dropped at a castle-turned-hostel. It was located in remote countryside. A sign on the door directed us down the road to the caretaker, a surprised-looking woman (late March was early for hostelers) who grabbed her keys and walked us back to the castle. Amazingly, I still have a photo, taken the next day.

The caretaker led us into the Great Hall — empty except for an enormous walk-in fireplace with a laminated card on the mantle. It said "Castle History." As there was no electricity, we read it by . . . er . . . gaslight? Yes, gaslight. It lit an area less than an arm's length from the source. Huddling together, Gloria and I read that the castle had had a long, tragic history of violent deaths, bizarre sightings and eerie sounds which had naturally (unnaturally?) earned it a reputation for being haunted. The card concluded with a suspiciously cheerful attempt to reassure would-be guests. Unusual sights and sounds, it said, were "probably just due to the bats in the tower."

"Well then," said the caretaker. "I'm off! Here are your candles. Ta ra!" And she was gone.

In that moment, Gloria and I understood two things: (1) we were alone in a haunted castle (at least, we hoped we were alone), and (2) we had no choice but to stay overnight. Eventually, we crept up the stairs with our candlesticks and found our way to a room containing a dozen empty bunkbeds. Claiming the two closest to the door, we slunk into our sleeping bags. And then, like your favourite hackneyed gothic movie in which things can only get worse . . . they did. A clap of thunder shook the stone walls. Gloria and I looked each other in the eye, as best we could by candlelight. Really? Was this literally going to be a Dark and Stormy Night in a Haunted Castle?

In fact . . . yes. It was. Cue sound effects. Thunder crashed. Lightning flashed. Rain lashed. Winds shrieked. We did not, I am now sorry to say, see or hear a ghost. But the main point is this — we must have believed that there could be ghosts. Because neither of us slept. At. All.

And I will tell the kids when they ask in Winnipeg and Calgary that although I did not meet a ghost that night, I did learn what it felt like to be afraid of a ghost.

And yes, I put that fear in my novel.



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