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You know what's interesting? I've heard writers ask each other: Can you read a novel while writing a novel? The implication being that you will be overly influenced by someone else's work. My answer: How else would I know how to write a novel? I have bed-time reading--whatever I happen to be into at the moment, usually a novel--and then work-time reading: a novel or a story I've read before and loved and now pull out again while I'm in my writer's chair. I'm hoping the magic of the prose will leave its echo in my head while I write. Reading inspires me to write and vice-versa; I can't imagine separating the two.
But readers of this blog know that I also believe in reading outside of my genre, not only because I love it, but also because it feeds the fiction. Poetry teaches imagery and rhythm and the art of suggestion. Nonfiction both satisfies and tempts our curiosity. And, curiosity is what drives the writer of any genre. The habit of wondering, of seeking--this is what inspires us. And, I believe this skill--the skill of wondering--is transferable. I read about Joan of Arc and what I learn about French history--and especially about how petty and personal and honorable and vain were the motivations that fueled Medieval politics--trains me for the kind of curiosity I'll need when exploring my own made-up characters.
What's more: it's just fascinating.
I have to admit, I knew precious little about French history before I started reading Goldstone's book about how two women, Joan the Maid, aka Joan of Arc, and Yolande of Aragon, the Queen of Sicily, shaped the progress and, amazingly, the conclusion of the Hundred Years War. I still know precious little. What struck me, besides how very barbaric was the fighting and the capturing and the killing--the account of Joan's burning at the stake absolutely spooked me--was how incompetent so many of the leaders were. The mad king who murdered his own soldiers. Whose madness destabilized the kingdom and thus brought on this horrific war.
But, the character that really got to me was Charles VII, the would-be king of cowardice. His mother was deplorable. She shipped him off to his future in-laws when he was only ten years old. Later, she disowned him altogether and took up the enemy's cause. To make matters worse, she was notorious for her infidelities and there were a number of rumors and speculations as to Charles VII's legitimacy--could be he wasn't really the son of the king. Could be he had no true claim to the throne. He was himself wracked with doubt and worry and paralyzing fear and couldn't bring himself to step forward and accept the crown.
That is, until a peasant girl from the fringes of his kingdom stepped forward to go to battle and to assure the king: God has spoken to me. You are the real king.
And now, because it always comes back to confidence for me as a writer--I think it does for most of us--I see a parallel between Charles VII's ability to believe he is king and therefore make himself king and the kind of fear we harbor when we approach the page. How nice it would be if we could each have our personal-sized Joan of Arcs. She, a pious-minded peasant girl. She who talks to angels. Who hears from angels. For her to come alive in miniature and sit on our shoulders or on our writing desks and whisper: She knows what you've been praying for. She knows your most intimate fears. She's here, sword drawn, to vanquish your doubts. She's here to tell you: you are legit. Claim your throne, your pen. She'll tell you again and again, as many times as you need to hear it.
The other thing about book tours: besides buying too many books, I get a little giddy-happy-road-weary-tired. I start to dream up odd new business ventures such as manufacturing plastic Joan of Arc pencil toppers for writers...
