People and the Writers' Craft in Creating Them

 I love reading Jane Austen because I think her characters are so realistic. I was reminded of this recently when I was reading Mansfield Park. It is not my favourite novel, being a bit long-winded, I feel. However, I was struck by her portrayal of Lady Bertram, the indolent wife of Sir Thomas. She reminded me of people I have met during the course of my life. People who think "nothing can be dangerous, or difficult, or fatiguing to anybody but themselves." Yes, I've come across quite a few of people like that.  

There are also those delightful people who, when you have told them you've been diagnosed with something unpleasant will immediately tell you they had something similar and give you all the details of it. They will tell you all the medication they are currently taking and all the medication they took in the past. And then they will move the conversation on to something else, usually something concerning them.

And if you haven't met people like that, how about people who listen absent-mindedly to what you are saying and when you are finished say "oh, I thought you were going to say..." and come out with something completely irrelevant which you absolutely would never say?

And of course we must not forget Emma and her father Mr. Whitehouse, the permanent invalid. Ill health was a recommendation to him in the elegant prose of Jane Austen. He was concerned for everybody's health, fearful anything could make him or them ill. I think, though, that he was a more sympathetic character than Lady Bertram, although she was otherwise not unpleasant to poor little Fanny, other than being selfish and thoughtless, of course. 

All of which points to the writer's craft in creating real lifelike characters. All of us are a mixture of the good and the sometimes not so good. To put this realistically on paper is no common talent. Too often, the good are too good and the bad are really evil.

It is a real pleasure when we find an author with the talent for characterisation, an author who can create people we can identify with. It makes me realize that we can never stop learning the writers' craft. 

No, thank you, I'll do it myself

 My phone regularly requests me to speak to it. I don't. You see, my idea of a phone is that I use it to communicate with other people, not that I communicate with it. If you get my meaning.

If I look something up on the web, inevitably the first answer will come from AI, a hotchpotch of information put together from what AI has gathered. If I want something like that, I can ask a neighbour or a colleague or the well-known man/woman on the street. So I prefer to go directly to the relevant website without any AI at my elbow.

When I want to write something, regardless of what, AI is there again, "let me do it for you". No thanks, honey, I'll manage all on my own like I've been doing for years.

Recently, driving my brother's car, I slowed down at a roundabout and happened to glance down at the car's display panel. Slow down you are approaching a roundabout it said, or words to that effect. Now, if I'd been relying on the info panel, I'd most likely have driven into to the car in front. Who needs that kind of information?

And I don't have one of those watches which tells you how many steps you took today, how many hours you sleep, how your blood is doing. My watch tells me the time. That's it. I go walking, I weigh myself, I sleep when I'm tired and if I want my blood examined, I go to my doctor and get a blood test.

You can brand me as old-fashioned, forever yesterday, if you like. I think we are born with a self-preservation instinct and a good dollop of common sense. But somehow, someone out there in the meta-verse thinks we can't manage on our own. And it is to their interest that they should "help" us. Nah, not with me. No thanks, I'll do it myself.

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 Thanks for reading. Can I plug my latest Alan Murray Mystery? A lot of readers liked Death in a Lonely Place. All available on Amazon. 

 

The Wrong Place To Die

 The Heddwch Centre comes to the little village Ballyamber offering a variety of relaxation and communion with nature therapies. Although viewed with suspicion by the new parish priest, Father Neil Cooper, the ladies of Ballyamber are enthralled and flock to the courses offered, dazzled by the two charming brothers who run the centre. Sergeant Alan Murray's wife Elena is among the admirers of Rhys and Joel's enterprise, but Murray remains sceptical.

Denise Flynn flees her life in London and comes to live with her aunt and uncle who run a small shop in Ballyamber village. Her sense of security quickly vanishes when her uncle Conor disappears without trace. A few weeks later, Nathan, one of the Heddwch Centre community also goes missing.

With no apparent motives for either disappearance, Sergeant Alan Murray is nonplussed. For the first time in his career, he starts to look forward to his retirement.

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