I’m pleased to welcome Mary-Rose MacColl to the blog today! She is the author of a gorgeous book entitled,
In Falling Snow. If the cover doesn’t draw you in, I’m certain that the synopsis will. Take a peek at what you can expect between the pages of this lovely book.
A vivid and compelling story of love, war and secrets, set against the backdrop of WWI France. ‘In the beginning, it was the summers I remembered – long warm days under the palest blue skies, the cornflowers and forget-me-nots lining the road through the Lys forest, the buzz of insects going about their work, Violet telling me lies.’ Iris is getting old. A widow, her days are spent living quietly and worrying about her granddaughter, Grace, a headstrong young doctor. It’s a small sort of life. But one day an invitation comes for Iris through the post to a reunion in France, where she served in a hospital during WWI. Determined to go, Iris is overcome by the memories of the past, when as a shy, naive young woman she followed her fifteen-year-old brother, Tom, to France in 1914 intending to bring him home. On her way to find Tom, Iris comes across the charismatic Miss Ivens, who is setting up a field hospital in the old abbey of Royaumont, north of Paris. Putting her fears aside, Iris decides to stay at Royaumont, and it is there that she truly comes of age, finding her capability and her strength, discovering her passion for medicine, making friends with the vivacious Violet and falling in love. But war is a brutal thing, and when the ultimate tragedy happens, there is a terrible price that Iris has to pay, a price that will echo down the generations. A moving and uplifting novel about the small, unsung acts of heroism of which love makes us capable
If In Falling Snow sounds like something that you’d be compelled to read, I’m sure you’ll appreciate the guest post by Mary-Rose below. I was truly humbled by her take on the art of handwriting and how it comes to life in her own work. Please enjoy, and make certain you add this book to your reading list.
———————————————————————————————————–
Writing by hand
Handwriting is a skill we no longer need in a texting, emailing, wordprocessed world, so it’s hard to argue why we’d keep teaching it to children. And yet we do, sort of. What’s worse, I find myself hoping we won’t stop any time soon, we might even rediscover handwriting, we might see a “slow page” movement like slow food, leading us to enjoy the moment of writing itself.
The teaching of cursive writing, the writing we each develop into a unique handwriting style, is already being phased out in elementary schools in the US, replaced by keyboarding proficiency. In Australia and Canada too, handwriting is being dropped from curricula. And even when it is taught, handwriting is now more likely to be printed letters joined together. It’s not handwriting as most of us know it.
We called it running writing when I was at school. You learned it after printing, like a new language. We practised it a lot as I recall. I was never any good at it but I love it still, the capital D that looks like it was made for words like Delight and Delicate, the beautiful S with its supreme loopiness and potential for curlicues, those hills of small ns and ms that could just keep going. Oh God, I am starting to sound nostalgic. Quick, put on Radiohead and get out the iPad.
I confess I have a conflict of interest when it comes to handwriting; I write novels by hand. Not in a beautiful script, mind. I look at anything written by my grandfather, who was taught in an English public school, or my eleven year old, who’s taught himself various styles of writing, and it’s art. My writing is not art; it remains cramped, small, illegible even to me at times. I could have been a doctor with writing like mine. And I didn’t always write by hand. I typed my first novel on an Apple Classic II. Quite the techie, I didn’t even print it until I had a finished manuscript. But I soon found a computer file too linear for the way I work.
Since that first novel, I have written three more, all by hand. For one novel, I wrote on cards of different colours (which had the advantage that you could shuffle them when totally lost as to what to do), and now I like a particular kind of notebook for its narrow lines and plain cardboard covers. I write with a fountain pen. My favourite is a Waterman in a burgundy lacquer covered in little gold squares, given to me when my first novel was published. It only has one drawback – it no longer writes. I had an efficient little Montblanc that came with a leather notebook case, but I left it on a plane and like everything left on planes, it immediately vapourised. My day-to-day pen now is a hardworking Visconti made with cellulose using a refound technique – given me when I was researching In Falling Snow. I am also coveting a vintage Waterman, to replace the one that doesn’t work, although you really only need one pen to write and the more I focus on pens, the less I focus on getting a novel written.
I can’t say why I handwrite, in an age where handwriting has all but disappeared from our lives. I can type faster than most people can talk, I was using email before anyone had heard of it except my computer room colleagues (one of my first jobs was as a computer operator), and I mess about on the internet in favour of just about any actual task. But I can say that for my novels, handwriting feels about the right pace. Even Scrivener, which I love later in a project, is too structured early on. I write little sketches and scenes and eventually they coalesce into a novel.
Many things we don’t need in life fade from view. If handwriting is dying as an art, perhaps I shouldn’t mourn its passing. I imagine the rationale is that it’s hard enough to teach children one set of letters, let alone two. And since few of us end up with a hand that even vaguely approximates that beautiful script we were taught, why try to teach it at all? Joined up printing will do.
But before we altogether consign handwriting to the land of outdated technologies, we should take a moment to consider a small fact of history. The very first Macintosh computer was a winner, its creator Steve Jobs said later, because of its beautiful typography, which was unlike that of any other computer before it. Jobs had sat in on a calligraphy course on the way to dropping out of college and had seen the art of handwriting, the art in the science, he called it, which had inspired him.
So every time I type an email, thumb a text, or flick a page, I try to remember that the technology I’m using, the technology with which we are fast ridding the world of writing by hand altogether, is only available because the person who dreamed it up was in love with handwriting.
———————————————————————————————————–
Mary-Rose MacColl is an Australian writer whose first novel, No Safe Place, was runner-up in the 1995 Australian Vogel literary award. Her first non-fiction book, The Birth Wars, was a finalist in the 2009 Walkley Awards. In Falling Snow (October 2012), Mary-Rose’s fourth novel, tells the largely unknown story of a small group of Scottish women who ran a field hospital for France in World War I in an old abbey. MacColl holds degrees in journalism and creative writing and lives between Brisbane, Australia and Banff, Canada with her husband and son.
Like this:
Like Loading...
