For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been smugly telling myself that because of the recent cold weather I wouldn’t have to cut the grass until June or July or something. But recent walks through the fields revealed the absurdity of this notion. There were a couple-a-three spots that I neglected to cut at the end of last growing season and those areas were horrendous. And the rest of it was overgrown to a greater or lesser extent depending on whether those areas get more or less light.
So, when I heard that Saturday would be sunny in the morning and rainy in the afternoon, I resolved Friday night to get up early and cut it in the morning. Well, of course I forgot all about that because as a special treat, Camera Girl was making pancakes and that along with a good cup of coffee is a holiday to me. After all, pancakes and syrup are just plain carbohydrates with no redeeming quality other than human joy. But at a quarter to eleven I realized that I’d forgotten the grass and ran outside and started doing the perimeter with the push mower. And it was eighty degrees and I was sweating like a pig and my safety goggles (for mayfly prevention) were fogging up and I had to keep stopping to clear them with my handkerchief. And then I did all the crummy areas that wouldn’t get done right by the sit-down mower and by then it was noon. So, I had my lunch and then ran out and started around the yard trying to finish it before the rain came. And I did, but just barely. Then I took a shower and put on a movie I like watching whenever it’s on TCM; “A Man for All Seasons.”
And this movie always has the same effect on me. It makes me serenely happy. Not because the movie has a happy ending. Because at the end Sir Thomas More is convicted of a crime based on perjured testimony by a former friend and in the final scene he has his head cut off. And not because the story is exciting or the events change the course of history. It’s not. It’s a very small story.
It’s only because the acting and the dialog of the lead actor and several of the other cast members is remarkable. The conversations between the lead actor (Paul Scofield) with his family, friends and even bitter enemies is altogether compelling. The character displays a combination of intelligence, compassion, honesty, moral clarity and courage that I find inspirational. Here is a man who is trapped between an egocentric and possibly unhinged absolute monarch and the toadies and sharks that act as his enablers, but remains faithful to his religious convictions. As long as lawful means are employed, More is able to hold off a charge of treason. But his most malevolent enemy (Thomas Cromwell, played ably by Leo McKern) finally employs perjury and this seals More’s fate.
But as interesting as the final duel at the trial is, the real payoff is More’s final meeting with his wife in the prison. Seeing these two opposites, one a highly intellectual scholar and the other a woman who could not even read, is wonderfully moving. As she scolds him for his failure to yield and he attempts to placate her we see the enormous affection and love between them and understand just how much he is sacrificing for his beliefs.
And as I was watching this familiar movie it occurred to me that here was a story that had none of the attributes that supposedly make a good piece of art. It was backward-looking rather than forward. It was basically a grievance story. It lacked action, pacing or any of the other characteristics of a book or movie that makes them promising prospects.
What it did possess was human interest. It showcased the noble characteristics of a man and allowed him to make a stand against the world. So, in a sense, a book does not have to have the perfect plot and pacing. What it needs are human beings who can make us believe they are real and make us care what happens to them.
And that way of writing a story seems clearer to me than the other ways of framing the process. I think I’ll apply that same test to my own writing. Seems about right.
