writing realms

Of realms. 

There are books that stay with us forever. For example I’m pretty sure the Chronicles of Narnia would qualify for some of us. Or perhaps  Lord of the Rings. And obviously for many in this generation the Harry Potter series.  We live with the characters almost as friends. 

Of course each has their own history and preference in these things.

My point is that books, film, can be a rich and  significant world.

Indeed a realm.

For some reason  I thought, today,  of a series  of old books that my sister used to have in her room. Indeed my mother and possibly her mother had also had them. They were by Mary Grant Bruce and featured a  young girl – Norah - growing up on a farm.  Family,  adventure, war, love, Australia - racial discussions  etc.  

Apparently the author lived in my hometown for a while,  seemingly even  the same street, a generation or two before.  But I do know the characters certainly lived with us.

I also liked the series.  Norah was a bit of a tomboy.  Her mother died in childbirth.  Her best mates were her  brother, Jim, and his mate, almost an adopted family member, Wally, who she eventually married, as  the 10 books progress from childhood to marriage.  And her dad.  I guess I’d see that portrait differently now, as my twelve year old daughter brightens my world, as Norah did his, though of course my wife blesses us both so the parallel is only loose. 

I don’t know why I thought of this today but I googled them, and was like meeting old friends to read a few snippets.  Surprising amounts of memory came back.

And I remembered in one of the books she had a preface,  about  how the book had to come to her in a vision.

She interacted and spoke with the characters.   I was able to find that page in a few minutes too.

I’m going to quote it.   I know it’s a little old fashioned, but its an insight into books as realms.

This is for the authors and potential authors among us. Such stories can form us.

Create a realm. 

                                                                        -0-

THIS story is the result of a dream.

*    *    *    *    *    *

I have been told that people will not believe this. That is possible. But, whether dream or vision, the experience was so real to me that I tell it for the few who will believe—and partly to excuse myself for having written another book of Billabong.

*    *    *    *    *    *

On a winter night I fell asleep thinking of the book I was planning to write: a story which had no connection with Billabong. I awoke in grey morning light. Through the open window I could see the leafless trees. The clock in the hall chimed seven, slowly. I tried to catch anew the idea that had been in my mind when I went to sleep the night before.

Then, suddenly, I was in a large room which I knew to be the smoking-room of Billabong. David Linton was there, with Norah and Wally and Jim. There was nothing dream-like about them; they were very solid and natural. They were talking quietly, and they seemed rather amused.

“I hear she wants to write another book,” said Jim.

“Not about us, I hope,” Wally said, quickly. “I don’t much like all this publicity!”

Norah looked thoughtful.

“Well—we have to remember that, after all, she made us.”

“She did,” agreed her father. “She took a lot of trouble over us, too!”

“And she gave us a very good time,” Norah said. “Think of all the fun we’ve had!”

“Well, yes,” Wally admitted. “We’d never have done any of those things but for her. Travel, and war, and all sorts of larks!”

“And we’ve met such a lot of jolly people,” Jim said. “After all, we do owe her something, don’t we?”

“What I like,” said Norah, “is all the friends we’ve made. Such a lot of people seem to know us. It’s rather nice to think of all the homes where we are welcome.”

“She made us,” Mr. Linton said—“and then she just let us be. We never felt we were doing queer things, or being queer—but just ordinary people, doing ordinary things. So it was easy to do them for her and all the friends. And she knows we’re real.”

“Well, we are real,” said Jim. “She opened a door and let us come out. We always felt that she just sat by and watched us running our own show.”

“That’s what made it so jolly,” Wally said. “Sometimes, of course, we knew she wasn’t putting it down in quite the right way—but she did her best. It couldn’t have been very easy to think herself into all our skins, but she did try.”

“And there’s one thing that I have liked to see,” remarked David Linton. “She didn’t make you unnaturally good, which you couldn’t be; but she did let all those friends of ours see you as happy, straight youngsters, doing the decent thing and getting a good time out of it. That counts with me, because I brought you up!”

“And what about you?” asked Norah. And they laughed at him.

“Oh, well—she simply set me going, like the rest of you. I had an easy job.”

“Well, we owe her something for you,” said Jim. “Think of the fathers we might have had!”

“And she gave us Billabong,” said Wally.

“We can’t let her down,” Jim said. “Can’t we help her with another yarn?”

“But what can we do?” Mr. Linton looked puzzled. “We’ve done everything we can think of.”

“Oh, we’ll plan something,” Norah laughed. “We always managed it before when we put our heads together. And there’s a new person to bring in now. He’ll help.”

“Yes, he’ll help,” said Wally. “It’s time he began to make friends too. We’ll just start off and begin something. There’s always an adventure round the corner if you look for it. And, after all, we have only to be ourselves. That’s how she likes us.”

They smiled at each other—all through the scene I had been conscious of the curious undercurrent of amusement among them, some deep source of merriment I could not fathom. Their voices grew lower. Then other people began to drift in—Tommy and Bob Rainham, Brownie and Murty and the station hands, and little red-haired Bill; others in the background, more misty. But they were all very interested and purposeful, and they seemed to know that I was there; though they smiled at each other, part of the smile was for me. So that I knew that, though they were independent, still they were all my own people, whom I had made.

The vision that had been so real grew dream-like. The farther wall melted away, and beyond it I saw the trees and the lagoon and the wide paddocks of Billabong. And suddenly I was back in my own room, and the clock in the hall was chiming a quarter past seven.

*    *    *    *    *    *

In the days that followed it seemed to me that I had only to listen and hear the story and set it down.

MARY GRANT BRUCE.

Bexhill-on-Sea,

1933.