Write what you know. That sensible dictum is the bedrock of storytelling (feel free to insert duh here). I was always impressed, for instance, that my two favorite fiction authors, George MacDonald Fraser of “Flashman” fame, and Robertson Davies (The Deptford Trilogy, among many others), were a soldier and journalist (Fraser), and an actor, historian, and academic (Davies). Their fiction was informed by personal experience, even though – particularly in Fraser’s case – they were making up stories and characters who never existed – but could have, and quite believably - based on their own experiences. Of course, that is the very essence of fiction, but few do it without exposition (the great and lazy sin of fiction in any genre: Show, don’t tell).
In the case of Fraser and his version of Harry Flashman (a minor but important character from Tom Brown’s School Days, a novel by Thomas Hughes written in 1857), old Flashy is placed at the center of every important historical event throughout the reign of Queen Victoria - from the Battle of Balaclava (see Tennyson’s The Charge of the Light Brigade), to Little Big Horn (Custer’s “last stand”), and ten other volumes in between. Every major player from Otto Von Bismarck, Lola Montez, Edward VII, American abolitionist John Brown, and even Queen Vicky and Prince Albert make significant appearances in the 12-book series. Fraser’s novels have been praised in all corners for their astonishing accuracy: more than a few book critics believed The Flashman Papers, as it was marketed, was a true personal diary, the historical veracity was so meticulous. History was never so entertaining, exciting, funny, well-written, and unapologetically ribald.
As for Davies, his books are almost too magical to describe. When I read The Lyre of Orpheus from his The Cornish Trilogy, I was a very naive young mother of an infant and didn’t know how much I didn’t know, so I wrote to the author (a Canadian scholar, Man of Letters, and all-around smart person), asking him if the symphony the title referred to was real (I had never heard of the composer, Jacques Offenbach; we didn’t have Google back in 1990). I went on to praise his books like a giggling, ignorant fangirl with a good vocabulary and a firm foothold in grammar. I think that might have been the only reason his secretary wrote back (Davies to Secretary: Save this idiot while it’s still possible”).
She was very kind; yes, Offenbach was a real guy and his symphony, Orpheus in the Underworld was the inspiration for the book. She said Davies was impressed that I’d read his books (surprised, more likely). But we learn, Mr. Fawlty. We learn!*
So. What does all this have to do with this next week of strips? In fact, PreTeena is based on actual events and modified for popular consumption in the comic strip format. No, I don’t have two daughters, so there’s the first modification. However, as I’ve said, both Teena and Jeri are based not on my real-life son and daughter but on me at ages 10 and 14. The difference is stark – and not accurate. I wasn’t a level-headed tween, nor was I a vain eye-rolling jerk in junior high. My experiences at those ages, and those of my friends’, influenced nearly every aspect of the strip as an amalgam of personalities, with a little post-kid-hood wishful thinking (tell me Matt Groening wasn’t more Millhouse than Bart).
Hey, but thanks for letting me go a little nuts on behalf of two brilliant authors and letting me reach for some very distant straws. Stand by for future connections to Taoism, hip hop imagery, and the Borgias! That’ll be fun (and I’d better start stretching now).
*Manuel, from Fawlty Towers
I regret not being familiar with Davies or Fraser. But, I am familiar with the battle of appearance and attire between Mothers and Daughters. Well done.