Obstacles in the Way of Love

In glancing at a book lying on my desk, entitled, 20  Master Plots and  how to build them, by Ronald B. Tobias, I had a look at master plot number fourteen: Love.

While I would not describe myself as a fan of the romance novel, I can attest to having a great deal of affection for a beautiful love story. The structure appears to be quite simple. You put an attractive pair together and then toss obstacles in their path. We become involved to such an extent that we want to see the hero ford the raging river, ride through woods filled with stinging nettles, capture and rescue the trapped object of his affections and we are only satisfied when we are assured that they will be together in the end.

The idea of obstacles, defined as hindrances, things standing in the way, or in opposition to, sits as an uneasy topic with me. I am a person who likes to smooth the way, not make it more difficult. I fall in love with my characters, with my protagonist most of all, so the task of making things block the way to success, does not come naturally to me. Yet for a work of fiction, it is essential.

These roadblocks come in all shapes and sizes; adding a surprise factor can make events more exciting. There are different ways to think of them. My most literal memory of an obstacle happened to occur all too  frequently when on long canoe trips. In my childhood and teen years, cooler heads had to coax us to accept the challenge before us with some modicum of good cheer.  We would be on slow moving rivers, dazzled by what looked to be fields of floating water lilies. We would line the gunnels of the canoe with pink and white blossoms by weaving the tendrils through the wooden slats. We would imagine away the grime of our days in the bush by feeling as if we had become like the Lady of Shallot. Then around a soft bend we'd turn and alas, we would find ourselves foiled by the work of the industrious beaver. The dam would block our way completely. If it was sturdy enough to hold the weight of a strong man, our guide could sometimes crest it and heave the canoe over. This could only happen if we had attempted to beach our craft on soggy, uncertain ground, somehow manage to unload our large, green canvas packs and then disembark, gingerly.  Many attempts would see one foot securely planted and our problem swiftly remedied, when whoosh, in we would sink, sometimes up to our waist in inky, stinky, floating mud. Then the man atop the dam would hear a great snap and his footing would give way plunging him down into a sticky wicket. So there we would be. Sunk in the mud, stopped in our path, with mosquitoes on the attack without mercy. Some would cry, others would swear, but most of us would laugh and start to figure our way out.

Whether getting bogged down, literally, or slogging through a novel, or being stymied by rejection, every writer needs courage and determination, as well as relentless focus on the goal. Obstacles come in many forms.  We do not know who first said the words, "where there is a will there is a way." I would venture to guess it was someone's grandmother.

We can credit Virgil for these words.

“Every calamity is to overcome by endurance.”

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow heard the old story of Evangeline and her lost love, while dining one evening at Nathaniel Hawthorne's house. The tale was well know at the time. It told the sad story of lovers parted on their wedding day by the cruelty of the governor of English Canada. Acadia, what is now Nova Scotia, having been happily settled by intrepid folks from the coast of Brittany, in 1640, were now, after more than one hundred fruitful years, under threat of expulsion. If they would swear an oath of allegiance to the Crown and renounce their Catholic faith, they could stay. If not, they would be banished to ports unknown, irregardless of family ties. Evangeline and her Gabriel were separated. She ended up in the swamps of Lafayette where a statue, pictured above, remains to this day.  They were reunited only at the end: Gabriel died in her arms.

Longfellow wrote:

"This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss and in garments green open and indistinct in the twilight,   
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic.
Stand like the harper's hoar with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rock comes the deep voiced neighboring ocean,
Speaks and in accents disconsolate
answers the wail of the forest"

As a young girl, my father gave me the nickname of la fille du bois, girl of the woods, in English. The forest primeval, throughout the whole of my life to date, has been my refuge, my inspiration, and my safe haven. I have been a lucky girl, so very fortunate, to have never had to veer far from the personal heaven I have always known, my home beneath the murmuring pines.

Writer's Celebrate Mother's

 (For my mother, Lenora Rosalie Cooney)

What is a mother ? Wonderful mother. A mother’s worth beyond compare. Mothers and Daughters. My mother, my friend. A Mother’s  heart , devoted and true. A legacy of love.  These are  only some of the endearing  sentiments  reflective of mother’s  throughout the ages  -  especially on Mother’s Day—a day of celebration honoring mothers and motherhood.

                                                         

                                                           

 Because this is a blog for writers about writing,  and Mother’s Day is this Sunday, I thought it would be  good to look at what some of the writers of classic literature and poetry have to say about mothers .

Youth fades; love droops, the leaves of friendship fall; A mother’s secret hope outlives them all—Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world, a mother’s love  is not—James Joyce

Mother is the name  for God in the lips and hearts of little children  - William Makepeace Thakeray

The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness—Honore de Balzac

A mother is the truest friend we have, when trials, heavy and sudden, fall upon us; when adversity takes the place of prosperity; when friends who rejoice with us in our sunshine, desert us when troubles thicken around us, still will she cling to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause a peace to return to our hearts— Washington Irving

In  a letter to his mother, dated Paris, December 23, 1826 Henry Wordsworth Longfellow wrote to his mother :  Two months ago this was in my mother’s hand. It makes me sensible that time  as well as distance separates us….. And then  I look forward to the distant day of our meeting until my heart  swells into my throat and tears into my eyes. I cannot help thinking  that it is a pardonable  weakness…

And this letter to her mother (one of my favorites),  dated December 25, 1854  Louisa May Alcott wrote:

Dearest Mother,

   Into your Christmas stocking I have put my ‘first born’, knowing that you will accept it with all its faults (for grandmothers are always kind), and look upon it merely as an earnest of what I may yet do; for, with so much to cheer me on, I hope to pass in time from fairies  and fables to men and realities.

    Whatever beauty or poetry is to be found in my little book  is owing to your interest  in and encouragement  of all my efforts  from the first to the last; and if ever I do anything to be proud of , my greatest happiness will be that I can thank you  for that, as I may do for all the good there is in me; and I shall be content to write if it gives you pleasure.

     Jo is fussing about;

      My lamp is going out.

    To dear mother, with many kind wishes for a Happy New Year and Merry Christmas.

     I am ever your loving daughter,  Louy  

I think of letters I ‘ve written to my dear  mother  while I was away at college, or travelling in Europe;  I  wrote  not only  what I was doing , and about the people I met, but  I  shared  freely my exultant joy over some special happening , and sorrow over some sad event.  I wrote of my hopes and fears, knowing  my mother  would understand better than anyone.  And always, expressing my love for her, so grateful for my mother’s  unconditional love.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY, MOM!


*** Note of Interest (Wikipedia) -  When Anna Jarvis had the phrase "Mother's Day" trademarked in 1912 she was specific about the location of the apostrophe; it was to be a singular possessive, for each family to honor their mother, not a plural possessive commemorating all mothers of the world.  
President Woodrow Wilson also used this spelling when signing the Bill into law passed by Congress making Mother's Day an official holiday in the United States