The Patron Saint of Struggling Authors

More Thoughts on the Life and Times of Rev. Robert Stephen Hawker

Last week, I mused on the pranks and practices of Robert Stephen Hawker, the Vicar of Morwenstow, in Cornwall, from 1834 to 1875.

From Hawker's antics early in life, one could be forgiven for thinking he was a hopeless jester or worse, a clown. In fact, some sloppy pseudo-biographical articles slant their content in such a way to suggest the whole Mermaid phase (see previous post) occurred while Hawker was a vicar, instead of during his student years. ::sigh::

Hawker was more complex than that.

He loathed the traditional black vestments the clergy wore. When he became a vicar, he refused to dress "like an undertaker," choosing instead to assemble his own unique outfit -- each element signifying his beliefs. 

For instance: he wore a blue fisherman's jersey with red stitching in the side, symbolizing Jesus' call to His followers to be "fishers of men," with a constant reminder of the soldier's spear that caused Christ's final wound.

He also believed he could communicate with spirits, both divine and demonic, which explains why he declared the long brown cassock he wore was "the exact hue" of both Mary's and Jesus' hair.

Sometimes he wore a "flamboyant fez" instead of his typical wide-brimmed hat. (I can find no record of what the fez was supposed to denote. Still: Hawker thought fezzes were cool...)

The Vicar hated black so much that after his death, mourners honored his wishes and wore purple during his funeral.

Hawker's generosity for others often caused hardship for his own family. He routinely dipped into the family finances to feed and clothe poorer members of his community. 

The Hawkers' generosity extended to their parish infrastructure. They built a bridge over a deadly river crossing. And they built a school and restored the 13th-century "Well of St. John," all at their own expense.

Hawker was also a conflicted creative soul. 

On the one hand, he craved quiet time alone. To facilitate that, he built what is now known as "Hawker's Hut," a tiny turf-topped structure with a stable door, tucked into the hillside, facing the sea. He assembled it out of driftwood and wood salvaged from shipwrecks. Today, it remains the smallest property on the National Trust.

He and Charlotte would go together to the hut to pray and meditate. He also spent many hours there alone, smoking opium or writing.

It is clear that he relished the solitude. However, he also recognized that his remote village was, in some ways, a cross to bear.

A passionate accomplished, prolific writer, he enjoyed little acclaim or recognition, though his work sold well. In 1824 he wrote "The Song of the Western Men," or "Trelawney," which was published anonymously in 1826 and which -- to this day -- is considered the unofficial Cornish National Anthem. (Credit Charles Dickens who, years later, told the world about "Trelawney's" authorship.)

In 1848, Alfred, Lord Tennyson visited Morwenstow. He and Hawker hit it off, connected by their mutual love of poetry and obsession with Arthurian legends (the Hawkers had honeymooned at Tintagel, associated with King Arthur since the 12th century). But Tennyson went back to the world of letters and publishing, while the vicar remained on the northern coast. 

Hawker desperately wanted to be known as a writer. He remembered the days of university, when his writing won awards. Lonely, keenly aware of the rapid passage of time, he blamed both his isolated location and gatekeepers in the publishing world for his inability to break in. 

One heartbreaking journal entry includes these words: 

"I have lived on among these faraway rocks, unprofited, unpraised, and unknown."

Every manuscript of his had sold, but "to no advantage of mine."

"And here I am at the close of my days," he wrote, "unnoted, unknown, and – worst of all – unpaid."

In another entry, he lamented his place "here among the rocks" as well as not having any publishing connections:

"I never had friends [in publishing]. In my whole struggle into manuscript, I hardly remember a word of encouragement."

{Ami's note: Brother, I feel ya.}

When his wife Charlotte died in February, 1863, Hawker was more alone than ever. He was 60 years old, widowed and childless. 

Still wrestling with both his talent and his purpose, he plunged into deep depression, wishing to create something that would outlast him. 

For the next few months, he wrote, furiously channeling his grief into a creative outlet. The result was "The Quest of the Sangraal," a Cornish-themed poetic exploration of the Arthurian legend of the Holy Grail. 

Published in 1864, the poem met with both critical and public approval. Even Tennyson praised the work saying, "Hawker has beaten me on my own grounds."

At the end of 1863, 60-year old Hawker met the 20-year old Pauline Anne Kuczynski, a governess. Though she initially considered him "slightly cracked," the two fell in love and married a year later.

They had three children before Hawker died at the age of 72.

But even in death, he colored outside the lines. 

An Anglican priest his entire adult life, Hawker converted to Catholicism the day before he died -- causing a country-wide uproar as people accused Pauline of undue influence. The conspiracy theories and general religious outrage lasted for years.

So ends the tale of the Rev. Robert Stephen Hawker, eccentric, talented, mystic, poet. A prankster, an animal lover, faithful husband, and natty dresser. Publishing anonymously, then craving recognition. Simultaneously embracing and eschewing solitude. Sometimes he used controlled chemicals for temporary escape. Sometimes he wallowed in self-pity. Sometimes he heard angels. And finally, memorably, he accomplished a bona-fide publishing miracle. For these and other reasons, I consider him a contender for Patron Saint of Struggling Authors.

The Unsung Story of the Sinful Cat and the Victorian Priest Who was Once a Mermaid

Thoughts on the Life and Times of Rev. Robert Stephen Hawker

 

 

The mermaid perched on a rock in Bude Bay, wailing songs with unintelligible words. In the mid-1820’s, people did then what people do now: they stopped and stared at the screeching spectacle. A small crowd gathered, pointing and gossiping until the creature splashed into the water.

 

The next night the mermaid returned. And the next. And the next.

 

With each successive night, the crowds grew as news of the wondrous being spread. People came from nearby towns to see the sight. Many of them brought their telescopes, through which they could see the mermaid emitting brilliant flashes of light and combing its long hair of seaweed as it sang.

 

For weeks, the mermaid was a regular attraction – until one day a local farmer, angry at the crowds and the nightly circus, brought out his shotgun and fired at the singer.

 

With a lusty rendition of “God Save the King,” the mermaid splashed into the water for the last time.

 

The musical mermaid was Robert Stephen Hawker, a university student with a penchant for practical jokes. Hawker would strip naked and swim to a rock away from shore. A waterproof cloth wrapped around his legs provided his “tail.” A seaweed wig completed the ensemble. If the moon were near full, a small handheld mirror held at the correct angle provided flashes of moonlight.

 

Predictably, the local population was enthralled.

 

Robert Stephen Hawker was born at the end of 1804 to a poor British doctor, the first of 12 children. 

 

From a very young age, he developed a reputation as a prankster. 

 

He once painted zebra stripes and cut the mane off the local doctor's horse -- then called for the doctor in a fake emergency, ensuring that many would see his handiwork.

 

Young Harker became convinced that two spinster sisters had their sights set on his grandfather, with whom he was living. 

 

He played a series of pranks on them that escalated to sending an undertaker to measure them for their coffins, ordering freshly dug graves in St. Andrew’s cemetery, and sending a hearse to take them to their eternal rest. Though this was too much for the old women, who left town and never returned, Harker’s pranks also succeeded in getting himself kicked out of his grandfather’s house. 

From an early age, Hawker enjoyed writing poems and stories. He published his first book of poetry in 1821, when he was 17.

 

Hawker's father was a doctor who became a curate. With so many children, the family could not afford to send Robert to Oxford university. So in 1824, when Robert learned he would have to leave school, the boy ran from Stratton to Bude (a distance of several miles), to the home of Miss Charlotte I’Ans, his godmother, who had an annuity of 200 pounds. 

 

He proposed to Charlotte, who at 41, was a year older than his mother. They married in November, when Robert was 20. By all accounts, the marriage was a happy one. They remained together, devoted to each other, until Charlotte's death.

When Hawker became a vicar, he and Charlotte moved to the tiny hamlet of Morwenstow, in north Cornwall, where he served from 1834 to 1875 (more on the later years of his Vicar-ship in the next post).

 

Hawker was the first resident vicar in over a century. He called the members of his parish “a mixed multitude of smugglers, wreckers, and dissenters of various hue.” He especially used the “dissenters of various hue” to describe the Methodists in his parish. He strongly disapproved of the Methodist religion, sneering at their lack of a priest or confession, calling their beliefs “salvation made easy.”

 

(How I would have loved to have debated the concepts of "salvation made easy" vs. salvation made difficult with the man. I suspect we both may have found some enlightenment.)

His mention of "smugglers" and "wreckers" wasn't hyperbolic. Many ships foundered and sank in the rocky northern waters. Until Hawker's arrival, the townspeople rejoiced at such disasters, looting the ships and often dispatching of surviving sailors in order to keep the spoils for themselves.

Hawker ended the looting. He insisted on helping shipwrecked sailors and provided a Christian burial for scores of souls who drowned off the Cornish coast.

Hawker loved animals. 

 

He had a pet pig and a pet stag who followed him everywhere. He especially loved cats. Though few humans came to hear his sermons (often, Charlotte was the sole person in the congregation), his 10 cats regularly attended services. 

 

However, when the vicar saw one cat catch a mouse one Sunday, he immediately excommunicated it! History is unclear whether or not the cat ever saw the error of its ways and confessed its sins, or whether the vicar offered it absolution.

 

 

The Curious Case of the Poet's Missing Heart

 or: Thomas Hardy, Eat Your Heart Out

(Note from Ami: It's been *forever* since I've blogged. I've spent much of the past year thinking about how to update / streamline / organize MuseInks. But it seemed like such an overwhelming chore that I just shelved it for a later date. [I mean, seriously, there are over 15 years of posts here.] 

In the meantime, I've had some fun playing around with some cartoon ideas. You can see them on my Daze of Noah blog. In the past year, I've been playing around some with sketching, scribbling, and illustrated journals. Are they "good?" Nope. I have no illusions about my artistic ability. But I find the exercise incredibly fulfilling, so I thought I'd use this space to share some of them.)

I only recently learned about the wild and woolly demise of Thomas Hardy, beloved Victorian English writer. 

Hardy lived over 100 years ago and wrote books you've actually heard of, like "The Return of the Native," "Far From the Madding Crowd," "The Mayor of Casterbridge," and "Tess of the d'Urbervilles." You may have even read some of them. 

He was also a poet, writing over 1,000 poems that were published during his lifetime, in addition to "The Dynasts," a massive, epic, nineteen-act play in verse featuring speculative fiction elements set against the Napoleonic Wars. The piece was so sweeping in its scope that it was never performed. Hardy himself called it "the longest English drama in existence." 

So when Hardy passed away in January, 1928, it only made sense that England's elite would wish to honor him by burying his remains in Poet's Corner of Westminster Abbey. However his wife balked at the idea. He had so loved the area around Dorset that she wanted him to be buried at home.

A compromise was soon reached. Hardy's heart would be removed and buried in Dorset. The rest of him would be cremated and his ashes placed in Westminster Abbey.

A doctor removed Hardy's heart, placing it in a biscuit tin (cookie box) for safekeeping, and the rest of the body was taken to Westminster. The next day, however, before the heart was interred, Hardy's beloved cat, Cobby, discovered the tin and ate the heart.

So...

When Cobby died, he was buried in Dorset, in a grave marked "Here Lies the Heart of Thomas Hardy." (Here history gets a tiny bit foggy -- because there is nothing to suggest that fluffy Cobby died of natural causes. I strongly suspect that Hardy's heart was kitteh's last meal.)

Learning Curve (cartoon)

Stay inside.
Stay safe!
Wash your hands.
Tell those you love what they mean to you.

Super Simple, Easy, 4 Ingredient Homemade Artisanal Bread

I don't usually use this blog for recipe posts (my exploration of some of my Grandma's recipes was an exception, rather than the rule). But I can't stop telling everyone about this bread and how easy it is to make.

Since many people are trying their hand at baking as they self-isolate to keep the Coronavirus at bay,  I had to share. (And since I loathe those recipe blogs that take six days of anecdotal storytelling to get to the point, I'll just skip to the good stuff.)

SUPER SIMPLE, EASY, 4 INGREDIENT HOMEMADE ARTISANAL BREAD

3 C flour (Any kind. Bread flour. White. Wheat. Rye. Doesn't matter. For this loaf, I used 1 C whole wheat and 2 C unbleached white.)
1/4 tsp. dry yeast (NOT a whole packet. If using pre-packaged yeast, measure what you need & save the rest for another batch.)
1 tsp. salt
1 1/2 C very hot tap water

(* Optional 5th ingredient: 1 Tbsp. sugar, honey, molasses, or other sweetener. For the loaf featured, I used raw sugar.)

Step 1:
Dump all ingredients in a large bowl.
Mix with a spatula or wooden spoon until well combined.

No need to knead.

Step 2:
Cover with plastic wrap and set aside to proof at room temperature for 3 to 5 hours. Instead of rising, like typical bread dough, it will look more like a gummy, pillowy porridge.

Step 3: After proofing 3 hours.

Step 3:
After proofing, remove plastic wrap and discard.

Step 4:
Sprinkle dough with 1 to 2 Tbsp. flour. Using a wooden spoon or spatula, work dough into a self-contained ball.

At this stage, you can add a few tablespoons of old-fashioned oats as an optional 6th ingredient. Just sprinkle them over the dough and roll it a bit so they stick. (I didn't do that this time.)

Step 4: Resting on parchment.

Tear a large square of parchment paper. Place dough in center of paper. Place paper back into bowl.

Cover with clean towel. Let rest 30 - 40 minutes.

Step 5:
Place empty Dutch oven, with lid, in oven and preheat to 450 F.

When oven is hot, place dough (parchment and all) in hot Dutch oven. Cover and bake at 450 for 30 minutes.

Step 6: Baked for 30 minutes.

Step 6:
Remove cover.
Remove bread from parchment.
Return loaf to Dutch oven and bake, uncovered, for 30 - 45 minutes.

Between Steps 6 and 7. Mmmmmm!

Step 7:
Cool completely before cutting and eating. (From start to finish, the hardest part is waiting for the bread to cool before cracking it open...)

This recipe is (mostly) taken from "Faster No Knead Bread" via Jenny Can Cook -- a 7 minute how-to video version of the process. Share and enjoy!

Sketch Notes: One Way to Help Focus Attention For Sermons and Online Learning

TBH: shouting rocks have always intrigued me.

(Future readers [if, indeed, there is a future], please note: this blog post was written at the beginning of the COVID-19 / coronavirus pandemic. Michigan, along with most of the free world, is shut down. Grocery stores are devoid of toilet paper and hand sanitizer. Schools, churches, restaurants {::sob!::}, salons -- all closed. The times, they are *weird*, and only expected to get weirder.)

I'm especially happy with the party
limo and the "Jesus Prius."

As the realities of quarantine settle in, the name of the game right now is Online Learning, which involves parking on the couch in your PJs, nibbling on a stale bagel, trying to stay focused on the tiny talking head on your screen that is attempting to enter your home via the internet in order to impart knowledge into your noggin.

One thing I've noticed: the older I get, the more easily my attention wanders. Especially during lectures. Even lectures that I want to pay attention to.

Though I no longer spend a lot of time in the classroom listening to lecturing professors, I do spend a significant amount of time in church. And though it pains me to admit it, if all I do is sit and listen, I have a mortifying tendency to ... dozzzzzze offff... ~ZZZzzzzzz~

Or, rather, I *did.* Until I started taking sketch notes as a way to focus my attention and absorb the information coming my way. Not only did they stop me from falling asleep, but when I return to them -- even months later -- I find myself readily remembering the source content.

Got a little carried away with
treeing Zaccheus.

Now that so many religious services are being held online, not to mention business meetings and educational classes, it occurred to me that perhaps sketch notes can help others as well.

The Point

There are three primary purposes of sketch notes.

One is to give your hands something to do to keep you engaged while your brain focuses on whatever words are being said. Doodles, patterns, drawing things in close proximity (since most of these examples were drawn in church, that explains the sheer number of sketches of the backs of people's heads). The sketch doesn't necessarily have anything to do with the content of the lecture, but it does anchor you to the place and time.

Another is to jot down important data. Write out verbatim quotes and references that are important or that you want to be able to revisit for further study at another time.

The third is to make intuitive jumps between what was said, and what you got out of it.  (See the party limousine contrasted with the "Jesus Prius" as part of the story of calling Matthew, for instance...)

FWIW: the kids' story was about a loose moose...

The purpose of sketch notes is not to take down extensive content verbatim. Rather, it is to find ways to encapsulate the information or anchor it in your mind for later recall when you revisit the sketched pages.


Required Items

All you need for sketch notes is a sketch pad and a writing utensil. Artistic talent is irrelevant (as you can plainly see in the accompanying photos).

I find that too many options (say, a complete array of colored pens or pencils) is too distracting. With so many choices, instead of concentrating on the information coming my way, I'm deciding which color is best to work with.

For me, my "sweet spot" is a pencil, a pen, and a marker. Those three mediums are enough to provide a nice variety without overwhelming me with choices. Your actual mileage may vary -- do what works best.

From snakes named Prince to pet huskies
to "Finding Dory," one sketch page
helps me remember it all.

The Approach

I like to start with a date, so I can quickly locate a particular note at a later time.

When the speaker starts, I begin filling up the page, using one of the three methods mentioned earlier. Generally, I'll start a doodle and noodle around with it for a significant portion of the lecture -- but I'll often leave it to cite specifics or to note connections, then return to it as the lecture progresses.

That's what works for me.

The point is to use your sketching to help focus your thoughts on the new information coming at you. Whether learning online or in a more traditional lecture setting, fiddle around with sketch notes to see if they can work for you too.

After the Crash: Getting Unstuck and Back on Track

I haven't written in awhile. Months, in fact. Almost a whole year.

::sigh::

I know. I know.

I thought about taking the blog offline, but that seemed defeatist. I thought about taking it in one of several dozen different directions, but I couldn't dredge up the energy it would take to completely reconfigure and reinvent the thing.

For awhile, I thought laziness was the culprit. But I think the real problem was The Rut.

As in "I was seriously stuck in..."

For months, I explored pursuing several things, including starting my own publishing company, only to feel that I was doing nothing more than spinning my wheels and getting more and more stuck.

Recently, I came to the conclusion that now is Not The Time. I'm a single parent and an only child. The last thing I want to do right now is be the sole person responsible for One More Thing.

I had a conversation along these lines with one of my dear clients, a wonderful woman whose book deserves to be in print. "Do you feel like you're in Limbo?" she asked.

Yep. That's it exactly.

"It's ok," she said. "I've been there. The thing about Limbo is, it's only for a season. It's not permanent, though it may seem like forever when you're in it. But, like any season, it will pass and you'll come out the other side better and wiser for having gone through it."

I have the *BEST* clients. Just sayin'.

Her words were exactly what I needed to hear. They gave me the oomph I needed to slog on, to push forward, to keep reaching out in the hopes that I'd make some sort of progress.

Maybe they're what you need to hear, too.

If so, take them to heart, take them to soul, and make good use of them. Hopefully, you won't have to experience an in-your-face moment with your own mortality to further hammer home this truth, as I did.

Here's what happened:

Yesterday, Dad and I were at our Township Hall to vote in Michigan's presidential primary. We stopped by on our way to lunch and were surprised at how few people there were waiting to vote. Yes! No lines! W00t!

I voted and was waiting for the clerks to get Dad's paperwork finished when --

KA-BOOOM!

The building shook as if hit with a massive explosion. The wall buckled. Wood splintered. Bricks flew. The table that held voting materials shot across the walkway. In all honesty, at first I thought a bomb had gone off. Especially when the initial BOOM was followed by an ominous high-pitched whine.

It wasn't a bomb.

It was a car. Embedded in the wall, with the grille poking into the voting area. That whine was the accelerator still revving.

Had it happened only a minute or two earlier, it would have likely smacked into both Dad and me. As it was, we were all supremely fortunate that no one -- including the driver -- was seriously injured. In fact, she said she intended to vote, just as soon as she had spoken with her insurance company.

As the dust settled, I helped to move some of the larger pieces of drywall to clear a path so we could get out and future voters could come in.

Adrenaline ran rather high as Dad and I went off to lunch at El Asadero. (It takes more than a little car crash to keep us away from Taco Tuesday.)

By the time our food had arrived, word of the accident had gotten around. (It's a small town. News spreads like wildfire.)


By the time we finished eating and headed home, the wreck had been cleared, the wall was in the process of being patched, and voting was continuing.

It does no one any good to dwell on the damage that's been done. What matters is not the Bad Stuff that happened. Rather, what matters is clearing away the debris and doing The Thing that needs done.

In the aftermath of the wall crash, I found myself energized. "Inspired" isn't quite the right word, but neither is "stuck" any more.

So I'm going to do my best to clear the debris, tow away the things that are blocking progress, and continue to press forward. The plan is to update things here regularly -- once a week at least, probably on Sundays. Definitely more than once a year.

If you're stuck in a similar rut: onward and upward!

With any luck, this season will soon be history. Here's to pushing ahead and getting back on track.