Oxford

Dear Journal, Jan 2, 2004
My editor has been on me for weeks about turning in a new manuscript, but I have not even centered on an idea for it yet! Ideas for the book whip around in my mind, even after I have gone to sleep. One dream keeps coming back to me. In it, I see a young man, a student, who lives in an English town. I cannot figure out what year it is in this busy little city. My mind’s eye sees the campus in sepia tones: I know that this dream place is set far back in history. Yet I know that whenever this college existed, it was beautiful and vibrant with life and color. Awake, I have not considered the idea of writing a historical novel. Then again, one can hardly ignore one’s subconscious giving them advice. Maybe I should write a book about this young man attending a university, hundreds of years ago.


Dear Journal, Jan 3, 2204
I went to the P.C.L. today to get a better idea of the period that I have been dreaming about, and I have found some clues. The architecture of the college is early English Gothic (Gothic 1). In this type of architecture, windows and doorways have pointed arches, because pointed arches can carry more weight than rounded ones, and powerful vertical lines play over the structure of the building (1). Slim, turret-topped towers thrust simply into the sky. It would be easy to make such a building so ornate as to be garish, but this building balances faultless proportion and grace perfectly. This beautiful place will be the setting of my book.

Later that day…


The campus in my dreams still exists: it is Balliol. Balliol College is part of the University of Oxford, and it dates all the way back to the thirteenth century (Oxfordshire 1). I have never been so excited to find a scrap of information in my life! Before finding the picture of Balliol, I was sitting on the floor of the U.G.L. with my back against one of the metal bookshelves, with six or seven encyclopedia volumes scattered around me on the cold tile. A librarian shelved books nearby, glancing repeatedly first at me, and then at the books lying on the floor. She looked extremely uncomfortable to see her valued hardbacks scattered on the dirty floor. I could feel the vibrations of dozens of computers run across the room, up the bookshelf, and down my backbone; the relentless whine of busy mainframes, processing information, droned its way into my brain. After a while, the fluorescent lights of the library toyed with my eyes, making the words displace themselves from the page and swim around one on top of another: I was about to give up. Then, I came across the picture of Balliol...


Dear Journal, Jan 4, 2004
I have done more research on Oxford. The university was “established in the twelfth century, [and] is [made up] of thirty-six independent, self-contained, self-governing colleges…that have been founded at different points throughout the past 800 years” (University 1). It is the oldest English-speaking University in the world, and Balliol College is one of the oldest colleges in Oxford (1). Although the college dates back to 1260, I think I will set the novel in the late fourteenth century, after the college had grown a little (Oxfordshire 1). I cannot imagine a more romantic and whimsical place or time to set my novel in.

Dear Journal, Jan 5, 2004
Even though I have been having the most frustrating time that a person can have trying to brainstorm a novel idea, it has also been a lot of fun creating a make-believe reality. I have figured out that I need my protagonist to be male, since only men could be university students in the medieval period. Then, obviously, he will be a student at Balliol College, around 1373. I need to think about a name for him. Something charming…


I like Wesley…Channing. Wesley Channing. Wesley Scott Channing? Maybe. I do not know.

What I do know, however, is that I need more research!

Later that day…

I went to the Littlefield home today. It is built in Victorian style, and it is nothing less than breathtaking to look at. Victorian Gothic and Gothic revival buildings have arches, pointed windows and other details that mirror medieval structures. I hoped that by going to the Littlefield home, I would be able to understand the world as Wes would see it.

The Littlefield Home stands haughty and proud in the center of the UT’s vast campus, almost in rebellion to the Spanish renaissance buildings that dominate this part of campus. Flamboyant and colorful, the house combines red brick with blue granite columns on a paint-by-number building canvas. Iron grillwork embroiders the exterior of the house. Turrets and spires reach from the steep roof up towards the sky.
Yet, it is the inside of the Littlefield Home that most impresses me. It smells like old books; I have always loved the promise of mystery and adventure that comes with the musky smell of old books. When you first step across the threshold into the home, onto creaking wooden floors, you can sense the remnants of many exciting adventures that have taken place within the walls of Littlefield Home. Each room offers you a living piece of history. History is written in the walnut, maple, and pine walls (Bump 547). It is ingrained in the “three-foot-high wood wainscoting…ornate pressed board, [and] plaster frieze[s]” that decorate most ceilings (547). Five “coal-burning marble fireplaces” are eye-opening in their exquisite grace (547).
On the first floor fireplace, a pair of gilded griffins adorns the mantle. These exceptional beasts, with the head, wings, and claws of an eagle and the body of a lion, are strong and vigilant guards. Light glints off of the golden bodies and make the griffins the focal point of the room. In Wesley’s era, griffins crouched high upon parapets, keeping watch over the grounds (Griffin 1). Though now fascinating, griffins were daunting to superstitious medieval citizens (1).


Dear Journal, Feb 21, 2004
I woke up so many times last night that whatever happened in between those times could hardly be called sleep. When my eyes cracked open for the fourth time, at around six in the morning, I decided to get up for the day. My right leg was asleep and tingling all the way up to my hip. With my useless leg, I stumbled around purple-gray shadows, across my cramped room, to the counter where I made myself a cup of coffee. Bruises are worth the pain when there is coffee involved. Cup in hand, I moved more smoothly to the window that occupies nearly the entire far wall of my sixteenth floor dorm room. Chilled air surged through the widening gap of window as I slid the stubborn window open. Standing there, I looked out over the ledge of the window pane and watched the sun dawn on the University of Texas
You can only see this kind of sunrise in the winter. In the summer, the sun takes her time soaking languidly into the dark sky and smearing the landscape with dribbles of sun. But this cold February morning purple, pink, and finally golden light swirled past the horizon in the distance, crisply coloring every building with an ochre glow on one side, leaving the other side in shadows. The UT tower was a gilded guardsman in the early light, almost regal and undeniably powerful soaring above my simple sixteen stories; it looked close enough to touch. The tower clock pealed the coming of seven a.m. with chimes ringing in the morning with “The Eyes of Texas are Upon You,” and another day began. Today I will start my novel.

To see the novel, go to:
http://www.webspawner.com/users/lansari1010/thenovel.html

Alice2

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