Movie Reviews for Writers: The House in Marsh Road

In this fun little ghost flick based on the book The House in Marsh Road by Laurence Meynell, David Linton is a "novelist" who is working on the novel that's going to end all his and his wife Jean's problems -- once he gets something down on paper, that is. In the meantime, Jean inherits a large house (yes, on Marsh Road), and the two move in so they can stop scamming rent-free boarding from landlords and landladies. Only, the place is haunted by a ghost named Patrick. Oh, yeah, that and David begins an affair with his typist and plans (in classic Film Noir style) to kill his wife so he can inherit and sell off the house. 

Making Excuses

For a "by the numbers" thriller, this one gets quite a few things right about the writing life, starting with the negative -- but accurate -- depiction of the always aspiring "author." David isn't writing as much as he is planning to write, getting distracted, dreaming of having written, basically, everything but actually writing. And like those of us who fall into this category (we all do from time to time, sadly), he has an excuse for every issue. 

While arguing with Jean, he says:

David: If only I could get six months peace and quiet to write my book.  

Jean: Ah, the book. 

David: You don't believe in it, do you? You don't think I'm capable of writing a book.

But we haven't exhausted David's greatest hits yet. When he is down at the bar, he gets into a conversation with a local. "Well," he says. "I'm trying to get down to a novel at the moment, but, I have to keep stopping to review other people's books. Anyway, I'm a lousy typist."

For those keeping score, that's not one, but two excuses delivered like a one-two punch. 

"I have to keep stopping to review other people's books." -- i.e., the real world keeps getting in the way.

"I'm a lousy typist." -- i.e., "It's not my fault; it's my lousy typing skills that slow me down."

Rather than admitting the truth, whether lack of inspiration, laziness, or unwillingness to carve out time, the difference between a writer and a "want to have written" looks for excuses that minimize his/her/their fault. It's always easier to assign blame/reasons than to overcome the root causes. 

Anything I Would Have Read? 

Here's a big one that every writer gets, particularly when one isn't a big 5, NYT bestseller with TV and movie options. It's the first question you get when someone asks what you do, and you answer, "I'm a writer." Bang. The question catches you right in the gut. 

 

What this question really means is usually one of the following: 

(a) Why don't you have a real job? 

(b) Are you making money doing that?

(c) Should I even bother to care if you're not Stephen King or Amy Tan?

During a trip to the local tavern, David converses with Morris Lumley, another drunk from town.

Morris: So you're the new owner of Four Winds, eh? Are you happy there? 

David: Well, it's all right. It's a bit quiet, but that's what I want for my work. 

Morris: Oh, of course, you're a writer, aren't you? 

David: For my sins. 

Morris: Well, you'll have to excuse my ignorance because I don't get around to much readin', except about property, that's my line. What do you write, novels?

 I don't know what it is about writers, but damn if we don't attract nonreaders when we are in conversations with folks. Granted, reading is way down. Anyway, if you're going to be a writer, be prepared for this question. 

Live a Little

Repeat after me: "All people are stories."

That's another tidbit of the writing life this ghost story gets right. If we go back to that initial argument between David and Jean, after she accuses him of drinking too much, he responds, "If I'm going to write about people, I have to meet them."

And he's right. (Granted, he's still a pig with murderous intentions, but he's right about this one.) 

Although one of the classic cliches about writers is that we hole up in a dark office and never go outside (like Emily Dickenson) while eschewing crowds and just other people in general, those kind of writers (and I guess there are a few of them who embrace the stereotype or else it wouldn't exist) tend to have bigger issues developing characters and actually writing stories about people. To write people, we must know people. To write stories, we must live stories. 

It may be apocryphal, but Benjamin Franklin is credited with saying,"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." Apocryphal or not, it's the truth. 

We need look no further than the alluring Mrs. Stockley, the typist. While at the bar, after making excuses for his typing, Morris recommends the buxom assistant to lecherous David.

Morris: Oh, that sounds like a job for Mrs. Stockley. 

David: Oh, who's she?

Morris: Valerie Stockley. She calls herself Mrs, only nobody's ever seen the Mr. She's either separated or divorced. She's a first-class typist, but she only works when she's hard-up. Works for me occasionally. She's quite a dish, is Mrs Stockley, quite a dish. 

David: Sounds like a story.

Morris: Oh, there's a story there all right, but I don't figure in it. I'm not her type, worse luck. But you might be.

Sadly for them both, he does become a part of her story. However, to treat this as part of the writing life, this is a skill we need to cultivate. Not to steal people's stories as your own, but to see stories in everything, everyone, and everywhere. There's a story behind every person you meet. There's a story behind every leaf that falls. There's a story behind every car that cuts in front of you in traffic. 

It's your job to learn to see them. 

Stereotype of the Drunken Author

Here's another stereotype this movie is drenched in, that of the author who can't stay away from the bottle. The writer seems to be as much a partner to booze as the hard-boiled P.I., and The House of Marsh Road embraces that with both arms. 

As much as I'd like to say this one has become less and less useful to stories about writers, I sadly can't. There are even a whiskey called Writers' Tears. 

Still, with any luck, maybe we can use this one as another excuse for not getting our story written. (Or not. Don't know if my liver could survive that.)