A Place to Write

Prep for NaNoWriMo?

toothpastefordinner.com

I’m a Municipal Liaison for NaNoWriMo, but I know I don’t have time to novel this year. It sucks. I guess I’m going to have to give it up, and that’s just a very sad thing.

My Swiftly Tilting Planet

  

There are some books we read when we are young – transcendent books, books that resonate and reverberate, that hit us as we fly through the outer space of intellectual and emotional growth and forever alter our orbits. Among these books, for millions of people, were Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time and The Wind in the Door. (The others in the storyline were tremendous as well, but for me, it was these two that struck and shifted me.) I think maybe everyone has read Wrinkle, with its pantheon of fantastic characters: the madames Whatsit, Who, and Which; telepathic children; bodiless sadistic brains; tentacled caregivers; Happy Mediums; flying centaurs; and the incomparably brave and human Meg. Wind was less widely-read, but to me even more poignant with its “drive of dragons” (the cherubim), mitochondriae, and Echthroi, and the fight to save Meg’s extraordinary little brother.

L’Engle’s books were brilliant, and she utterly refused to treat her readers like little children who required easy ideas and easy words. She is known for having argued that children’s books are literature far too complicated to be understood by adults – and, especially in her case, she was right. Her books are packed with philosophy and science – we’re talking quantum physics and microbiology here, not sixth grade earth science – theology, existential exploration, good, evil, death, and the kind of characters and relationships that we feel lucky to encounter in adult lit.

A Wrinkle in Time starts with “It was a dark and stormy night,” and upon reading it we feel that it is the quintessential dark and stormy night, the one that started it all, the one that started everything. In Wrinkle, it isn’t cliche – it’s reassuring, and breath-taking, and signals you right from the beginning that now things are going to happen.

I don’t think I could possibly explain how these books impacted me. If you read them when you were a child, then probably you understand without my saying. If you didn’t, I doubt I could ever make it clear.

Madeleine L’Engle, who modeled Meg after herself, passed away this past Thursday at the age of 88.

She started writing at five, won an award in fifth grade and was accused of plaigarism. She conceived of her best work on camping trips. She loved her books, her family, her pets, and her characters. Much of her life was not like mine has been, but these things are so like me that I can’t help but feel a kindred, a connection. It is another layer of my admiration for a woman whose words built and shook worlds.

I pull the following quote – L’Engle’s – from the close of the NY Times eulogy:

“Why does anybody tell a story?” Ms. L’Engle once asked, even though she knew the answer.

“It does indeed have something to do with faith,” she said, “faith that the universe has meaning, that our little human lives are not irrelevant, that what we choose or say or do matters, matters cosmically.”

Thank you, Madeleine, for these gifts.

Every Writer – or Blogger – Needs One of These

This gorgeous LED keyboard, made in Korea, will set you back $127 – but it comes with software that lets you customize the light pattern. They’ll stay on all the time, make a pattern, or light up when you hit the key (definitely the route I’d take!). See it in action here.

Stardust – This Friday!

I will admit that I haven’t read as much Neil Gaiman as I would like. I first read Good Omens in an airport and on the plane between Portland and Boise – do the math to calculate how devour-worthy that book must be – on loan from the friend who would later become a boyfriend who would later become my husband. I keep meaning to read Anansi Boys; the premise, and the reference to Anansi, really fascinate me. At some point in my not-too-distant past, I read and loved Neverwhere - probably while moping that there was no sequel to Emma Bull’s War for the Oaks. Recently I ate up Coraline (disturbingly wonderful) and Stardust (hilariously beautiful).

Nevertheless, I am a thorough Gaimanophile, or as thorough as one can be without having read the entire Gaiman canon (which, to be sure, is on my to-do list). He’s brilliant, hilarious, not at all hungry for fame or power, cute (oh well, he is), and really very much an artist. He likes bees and dogs, has a great kid and one of those accents that Brits take so much for granted, and – perhaps most importantly – he blogs.  A lot.

That hilariously beautiful book I mentioned before? Stardust? Well, they’ve made it into a movie. It started out as something akin to a graphic novel, became a novel-novel, and now it’s a movie with Michelle Pfeiffer, Peter O’Toole, Claire Danes, Robert De Niro, Rupert Everett, Ian McKellen,  and a bunch of other people who were lucky enough to get cast in what is sure to be a fantastic film. I mean, seriously. That’s a helluva cast, isn’t it?

Stardust comes out in the United States on Friday, August 10, and I hereby make it my solemn duty to encourage, demand, beg, cajole, bribe, etc., you to be there on opening night and/or opening weekend.

This is a charming, funny, smart story. It’s got something for everyone in it: action, comedy, romance, beautiful (sometimes naked) women, dishy men, pirates, witches, magic, adventure, quests, betrayal, death, you name it. It’s PG-13 and isn’t billed as a kid’s movie, although Neil says that he saw 6-year-olds at a screening and they loved it. I’ve heard that the cinematography is fantastic, and there’s buzz going about that this might be this decade’s answer to the film version of The Princess Bride.

Pinched from the movie’s website. Gaiman’s the guy with the poster – and I could be quite wrong, but I think the young lady to his left is his awesome daughter and guest-blogger, Maddy. I don’t think I’m wrong.

August 10 is, coincidentally enough, my last day at my current job before I return to school and begin student teaching. Guess how I plan to celebrate?

PS: I wonder if this will be one of those films that attract costumed viewers. This would be a fun one to dress up for, but I’ve never quite had the nerve. That’s the sort of thing that’s so much easier in a large, slightly tipsy group, don’t you think? If you plan to dress up you simply have to promise me pictures.

Protected: Weekly Thingy #1: The Serigala Sign

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

What’s the Password?

Hopefully, every week from now on you’ll encounter a password-protected post. These will be my Weekly Thingies, which I’m hiding for three reasons:

1. Less performance pressure.
2. Copyright protection, should I inadvertently create a work of true genius.
3. They’re going to suck turnips, and the fewer people who can laugh at me, the better.

Weekly Thingies are going to be first drafts, and generally not fit for human consumption, but I do want people to read them from time to time to give me feedback and encouragement. I’d like to know what has promise, and what should have never been committed to electronic paper. What I screwed up, left unanswered, etc..

If you can figure out what my password is, you can have access to my Weekly Thingies. I’ll give you two clues:

• My big gray kitty cat
• Composer of a Brotherly whistle

The password is in all lower-case letters; it is case-sensitive. 

There may be some of you out there who are bosom buddies, but who cannot for whatever reason guess my password. If you think that’s you, drop me a line and we’ll evaluate the situation.

Anyway – keep an eye out for those protected posts, or ignore them completely.

You may now return to your regularly scheduled bloggery.

Weekly Thingy

Sometimes my husband lets down his guard and proves what a genius he really is. (Sidenote: is it ironic that I always misspell “genius”?) I was rambling on about not seeming to have the drive to write (off-blog) anymore, and he pointed out to me that I needed to take a page from Brotherhood 2.0 and Jonathan Coulton. If I force myself to write something on a schedule, without worrying about whether it’s good or trying to sell it to anyone, then I’ll rebuild the habit.

I have taken his words to heart, and have decided to commit to a WEEKLY THINGY.

This is for me more than anyone else, but I’ve found that the blogging community has helped me keep on track as a journaler, so I’m hoping it can similarly help me regain my obsession with creative writing. For me, and for anyone who is interested (whether to know what I’m doing, or to steal it for their own purposes), following are my WEEKLY THINGY GUIDELINES.

1. Once a week, I must produce one piece of creative writing.
2. For the purposes of the Weekly Thingy, “creative writing” is defined as:
   • fiction (either a complete short or short-short story, or 2,000+ words in a continuing longer piece)
   • essay or vignette
   • good poem (none of this “took me five minutes and wasn’t edited” crap)
   • NOT a blog entry
   • NOT a book review
3. For the purposes of the Weekly Thingy, a week runs Monday through Sunday.
4. It does not have to be good – it doesn’t even have to be clean or even remotely shareable – but it does have to get done.
5. Weekly Thingies will be posted online to help my friends and family hold me accountable. However, they will be password protected to cut down on performance pressure and protect copyright of any inadvertant works of brilliance.
6. I may save “backup” pieces for weeks when everything climbs into the handbasket and heads south, but it had better darn well be a seriously bad week, because the whole point is that I’m writing constantly.
7. If I fail to post a Weekly Thingy, my adoring public may suggest punishments for my wicked misdeed. These punishments must be something that can be performed online (think truth or dare) and must not be anything that would break any laws or get me fired from a respectable profession.
8. I reserve the right to revise these guidelines as needed to make the Weekly Thingy work!

I haven’t decided yet what to do about revisions. Revising work is the biggest, hardest, and most important part of writing, so maybe it ought to count… but right now my problem seems to be getting that first draft down, so maybe I ought to concentrate on that?

Hey – if I’m emulating Brotherhood in a way, particularly with Guideline #7, and they have NerdFighters, can I have WordFighters?

I am not sure if I will be able to get my first Weekly Thingy done in three days (although I am going to try) so next week may be the first week – we’ll see. I’m also not sure how wise this plan is, given that I’m going to be unbelievably busy come September, but hey – since when have I ever done the smart thing?

Winsome Critters

Sweet Taste of Freedom

One of the bloggers I read posted a challenge to write about what freedom meant to us. I wasn’t feeling the whole “essay” thing, but for some reason the “write and share a bit of fiction” bug bit. (This doesn’t happen often.) The following is what I posted; it’s a snippet of a larger work that I’m playing around with, and this bit talks about one kind of freedom.

If you read, let me know what you think about the reading level. I’m aiming for about the Narnia level of difficulty, but I think I’m overshooting.

---

Kadiron wasn’t young, but she had become beautiful with age – softer, and interesting, like good leather. Avery couldn’t help but stare at her, even knowing how rude it must be. Could this really be the woman they had spoken of? Finally, the question overcame her and she spoke.

“Is it true what they say? That you’re a war hero?”

Kadiron didn’t answer at first. She looked down at her hands, which were lined with scars and beginning to gnarl like old tree roots. Then, “What do they say?”

Avery stammered. “They say that you led the uprising that saved the Forest. That you led the Tiurni from captivity and started this nation.”

The woman looked up, but not at Avery – into the flames in the stove. A moment passed before she spoke.

“That is true. But it almost never came to pass. At least, not in the same way.”

Avery didn’t respond, hoping that Kadiron would continue on her own; after a long moment, she did. “You are very young, and have lived a good life, so perhaps you do not know how war is. If so, we should both be glad.

“The times of the uprising were very bad, and when the Tiurni asked me to lead them into battle I agreed, because to decline would be tantamount to murder. They trained and prepared as best they could, and then one morning they put their back to the forest and took sword. Retaliation was swift and vicious, but the Elom’s desire to rule could not overcome the Tiurni’s desire for liberty. From the first light of dawn until the last light of dusk, we struggled and slayed one another. Understand, child, that this was not my first battle. By the time I took sword for the Forest, I had seen enough warfare to last any soul a thousand years. Because of my experiences, I knew that we might prevail. I knew, too, that we might not. That is the nature of war.

“At the end of the day, when the fighting was at last over, I found myself alone at the top of a ridge above the Forest – a bowl of darkness. For a few moments I stood there, listening so hard that my heart came out my ears, waiting for my next opponent. None came, and I knew then that no more would come. I let myself relax for the first time in a full day, let my blood begin to cool. I drove the tip of my sword into the soil, and the sound of dirt sliding around the blade told me that it was by the far the cleanest thing the steel had touched that day.

“I knew not to think about it. If I started thinking about the past hours, I would soon be reliving them – without the benefit of adrenaline to stave off the nausea. I would relive it all.” Kadiron looked Avery straight in the eyes. “The first heat of splashed blood. The howls of pain and the sound of sword on sword – the sound of sword on, and through, flesh. The surreality of sudden disanimation when someone is alive before you and then is dead in an instant. When your blood cools, these things that you did to save yourself, these things that you had no time to consider, seem harder, less defensible.

“So instead of thinking about it, I turned my back – not all the way, you cannot be too wary – on the Forest and gazed out at the invisible horizon. Behind the night I knew there were mountains, and in those mountains there were… sun-dappled meadows, and springs that are reborn every year, and places where a woman might build a small cottage and spend the rest of her days cooking soup and reading books that know nothing of war. I thought about building a fire in the stove and warming my feet, as a soft rain fell outside and washed the stains off of the world.

“Beyond the mountains, I knew there was ocean – water stretching to consume the world, and a ship. Maybe the Ocelot would not take me back, not right away, but I could pay my way to Rutiana Island, and then it would be only a matter of time before the Intrepid would come to port. I knew I would have a stretch of deck on the Intrepid, and I thought about the smell of the sea and the salt air on my face. It was a life of the sword that I was imagining, to be certain, but only if one failed to steer for open waters….

“And beyond the ocean, child, I knew there was a new world. A world that no one knew. A world with people who would know me as just another woman, a stranger, no leader, not their protector. Not a hero.

“I remember touching my garments. They were as stiff and dark as my leather armor, so soaked they were with blood. I knew that my face and hair were stained with gore. A breeze swept over the ridge, and for the first time since midday my nostrils cleared and I could smell the stench of massacre on me. And at that moment I envisioned myself back in a clearing, early that morning, when I had gotten careless and almost lost my head to a rear ambush. Ice shot down my spine. Bile. I didn’t even realize that I had taken two steps toward the mountain until I half-tripped on a stone and was jolted back to myself.

“I stopped and turned back. Down in the Forest, a fire glowed. Around it, I knew survivors were gathering – men and women, children, who had woken up that morning slaves and who would sleep tonight stewards of their own lives. They would be quiet, shocked at the reality of warfare, shocked at the dead, shocked that they were not among them. Someone would start to sing, an old song of the Forest they’d just fought to save, and the rest would join in, preferring singing to counting. And as they sang, I knew, they would realize that my voice had not joined them, that they were without their leader. I knew they would mourn me as slain, even as the confusion and uncertainty set it – the unrest. They would wonder how to carry out the next part of their salvation without the woman they’d conscripted to their head, and all the time she would be heading west, away from the struggle, to freedom.”

Avery realized she was holding her breath and made herself exhale. “You almost left.”

“I did.”

“For a better life.”

“Yes.”

“What – what made you stay?”

Kadiron stood, and Avery realized with the motion how strong the aging woman was. “Freedom only tastes sweet, child. What I found around that fire that night was nourishment.”