Wet Ink

On Moaning, Rain, and Idioms

Today, in Massachusetts, many of us are moaning.  "It's wet out there," cried a neighbour in the lift.  She shook the droplets from her mane.   "Yeah, it's raining cats and dogs," I agreed, to which she gave a quizzical look.  Rather than explaining the idiom, I grinned and nodded.

Then there was the guy in the liquor store where I bought some wine for dinner.  "You're used to this," he said, "being a Brit."  I laughed, another idiom tumbling from my lips: "Water off a duck's back."  Yup.  It's me with me dialect.

Of course, I love a moan, can't resist chiming in with a weather-related gripe.  "War-spirit" my old teacher used to call it, referring to the moaning that kept so many folks going when the Second World War was underway.  And there's a truth in this, I think.  Moaning can help us keep going.  It reminds us that we're sturdy folks, who aren't alone in our suffering, no matter how small it may be.  

Deep down, I have an affection for rain.  For me, it's about a rhythmic contentment, an appreciation of tea in a pot, with a crackling fire, and Scrabble.  Rain means wellington boots and drakes on a pond, and splashing through puddles in a waterproof mac.  Maybe it goes back to the fact that I hated hockey, and always prayed for rain on Sports afternoons because a wet PE lesson meant drawing cool pictures, without the dreaded Mrs. Bean yelling that you're crap.  

But a thing I enjoy even more than a downpour is moaning about it.  Truly.  Because that's how I get to speak with my neighbours and express my small grumblings.  No coincidence, perhaps, that the verb "to moan" is used to describe those beautious murmurs we make in the heat of passion.  Moaning, folks, can be fun.  And in either context, it bonds us.  

Only a chosen few know of my secret liking for wetter days.  

Shh.  Mum's the word.

Things a Writer Can Do in a Graveyard (Fall, MA)

Today, in spite of a snotty cold, I wandered through a graveyard kicking up leaves - splendid reds and ochres, vibrant in the sun.  The boughs shed gold as I walked beneath and I aimed to catch a single yellow leaf in my palm.  That's what I'm like: a big kid beneath the trees!  But it always comes after a meaningful pause.  Every grave holds a story I'll never know and every name has carried more feeling than I can ever guess at.  The weight of loss, memory and history feels ever-poignant.  No wonder people often find graveyards eerie.  For me, however, they're tranquil -- a reminder of how the past lives on.

It has always touched me how much life can be found in graveyards.  The trees in this Andover cemetery are splendid and vast, bold in hue and elegantly poised.  There's grass underfoot and birdsong from above; life comes out of death.  There's also a lake with two swans which R. and I once argued about.  "They're plastic," I announced.  "How ridiculous is that."

"No they're not," R. replied.  "The one over there just moved."

Turned out the one that had moved was real, while the other two were plastic.  Fake swans in a graveyard.  I mean for heaven's sake, why?

Of course, graveyards can be rich places for a writer.  The names on tombstones can inspire new characters, the peace can clear the mind, the wildlife can prompt meditation.  The sense of our human heritage can remind us to try out new ideas in honour of what's past or what will come.  We can remember our mortality and also the gift of our freedom; or mourn those we've lost, or be inspired by our memories.  I find something  freeing about the public space -- we are all entitled to roam there, to respect our shared heritage.

In a graveyard, the thought "Follow where you're led," once inspired me to discover a vast deer in a clearing. With peaceful surroundings, all sorts of thoughts can occur.  What is the subconscious, if not a writer's friend?

What They Said About Fate and Destiny

"Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorn or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day."  Charles Dickens in Great Expectations

"All my writings may be considered tasks imposed from within.  Their source was a fateful compulsion.  What I wrote were things that assailed me from within myself.  I permitted the spirit that moved me to speak out." C. J. Jung in Memories, Dreams, Reflections

Cassius speaking to Brutus about Julius Caesar, their leader: "Why, man he doth bestride the narrow world/ Like a Colossus, and we petty men/ Walk under his huge legs, and peep about/ To find ourselves dishonourable graves./  Men at some time are masters of their fates;/ The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,/ But in ourselves, that we are underlings." From Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, Act 1, Scene 2: (139-141)

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- / I took the one less travelled by / And that has made all the difference." From The Road Not Taken, a poem by Robert Frost

Definition of the Ouzelum Bird, from Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable: "This fanciful bird is reputed to fly backwards and thus does not know where it is going but likes to know where it has been."

"Everything can be taken from a man but one thing; the last of the human freedoms -- to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way." Victor Frankl in Man's Search for Meaning

"I seldom end up where I wanted to go but almost always end up where I need to be."  Douglas Adams

Potatoes

Hi Folks.  I have a new story up at Night Train.  If you fancy a read, you can find it here.

 

Watching Snow

Today, where I live, there's snowfall.

The first covering of snow always makes me think in metaphors:  How what's past is past, how life's just a series of cycles, how meanings can speak in whispers, how people disappear, how what's on the surface is rarely the truth, how beauty is transient but no less beautiful for it. 

In fact, snow in literature often suggests a mix of coldness, cruelty and purity.  The beginning to Angela Carter's "The Snow Child" (from The Bloody Chamber) is a stunning example:

"Midwinter - invincible, immaculate. The Count and his wife go riding, he on a grey mare and she on a black one, she wrapped in the glittering pelts of black foxes; and she wore high, black, shining boots with scarlet heels, and spurs.  Fresh snow fell on snow already fallen; when it ceased, the whole world was white.  'I wish I had a girl as white as snow,' says the Count.  They ride on.  They come to a hole in the snow; this hole is filled with blood.  He says: 'I wish I had a girl as red as blood.'  So they ride on again; here is a raven, perched on a bare bough.  'I wish I had a girl as black as that bird's feathers.'

    As soon as he completed her description, there she stood, beside the road, white skin, red mouth, black hair and stark naked; she was the child of his desire and the Countess hated her."

It's a deeply disturbing story, and well worth a read.  Who better to tell us a savage fairy tale?  Angela Carter also draws on another association of snow: its magical nature and the way it shifts our vision.  

In the snow things are rarely as they seem.

You've Got It the Wrong Way Up

My friend, who has a certain take on fantasy fiction, assures me it's wonderful to have a map at the front of a book.  A map allows you to visualise the terrain, he explains, and how the world connects; you travel with your characters, or with the narrator as they move from place to place, constantly flipping back to the map.

Convincing, isn't it?  But me, I differ.  

Whenever, as a kid, my family went on holiday, I'd have the map snatched out of my hands no sooner than I'd picked it up.  "You can't read that," I'd be told.  "You're only a girl."  Even later in life when I tried to pick up maps, knowing full well that girls could read them, I seemed to always fail -- at least, that was my perception.  Where others forgave their own slip-ups, I told myself I was useless.  It wasn't about gender any more; it was about me believing I was stupid.

In my first teaching job, I was hired with the understanding that they wanted an English teacher who'd also teach Year 7 Humanities.  "Just a couple of hours a week," I was told.  "Would you be happy to do that?"

"If it's History or RE, I'm fine," I said.  "But give me Geography and we'll all be sorry."

Sod's Law, I get Geography.  And you know what?  I'm not great at it.  But I was good with the kids, and with being patient, and we had a blast in those Geography lessons.  We did Rock Structure through drama, Ordinance Survey Maps through storytelling, Rainfall through storyboard...  Heck, it was fun!  And with the ones who struggled, I'd say, "Yeah, I struggle too."*

Anyway, the other night when I opened a new fantasy book and found a map on the opening page, my belly twisted up.  I groaned, "Sheesh, why can't you show me through words?  This is a novel after all."

The book didn't answer.

But when I moved on, there was a lovely new chapter containing dragons and a small red planet and a beautiful, threatened world; and I guess I won't need to look back at that map to be involved in the story.

And if I do, I'll cope. ;)

--

*I believe all teachers should do this more often.  Modelling's the strongest tool, and we need to model self-tolerance too.  The best teaching mentor I ever met suggested that, as a teacher, I occasionally misspell a word on the board.  "Correct yourself unflinchingly," she'd tell me, "as if you do it every day.  That way, you teach the class to accept their own mistakes without shame, and presto!  You're encouraging a learning-centred classroom rather than one where students are afraid to fail."

Hint

I just found out that my 25-word story, Tryst, has been accepted by Robert Swartwood for publication in an anthology by W.W. Norton (2010).  Hint fiction (a phrase first coined by Robert Swartwood himself) is a story of 25 words or less, which suggests something far larger.  Read Robert's succinct definition here.  The anthology is set to contain around 100-150 such fictions.  Looking forward to reading.  Thank you, Robert.

Actually, I recently heard that the fabulous Stace Budzko has had a story accepted for the same anthology.  To get a taste of Stace's writing, plug plug, you can have the pleasure of reading one of his short-shorts here.  What would I do without my writing group?

P.S. This is the same company that's publishing Jung's Red Book.  Not that I'm obsessed or anything.  Snort.

The Writer's Magic Eye

I've often needed help seeing the hidden images in Magic Eye art.  "Relax your sight," my friends used to say.  I could best do this when they pointed out the edge of an image, or told me what it was -- but it was far more exciting when I'd see the secret picture appear because the creativity felt like my own.  

Much of what we do as writers relies on a kind of Magic Eye.  It's possible to work intuitively, not understanding the depth of the connections and symbols we weave into a piece of our work.  An editor -- particularly one who knows us well -- can sometimes see deeper into what we've written.  It's up to us whether we leave that as a possible reading, or decide, as authors, to accentuate this pattern.  

A recent critique session with my writer-friends confirmed that the Magic Eye is a useful metaphor for loosening our authorial control.  I received comments like, "Sue, you've already shown us this.  Why are you now trying to tell us?  Leave us to infer -- it's more satisfying for the reader."  And when I look back at my story, along with their suggested edits, good God, they're right!  The story is more enjoyable if the reader can view it freely, and, by allowing their vision to relax, see the truth leap out.  The creativity, then, is partly theirs.  They own the story.  They don't just read it, they read it.

I also argue the Magic Eye relates to our state-of-mind while we're creating.  The more relaxed and "in the flow" we are, the more active our intuition; this subconscious web of connections and symbols can rise to the surface easily, adding depth and hidden meaning beyond our full awareness.

Maybe if we lived our lives with a more relaxed vision our whole world would be richer, new images springing out.  In fact sometimes, this month, when I gaze at the fall leaves, I feel like there's something behind them... seasons change, stories arrive.

For You, Some Wings

Here are three little excerpts I love.  As you folks know, I'm a fan of wings.

"There was a collage of dead butterflies on the wall of the canyon house where Cherokee lived... At night Cherokee dreamed the butterflies came to life, broke the glass and flew out at her in a storm, covering her with silky pollen.  When she woke up she painted her dream.  She searched for feathers everywhere -- collected them in canyons and on beaches, comparing the shapes and colors, sketching them, trying to understand how they worked.  Then she studied pictures of birds and pasted the feathers down in wing patterns.  But it wasn't until Witch Baby began to bury herself that Cherokee decided to make the wings."  From Cherokee Bat and the Goat Guys, by Fracesca Lia Block

"My Archangel; not a man but a creature made of night and amber fire, / his golden eyes fixed on distances beyond my understanding or my little life / and he moves in the high places of the perilous World..."

From The Archangel Michael, by Joolz Denby

"Some say the Phoenix lives for 540 years, others 1461 years, or even more, and many have sought its feather in order to attain immortality.  But as the centuries pass, the brilliant plumage fades, and when the bird feels death approaching, it gathers sweet-smelling spices and carries these to a wild desert place, whre it builds its pyre in the single date-palm tree.  The next morning, when the sunlight strikes the tree, the spices release their oils and the pure bursts into flame.  The bird stands in the fire, fanning the flames with its wings, until it, too, burns and is reduced to ashes.

    Then at dusk on the third day, the ashes stir, and from them emerges a worm.  Throughout the night, the worm takes on the shape of a bird.  Feathers grow, and the next morning a resplendent new Phoenix rises with the sun."

From The Book of Dragons and Other Mythical Beasts, by Joseph Nigg

Soar, baby, soar.  Wishing you all sweet dreams.

Even More Tonto Short Stories

Just sharing some good news.  My story, How to Tell if You're About to Burst into Flames is to appear in Even More Tonto Short Stories, to be published this year by Tonto Books.  "How to Tell..." is also included in my collection of stories and a novella, entitled, Touch Me, I'm a Monster.  Many thanks to Caroline Smailes, the contest judge, and Stuart Wheatman of Tonto!