• About “The Salamander’s Quill”
  • Goals and Definitions
  • Copyright
  • Resources and Library
  • I Like What I Do Because…

The Salamander's Quill

~ We hunt the white whale, and we'll no be goin' back!

The Salamander's Quill

Category Archives: Storytelling

Realizations, Revelations & RPGs

15 Monday Feb 2016

Posted by André J. Powell in Gaming, Musing, Observation, Storytelling, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Fantasy, Role-playing games, rpg, Time, World-building, writing, Writing struggles

Realizations, Revelations & RPGs      Lately, I have had to process a personal revelation concerning a dear feature of my geek-centric life, something I had always believed was complimentary to, but which I now understand was in competition with, my creative writing.
     I love role-playing games (RPG). Though Dungeons & Dragons was published ’74 when I was 13, I didn’t play my first session until a couple of years later. While I have trouble remembering the exact date of that first game, I vividly remember the character I played—half-elf Torian Asgard—and the non-player characters (NPC) who were my companions—Sadar the cleric and Bluehelm the magic user—and the place we explored—the digs of Roghan the Fearless and Zelligar the Unknown: Quasqueton! These two great heroes had driven off a barbarian invasion but had disappeared during an expedition against said horde, leaving their stronghold, Quasqueton, just waiting to be explored and its treasures plundered.
     I do not exaggerate when I say that first gaming experience was a nothing short of revelatory (thank you, Ken!). Having read Tolkien, Malory, Lewis and Howard during my pre-teen years, I yearned to have adventures like Frodo, Arthur, Lucy and Conan and from the first roll of the dice, I knew I’d found a way to scratch that itch. It truly felt like I’d discovered buried treasure.
     It didn’t take too long for the storyteller in me to demand space at the game table. I quickly assumed the mantle of Game Master (GM) and began weaving my own scenarios for a group of players who would become my brothers-in-arms and life-long friends. Though I left D&D behind in favor of more intuitive game-engines, for the last 40 years I have continued to play, destroying the minions of evil and amassing a body of story, mythology and history to rival the most prolific of literary heroes.
     Due to circumstances, however, and though the crew still gathers to talk geek as we have for decades, we can’t seem find time to regularly game any more. I’m not going into the politics of this situation, for they are a rough emotional sea of wild cinematic waves and whirling simulationist water-spouts. Suffice to say that a “perfect storm” brewed itself made of equal parts life, age and personality. I would rather do is relate a realization and discovery made about myself and my creative writing while in the midst of this gale.

     Due to this gaming short-circuit, I found myself in a creative vacuum and as a result easily irritated, dissatisfied and, without overstatement, a bit bitter. Without regular gaming, I turned to my work-in-progress (WIP) to fill the void (which at present exists within the context of Holly’s HTTS class). It seemed natural. If you don’t have creamer, you reach for the milk. I mean, was I not creating imaginary worlds, cultures and religions as I develop my WIP? Did not heroes romp about discovering, fighting, loving, betraying, exploring, etc. in similar fashion to gaming? Were there not dark sorceries to overcome, conflicts to resolve, and villains to defeat? I thought to myself: a good bout of creative writing would be my surrogate game session while the ship groaned ominously and I waited for the storm to sort itself out. Good enough and off I went, bummed about the loss of regular bone-rolling but thankful I had a creative shelter in the storm. And indeed; while it wasn’t the same as gaming, it was medicine for my queasy stomach and balm to my wounded creative humor. So, for the last few months I created characters, spun dialogue, developed conflicts, wove plots, done necessary WIP world building and, all in all, had a rather productive time of it.
     And that’s when it hit me…hit me, I say, like one of those looking-for-lost-glasses-oh-shit-they’re-on-my-face type realizations:

     Without a game to creatively develop and GM, I had directed more time and energy into my WIP. Without a game to regularly express myself and play, the desire to role-play had been somewhat assuaged by writing.

     To many this may seem a “Well, duh!” sort of moment. To me it was nearly as watershed as the advent of gaming itself. It made me lean back in my chair and blink. I had always known that prepping my game-world in anticipation of a GM session was a creative outlet, but up to this point I hadn’t fully realized how much I depended on it nor how much of my storytelling energy I devoted to it.
     I have long lamented that juggling the two has been difficult. I see now that far from complementing each other, they have been in competition much in the same way books and films compete for audience. Each mode of storytelling: books, film, rpgs, may have entertainment as a common goal, but they use different methods to do so and deliver different story experiences as a result. I think this is the main reason why those who read are invariably disappointed when their favorite book is adapted to film. It is also the reason that while gaming and fiction writing share some commonalities and even inform each other, they both demand time as a resource and as a result find themselves in competition.
     Though I would never exchange my years of gaming nor even now give it up—it is a very important social outlet and connection to my brothers, as well as, an enjoyable mode of storytelling—I now understand better the creativity-sink it can be and realize it is not a replacement for serious writing…no more than writing is a replacement for role-playing.
     Well, what to do? I plan to adapt to this new reality and learn to walk its rolling deck. I’ll not exacerbate gaming’s present illusiveness by wasting what time I have waiting for a second advent. I will embrace the situation as a mixed blessing and make the most of it by romping in my WIP’s land of dark sorceries and bright heroes. I have learned a valuable lesson: time and energy are finite. When the storm finally passes, and it will, I will strive to keep the weather-gage and maintain a more satisfying balance.

NaNoWriMo: Day 4

05 Tuesday Nov 2013

Posted by André J. Powell in NaNoWriMo, Storytelling

≈ Leave a comment

Bella 2b     Well, I’m beginning to wonder if I should give up writing my fantasy and start a blog about my life as an epic failure. I’m sure it would be a lot more entertaining than my fiction.
The latest. So, I drove home the back way from the north. Lots of traffic mixed in with orchards and open fields for both agriculture and development. We’re on the literal edge of the city here. I saw no dog-bodies by the side of the road that fit Bella’s description. Relief.
     Marirose texted and suggested I go to our old neighborhood in an adjoining town to have a look around. Good idea, I thought. Our former home was but three to four miles down the road almost in a straight-shot, so it is possible that Bella might have headed for “home” once she’d scored freedom. Dogs do weird things like that. I doubted Bella would though. Sharp as a pin with a brain like a sponge, Bella has absolutely no “wisdom” or savvy when it comes to cars, directions or repeated instructions. Experience teaches her nothing. I just couldn’t imagine she’d figure out the way back home, but, there it is, got to turn over the stones.
     I ran into a few former neighbors, warned them about Bella’s escape. They, of course, offered to, “keep and eye out.”
     On the way back home, I stopped off at the Vet just around the corner on a whim.
     “I know it’s a shot in the dark, but have you seen a shepherd mix…?”
The receptionist looked at me with wide eyes and replied yes,
     “…just yesterday; a lady brought her in to have her scanned for a chip….”
Collar and all fit Bella’s description, but even as my heart soared, it plummeted like a rock when she said she’d not asked the lady her name. I could tell she was very sorry she hadn’t. I didn’t get too upset as I was so happy Bella was alive and pleased that someone, obviously in the neighborhood, had her and was thoughtful enough to bring her in for the scan. On the other hand, if I’d only had her chipped…or at least had her license tags on her walking-collar. Hindsight is 20/20, and it sucks. I left my name and number and headed home.
     The receptionist suggested Craigslist and, of course, the animal shelter boards. When I got home, I set up a “lost and found” and a “pets” post on Craigslist. I made a few poster-flyers, grabbed some business cards, put Callista on a leash and headed out. Even though it was dark and just about the end of the dinner hour, I figured I’d bump into some folk.
     I talked to a few people. One guy on the corner said that a man in a Ford Explorer, “…late 90s style…with a primer gray paint job…” had been up and down the street with a dog fitting Bella’s description in the seat next to him, asking folk if it was their dog. Sighting Two! Though he didn’t know the name of the guy or recognize the car, I was heartened. Alive and well. I left my address with the guy and moved on.
     The second guy I ran into had not seen Bella, but said he’d be on the watch for the gray Explorer and the dog. He told me of stray he’d just rescued and I felt good I’d run into him. I left him one of the poster-flyers I’d printed up.
     I took Callista home and printed up more poster-flyers, checked my email, checked shelter listings and headed back out to post the flyers on a few lamp posts along the street where the gray Explorer had driven.
     I got two responses from Craigslist, both from the same dog-lover, offering me advice on what to do for a lost pet. They were good suggestions, but the surge of hope and adrenaline to my heart when my iPhone pinged almost did me in.
     Today, Marirose is going to head to the shelter to put in a lost pet report. They only keep dogs without identification for four days before putting them up for adoption or euthanizing them. Fuck. Bella is very adoptable, so I’m thinking that if the couple (?) don’t keep her or adopt her out, Bella will end up on the adoption list. From there she’ll get snatched up–I’m sure of it. We have such a small window to work with and I’ve wasted the most precious time of it. I should have hit the Veterinarian’s right away—it seems so obvious now. I can only think I was so upset Sunday, I couldn’t think straight and honestly, hadn’t been thinking straight–it won’t happen to me–on the whole issue of tags and identification.      Dumb-ass.
     Suffice to say, no NaNoWriMo word were written yesterday afternoon.

We Do Not Row Because We Must…

10 Monday Jun 2013

Posted by André J. Powell in Disgusted, Storytelling, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

The days here are measured. Each one that passes draws us ever closer to the end…when we will leave Far Iona—my Iona Céin. No one will know what that means but me. No one will feel the shame but me. We tried. I tried. I failed.

I work and sleep in my library almost constantly now, because it will soon be gone. The matriarch says that I should be thankful that for at least a time, I had it. The pages call me. The maps beckon. The owls watch from dilating pools of jet wherein I dream nightmares. How can I not? No one wishes me good-night, no one tucks the covers in around my neck and kisses me “sweet dreams” or better yet, “no dreams” at all.

Thus, I doze in the captain’s chair rocking and listen to the waves crash on the shore, to the books age and to the music of the great chime beyond the water…pretending it’s all not happening…that it is all a nightmare…that it will all somehow last, survive, continue. But time is finite and change is inevitable. In the twilight and the false dawn, in a moment of weakness I wonder if I will ever find such a place again knowing I will not.

Gone. Gone. Gone. It’s all gone.

We sailed into the mouth of the beast—against all odds we sailed. We gambled with the gods and we lost. They sleep now, draped over their oars, snoring at the benches, mouths agape in the throes of dream.

They do not yet know we are soon to leave; do not yet know I have betrayed them. Oh, but they will when we’ve cleared the ship shed and they see the stacks of cargo and I order them to retrieve and install the oar-wings then they will know this is no stretch of muscle for the sake of muscle—we are leaving.

“We shall sail the Sundancian Sea!” I had promised. And they cheered and I believed. They rowed and will keep rowing. It is their fate, I suppose, never to reach solid “home.”

And rowed right valiantly they have, to Idwelan’s Needles, through the Targun’s Gap and beyond to Far Iona. We ran our bronzed rams up on her white sands and slept under her green trees. We swam in her pools, marveled at her rainbow fishes, ate her nectarines, peaches, plumbs, pears, plucots, lemons and grapefruit, watched the trees turn white with blossoms that fell filling the courts with fragrance and snow,

And now we must leave her. Now we must give it all up. Now we must either submit to the Heen or…or what? Brave the Oanerles Sea? They will weep for it, knowing they will never arrive, never leave this ship. I will weep for it. I weep for it now. I never did build the holy shrine, never drink from the holy well.

We do not row because we must; we row because there is nothing else to do.

Where will I die? Master of a trireme…a sea lord no less! It is hard knowing I will not die on my own deck…watching the sea. I will not die in battle. Perhaps it will be in some leeches sanitarium, a place where the forgotten go to die and the living are already dead staring at walls without memory, shitting myself for uncaring people who but wait for me to give them what little gold I have in the hard currency of “getting it over with so they can go home.” Home…something I have never known. At least on Iona Céin, it would have been in a place I cared about—even if no one was present to care for me.

Oh, yes. Hell exists, my mariners. Hell is real and your oars reek of it.

A “man” thing…family is all that matters—or so I am told. And where will you host that family? I ask. Will they come visit you on your cot? Will they all cram into your death chamber when the time comes? Where will they gather when it is over and time to honor your memory? Where will they light the incense? Where will they make their offerings? Where will they stand and say, my father, my mother, they stood here?

They do not care—it’s a man thing…you see.

Kast, the deck dog cared. I remember the day she plunged into the icy sea after me and saved my life…the day I spoke to Wintar…the day he told me of Iona Céin. She should have let me drown for all his prophesies have served us. Oh, many armed wise one; oh, master of fate and destiny; read to me from your book.

Bastard.

You forgot to read me about this part.

Now it will belong to someone else who will know none of what happened here, none of the losses, none of the pain, none of the possibilities. None of what it means to want to protect or to want to be remembered as a protector, a provider, a strong rock upon which to cling. It is so hard to believe I will never hang my sword over my own hearth—from here on the stones I sleep upon will not belong to me…not belong to me…not belong to me…not belong to me…ever.

The days here are measured. Each one that passes draws us ever closer to the end.

Elizabeth Moon’s Oath of Gold

10 Wednesday Apr 2013

Posted by André J. Powell in Musing, Reading, Storytelling, Writing

≈ 1 Comment

Oath of Gold     I enjoyed Oath of Gold, the third in “The Deed of Paksenarrion” trilogy and getting to know Elizabeth Moon’s early fantasy side. It has been remarkable to watch the evolution of her writing style. She seemed to have found her stride during this the final chapter of Paks’s story and Paks truly stepped out to become round and dynamic. The dialogue felt more authentic and the predominantly human versus human conflicts extremely satisfying.
     On that note, a thought came to me as I finished the book. Was the dialogue an issue for me because Moon was still developing her skill or was it a purposeful device to support Paks growing from a young country girl naïve in the ways of world to a full grown woman tried, tested and sharpened by harsh experience? As I reflect on the trilogy as a whole, I plan to keep this thought in mind when I next read a fantasy. To answer the question here would take a second read of the trilogy and my reading list is too long for that. Another tantalizing tidbit gleaned from Moon’s website is the suggestion that trilogy was first written as a single long story, broken up “…for practical purposes…” I can only imagine this means for publications sake. Did Moon’s skill evolve more organically then rather than in stages? Or are my own observations too amateur and arm-chair in nature?
     As intended, Moon’s exploration of the military-religious mind set was thought provoking. I am always torn between wanting the authentic ring of the ever-compromising human mindset and a craving for a clear cut conflict between good and evil and a champion clear of mind and purpose. Paks seemed to reflect more of the later than the former in her perception of right and wrong, which was alright by me. Her need to come to grips with the reality of human suffering however—the feelings of those who cannot wield weapons in their own defense due to status, class, economic or training limitations—I thought was a great touch and satisfied the former.
     We (and I use the term very loosely) are so jaded against those with a singleness of vision. We fear the power it gives them and its possible abuse. Templars come immediately to mind. I wonder, however, how much of the negative reputation gained by such holy warriors was not the result of the greedy men and woman who commanded them; who, though purporting a veneer of religious intent, were truly concerned with narcissistic gain and infected with megalomania. What resulted was an order of knights fed at an infected teat and as far from the Grail model they dreamed of as one could be. Our opinion of such is further influenced by our own political leaders who have failed us time and time again…and continue to do so, unable to agree on anything, behaving in a fashion no recess-monitor would tolerate on the playground let alone the halls of congress. The scope of this musing does not allow for much more than idle thoughts, but it is a tantalizing thread.
     I still felt put off by the use of elves, dwarves, gnomes and orcs as too crutch-like, unnecessary for an enjoyable story. I think it would have been more exciting had she kept such at a minimum and relied predominantly on exotic human constructs or developed her own races and species as she did with some of the creatures Paks encountered. Again, I realize this was the rage at the time of publication—witness the Dragonlance saga. I also realize it is most probably my own tastes which are involved here—thousands of RPG inspired novel readers can’t all be wrong.
      So…what has this modern master taught me or reminded me of that I should keep in mind?
     I love a good bildungsroman. I love reading about characters going through a process of both structured growth as well as growth and evolvement that is experience based. Paks satisfies both categories as she undergoes her military training in the first book; her spiritual training in the second and the harrowing ordeals of the world’s training ground in the third. Over and over again, I am reminded of Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey. I note that this predilection is on my HTTS’ “Sweet Spot Map” as one of the things I’m drawn to.
     In relation to the above, it was satisfying to read as Paks learned from her experiences and to place them as filters over the past. The changing POV and her notice of it lent another layer of authenticity to her characterization.
     Paying attention to dialogue is important. Though the honeymoon phase between reader and author is a real as it is brief, authentic dialogue, reflective of a character’s experience and place, is important from the start. I’ll need to look into this very carefully and be wary of it.
     A book that provokes thinking is always good. I would rather write one like that than one wherein my reader smiles, has a good read and promptly forgets they ever read it.

Crystal Gazing I

31 Friday Aug 2012

Posted by André J. Powell in Disgusted, Storytelling, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

     Halis had been running so fast, he’d barely made the turn from the narrow lane to the doorway only just catching himself on the frame.
     “Morwin! A ship…from the west…has entered the harbor!” He panted, his eyes bright with excitement. Morwin’s frown was instantly replaced with pleased shock. He stood slowly staring into his friend’s grinning face. The leather work fell to the floor forgotten. At the same moment they both glanced at the carefully preserved wooden casket on the high shelf, its three wax seals covered in dust.
     “Then the day has come,” Morwin whispered. “I…I can hardly believe it.” Halis nodded eagerly.
     Wonder reigned but momentarily.
     “Go!” ordered Morwin briskly. “Awaken Sarli. If marks on the portal indicate she’s…engaged, do not hesitate to interrupt her. Her wrath will be ten times more terrible if she thinks she’s not been told of this in a timely manner.”
     “Oh, do not worry,” Halis smiled, as if the idea of interrupting even a hedge majai in full Weave was something he did daily. “It will be my pleasure.”
     “Do not antagonize her, Halis,” Morwin warned placing his warn handled tools quickly yet carefully in their storage box. “If we are to be successful, much depends on her.”
     “I? Antagonize?” Halis feigned shock and hurt. “But she is my love, my life, my one and only–”
     “—only she doesn’t view you quite the same way,” said Morwin wryly, untying his heavy leather apron and hanging it on its peg.
     “Is there anything so sad as unrequited love?,” mourned the dog catcher mockingly.
     Morwin chuckled in reply and shook his head, but instantly sobered taking a long look about the room that had been his life for so long now. But a ship, a western ship, has come, he thought to himself.
     “Away with you,” he said shaking way the false nostalgia. “We have much to do.”
     Halis grinned again, nodded and disappeared.
     Morwin contemplated the empty frame where his friend had stood but a moment before. He hoped Halis would forgive him when the night’s events unfolded as unexpectedly as Morwin had planned they would.
     “It is for the best…” he reminded himself as he turned toward the shelf—were his fingers trembling, ever so slightly, he wondered—and reached for the damned casket.

Focus: My Biggest Challenge

03 Tuesday Jul 2012

Posted by André J. Powell in Observation, Storytelling, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Brent Weeks, Holly Lisle, How To Think Sideways, Night Angel

I am seldom without a story idea. Some ideas are good, some are mediocre and some, upon retrospect, are just plain stupid. Thus, I rarely have a problem with coming up with something to write about. What I do have a problem with however, is staying focused, keeping my mind on the story at hand and my fingers on the keyboard channeling it from my attention-challenged brain to the ‘page.’

As my summer writing project, I am going through author Holly Lisle‘s “How to Think Sideways” writing course and a goal of the lesson I am presently working on is to identify my writing “Sweet Spot.” From this spot, a writer is be able to compose more comfortably, creatively and with more focus regardless of genre or requirement—a good skill to have considering today’s lightening fast and ever changing market. Thus, I was delighted to read author Brent Weeks’ July Writer’s Advice post on the subject of “Staying Focused.” As I read, I immediately saw parallels and connections between writing from the “Sweet Spot” and maintaining focus.

I’m not a big fan of re-posting (it kinda feels like cheating to me), so I offer a link to Brent’s site and the blog in question. The article may not have the same impact on others as it did me considering my present project, but it is a good article nonetheless containing excellent advice and concrete strategies for the focused-challenged writer.

I have heard that some author’s want their blog missives re-posted (credit being given where credit is due, of course) to presumably boost traffic to their sites (?). I’m not sure about that ‘tribal’ blog tradition and will have to look into it.

As an aside, I am about a fifth of the way through Beyond the Shadows, the last book of Brent’s epic fantasy “Night Angel” trilogy, and heartily recommend the set for a fun summer read.

Realistic Fantasy or Why I Prefer the Oxymoron: Aesthetic-Distance and the Suspension-of-Disbelief

18 Monday Jun 2012

Posted by André J. Powell in Observation, Storytelling, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

In my last post, I complained that V.M. Manfredi seemed to have trouble deciding if Spartan, A Novel was a fantasy story with a historic background or a historical fiction with fantasy characteristics. I stated that, in my opinion, the two genres do not mix well without careful forethought and that, considering how Manfredi handled the subject, the book would have been better as one or the other.

Considering my lack of credentials, this is a bold statement. It is not however uninformed. I would like to extrapolate on the reasoning behind my critique and on why I feel it is so important for writers and wannabe writers (like myself) of fantasy to consider Aesthetic-Distance and the Suspension of Disbelief, two concepts I learned long ago in a film analysis class and which are applicable to many an art form including that of writing.

From the onset however, I want to refer any reader who as a result of reading this entry feels duty-bound to defend their favorite author, genre or sub-genre to the “About” tab at the top of the page. I am not interested in trying to convince anyone of anything here. I am interested however, in exploring my own tastes and biases as I journey toward publication. Further, I realize that what follows here is paramount to declaring, “I think vanilla frosties dipped in chocolate are the best.” There is no surer way to inspire someone to riposte with, “…chocolate until I die!” or “twisties forever!” or even the odd “…strawberry, if you don’t mind!” than to say such. Please understand, I am not declaring what is best here so much as what I prefer. All flavors, well written, are good flavors.

I would also like to offer a Spoiler Alert as well. To make my point, I will be referring to critical events in Manfredi’s Spartan, A Novel, Martin’s The Game of Thrones and R. E. Howard’s Hour of the Dragon AKA Conan the Conqueror during the course of this essay. Those who have not read the above but plan to should proceed with caution.

To begin then.

I prefer fantasies best that have a certain ring of truth and realism to them, that sink their roots deep into the rich and firm soil of reality as apposed to those that freely embrace the more fantastical characteristics of the genre and are therefore more un-real. Though this sounds contradictory, I assure you that it is not. It is an extremely important distinction and I hope to eventually publish fantasy stories that bear its hallmark. This is why, I believe, Tolkien’s LotR has such appeal. The “Beowulfian depth” upon which it is built gives Tolkien’s work a ring of authenticity appreciated and admired by most readers. Magic, while it abounds, is nonetheless held in check and allowed to function as background rather than as essential.

That being said, any fantasy work founded on some sort of internal logic, that is in agreement with itself, is appealing to me. Regardless of its fantastical nature, as long as there is a consistency to which the author faithfully adheres, I will read and enjoy it.

This consistency is highly important to me because, as far as I am able, I want to create a faux-reality in which my readers can fully and comfortably immerse themselves. Like a good masseuse, I want to offer my clients an enjoyable experience without interruption, without pain, without jarringly cold hands. I want my readers to give themselves up to my ministrations and to suspend, for a time, any objections they may have, any doubts that the world I present them is not “real,” or that the story I weave for them is not sound, or that the characters therein are not convincing. To do this well, I must establish an Aesthetic-Distance between the reader and myself in which they feel comfortable enough to establish a Suspension-of-Disbelief.

Basically, “Aesthetic-Distance” is the concept that the reader or viewer is presented with material in such a way that a bridge is established between the reality of reading a book or sitting in a theatre and the un-reality occurring on the screen or page before them. The patron enters the theatre or opens the book knowing from the onset that what he or she is about to see and/or read is not real. They know for example that they are sitting in their living room or in a theatre, in their home town, in the 21st century, BUT for a time, they voluntarily agree to suspend their disbelief and accept what is happing on the screen or page as “real.” That there is indeed, “A galaxy far, far away.” In return for this suspension, the director or writer agrees to offer a presentation that is realistic to an agreed upon degree. The greater the degree of suspension required upon the part of the audience, the stronger the Aesthetic-Distance established by the director or writer must be.

Take for example, King Kong. Movie goers agreed to suspend their disbelief, firmly grounded in the reality that there are no 25’ tall gorillas (Jackson size—my preferred version). In return the director did his best to established an Aesthetic-Distance that treated the viewer to a believable 25’ tall gorilla and a story that did not threaten this agreement. If, however, should that distance erode at any time during the presentation of the story, the viewers’ Suspension-of-Disbelief collapses and the viewer is not longer in the jungles of Skull Island but in the reality of their theatre seat where Kong has become a mere special effect. While it is true that no director or writer can please all of the people all of the time, it should be their overriding concern to do so or at least labor to make such breakdowns of the Aesthetic-Distance as few as possible.

A chef is no less responsible when creating an excellent meal and must do all within their power to keep the patron engaged by serving the best dish possible. Based on the description in the menu, the chef and the patron enter into an agreement. The patron expects a certain dish and the chef creates said dish, albeit with individual style and flare yet still within certain parameters. No chef or writer would present their work as Penne al’Salmone or an action adventure and then serve tuna salad or offer a romantic comedy. That is obvious. What is not so obvious however, are the smaller interruptions and disruptions that though subtle nonetheless chip away at the Aesthetic-Distance and threaten the Suspension-of-Disbelief.

If during the course of the meal, I discover a fish bone in my Penne al’Salmone, I am a bit disappointed, but thankful I did not swallow the damn thing, and though I do not send the dish back, my enjoyment of the meal is interrupted. I will continue to eat and if I do not find another bone in my fish pasta, I will soon forget the disruptive moment as I immerse myself once again in dish’s savor.

If however, I find another bone, I will think seriously about ever ordering the dish again. I many not push my plate away,—I did pay for it after all—but my dining experience is now seriously challenged as I eye my food warily, picking at it with a fork, examining each bite alert for another bone. I am now almost completely removed from the experience the chef intended me to have with his meal.

Should I have the unhappy fortune to discover more bones as I gingerly chew in anticipation of such an advent, any pleasure I had in my eating experience prior is now irrevocably lost and I am most decidedly through with both the meal and the restaurant or, by extension…the movie…the book.

The fantasy writer has no less a responsibility to the reader as the chef does to the diner or the director to the movie viewer. Each of these professions has its own special dynamics that the others do not, but the common concern for patron enjoyment is arguably there regardless.

It is my belief that how seriously the writer wants the reader to consider their fantasy (or any other genre-plot, for that matter), depends on how sensitively the elements of fantasy, in particular the magical creatures, the magical artifacts, the magical situations and magic itself, are treated. How sensitively is measured by degrees of expectation on the readers part and this has much to do with the subgenre of fantasy being read. High fantasies rich in magic, Erickson’s The Malazan Book of the Fallen series for example, may have less pressure placed upon them by the reader because they expect dragons to abound, fairies to appear, lightening to spark from a wizard’s finger tips and gods to walk the earth.

If in a lower fantasy novel, however, such as Robert E. Howard’s sword and sorcery tale, Hour of the Dragon AKA Conan the Conqueror high fantasy elements were suddenly to appear without rhyme or reason, say a fire-breathing flight-capable dragon aiding and abetting the Cimmerian’s bid to reclaim the Aquilonian throne and destroy the sorcerer Xaltotun, it would render the Aesthetic-Distance moot and my Suspension-of-Disbelief would collapse. I am not suggesting that a dragon is taboo so much as pointing out that Howard would have had to have been at great pains prior to make the dragon’s sudden appearance acceptable. Howard did in fact present large lizards his Cimmarian referred to as “…dragons…” in “Red Nails,” but he was quick to make it clear to the readership that in all likelihood the creatures were dinosaurs left over from some earlier age.

Even in such epic fantasy novels as the Lord of the Rings (which walks a fine line between high fantasy characteristics yet, save for certain features and artifacts, maintains a relatively low magic profile), Tolkien was very careful not to stray too far from the characteristics of epic wherein he cast his characters. Gandalf does not wield spells in a DnD-esque fashion, Smaug is depicted as both a rare one-off and as the penultimate cataclysmic danger a dragon should (IMHO) represent, magically sealed doors operate according to strict enchantment and the culturally supernatural and inherit abilities of the elves are limited by internal logic—even bloody Gil-galad fell to Sauron’s power. Tolkien worked hard to maintain the Aesthetic-Distance between his readership and his material and as a result, the Suspension-of-Disbelief on the part of his readers was rarely threatened. For me, Tolkien maintained tone throughout his work, sometimes less successfully than others—where in the hell did Tom Bombadil come from?! (call it a fish bone)—but satisfactorily overall. Too many fish bones however, too many challenges to the Aesthetic-Distance might have rendered my suspension of disbelief impossible and he might have lost me.

This was the argument I had with Manfredi’s Spartan, A Novel.

SPOILER ALERT…SPOILER ALERT…SPOILER ALERT…SPOILER ALERT…SPOILER ALERT

Manfredi used the fantasy/divine element of prophesy quite often in this novel and with, for the most part, good effect. It moved the main character Talos/Kleidemos from situation to situation even as he too, like the readers, struggled to discern between what was a message from the gods and what was a hoax. Were they truly divine in origin or simply a means by which the Athenian or Spartan governments justified and achieved political ends? As Talos struggles with this, he is made all the more sympathetic by Manfredi as he wonders why he has been handed this fate and rails against it aching to be reunited with his life-long love Antinea, who is pregnant, and raise their child together in peace. At the end of the novel, Talos, now the leader of the Helots, decides on a desperate foray against an all-encompassing enemy and though his people fight heroically and admirably, they are ultimately out-maneuvered and prepare to suffer the fatal consequences. At the last moment however, they are saved by a proclamation from the Delphinine Oracle that smacks of political intrigue on the part of the Athenians against the Spartans.

While a somewhat startling last-minute save, it is not unlooked for by the reader or too unexpected. Manfredi has been at exceptional pains to weave prophesy into his story and to instill the reader with a suspicion of such prophesies as well as, an expectation as to their advent. Indeed, he has foreshadowed just such an incident with other prophesies that occurred earlier in the story, and because of this, the Suspension-of-Disbelief on the part of the reader remains intact. Thus, the Aesthetic-Distance has not been violated was it would with the sudden and actual appearance of Zeus or a decisive and ridiculous victory on the part of essentially peasant militia over trained hoplite Spartiates. Indeed, such would have smacked of a deus ex machine…a major fish bone…leaving the reader with a “WTF?” too big to swallow. Unfortunately, on the heels of the saving prophesy, Manfredi does exactly that and serves up a Moby Dick sized fish bone.

After the prophesy is relayed to the Spartan king and the Spartan troops withdraw, Talos/Kleidemos cannot be found. Fearing him dead, a close companion searches the battle field in vain for the body of his comrade. Calling for his friend, he is unexpectedly met and purposefully led by a huge wolf to where he finds Talos/Kleidemos’s singular armor, epic weapons and shield laying at the foot of a tree. The wolf disappears as suddenly as it appeared. Talos is never seen again, but his companion weeps understanding that Talos was an avatar of the gods and proclaims that Talos the Wolf will come again as his people need him, ala King Arthur.

Blink–WTF?—hack, cough: tink! Huge fish bone. He was an avatar? He was a construct of the gods? Well, what the hell have I been worried about him all this time for? If he’s an avatar, he’s not even mortal! What the hell do I care whether or not he rises above his destiny and is rewarded with hearth and home? He was a shape shifter? Where did that come from? Suddenly the Aesthetic-Distance crumbles under the stress placed upon it by Manfredi and with it my Suspension-of-Disbelief. It was just too much for my intellect to reconcile: there was no warning, there was no foreshadowing. Sure there were wolves present throughout the story, sometimes they seemed to favor Talos/Kleidemos but not in any way to hint that he might be a shape shifter let alone a Christ-figure. As a result, Spartan, A Novel receives a three stars rather than five from me. At this point I am curious enough to try a second Manfredi novel, but frankly, I will be very skeptical as I read and at the first hint of a fishbone, I am putting it down.

SPOILER ALERT…SPOILER ALERT…SPOILER ALERT…SPOILER ALERT…SPOILER ALERT

This experience was repeated with Martin’s initial offering in the A Song of Ice and Fire series. He is so good at the historicity of his story; I ate up the Game of Thrones at a record pace. In keeping with that established flavor, the gods are kept at a distance, magic though burning in the background remains in the background, his characters are human, engaging and believable. The evil Beyond the Wall, like a simmering crock-pot of soup, is slowly and deliciously turning into what is sure be an epic meal. Armies are on the move, dealing with the needs of man-power, maneuverability and access. The characters wrestle with alliances, betrayal, self-realization and, in some cases, mortal defeat. This rocks! I thought and then suddenly: BAM! A main character finds herself not only immune to fire, but “mother” of three dragons who are suckling at her breasts (cue the loud record-scratching sound)—What was that?!

Yuck, cough, choke—WTF!? Where did that come from? I think I actually cried out, “Awww, c’mon!” And why the hell…? Cheap titillation at this late date? For cryin’ out loud, Martin, you’ve all ready sold me; I don’t need the cheap sex tricks! Where’s the foreshadowing on this one (thumbs rapidly through the pages)? Yes, yes I knew the eggs seemed warm when she touched them, etc., but there are some things I want to know before I swallow this sudden, unexpected and disturbingly boney slice of fish. For example, how can viable embryos survive, arcanely or otherwise, in a fossilized state for hundreds, maybe even thousands of years? How the hell do they even know how to nurse? Do any reptiles anywhere on the FRACKIN’ planet nurse? I mean, it is fantasy, but come on, there are certain biological realities to consider here! How is it that the character, who’s beloved just died and has just survived a conflagration, as well as a purge, is not practically incoherent or at least freaking out over three lizards competing over her tah-tahs?! The situation and resulting questions so jolted me from the storyline, so instantly and completely, that I found I had lost all interest in reading the next novel and even felt a bit betrayed. So much of the novel was so good, so carefully rendered, this…this just seemed so random and so cheaply sensational. I finished up the first book three years ago and have not gone back.

By no means am I suggesting that Martin did not have the right to tell his story the way he wanted to or that he should not have used the dragon element. No way. It’s a fantasy novel: his world, his rules. If he wants to do that, more power to him. The point is, to me, he failed in his responsibility to present his dragons in such a way that maintained the Aesthetic-Distance and allowed me to continue my Suspension-of-Belief there by enjoying his story. Martin had built an expectation that he would honor the well conceived milieu he had heretofore described. By presenting his dragons in such a surprising and fantastical way, he challenged my disbelief and the distance failed. I see no reason why he could not have done it a bit more carefully and logically—utilizing magic in all its indefinable and all-encompassing qualities—wherein it could have matched and even complimented his gritty realistic and painstakingly rendered fantasy. Even if I had been able to swallow the bone, he would a serious job ahead of him, in reconciling the two elements: realism and fantasy, especially when those dragons come of age, considering at 18” and barely infants, they are already able to torch a man to death and melt iron manacles with their breath.

And herein lies the rub: if he’s willing to present such challenges to my disbelief now, who knows what is in store? Am I willing to risk another $7.99, 800 pages and the time to read them to find out? Do I even want to? Not at this point, but my wife loves the HBO series and I love my wife. I refused to sit and watch the first season but have consented to watch the second with her only on condition that I can leave the room without derision if I feel things are even remotely approaching critical-fish bone status.

I am but one reader and in the end my opinion accounts for nothing save to myself—and by extension, I know what I like. He lost me: big deal, so what? A clash of aesthetics. Others are head over heels for him. Maybe my standards are too high; others are more flexible. An author cannot please everyone every time. I am sure his pocket book and ego can handle my checking out and this is not a critique of Game of Thrones.

I feel that the more believable an author wants their fantasy to be, the more care they need to take in presenting it. I believe the more fantastic in nature a fantasy is, the more responsibility to keep a tight rein on the fantastic elements an author has. Note I did not say eliminate them, but I think fantasy writers have a particular burden and must beware of magic getting away from them or it either becoming a crutch or a plague. Magic and fantastic elements allowed to run amuck without rhyme or reason can ruin a well thought-out and realistic story line. I have found, for myself that if the fantasy leans toward the realistic, those elements used sparingly AND LOGICALLY are like sweet savor leading to many an “Mmmmm, yummy” moment, but then again, I am a self-proclaimed lover of realistic-fantasy. Even if it is a magically rich environment however, wherein every character has access to magic in one form or another and the supernatural is common place, the author still has a responsibility, if not more so, to the Aesthetic-Distance between the material and the reader and the Suspension-of-Disbelief. It still must be well considered and presented with sensitivity and with an eye toward logic. If not, the author risks losing his or her reader the moment they pause and wonder, “Where the hell did that come from?” or “How does that bloody work?” or “Really? Really! Really.” Challenged enough times and the reader is lost. One fishbone in my “Penne al’salmone” filet is enough, two and it goes back to the kitchen. Three and I most likely will do my dining out elsewhere.

On the Death of My Writing Father

07 Thursday Jun 2012

Posted by André J. Powell in Class Room, Observation, Reading, Retrospection, Storytelling, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

The day began with email from a former student and long time friend. It was short and to the point, but he knew it would speak volumes to me.

“RIP Ray Bradbury. Shitty day.”

After a quick search I learned that…I find it hard to even write it…Ray Bradbury died last night.

The world is a darker place for me today.

Though I never had the great good fortune or privilege to meet him, at the opening of each new school year when I begin Fahrenheit 451 with my honors classes or earlier in my teaching career—The Martian Chronicles with my sophomores, I always feel as if I am hosting the annual visit of a dear old friend and mentor.

During my first years of teaching English, The Martian Chronicles was a unit I always looked forward to exploring and re-exploring with my students. I began teaching in the early 90s and I always got a kick out of my students’ reaction to the titles of the compilation’s loosely related Martian tales. They would predictably chuckle at the dates—“January 1999—Rocket Summer” and “February 1999—Ylla” and so on and so forth as Bradbury proceeded to describe a technology that was to him at the time he penned the tale cutting edge and exotic but to my 16-year olds, who considered Star Wars a relic of their elementary school days (and later their parents’ era), archaic, rather quaint and therefore funny.

That was fine however, because it was my entry-point to a discussion of how science fiction had influenced our society and our lives. When they understood that the master writer had penned his opening tale in 1947, two years after the end of WWII and Hitler’s V2 rockets, ten years prior to Sputnik I and more than 20 years before Armstrong and Aldrin walked on the Moon, their amusement always turned to curiosity if not outright respect. Thus, would begin an exploration of Bradbury’s Verne-ian vision, his prosaic turn of phrase, his mastery of description, his social insight that would culminate in our own imaginary exploration and colonization of Mars. I still have some of the work produced by students who, as we imagined setting up our own outpost of humanity on Mars, were forced to deal with the same challenges, moral dilemmas and ethical conundrums as faced by Bradbury’s protagonists. We set up pretend societies and developed faux cultures, exotic alphabets, New Martian laws and institutions. One year a class accused another class’s colony of “war-crimes” against the indigenous Martian population. Another year and a student imagined the political campaign of a New Martian faction that advocated succession from a Terra Ferma that, as she passionately put it, “…burned books, polluted the air and oceans and refused to learn the lessons of its history.” I think Spender would have been pleased.

I look back on those days with great fondness. Bradbury, though in his 70s, was alive and writing, his literary ideas and intellectual challenges resonated with my students (as they will forever). I was younger and full of an idealism that seemed to feed off his writing. It was a glorious time. My copy of the Chronicles was a 1963 edition published by Time Inc. It included stories that later editions would not have: “The Fire Balloons,” “The Wilderness,” and the provoking “The Way in the Middle of the Air,” which would later in the year dovetailed so splendidly with To Kill a Mockingbird. I understand that a The Martian Chronicles: The Complete Edition has since been published with a section entitled “The Other Martian Tales” which includes 22 additional stories, some unpublished. I hope to read them one day.

I mourn his passing as a member of his extended literary family of would-be writers who took inspiration from his example, his extraordinary voice and wonderful visions. His Zen in the Art of Writing was my constant bedside companion for many years. My copy is marked, highlighted and underlined chronicling my own search for a Muse worth writing for. I regret never having heard him speak. Not long ago there was a writers’ conference in southern California wherein he spoke at a dinner event. Though tempted I decided against attending due to the price, time and distance. How deeply I repent that decision now. I’d always hoped to tell him, in some way or another, of his influence on both my teaching and my writing aspirations. I should have at least written. I would have loved to had him sign my copy of The Martian Chronicles; it would have become a family-treasure! As it is, I’ll have to settle with this small tribute, re-reading his works and searching out digital recordings on the Internet. Take a lesson, Andre’ :-T

His passing reminds me that time waits for no one and that the end of an epoch approaches. Only a few of the writers who made serious inroads into my heart and mind during that magical time when the young truly “discover” reading what they want to read as a unique and singularly powerful and empowering privilege, still remain alive: Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle, Michael Moorcock and Jack Vance—authors who along with Clark, Asimov, Heinlein, Herbert, Tolkien, Zelazny, Norton, Lewis and Leiber (themselves the prodigy of Howard, Lovecraft, Burroughs and the like) will forever stand tall in my dreams, all my “Writing” fore-bearers, grand parents, aunts and uncles.

I will never leave such a literary foot print as Bradbury, to whom I owe so much for my teaching, as well as writing, inspiration, but if I plan to leave any literary mark at all, be the writing-son I want to be, I must release my doubts, put away my apprehensions; I must damn the naysayers who tout “…too late…too old…too overdone…too cliché…too quaint…too passé…” I must, as the master put it, order my doubts to, …stand aside, forget targets, let the characters, your fingers, body, blood, and heart do (Zen 139). I am thankfully reminded of his poem Troy…a gift wherein I have always found comfort and inspiration. I hope I will be forgiven if I quote it in full here.

My Troy was there, of course,
Though people said: Not so.
Blind Homer’s dead. His ancient myth’s
No way to go. Leave off. Don’t dig.
But I then rigged some means whereby
To seam my earthen soul
or die.
I knew my Troy.
Folks warned this boy it was mere tale
And nothing more.
I bore their warning, with a smile,
While all the while my spade
Was delving Homer’s gardened sun and shade.
Gods! Never mind! Cried friends: Dumb Homer’s blind!
How can he show you ruins that n’er were?
I’m sure, I said. He speaks. I hear. I’m sure.
Their advice spurned
I dug when all their backs were turned,
For I had learned when I was eight:
Doom was my Fate, they said. The world would end!
That day I panicked, thought it true,
That you and I and they
Would never see the light of the next day—
Yet that day came.
With shame I saw it come, recalled my doubt
And wondered what those Doomsters were about?
From that day on I kept a private joy,
And did not let them sense
My buried Troy;
For if they had, what scorns,
Derision, jokes;
I sealed my City deep
From all those folks;
And, growing, dug each day. What did I find
And given as gift by Homer old and Homer blind?
One Troy? No, ten!
Ten Troys? No, two times ten! Three dozen!
And each a richer, finer, brighter cousin!
And in my flesh and blood,
And each one true.
So what’s this mean?
Go dig the Troy in you(150-1)!

Good-bye, my Writing-sire, and though, as you quoted Byron in “June 2001—And The Moon Be Still As Bright,” …we’ll go no more a-roving,/So late into the night, I will continue to dig for my Troy, my Tanelorn, my Camelot…my own Martian city wherein the denizens celebrate exotic festivals and, “There are beautiful boats as slim as women, beautiful women as slim as boats, women the color of sand, women with fire flowers in their hands…” (Martian 107), long wine-filled canals, towers of bone and crystal, with “…great friezes of beautiful animals, white limbed cat things, and yellow-limbed sun symbols, and statues of bull-like creatures and statues of men and women and huge fine-featured dogs”(85). I will dig and succeed to whatever measure and in whatever form Fate and my Muse and my Desire see fit to afford for me. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your words, your visions and your inspirations, my writing-father. Because of you, the moon will forever be as bright and Mars as real as the moon.

So, we’ll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.
–Lord Byron, 1817

Bradbury, Ray. The Martian Chronicles. New York: Time Inc., 1963.
Bradbury, Ray. Zen In the Art of Writing. New York: Bantam Books, 1990.

Bunnahabhain

08 Sunday Apr 2012

Posted by André J. Powell in Storytelling, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Dialogue, Memories

     Her glass was nearly empty. It had been that way for sometime. She had an odd look in her usually sharp eyes. They had become bright. She took the whisky bottle before I could reach it and pour. She shook her head at another drink. Instead she held up the bottle and pointed at the label with her free hand.
     “Can you say this?”
I leaned and squinted at the run of words. She did not even wait for me to look baffled but lowered the green glass bottle and smiled at it fondly.
     “Bunnahabhain” she pronounced softly indicating the syllables: boo-nah-ha-ven.
     “Was it one of your dad’s favorites?”
     She nodded and laughed. “At the wedding reception, my sister and I nearly drank a whole bottle by ourselves. Dad was mad at us. He kept tellin’ us to put it back on the head table, so he could have some later.” She shook her head. “We just kept it and he’d find us, give us his look-of-doom and gesture at the table.”
     “Couldn’t he drink?”
     “Of course,” she smiled, “but he didn’t want to because…” she paused then began again, “somehow he knew there would never be a ceilidh like that again and he wanted to remember everything.”
     “Did he?”
     “What?”
     “Remember everything?”
     “Oh, yes,” she smiled. “Not too long ago he mentioned that night saying one of the best parts was my Uncle John telling him at the end of the night, ‘…this was an epic night…’ He was so proud.”
     “It sounds like it was a good time; I wish I could have been there.”
     “You’d have loved it,” she laughed. “When we were driving out, we passed my Uncle Chris parked by the gates, hanging out the far door of his truck just heaving his guts up. His soon to be fiancé was sitting there totally serene acting like everything was normal, which I guess it kinda was…”
     She fell silent, but I could see the memory dancing in her eye until it faded. She finished her glass and I took the bottle and poured another. She took up the water and poured it.
     “Not a pure-ist, eh?” I teased.
     “Dad said that the old men at the school taught him to always take water, preferably water from the distillery where the whisky was made, with his whisky,” she explained. “They told him, ‘Why would ye burn yer taste-buds and leave yerself unable to taste yer whisky for the rest of the night!?’”
     “He never went to Scotland?”
     “No,” she sighed. “He saved for it and had more than enough friends there to stay with. One of them taught me how to correctly pronounce the name there,” she nodded to the bottle again. “But he never went.”
     “It sounds like he did his best to bring the country here.”
     “What parts of it he could…and what parts of it he felt worth the effort…the Gaelic, the piob, the ceol, the stories and legends, games, dancing…and the whisky,” she grinned toasting the bottle with a tink. “A love of outside and fires, the moon and the stars, mountains and running water, ocean and fish, saints and faeries, hospitality and a fierce loyalty that brooked no condition.”
     I could almost see him in her words.
     “Not that it couldn’t get a wee bit annoying,” she murmured cryptically taking another drink.
     “What do you mean? It all sounds wonderful.”
     “Oh it was, but you’ve never been woken up from a dead sleep in the middle of the night to the piobaireachd.” She was laughing. “That, my friend is a singular experience.”
     I laughed with her imagining what she must have looked like, bolt upright, eyes wide, hair disheveled.
     “Did it scare you, the pipe music?”
     “At first!” Her laugh slowly settled into a soft smile. “But then we’d simply fall asleep again to the sound. After a bit it was like listening to rain on the roof, or the wash of surf…his snores.”
     For a time afterward the only sounds heard were her memories and the cold stones of her glass.
     She abruptly gestured up over the mantle at a large handsomely framed blue photo of a group of standing stones frosted by snow and moonlight.
     “That’s one of the Callanish rings on the Isle of Lewis in the West.”
     “Beautiful,” I said with feeling.
     We admired it for a time as she explained its significance and that it had been a treasured present from his lovely wife, her step-mother. We turned back to our glasses slowly.
     “So he taught you some of the language?”
     “Well,” she crooked up the corner of her mouth. “He taught us a bit. I’m not sure he knew a lot himself.” She gazed into her glass for so long, I wondered if she would say anymore.
     “Do you know what the first Gaelic words he taught me were?”
     “What?” I asked gently.
     “Tha gaol agam ort,” she whispered. “It means, I love you.” Her eyes were bright again as she filled our glasses.

I Dreamed I Fell Asleep in the Highlands

19 Monday Mar 2012

Posted by André J. Powell in Storytelling, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

The rain had ceased in the early afternoon and though the clouds had threatened more, occasionally releasing a few drops here and there, a wind had risen and the grey cover had broken up into a patchwork of crimson and gold lit by the setting sun. Cold, deeper than before had descended as the sun sank below the horizon and the wind died. The world was soaked and as I approached the door of the stone house, I glanced up at the thatching hanging over the eves wondering when it would be time to re-thatch. The “blackhouse” had been transformed long ago into a larger dwelling, with rooms and fireplaces. The animals had their own byre and had not been housed since my grandfather’s time. I ran a fond eye over the old stones, the ever present moss beginning to make its presence known from anchored strongholds in the wetter cracks. A few more days of sunlight like this evening and it’d be time for cleaning, I thought as I pushed open the door and let the dogs in.

Peat still smoldered in the grate. It’s pungent presence, shoring up heat like a blanket, had kept the worst of the chill at bay but only just. The dogs went straight for the hearth rugs nonetheless and I had to nudge them aside as I stirred the ashes and added another turf or two. I rubbed my eyes and looked ruefully at the smoldering chunks. I should have been in earlier to bank the fire. Now it would be pure luck that kept the stuff alight through the night. Ach, I’d be waking up plenty of times, thinking on how I rarely slept the night through. I was not so stoic about the pot hanging above the soft heat. The water would be lukewarm at best. I shrugged and glanced over my shoulder at the door to the short hall that lead to the bedrooms thinking on the cold back there. I had taken to sleeping in the main room next to the fire.

Well, though I was mildly hungry, I decided my middle could do with an evening without. I rose and hung my coat on a peg next to the door along with my bonnet. I returned to the hearth and settled into the rocking chair to remove my damp boots. It felt good to let my toes breath and stretch my arches. I tucked them under dogs and settled back into the chair intending to sit for short time and allow the illusion of heat to build as the turfs took to burning.

I must have dozed for sometime, for when I awoke the fire was burning steadily and the room was warmer. I groggily considered making myself a cuppa, but then discarded the thought. I was just too tired. The dogs looked settled for the night. If they needed to go out, they would wake me. I rose and turned to the bed I’d moved in from the nether rooms and undressed, pulling on a woolen night shirt and a stocking cap then slipped between the cold blankets. I shivered for a time, but the down soon warmed about me and with a tuck here and a fold there, I built a little nest about me from which naught but my eye peaked. I chuckled to myself as I remembered doing just the same when I was a lad. From my comfortable ‘cave,’ I watched the turfs glow beyond the silhouetted outlines of the curled dogs.

Though I was tired, sleep was not so easily found. My mind was at work, thinking of the day and what needed to be done tomorrow. My girls were gone, married to good men—one in the next glen, but the other had moved far to the south. I missed them both and for a time wandered again behind them as wee lassies, they explored the hillsides and played in the mossy burn. How swiftly time had passed. I felt my throat grow thick and my eyes burn. No, I thought, we’ll have none of that now and I turned my mind back to the issue of taming sleep, but it wasn’t until Malcolm up the glen began the piobaireachd, that sleep was finally brought to bay.

Though it was cold, I must admit I reveled in it and always had. It was a point of pride with me that when the world went about in trews, I still sported the  breacan-an-feile…the belted plaid. Thus, the window next to the door, though lost in the shadows of the room, I knew as cracked open a bit, its shutters unlatched. “To keep the vapors at bay,” my mother used to say. Through this came the delicate and far off strains of Malcolm’s stand. If I turned my head just so, I could just hear them. Sharp they were, but I knew it would be only moments before, warmed by his breath, they flattened and he, screwing up the drone tops, would soon be standing in a coat of sound that no cold could penetrate. He began the lovely strands of “I Got a Kiss of the King’s Hand,” the chanter digging deep and rising, like the rise and fall of the sea. I listened willing my fingers to cease their sympathetic twitching of the tune. It was as perfect as it could be under my circumstances: a fire burning, hounds within beck and call, an early bed with warm blankets, and now sweet music softly drifting on the air filling my mind with sleep.

I never did awaken that night. The last tune I heard begun was “Cumha Mairi Nic-Leoid.” I vaguely recall the dogs joining me, curling up in the down behind the crook in my knees and along my side as I dreamed of kings and cattle, warriors and lassies, shinty goals and fishing for salmon whilst whistling Sadhbh Ni Bhruinneallaigh under my breath.

← Older posts

A wanna-be writer and sometime poet trying to live, love and learn as much as I can with the time I have left.

Recent Posts

  • NaNoWriMo’19 Day 1: 1292
  • NaNoWriMo ’19
  • Outlining: What-If Exercises and Variants
  • I’ve Decided to Set Aside WIP 6.1
  • And now for a word of encouragement for Lanimage:

Archives

Categories

Artist blogs

  • Gracesidhe Decorator, writer, model and librarian!
  • Ravven's Glass Amazing wirter, artist and friend
  • Story Monster Storytelling at its finest–Heather’s site never fails to put a smile in my heart!

Blogroll

  • Magical Words A fantasy/scifi author group
  • Sword and Laser Online book club
  • The Office of Letters and Light NaNoWriMo parent organization
  • The Piper Who Came of Age Too Late My bagpiping blog
  • The Slootsian Dialectics Wizard and scholar-piper

Writer blogs

  • Ink-stained Daydreams The writing blog of Justin Beeman
  • Invisible Ink The fantasy and writing blog of Whitney Carter
  • Story and Somnomancy Writer, Good Friend and Ravenclaw princess

Writer Guru

  • Pocket Full of Words Holly Lisle: author and creator of How To Think Sideways

NaNoWriMo 2017

NaNoWriMo 2013

NaNoWriMo 2012

NaNoWriMo 2011

JulNoWriMo 2011

So Say We All

read the printed word!

Goodreads

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 61 other subscribers

Meta

  • Register
  • Log in
  • Entries feed
  • Comments feed
  • WordPress.com

Blog at WordPress.com.

  • Follow Following
    • The Salamander's Quill
    • Join 61 other followers
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • The Salamander's Quill
    • Customize
    • Follow Following
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar
 

Loading Comments...