Daydreaming “In Calabria”

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAPeter S. Beagle published “The Last Unicorn” in 1968.  He was twenty-nine.  I was born the same year, so that book was not immediately on my reading list.

In fact, I did not discover the story until the 1982 animated film.  It would not be an exaggeration to say it helped shape my life.  It was one of many films and books that molded my view of the world, including my fascination and love for animation, movies, storytelling, myths, and fairy tales.  I never grew out of those first loves, and over time I learned that was a fine thing.  I still dream of the Red Bull, waves of unicorns coming in on the tide, human folly, and a unicorn’s regret.

I was in my twenties before I got a hold of a copy of the book he had written.  It was sublime.  I found more of Mr. Beagle’s books in my thirties and forties, but not all, to my current embarrassment.  The books I read were all very fine things.  He’s not a rock-star author, nor a household name, but I adore his command of language.  His prose weaves a subtle spell created from ethereal mists and hard labor.

I was shocked to find his latest work, “In Calabria,” in my local library’s new arrivals, but in a pleasant way.  I honestly didn’t realize he was still writing at 78.  This is a new goal for me, to be still publishable at that age, even if it’s too late to match being published in my twenties.

So, I’m currently in book-dream-land.  It’s a timely vacation, since I am at a point in my life where I need help believing in the intangible magics, like love, justice, and hope.  Writer whining, unhelpful suggestions, and ridiculous posturing will be lacking this week, and maybe, that is a fine thing, too.

Happy writing, and please support your local library!

Today, I Will Nap.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAWell, I got through the Beautiful Freaks Fest with most of my brain intact.  I don’t feel it was my best writing, and the fiber arts/artifact creation/photography caused lots of insomnia, and nearly gave me a panic attack by Sunday.  Sooooo many things got cut out of the posts because my imagination far exceeds my time and abilities.  I had to be vague with specific details, like dates, names, and locations, because the second I commit, I HAVE to make sure everything is 100% historically accurate, and I would have never pushed the “publish” button, AND that would have been its own kind of failure.  Also, I was so busy trying to get my own posts out, I couldn’t get to the other writers/artists to look/like/share their work, too.

I also ignored a lot of weekend chores to get anything posted, and there is a vague sense I was only half aware during the conversations I had with my family.  Writer’s fog, I call it, although it affects all creative types.  I will hope for their forgiveness, and try to do better in the future.

BUT, I did it!  Three fiction posts in three days!  The links to the fest are still open, so I will spend the week visiting my co-conspirators.  Please, visit them, too.

I didn’t realize how comfy I had become with the “publish” button while running a blog.  All the old anxieties came roaring back when it was a work of fiction.  This does not bode well for future self-publishing, and puts another tick mark in the traditional publishing column.  Hmmm…

When I wrote the original short story six months ago, a letter from a man to his sister, begging her to come home and help him deal with the aftermath of the Fae touching his life, I had no idea it would go in this direction.  Now, I have the beginnings of a blog serial, and perhaps I’ll collect it into a novella.  (Although pic heavy e-books are difficult to format, from what I have heard.)  There is so much more to that short story than I thought.  Time to dig deeper into the research.  Yay!  Research!

What else is in my future?  Finishing the other short story, catching up on beta reading for friends, overdue reviews for other friends, revising and editing my novels, more blogging with my creative brain exposed, and hopefully–somehow–getting my work out into the world and published.

But first, I’m going to take a nap.

Happy writing!

Strange Tales Case No. 748: Second Update

To the offices of Strange Tales Magazine for case no. 748: The Mayfly Bride: Second Update

Another item has been found, along with some additional information.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAHonestly, I’m not sure what to think of the latest find.  On the advice of a former housekeeper, we searched an unused series of storage rooms deep in the recesses of the attic.  There we found what seems to be a hat box belonging to the daughter, Elisabeth Fair Darling.  That is where we found the shadow box of items.

I cleaned the glass to make it easier to photograph the items, since I can’t remove it without disassembling the box.  Pinned in place is another doll and some paper insects, much like a entomological display.  We are assuming that Elisabeth is the maker of the series of dolls at this point.  We are debating whether to pull the pieces out to inspect them more closely, or to leave it untouched in respect, as this is obviously an artifact of Memento Mori.  (Remember Death.)

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAThere is no new poem.  It is unfortunate, but not surprising, since the previous duo seem to be from the point-of-view of her father.  I know it is every Englishman’s duty to secretly write bad poetry, but what madness causes a man to create such fiction about his dead wife?

This object is by far the most disturbing of the three, in my opinion.  However, the Lady of the house and the housekeeper disagree.  They think the nesting pair are worse.  I wonder what our readers would think if polled.

What kind of father tells such tales to his daughter about her mother?  What child pins an effigy of their mother in a shadow box of insects?  What sort of man writes such poetry about a short marriage?

Mentioned in one of Elisabeth’s letters is her father’s secret hiding place for papers behind a false panel of the library.  We are trying to ascertain where it is before randomly destroying the woodwork.  I hope they are found, and not already lost to accident or madness.  Was he simply trying to ease a child from the reality of death by filling her head with fairy tales, or was he deluding himself as well?

In the trunk was also some correspondence from a Mary Darling, the elder sister of Edward.  This gives us another source of information, once she can be tracked down.  I will send updates as I can.

 

For more information, see;
Case no. 748: The Mayfly Bride (first part)
Case no. 748: The Mayfly Bride: Update

Strange Tales Case No. 748: Update

To the offices of Strange Tales Magazine regarding case no. 748: The Mayfly Bride: Update.

A second toy has been found, along with another poem, in the trunk of a Lord Earnest William Darling of the Denbighshire Darlings from the late 1800’s.  Lord Darling is on record with a brief, one year marriage, to a Lumia Fair, resulting in a daughter, named Elisabeth Fair Darling.  The church records also indicate the mother’s burial soon after the birth.  The daughter’s marriage, at nineteen, is recorded in the family bible.  The groom is a Kieran Mac Dhuibh.

Inquiries are continuing of all named persons, in both the church and community records, but this takes some time.  The lady of the house has become personally involved, and is now searching the household papers.

There is no doubt that the second set of dolls was made by the same hand.  We are wondering if they could be made by the child, Elisabeth, which is a disturbing thought.  I have photographed the toys in the bird’s nest it was found in, all wrapped in cloth.  (Possibly a swaddling cloth.)

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAThe color of the green fabric is much brighter than the previous nursery toy, possibly due to the protection of the trunk.  There is little staining, despite the organic nature of the nest.  The less said of the adult doll, the better.  It took some effort to lay it flat.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAThe poem found curled up under the dolls is brief, disturbing, and offers no additional insights.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

My Mayfly Bride
Curled-up and Dried

Having a name and an era should help our inquiries.  There is also a lead on a former housekeeper that may provide us a better direction for our search.  I will send updates as I can.

 

 

For additional information, see:
Case no. 748: The Mayfly Bride (part one)
Case no. 748: The Mayfly Bride: Second Update (6/25/17)

Strange Tales Case No. 748

To the offices of Strange Tales Magazine regarding case no. 748:

I have arrived and spent three weeks interviewing the residents and staff of Riverbend Manor on the subject of The Mayfly Bride fairy tale.  It seems to have originated from here, so I am on the right track.  The tale also seems to be a genuine family story, and not a fabrication in response to our call for new, unheard stories of the Fae Folk in the last issue.

The most complete version, compiled from the interviews, is as follows:

There once was a man, vain, foolish, and careless of those he hurt, who was tricked by the Fae.  He was be-spelled at a party to wed a Fairy, a most mesmerizing creature of air and light.  The entire courtship was a few hours of dancing, eating, and laughing.  He took her home from the party, to his house and bed, and they slept in each others arms.  When the man woke in the morning to an unfamiliar sound, he found his bride, a Mayfly Fairy, was no more than a dried husk, as if she had died from great age, and there was a babe nestled between them.

The moral of the story seems to change depending on the speaker.  Some say his punishment of raising a half Fae child–alone–was because of his careless life.  Others maintain that loosing his true love was the punishment, and the child a love token from a regretful bride.  I, personally, think raising a child that could have a vastly different lifespan than my own would be the true punishment, but then I remind myself that it is just a fairy tale.

Here are photographs of the original toy and poem that prompted the family to contact us.  I have arraigned it artfully with other items of the manor nursery, mostly of indeterminate age and origin.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAThe composition of the doll is cotton fabric over sticks, with no padding.  The construction gives it an oddly empty, disjointed feel in the hand.  The dress and details are of silks, cottons and a few pearls.  The wings are inked designs on hot pressed paper.  There is some damage and staining due to handling, probably by small children, but not as much as you would expect.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAHere are pictures and a typed version of the poem.  The penmanship is remarkable.  It seems the English tradition of bad poetry written in secret is well upheld.

My Mayfly Bride

We danced
A ball became a wedding
Petite-fours our cake
Fairy lights lit our way to my door
Why did I not question the spell?

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAWe have searched the first of the manor storage rooms for any more physical evidence for the Mayfly Bride stories, but have found nothing.  The housekeeper has been helpful, but she is too new to know where anything is, or how the family organizes things.

I will send an update when we find something of note.

 

For more information, see;
Case no. 748: The Mayfly Bride: Update (6/24/17)
Case no. 748: The Mayfly Bride: Second Update (6/25/17)

Writer’s Crack!

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAWriter’s crack is real!  No, this isn’t about the pants-sliding-down-while-you-type crack, like the plumber’s crack of comedy gold.  We’re talking about things that put you into a frenzy to write a newly inspired story.  Every writer has triggers, and if you’re lucky you can find them and use them to get out of a slump.

A couple of years ago, while browsing through a used book store, I found a book about English fairy tales and–of course–purchased it.  (That’s it, up on the need-to-read shelf.  The Fairy Faith in Celtic Countries by W. Y. Evens-Wentz.)  The subject has always fascinated me; it was not my first, and certainly not my last such book.  Some weeks later, on a lazy Saturday afternoon, I had a moment to crack it open.  The introduction (Yes, I read introductions, prologues, glossaries, appendices, and maps.) was both pleasantly surprising and completely cringe-worthy, in the way of dusty, old, and almost forgotten books.  Apparently, I had in my hand a recent reissue of a book that JRR Tolkien had referenced for his world building.  Even more pleased with my lucky find, and hopefully under the influence of a little mystical foresight, I happily delved into the first chapter…

AND FIRMLY SHUT IT, bookmarked on chapter two.  The after images in my head, while my body lay snugly anchored on my couch with the book clasped in unmoving hands, spun like leaves heralding the start of a stormy spring.  The stories!  Characters!  Battles!  Lighting, tempests, swords, grief, love, fear, and loss that is an ache that pierces to the soul’s depth.

I held completely still.  The overfull brain must not be disturbed.  A new/old world sloshed against the sides of it.  For a dry and dated tome, first published in 1911, it held a surprising lushness.

I was aware of movement deep in my psyche.  There was something lurking in my mind.  Lurking like an elder god and getting called to the surface.  The Leviathan rises, or worse…

Unfortunately, I already had three multi-book story arcs that had been clawing at the insides of my skull, rudely pushing each other out of line and snarling to be first.  I closed that wonderful book HARD–like the doors of Tartarus–just to preserve my soul from the punishments I likely deserved.  It contained the breath of Titans snoring, and (as anyone who has lived with a chronic snorer learns) I heard the sound of something nearing an awakening.

It sits on my shelf, unobtrusively, but whispering to me I quiet moments.  I know that like Pandora, I am doomed to open it…

Eventually.  For now, it sits.  It’s writer’s crack, or something like.

Hopefully, a story is really in there, but I think I may need to be a more experienced writer to do it justice.  It’s not the only story I have saved for later in my career.  For now, I have my other stories that I am currently passionate about, and willing to learn on.

This past weekend I added three more of The Lost Library book series to my shelf, risking collusion among them.  Myths are my weakness, and my wellspring.  I–apparently–like to live dangerously.

And that, folks, is about as close as I get to a written book review.  Not an Amazon review (I’ll do those anytime for books I like, especially for independent authors), but an actual blog review.  It’s not my thing, and lots of other people do a really good job of them.  And despite the heavy-handed use of metaphor in this post, it really doesn’t begin to describe what was happening to my brain.

But, I am curious if this has ever happened to any of you?

Gender Politics and the Modern Storyteller

Why does the princess dress as a boy?  Why does a girl cut her hair and run away?  Why does a young woman throw her life away, entering a lethally dangerous world, to reject  the marriage proposal she doesn’t want?  Simply to escape the trap of being female in a male dominated society.

The struggle for an equal voice in our society is just as old as those Fairy Tales, if not older.  Some are of the opinion that Campbell’s mythic Hero’s Journey is for men, exclusively, and to place a female in that role is ‘manning’ her.  After centuries of waiting, women–in fiction and reality–are breaking free of the imposed roles of golden princess, mother goddess, and throne side trinket.  We are becoming the Hero, because the hero is Human.

Movie and TV Producers don’t think it’s happening.  Toy Producers don’t think it’s happening.  Book Publishers don’t think it’s happening.  Everywhere I look are people who don’t think it’s happening.  Some Manufacturers see it, I think, but are sure to charge us more for the same product sold to men, while simultaneously paying us less.

Can you not see it?  I see it in social media, dating practices, self-published books, and Sci-fi awards (including the backlashes).  And it’s not just about the equality of genders; it’s equality for all the things a Human can be. (None so blind as those who will not see.)

I see the signs everywhere.  The firm rock our culture is built on is shifting toward equality, moving like a tectonic plate.  Gender politics pop up in every aspect of our lives, like sudden volcanos sprouting in open fields.  The ground shakes, liquefying, and you either figure out how to float or sink down.

It’s a struggle, figuring out who you want to be as a gender.  Some of us make mistakes, as many are quick to point out, fingering the most obvious cases of toxic feminism, confusion at gender fluidity, and concern over woman becoming too manlike.  We are evolving, and that is a difficult process.  Mistakes will be made, and hard lessons learned.  (That’s just the tip, Honey.  Lye back and get used to it.)

I don’t want to take away or suppress the masculine voice.  I just want to be able to say, “Me, too.  I have a story!”  Equality is understanding we all have both masculine and feminine sides, and being allowed to express them as individuals is the evolved form of society.

It may feel like we are entering a new Era to you, but it’s been whispered to me my whole life.  The earliest myths, Fairy Tales, and the stories we tell ourselves are all part of it.  The voice is louder now, promising a better way, if we are strong enough.  You can’t keep a segment of the population suppressed forever.  All of the stories tell us…  They rise.  Always.

I don’t want to be your Queen, or Goddess, or Mother/Sister/Daughter to have your respect.  I want to be acknowledged as roughly fifty percent of the population.  I am equally human, so don’t force me to play the Bitch card just to be equal.

Keep your eyes closed.  Pretend it’s all going back to the way it was.  Feel free to take that risk.  Just be aware that if you keep trying to force that golden bikini on us, we have new role models, and we will wrap that chain around your throat and pull.

If we choose to put that golden bikini on, for you, for an evening, that’s another story…

(Dammit, I’m back to erotica.  Again!)