The Favoured Child

I’m not much of an artist. I can draw, but I don’t do it very much these days. Mostly it’s a time thing, but it’s also because it’s far more satisfying to write and have it come out the way I want, than to draw and have it come out only somewhat like I was thinking of. Which is why I’ve developed an addiction to commissioning people on deviantart, ha ha ha.

Now, I have a few different commissions on at the moment, but I felt inclined to talk about one today as I just got received the finished product in my inbox late last night. (You know, the other day I mentioned I’d finally caught up with the times and acquired a smartphone; in some ways I wish I hadn’t, as I spend too much time online as it is. Because when I received this file, it was well after midnight, I was supposed to be sleeping, and instead I was watching videos on youtube and reading my email, wtf.) This was a slightly unusual commission in that I was quite lucky to get it – the artist’s hard to reserve a slot with – and La'Vata O'Neal's style is quite realistic. Observe:

I was blown away. Completely. And somewhat terrified with it, too. ^_~ This is Doctor Viola Morgan, a little voice I’ve discussed on this journal before. She’s been in my head since I last lived in Christchurch; I’m not sure of her exact birthdate, but it was the middle of 2005. (If I bothered looking up the release date of Batman Begins in New Zealand I’d have a better idea, as I remember going to see it with my younger brother at the flicks and thinking of Morgan most of the way through, but go figure.) She’s been a very vocal presence there ever since, and while I’ve drawn her myself as well as having some other art commissioned, seeing her like this…

…wow.

I think I’ve said before that one of my shallower reasons for wanting to be a popular published author is that I’d love to have a movie or a mini-series made of my work…just so I could look a character in the eye, or wander through Círa’s gallery or Radeen Dam’s oratory or the great library at Deseran. I’m a traveller, and as such I don’t just want to read things, I want to feel them. And the realistic tone of this portrait gives me a bit of that. This is what she’d look like if she was a person.

And like I said, it’s pretty damned scary. Here, have a tiny extract of Morgan from The Juniper Bones. Even though I’d love to meet Morgan for real, I think this explains why it’s also a very good thing that I never ever will. ^_~

*****

“What are you doing here?”

He turns, startled; the only good thing about having Viola Morgan sneak up on him is the fact her hands are empty. “Your bloody husband won’t leave me alone,” he says, keeping a wary eye on the tall woman. Morgan may be without visible weapons, but he knows better than anyone else that Mr. Happy Scalpel is quite capable of concealing himself in very odd places about her person.

He isn’t detecting any discernible threat from her now, at least; she circles around him with an easy step that indicates her mood, if not good, is at least not bloody. “You’re such a sucker for coming back here,” she remarks finally, coming to a stop some ten feet to his left.

“So why are you here?” he asks, noting she now stands beneath one of the larger paintings of the western corridor. It’s a reproduction of a Dalí work he’s sure he’s seen before in Paris, or perhaps Madrid.

“Ah, but being a bitch doesn’t preclude me from being as much a sucker as you are,” she offers with a waggled finger, and turns her back on him. She is tracing that same lazy finger over the gilded frame of the painting when she adds: “You’re too damn interesting to just kick out of the house.”

“Is she here?”

Morgan looks back to him over one shoulder, the hard lines of her face carved from marble. He cannot decide if she resembles more the pale reclining woman in the painting at her back, or the two tigers arcing towards vulnerable flesh with claws unsheathed. “Yeah. Not that she lives here, or anything. Creepy little bitch that she is.”

“Morgan!”

“Don’t start with me, Eliot.” The words are as clipped as the individual shots from an automatic weapon, and he flinches when she comes forward to jab that calloused finger hard into the centre of his chest. “And I thought you’d be a few damn weeks later than this at the very least – thank god there’s no one to take bets with around here!”

“What about Dragovich?”

“Doesn’t do bets,” she explains moodily; she has fortunately retracted her clever surgeon’s fingers from his person, but he doesn’t feel any better for it. “God knows what I pay him for.”

“I think he asks himself the same thing every day.”

“Don’t start with me,” she repeats, and Eliot’s opening his mouth to suggest something potentially suicidal when she cuts him off with a slash of one strong wrist. “So you want to talk to Rowan, then?”

“Just get me Baedeker.”

She snorts, rolls her eyes like a mad horse. “What am I, your girl Friday?” Without waiting for an answer, she stalks out of the room; it is some fifteen minutes before Baedeker walks in with an air of vague bemusement that clears the moment he sees Eliot.

“Oh. I thought you were dead.”

“What?”

The smile he gives Eliot is wry, with a touch of affection which Eliot doesn’t really want to contemplate. “Viola said she’d left me a cadaver in the foyer,” he explains, removing his reading glasses to squint critically at Eliot. “…she didn’t kill you, did she?”

*****

…you have to cut Baedeker some slack, you know. Because with Morgan, you just never can tell. ^_~

And The Legend Lives On

When I first returned to London a few weeks back, I was wandering through one of the endless corridors of the Underground when I was hit by a wave of delight. …this isn’t really usual, for the Tube, and it was actually nothing to do with the system itself. It’s more that I suddenly remembered something that had always charmed me deeply about the UK’s public transport systems the last I lived here – the fact that they advertise books.

I’ve never been a Londoner – I used to live in Sheffield and then Oxfordshire – but I was a Yorkshire commuter and I loved walking through Sheffield’s train station and seeing the posters proclaiming the latest novel release. Even though these posters were always cheek by jowl with the usual suspects of movies, albums and West End shows, I’ve just never noticed this anywhere else. And in a lovely bit of coincidence, one of the first posters I noticed was for a novel by the name of The Song of Achilles. So, to end my little foray into SpecFicNZ’s blogging week, I thought I might go for a little bit of a review.

The urge to read this novel struck me so hard for a couple of reasons, but basically? I was just ripe for it. A couple of years back I really became fascinated by the history and legend of Alexander the Great, and ended up reading a lot about him. In the course of my reading I naturally ended up with The Iliad in hand because Alexander was reputed to adore the story, and being a science major both late high school and at university left a rather large gap in my classical history education. Not to mention a day or so before seeing this poster I was reading The Persian Boy, which was entirely thanks to the fact I found myself at Troy a couple of weeks ago.

Of course, I was part of a very…unique…tour group, and it was at Troy that our poor guide realised that we didn’t really understand the dark depths of history. Or the legend of Hector.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN, HE COULDN'T FLY?!

But whatever the reason, I felt a compulsion to obtain and read this book, and after the Waterstones at Trafalgar Square failed me dreadfully I picked up a copy from WHSmiths at Hammersmith. I then toddled off for another round at the Natural History Museum, where I settled in at the restaurant for the reading of the first few chapters over lunch.

I’ve got an odd relationship with historical novels. I claimed to hate them for the longest time, and the only time I did bother with them was through Danielle Steel and other authors of bodice rippers and/or family saga epics when I was thirteen, because somehow that made it all right. I think it was because the history was really a convenient backdrop and the ephemeral nature of that background didn’t really make me feel stupid for not knowing the details myself. Not that they dealt a lot in that sort of detail. But when I was working in Doncaster I was looking for a book to read one lunchtime, and I noticed that The Other Boleyn Girl was on sale. Being that I was already embarrassed about not knowing so much as a jot about anyone buried in Westminster, I thought “What the hell” and read it. And to my surprise, I enjoyed it. I have to admit I’ve not enjoyed a single Phillipa Gregory as much as that one ever again, but it opened my eyes quite a bit. It also set a few standards for me, although they’d already been helped along in development by my first reading in 2005 or so of Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series.

But yes, my personal criteria for any historical novel is that it must make the world real and accessible to me. If it feels like a cardboard cut-out Hollywood set piece, I’m out. I got enough of that as a kid and it’s just not enough now. I’m curious and I’m cranky and I have developed a love for history that I’m still too lazy to indulge by actually reading a history text. I want to learn through story. Which is why the story, obviously, has to be fascinating. But the easiest way to my heart is through the characters.

Reading about Alexander the Great involved a fair bit of fiction, for me – and I found some very terrible books along the way. Mary Renault is basically the gold standard of Alexander fiction, but I also really enjoyed Judith Tarr’s Lord of Two Lands. And I think it’s due to many of the same reasons I ended up enjoying The Song of Achilles – both novels had strong first person narration, and neither lead character was the charismatic half-divine hero of the true story. I think, personally, that it’s very difficult to write a story about characters like Achilles or Alexander, real people or not. They were legendary even in their own time, and expecting the average reader to feel close to them, to emphasise with their thought processes and emotions and actions…it’s a huge ask, for both writer and reader. I won’t say it’s impossible. But the fact remains, they were extraordinary individuals who became mythical and legendary because they were so unlike those around them. It’s far easier to get to know them through the eyes of those around them (which is why I personally enjoy The Persian Boy and Funeral Games more than Fire From Heaven, when it comes to Renault’s trilogy).

Patrocles is the POV character in Song of Achilles, and he’s very imperfect – very mortal, in fact. I wondered a little about how very human he was, because it wasn’t just in contrast to Achilles. He was clumsy and “worthless” in the eyes of everyone. I didn’t think that was quite necessary, as I seem to recall Patrocles being a decent enough warrior in his own right, but it did end up putting Patrocles in an interesting position in Achilles’ life and legend. We’re all told from childhood that Achilles’ sole vulnerability was in his heel, but this novel teaches us that it was truly Patrocles. And the emotion woven into every word Patrocles gives us every reason why he deserves to be. It’s never going to be one of my favourite books, I don’t think. I don’t feel the urge to read it to shreds the way I do with other stories. But it’s very beautiful, and I was moved by the ending which dealt with the way Achilles commanded his ashes be mingled with those of Patrocles and that they be buried together. But their tomb only bore Achilles’ name, leaving Patrocles in limbo. And you know, I’m writing this entry in Word…a programme whose spellcheck recognises the name Achilles without issue yet gives Patrocles an ugly red squiggle. I think that says it all, really.

So, that’s the end of blogging week. I’m off to Egypt on Tuesday, but this little blogging exercise has brought up even more thoughts about my future and I have a little plot brewing in my head. I just have to work out how many universities I am still enrolled at. (…) I’m also flailing my hands fangirl-style because I discovered a fresh extract from The Scottish Prisoner over at CompuServe earlier this afternoon, and…wow. I’ve said before that it’s the characters who keep me reading, and Diana Gabaldon has just reminded me with an anvil to the head of how very, very much I adore both Lord John and Jamie Fraser and the intricacies of their very complicated friendship. I can’t wait for this book. God, I love reading. God, I love writing. And when I was staring through glass this afternoon at nineteenth century books in the endless corridor of the Enlightenment Galleries at the British Museum all I could think of was Belle’s delight when the Beast gave her the library as a gift. I wish I had a bison-man hybrid to do that for me. But then again, maybe my gift is that I get to have a library all of my own right here, in my head.

Now, if only I could get it all out to share… ^__^

Cookies, Tea and Cuddles

I rather suspect this is going to be a bit of a TL; DR post, but that’s the way the biscuit breaks? Heh. Yesterday I was having a bit of a shut-in day; I’d contemplated going to another museum or the British Library, but I didn’t really get any further than Boots because I needed some things for my trip to Egypt next week. But as I was kicking my heels picking away at Greywater, one of my flist over at livejournal spoke of how she and her friends were having a lousy pre-autumn Friday and came up with a weekend-long rainy day cuddles, cookies, and tea fest! in the comments of her lj post. And as I’d been chatting to Natalia, my awesome Polish artist friend, somewhat idly the night before about a need to write fluff, this struck me as a Rather Lovely Idea Indeed.

So, I ended up writing three little ficlets. I’m not very good with drabbling, or short stories in general. I had intended each snip to be maybe five hundred words. One’s a thousand, and the other two are about fifteen hundred between them, so…oops. That’s where the TL;DR comes into this. You don’t need to read them. I’m doing it for the lulz, essentially; perhaps the biggest laugh comes from the fact that even when I write fluff I still manage the melancholy. Hell, I should have tried writing something fluffy about Jonathan and Tess or a pairing like them; they do have their angst, but it’s generally buried beneath layers and layers of rainbows and unicorns and cute flying dolphins. And Erasure. We can’t forget the Erasure.

So, I played to the theme. We have cookies, tea and cuddles. Three different pairings. Something for a rainy day, perhaps…? Let's start with two people who probably need more fluff in their lives, really.

If You Can’t Take The Heat

It took him longer than it should have to find the chambers he sought. He’d never have thought such knowledge necessary, but the porter had assured him he really had last seen the Sixth Consul heading for the kitchens.

“He was talking about biscuits,” the man had said, bemused. Ryennkar had closed his eyes, briefly intoned a prayer to a god he had no personal belief in, then taken both his directions and a small lantern on his journey downward.

The deeper he descended, the darker it became; at such an inhospitable hour most of the gas-lamps burned low or not at all. Yet when he finally heard signs of life deep in one of the central kitchens, a lively humming more suited to noon than the deepest hours of night, he slowed his step and clicked the lantern off.

Making no attempt to announce himself, Ryennkar took a seat at the end of the long table nearest the stoves. Only one had been fired, each coal a bright ember in the dark; otherwise, only a single gas-lamp gave the scene any illumination. It appeared not to disturb the man as he bent forward to stir the coal with the poker. In silhouette, in profile, he was as striking a figure as ever. He straightened, pushed his hair back; he’d rolled his sleeves up, and his open collar revealed skin both vulnerable and familiar. Caught up in his work, returning to the bowl he’d set upon the edge of the stove, he paid Ryennkar no heed whatsoever. He sighed and balanced his chin upon one hand.

“What are you doing?”

Startled, the other man looked up. The great dark eyes blinked, expression as pensive and uncertain as a rabbit caught in the path of a fox. A second later his entire face lit up, the cheerful smile something like the creation of a universe in the darkness. “Oh…oh! I’m making biscuits.”

“Biscuits.” Ryennkar rolled the word around his mouth, still didn’t find its shape sensible nor practical. “Arosek, there are people who can make biscuits for you.”

He blinked again. “They’re asleep.”

“So do you not think maybe you should be, too?”

“You’re not asleep.”

“I’ve only just arrived.”

Arosek didn’t react to the growing tension of Ryennkar’s words, only shrugging at logic that could not be argued with. He then wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand, his whole face lightly sheened with sweat. “Would you like to try some?”

The wooden spatula extended towards him, a small lump of dough perched on the end. Ryennkar could only stare at it. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Arosek capable of baking. He was the sort of person who could be good at anything, if he wanted to be. Yet still it seemed absurd.

Arosek frowned. “Don’t you want it?”

“Since when do you know how to cook?”

“I can survive on my own,” he said, wry as he withdrew the spoon, returning both dough and attention to his stirring. “Much as you doubt it, sometimes.”

“You say that,” Ryennkar said slowly, lacing his fingers together, “yet I find you baking biscuits for no reason hours before dawn on the day of the Assembly’s summoning.”

“Is that why you’re here? Because you think I need someone to look after me?”

He’d turned, ceased his movements to give this indignant reply – but Ryennkar could see the pleasure beneath it, too. It only made him sigh.

“No.” And his gaze skipped downwards again, where the long line of his throat slipped beneath the collar of his shirt. “I just came to see you.”

“All right, then,” Arosek said, and with a little skip to his step he reached over, retrieved a tray from a nearby bench. “I couldn’t sleep. That’s why I’m down here.” He flicked the spoon in his direction, again both amused and irritated. “And I do know how to cook, thank you.”

Some part of him wanted to ask how and when he’d learned; Ryennkar himself certainly had no recollection of the man ever doing anything of the sort when they’d been children, either during termtime at Truron or upon the few occasions he’d accompanied him home to his family estate at Wendar. But then, when he thought now of that great half-empty house and the long hours his friend had been left to himself within its walls, he thought maybe he understood.

That same friend was now taking the dough and rolling it between his palms, somehow both careful and careless in his actions. Ryennkar stood and stepped forward without a word. Arosek blinked up, surprised, but Ryennkar did not stop. With long fingers he reached out to catch him lightly around his wrist. Those wide eyes stayed on his and the other man made no motion to break the hold – not even when Ryennkar inclined gently forward and pressed Arosek’s fingers, slick with butter and the remnants of the dough, against his own lips.

“Oh, so you are hungry, then?” he asked, and even though he smiled still Ryennkar caught the tremor in his voice.

“Always.” His own smile began to curl upward, deeply flavoured and seasoned with promise as he met Arosek’s gaze. A flicker of tongue, a trace of warmth from tip to knuckle, and the other man’s breath hitched. “Delicious.”

“I…” He wavered, but Ryennkar knew he was already lost even as he looked to the stoves with half-panic in his eyes. “They’ll burn,” he said, finally, faint. And Ryennkar only snorted.

“They’re not even in the oven.” This time, when he leaned forward, his lips brushed instead against the warm shell of Arosek’s ear. “Is is even hot enough yet?”

He drew back. Something close to a dozen different expressions warred their way across his face, and Ryennkar wondered if he hadn’t read this recipe wrong. Then with sudden finality Arosek pushed the bowl aside. Hopping up onto the table he tilted his head and opened his arms wide to accept the aid of another.

“Yes,” he said, and pulled himself free of the apron. “I think it’s hot enough, now.”

*****

After posting that, I have this mental image of my poor mother burying her head in her hands and wailing “Oh Claire, can’t you write something with a girl in it?”

Yes. Yes, I could.

A Little Something For The Ladies

“Don’t slump, Nan, it’s unbecoming.” Then, added with the subtle yet distinct horror of a born fashionista: “It’s also going to wrinkle your dress something terrible. Think of the lace! It’s Ivernian.”

“Oh, what does it matter?” Scowling, Nan slinked even deeper into her chair and contemplated disappearing. “I’d look like a monkey in ball gown no matter where the damn lace was woven!”

“No, the silk comes from Ivern, the needlework is done in Gerat – and I didn’t realise you’d ever seen a monkey in a ball gown.”

And the only reason Nan didn’t choose that moment to vanish was simply because it would have been to avoid Alara – and she was the only person in the vicinity who could have stopped her. Instead she just dropped her eyes to glare at her embroidered napkin. “Huh. You have no idea what I’ve seen.”

In the silence that fell, Nan refused to look up; with arms crossed, she thinned her lips and let the low hum of the tea-rooms do the work for her. Then, the other woman sighed.

“Please, Nan.” One hand reached across the table, a delicately gloved hand resting on her lower arm. “Can’t we just have one civilised afternoon together?”

“Civilised?” Nan glanced upward, half in despair. “Honestly, Al, what does this really matter?”

Her face, as lovely and grave as any cameo carved in ivory, did not move. Yet Nan felt guilt begin to coagulate, low in her abdomen, even before Alara chose her careful words.

“It matters to me.”

“But why?” Nan rubbed her eyes, looked down at her fingertips to see she’d got the shimmering shadow all over the tips of her kid gloves. Cursing, she dropped her hands to her lap, held them there as she met Alara’s impassive stare. “I mean, sure, you make a better lady than I do. You always will. But you’ve usually got a sword strapped to your hip and I know you’ve not given up your twin daggers just to sit down in here…and you and I both know you’ve probably got half a dozen other blades hidden gods-know-where even in that ridiculous dress! And yet you’re all up for looking like we’re two silly twits out for tea? What’s the bloody point?”

Alara remained still as stone, spoke only one word. “Nan.”

Immediately she dipped her head, ashamed; it wasn’t as if Alara had activated the compulsion, as knight could always do to their magian, but then she hadn’t needed to. Nan knew she was in the wrong, no matter how reluctant she was to co-operate. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be.” She reached for the teapot, the feathers upon her neat little hat bobbing elegantly with every movement. “If you keep behaving like that, you won’t be allowed any cake.”

Nan sat up straight. “But that’s the only reason I agreed to this!”

“Is it?”

Pausing now, on the verge of pouring, Alara gave her an incurious look. In reply, Nan sighed, leaned back in her chair. Much as she would have preferred an argument, she could not embarrass Alara, not here. “No.”

“I’m glad,” she said, pleasant; she moved the pot forward. “More tea?”

“I really don’t like tea.”

She sighed. “Please, Nan.”

“Why, will I get the cake if I try?”

“Mmm.” Even though the little teapot was heavier than it seemed, Alara’s calm expression showed no strain as she tilted her head, deep in thought. “Actually, I was thinking I might let you see if you can locate the rest of the blades under my bodice.”

Nan’s eyes widened. “What, here?”

“Of course not.” Then her lips, deep crimson and perfectly set, curved upwards in the most delicate and welcoming of smiles. “I was rather thinking of the powder-room, myself.”

Her eyes skipped sideways, then back. It never ceased to amaze her, how something as simple as a smile could transform that beautiful face from an elegant aristocrat’s to that of a cheerful young woman. There was no decision to be made. She held out her cup. “I’ll have the whole pot, thanks.”

Though it was quiet, hidden behind a hand, Nan still heard the lady-knight of Sai’Ona laugh as she carefully filled the tiny teacup. As she then busied herself with refilling her own, Nan raised it to her lips and shook her head.

“And here I was, thinking you were such the lady.”

“I’m all woman,” she said, soft and sincere, and with a snort Nan raised her tea-cup.

“Cheers to that.”

“Slowly, dear,” she reprimanded, but her smile had turned low, and secret; something just between them, even in the crowded tearooms. “You want to savour it. It makes the taste so much better.”

“I suppose you’d know?”

Alara gave no answer. She merely smiled over the rim of her cup and took a long sip of her own. And for the first time that afternoon, Nan looked forward to learning more about being a lady of the land.

*****

…I think I owe someone an apology. Heh. But to complete my little trilogy of rainy days and comfort seeking, I have one last couple to go. Unfortunately this turned deeply melancholy on me, but I’m hoping there’s enough hope in there to make it happy.

Thought of You

“Could you stop the rain, if you wanted to?”

“Should I?”

He traced a finger through the dust on the window, leaving a serpentine curve in its wake. “Would you not want to?”

“There’s a balance, in these things.” Entering the study fully, she came to where he had folded himself into the windowseat. As she perched beside him the long skirts of her gown swirled about her like a whirlpool. “Yes, I could stop the rain. But should I?”

“Would you?” he insisted, and she shook her head.

“This is starting to sound a lot like semantics.” Though the conversation had barely begun she had decided to end it; pushing up from her place at his side, she turned as if to leave. He missed her even before she had gone, and though he did not want to reach out with a hand, he stopped her with a word.

“Círa?”

Her reluctance was revealed in how quickly she turned back. “Yes?”

“Are you angry with me?”

She stared at him for so long he felt ridiculous for having asked. But when her expression softened, her lips twisted in a wry smile, he knew he’d been right to do it. “No. I’m not.”

“It sounds like you are.” A crease appeared in her brow, and he shook his head, went on. “I don’t want it to be this way. Rylea could never cope with my work – but after everything I thought that you would.”

“Or that I should?” she asked, sharp, and he couldn’t help but parry.

“What was it, that you were saying about semantics?”

She closed her eyes, briefly. Already he regretted it; his life was too short to waste in arguing with her over things that could not be changed in either of them. Then she opened her eyes, her own decision made. Without words, with the rain to accompany the rhythm of her bare feet, she returned to him. Sliding into the space at his side she wound her arms around his waist and laid her head against his chest.

“Círa?”

“She had a point, I think.” Her voice was muffled, her lips the movement of butterfly feet against his skin even through the thin cotton of his shirt. “She just wanted you. Whatever time you could have together, she thought she should take it, hold it, never let it go.” And she sighed, her face hidden by the spiralling dark curls of her hair. “Is that really so strange, that she would?”

His arms went about her in turn, held her closer. The rain outside continued to beat a light staccato against the dusty glass. No, he thought, it is not so strange. There was no need to say it aloud – it lay between them as it always did, a shadow and a shroud yet to fall. He would always have her. But she would not always have him.

“But would you stop the rain, if you could?” he asked, soft, and she moved her body deeper into the curve of his.

“Even if I should, it doesn’t mean that I would.”

“Because there’s a balance to these things?”

“It’s the way things are,” she murmured, and somehow, he smiled.

“So let’s just stay this way,” he returned. “I don’t have to go anywhere, not right now.”

She gave no answer in words. All she had to offer in that moment was her warm body, heavy with the scent of the sea. He welcomed her presence without reservation. The rain still fell beyond their window, relentless and cool – but they were sheltered by the glass. And as he bent his head to press a kiss to her lips, he figured that it should be, could be, would always be enough to remind him that behind the clouds, the sun would still shine.

*****

Hilariously, as I was working on these stories my sister messaged me on facebook and demanded I make her Belgium slice as she had a craving. It seemed to sit so well with the general theme of the afternoon that I did so. But I’m away from my well-stocked and well-applianced kitchen, and ended up using a can of Guinness as a make-shift rolling pin. A can of Guinness. I’m wondering if this grants me automatic Irish citizenship, actually.

…god bless you, Guinness.

Ideas, Inspiration and Insidious Little Voices

I’m really not sure I’ve ever been asked that most infamous of questions, actually – where do you get your ideas? Which is likely as not all for the best, because like ninety-nine percent of other authors in the world I honestly have no bloody clue. I mean, if you read my entry from the other day about the meaning behind my short story The Journey of the Magi I list influences and inspirations from Lovecraft to Ikuhara to Eliot to She Wants Revenge, but they still don’t write the story. I do. But then again, when I was about fifteen or so and furiously writing very bad fanfiction on a regular basis, I came across the word “amanuensis” and was rather charmed by the mental image it generated.

I’m a glorified secretary.

Every writer is different, I think. They “hear” the story and the characters within in different ways. Personally I really am a secretary; my characters chatter away in the back of my head while I run the office in the front, and often they come and pore over my pages, hang over my shoulder, or hold a Sword of Damocles over my head until I do what they want me to do. Which, funnily enough, is not something often in my control. Partially it’s because I’m not really a planner – I have characters stroll into my head, I write, and somewhere somehow sometimes a plot shows up to make the whole exercise at least somewhat legit – but really, I can start writing a story and have it go to hell in roughly four point six paragraphs. Different characters are more or less likely to cause this problem. Examples, much?

This is Sard. I didn’t create him myself, he’s part of a shared fanfiction universe I worked in while in the late years of high school. Unfortunately I’m no longer in contact with my co-author, which really is something I still regret, but that’s not a story for today. But I bring him up because for whatever reason this man really crawled into my head and then promptly insisted on hating my guts.

 

He was a particularly wilful character to write, mostly because despite being the second-in-command of a much nicer man he was very devoted to, Sard took no shit. From anyone. I particularly remember the day when he was dead that he decided death just wasn’t for him anymore and took over the body of the spiritually-sensitive protagonist. And my co-writer, who hadn't seen this coming any more than I had, promptly wrote back: WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED HERE?! …AND WHY THE HELL DO I LOVE IT SO MUCH?! Very ironic, when you take into consideration she had a very Conan Doyle-esque attitude towards Sard and actually kind of hated his guts. With that said, although I haven’t written him in years (and to the best of my knowledge she hasn’t either, though she has every right to), towards the beginning of the year an artist on DA messaged me through livejournal to say she’d been through a nostalgic art phase and this was one of the results:

Apparently, much like the Hector my tour group and I found the shadow of in Troy earlier this month, THE LEGEND LIVES ON.

So, Sard, he’s a difficult character. And many of my characters are opinionated, too; actually, Sard’s reminded me of another character from that same universe, this time one of my own creation (with that said, because of the way we wrote, all the characters became shared characters, regardless of who actually created them; it’s probably the main reason that even when the urge strikes, as it very occasionally does, I can’t bring myself to even write a drabble with any of them). Her name is Coral. Coral’s…a very brash and sarcastic woman, and was never intended to be a major player. Basically I had a character up and die on me and I needed a pathologist, and Coral sees dead people. Both in her morgue, and in her head. She’s hardly as cute as a tiny Haley Joel Osmont, mind you.

She's CUTER.

But Coral actually shares a lot of things in common with one of my other very opinionated characters, one Dr. Viola Morgan. I’m sure the two would get on like a house on fire, though I couldn’t be sure. They’re superficially similar, as I said, but I think under their bored and brash exteriors they’re quite different women. Hmm. With that said, Coral has this problem with ghosts, and this is her standard day in a nutshell:

And really, that’s how I feel some days when I am trying to write.

So, one of my major problems in writing is not even when I do have a clear idea for a story, it rarely happens that way. I’m working on a novel called Greywater just right now, and not only are the two lead characters based upon two very stereotypical cardboard cutouts used as supporting struts in my thirteen-year-old self’s epic opus The Pool of Reflection, the story’s focus and theme has changed that many times I can’t even remember where it started. Again, it’s because I start with characters and let them do stuff, which considering the characters…not always for the best. Otho, the male lead, is the “noble soldier” with a “crisis of conscience;” Círa is the “yandere female” with the “mysterious past, present and future” and…well, other characters came wandering in when they perceived gaps in the story that they could wrestle to their own shape, and good lord where does it all end?

 

Fortunately for me, even though I am less than generous with the happy endings when it comes to these characters, both Otho and Círa are quite co-operative with me. But not each other. We can only have so much maturity, here. Actually, in Greywater there’s only one character who isn’t easily corralled to my will: Ryennkar Vassidenel. And that’s not so unusual, as he has a basic worldview very similar to Sard’s – which is basically: “You suck. All of you. …well, not you,” and that one you is all they devote their not inconsiderable capacity to love to. Which is why they are so scary. Love is a powerful force, and giving that energy and force to one person, focusing it upon their health and happiness alone…oh, it’s scary. Love ought to be shared, spread around. If you can only love one person, both you and that person are pretty damned screwed, in my opinion.

Still. There's some cute to go with that obsession...right?

But yes, I have a messed up relationship with the little voices in my head. But it’s the only way I get interesting stories to write out; they sit in the back of my head and argue and bitch and laugh and love and live, and most days I am so very happy to be allowed to act as secretary for those stories.

Other days, not so much.

I keep thinking that one of these days I need to commission a drawing of myself with a couple of my characters. I had a sketch through yesterday for a picture of Círa and Otho by the star-river in the cove near Greywater, and she’s actually holding onto him like an anchor and it’s so damned lovely…and even though I was thinking of getting to the end of Greywater and having a picture done with them, I now rather think I ought to leave them to each other. Hee. I’m actually leaning towards Arosek and Ryenn, rather. Arosek loves me. …this isn’t saying much, Arosek loves everyone. But Ryenn…oh, it would be like the most awkward of family portraits. Arosek all chirpy, me half-terrified, and Ryenn rolling his eyes to the sky and saying: “If it’s you, then I suppose I can stand still for sixty seconds and not attempt to throttle that woman.”

…oh, dear, I think he dislikes me more than I realised. O_o And he’s a voice inside my head! So much for the great escape? Not that I’m going anywhere, mind you. I’m just having far too much fun indeed. <3

 

Note: For all the art in this post that isn’t mine – and thankfully, some of it isn’t…we have to keep standards up somehow! – more of their work can be seen through these links: Lianne, Frosted Blossom and JustineDarkChylde.