Writing Different Worlds

So,  today I took advantage of the wonderful local arts festival and its wonderful Readers and Writers Alive! programme, and went to a workshop based around speculative fiction. I'm pretty sure I've said before that I don't really know what genre my writing properly falls into, but considering my tendencies towards the weird and the wacky, spec fic is definitely a place where my mind is at home. So, I was quite excited about this one (although to be honest, I've been excited about all the workshops I've ever been to through Dan Davin; the ones with Owen Marshall and Gavin Bishop particularly stand out as wonderful in my memory, and I still kick myself for not going to Helen Lowe's).

Anyway, today's workshop was with Tim Jones, who was a Southland local for a while there but now lives in Wellington; I can hardly hold it against him, mind you, considering the fact that I myself am a bit of a Wellingtonian at heart. (Although how anyone could hold anything against a place that produces things like this, I don't know. I myself have a vague dream of living one day in Paekakariki, at least partly because saying it is hilarious...whether it's proper or Paekok. Ha!) We spent the workshop chatting about speculative fiction, did a couple of little exercises, and then ended with a discussion about publishing. That's definitely something I need to start focusing on, although then again I need to start finishing things first! Although with that said, Tim said that Young Adult is the genre most likely to be published by New Zealand houses, so I suppose I should really look again at the draft of The Neverboy. It's been sitting around long enough now that I can look at it semi-sensibly, so...

In the meantime, there's always Hibernaculum and The Juniper Bones to finish, and then consider trying for an agent either in Australia, the States or the UK. And I suppose there's always For What We Drown, too, but that manuscript has a gaping hole in it at the moment. The first half of the book, I think, is fine; it just needs a futher round of edits to make it tighter. The second half is a mess. I basically chopped the first three chapters to pieces and started putting it back together, and then gave up. It also requires major editing throughout because I confused myself so much in terms of the world-building of Julia's home, and...yeah. It lost momentum and cohesion fairly early on. I still think it's an interesting story and in theory it ought to be salvagable, but...yeah. It depends on my mood, somewhat. I suppose, too, it's more likely to be picked up in New Zealand than anywhere else being that its first half is set primarily in Te Anau, but we'll see.

I really enjoyed the workshop, though. It had probably the best turnout I've seen for any workshop here in good ol' Invervegas, and the people were fun. I really hope a couple of them will come to the Chapter I meeting tomorrow night. I need to make some cupcakes for that, actually. Ah, cupcakes, my old foe...

But back to the workshop -- the two writing exercises were interesting, both in the writing and then in hearing what other people did. The first was just a warm-up from a prompt, and I rather liked what I came up with in the fifteen minutes or so. Strangely, for me, it was basically a finished piece. I have no idea how many words it was, but anything less than five thousand words is a miracle on my part. I think I will have to type it out and play with it, keep it for some future submission or endeavour or whatever. The second was a bit less successful; we were just writing to show how the world was different in the story. I ended up writing something from the point of view of one of the handmaidens of the Queen of Nylurea, but I actually started, info-dumped, and then started again. That do-over, though, was quite useful for me in that it did help me examine what I was doing and how it didn't work that first time around. I would like to finish it at some point, mostly because it gives me an insight into the Nylurean culture. I'm far more familiar with Sarinian culture, as it's primarily Sarinese characters that I write, but of course there are Nylureans present in most of the stories. And I'm still fascinated by Jeramie and his love for the once-queen Kiriana, so understanding more about how she grew up...is always useful.

I never did finish those short stories for submission this month, though. I was inspired during one of my walks today, however; I think I'll try for next month's Wily Writers submission, which is to do with post-apocalyptic worlds. I've got the song Pretend The World Has Ended stuck in my head, and there's definitely a story there. I'm just not sure which world it's set in. I think it's an entirely new one, to be honest; that's a little terrifying. Maybe it's the crimson moon? Certainly thanks to Henryk Górecki and Lamb the once-opal moon has a terrible and tragic history. It seems maybe the crimson does, too.

In the meantime, I think I shall try and stop eating this evening -- I'm in the midst of a food binge, unfortunately -- and write instead. I think The Juniper Bones might be calling my name; Morgan seems to be having a temper tantrum about something. Or maybe I am just thinking ahead to the poetry workshop tomorrow. The section of TJB that I am working on now is named the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew, and opens with a nice little extract from Ash Wednesday. It's the bit with the juniper tree and its bones, even! But even then, maybe that's not it; I was thinking at the workshop today that I need to go back to the CompuServe forum and spend more time there, and I was reminded of how I had shared some little bits of this novel with them and received such support. There's little bits of poetry scattered throughout my prose, given the way I write, and especially when Eliot is thinking of Lavinia...oh, yes. So I suppose we'll end with a little of that, shall we?

The warmth of her had become as familiar as the sound of the sea, as the rhythm of the waves against the stone waterways of the city from whence he had come. Though he had never been a creature of the water, in that place it had become the touchstone of this life. Yet, in the city of marble and light, he found his rest and his sanctuary instead in the nearness of her flesh, the openness of her heart, the touch of her spirit against his. It did not matter, that he had not been born here, that this was her city. By his very nature, he should never have a home – and then the sacrifice of the widow had rendered her as homeless as he, save for the asylum of one another.

It was enough.

With the careful hand of a musician, he traced a line from the curve of her jaw down to the hollow at the base of her throat, coming to rest upon the delicate collarbone above the beat of her heart. No, this place had never been his home, and now it would never be hers again. Yet she never showed him that she mourned the loss of her human life, and for all she sometimes worried aloud about when this life was done how they should meet again in the next, he knew that she did not regret it any more than he ever could. Of course she missed the widow, worried for her peace and her soul – but Vincenzio had leaned over the other woman’s body and seen at last the peace on her face as she died for the final time. In a strange way, for a moment he had almost envied her. Then he had turned to find Lavinia standing there, his bride and his wife, and he had felt no more regrets.

Still, he thought of the place he had rested for so long, in that world now denied him. Despite being aligned with the watchtowers of the south, with the element of fire, he had been most easily summoned in an unremarkable grove of trees deep in the northern mountains. Even in his new life, he could not explain why.  There had been other ways, other places where his spirit could be invoked. But he had liked those trees. He mourned still the loss of the star-lake, the heavy scent of the silver leaves, and the silent watchfulness of the Menhir to the distant centre of the world.

“What are you thinking of?”

Startled, he looked upward to meet the sleepy gaze of her blue eyes. He had not noticed her awakening. “The place from whence I came,” he murmured, and leaned forward to press a kiss to the skin where his fingers had lingered. Already her eyes flared, dark with desire, though she had barely escaped from her dreams.

“Do you miss it?” she asked, gentle as the memory of the sea. He sighed.

“In a way.”

“Will you ever see it again, do you think?”

“Perhaps.” He did not think so, for he remembered well the dark day of the Ending, when he and all of his kin had either been sent from the world, or enslaved to those it had been given to. Though those gods had by rumour lost that influence long since, he still did not think his own kind would ever have what had been theirs once more. He could not bring himself to say her name, to bring her into their marriage bed, but he suspected that had been the reason why the widow had no longer wished to live. Their purpose had been taken from them, and filled with so little in return. But he had found a new purpose, and he leaned close to again press his lips against the rhythmic centre of her eternal life.

“It was a strange world,” he said finally, and then looked up at her with gentle trust. “But that world is gone. And here I am.”

“And I am glad for it.” Her voice was suffused with rich pleasure as she tilted her head upward, brushed her lips over the brief stubble upon his chin. “But…could we go there?”

“I do not know.” His brow creased; he had not expected her to ever want such a thing. “Do you wish it?”

“Only if you do.”

The memory of trees was like a brand upon his mind. It was true – he did want it. Though the world had changed, had gone on without him, he could not help but wonder if those trees still reached for the sky in the shadow of the great Kaverlen mountains that had sulked upon the horizon since time immemorial. It would have been years since their Ending, but the trees had been touched by his own immortality. And even should they have at last curled in upon themselves, helpless before the grinding mill of time itself, their children would have sprung from their gravewood and reached for the same stars that had once been the jewels in their parents’ silver crowns.

“Shall I take you?” he asked, and touched a chaste kiss upon her forehead. But when he rose above her again, her grin had become wicked, a promise of a world in which no sin existed, save for the denial of love and the beauty it wrought deep in the fabric of their very beings.

“Take me, husband,” she whispered, and reached for him.

He started – but a smile swiftly followed on its heels. As he leaned forward into her touch, he thought ruefully upon her capacity to surprise him still. But then, it was only ever in all the best ways.

Something Borrowed

They always tell you to write what you know, don't they? I was just thinking about that yesterday and today, as I seem to have got a bee in my bonnet about baking. I'm a lousy cook in general, but I can handle baking to a certain point. Of course I shouldn't really be baking right at the moment as I am on a restricted diet and cannot eat anything that I bake...meaning anyone who tries these things is going in a bit blind, the poor sods. But what does this have to do with writing? Well...

One of my characters rather unexpectedly ended up being something of a foodie. I don't really go into any detail because I don't know anything about cuisine aside from the fact it goes in my belly, but I was thinking as I attempted to make leavened bread yesterday "Hey, this is something Aleks would do!" Because he totally would. To the best of my knowledge, Aleksandr would be rather a dab hand at most things of that nature. It's a bit of an odd thing for him to be good at, actually, as when I first created him (when I was thirteen, would you believe), it certainly never crossed my mind that he would end up as a bit of an amateur chef. I doubt it crossed his mind, either! But as his character and the story evolved, Aleksandr went from being the very sheltered -- and very unwanted -- son of a Duke to the constant companion of a wandering hierophant of broken faith, and...well. Araben, for all he's a very smart man, is not a very practical one. Which isn't to say he'd let Aleksandr starve, exactly, but....well. By hobby Aleksandr was a horticulturalist and a botanist, and it seemed natural enough for him to learn how to cook and to bake as they lived their nomadic existence, and...well, apparently he decided he liked it.

I just found it interesting because this evening I decided to make scones. I've never made scones in my life -- or at least, never alone. My mother or grandmothers would always have been supervising me. For some reason I had it in my head that it was very difficult to make scones. Quite why this stopped me I don't know, considering I once made pavlova just to prove I could (pavlova's not actually hard to make, it's just extremely finicky and is at least half luck; I had more issues with the bloody tiramisu I made earlier this year, come to think of it). But I made scones, and they appear to be fine (as I said, I can't eat them, and my brother is yet to risk one). But the story I was working on the other night that has since flitted off into the competition ether? Involved Aleksandr rather randomly making scones for Jeramie. I imagine they weren't like mine, being that Jeramie isn't really the kind of person to have cinnamon and dates lying around the pantry -- frankly it's probably a miracle he even had flour and baking powder -- but...yeah.

So, they say write what you know, but I rather suspect in my case I write what I wish I knew. I'm the same about music and dance and art and higher mathematics; I can do all of these things to some degree, but not enough to make me happy. It frustrates me, in that I can aesthetically appreciate the inherent beauty of all of these things, and yet...I can't quite reach them myself. It's like I'm watching from the outside of the ballroom; I can get all the way up to the window in my best dress and press my nose against the glass, but...I'm still on the outside. Somehow, in my writing, I get to push through that glass. It's only as a shadow, and my presence there is as ephermeral as a mayfly, but...my words get me in. Because I can make the words dance for me in a way I cannot with these other disciplines. So...yes. Writing is a part of me, but it lets me borrow from other things that are not. And for that, I will be forever glad.

Something Like Hysteria

So, I've had a bit of a strange experience this morning. I woke up this morning to be rather surprised by an unexpected email. You see, I hadn't really expected to be doing any writing today; I was up a bit later than intended last night working on a short story. The other day I remembered a call for submissions I had seen for an e-zine by the name of Crossed Genres, and this month's theme? Tragedy. Being that most things I write are tragic, I did clock it and thought I should look into it further. Of course I then forgot about it, but the other day I found it in my tabs and...well. Even though I rather suspect the vast majority of my works are not tragedy so much as emo teenage angst-fests, I came up with three options: Raw Canvas Remaining, Edit The Sad Parts, and Of An Orrery.

Raw Canvas Remaining is the one that won out, in the end, though I did decide to rename it as Blank Canvas. The really interesting thing about this story, though, is that I originally wrote it in 2004 or 2005. And it's...well, it's not terrible. Not exactly. But my god I wrote very badly, didn't I? Ha. Of course it wasn't quite as bad as going back to some of the original manuscripts involving this character written in 1999/2000, which I also did in the early hours of this morning. Good Lord, that was a terrifying experience. I mean, when I was younger, I wrote...all right. Better than most kids my age, I suppose, but...yeah. Too much Anne Rice and V.C. Andrews influence, not to mention I was also rather a fan of Christopher Pike and Stephen King. Er. So, basically flowery prose with distinct hints of bloodlust and horror? ...oh, god.

So, anyway, this short story: the original story was really intended as a character study so I could get into the miserable head and life of Inciseth della Morraine. To that end, I decided to rework the story to give it a real purpose and ending (involving a palette knife, no less; thank you again, Mr. King!). Now, this character comes from a novel called Newton's Cradle, which is something I have been trying to construct properly for years. I started writing it when I was seventeen, which was the age of the kids in the story, and I'm now twenty-eight and still haven't worked out where I am going wrong. Thing is, though, that the longer of the two stories I submitted to The Long and the Short of It is Jeramie's story...ten years later. And I am starting to really think that that? Is how the actual novel should be. Because even when I was myself seventeen I wondered what it would be like, years after the fact. Saving the world, I mean. So many shows for younger audiences are all about kids and teenagers saving the world...but what happens when you grow up, having done something like that?

Not that it really applies to Seth, as such; he takes a dive out a window of the conservatory atop Radeen Dam before he ever gets to grow up. Poor soul. But the interesting thing, for me, is that in giving the story a definite ending -- a sense of purpose arising from the tragedy of his life, I mean -- meant that I figured I was making it an AU sort of thing. But the more I consider it...no. Maybe I can work this into the story. It would certainly make it richer, and would also make Seth a far more interesting character.

So, apparently one of the novel projects for 2011 will be yet another attempt at Newton's Cradle. Hmm.

Still, what does all this have to do with the email of this morning? Well, after my burn out last night -- at one a.m. I was about three hundred words out from the first reworked draft of Blank Canvas, but I just couldn't bring myself to do one more word on it -- I figured today would be a no-writing day. I'd basically planned to watch the rest of the first season of True Blood and then begin my baking experiments (I've never made leavened bread before in my entire life; quite why I thought now that I'd be able to do so, we may never know). However, I had two emails that caught my eye, both from Mitzi. The first I figured would just be an acknowledgement of her receipt of Tea For Two; the second I was not so keen to read. I figured it would be the inevitable rejection. It just...seemed too soon, you know? I'd have liked a few days to live the dream of having something in the submission ether! So, I dragged my heels as I ate my yoghurt, then opened her up.

I've read your story - I really like it, the writing is lovely, and you can really feel the atmosphere.



...whoa. I did a little happy dance there, I can tell you. First time I've had some real positive feedback on a submission. I still figured we were seguing into a rejection, but instead? She asked if I would consider tweaking some things and having a "minor redraft," in order to make it more suitable for what she needs it for (being that it was light on the erotic side). So...I accepted the challenge. It's not any sort of promise on her part, of course; she just wants to see if I can make it more suitable for the anthology she is editing. But...my god, it's something. Mostly not an outright rejection, but it's something. So, happy dance now aside, I have to go back to work tomorrow, so today, inbetween watching my bread rise with fretful ignorance, I shall be rewriting Tea For Two and talking more with Seth about the potential murderous uses of palette knives.

...yes, so far, it's a good day indeed. ^__^