So, the last few entries I've talked a bit about the workshops I've been to recently, and it brought to mind one Owen Marshall. I went to a couple of workshops with him back in...oh, it must have been 2009, as I remember I had planned only to do the one on the Saturday, but it was so fantastic I spent the night frantically sorting out my packing and travel arrangements and turned up on Sunday, too; then on Monday I got up at five in the morning and flew to Japan for two weeks. Good times! I think some of my original reticience had arisen because although Owen Marshall is a very well-known New Zealand author, I had never encountered him either at high school or university (in fact, I did almost no study of New Zealand works during my proper education; Heavenly Creatures and Broken English are as close as we got; both, incidentally, are films well worth the watching). The only time I'd read one of his stories was during a slightly infamous SIT pilot course in...2008, it must have been, because I think it was that course that inspired me to enrol as an extramural student at Massey in 2009. But yes, I didn't much enjoy this course, and that in turn slightly coloured my impressions of Owen Marshall's work.
Then I met him, and promptly fell in love.
...I should probably explain that by adding that I fall in love with people like this on a regular basis. I mean, when I was ten years old I went to see Jurassic Park with my form one class and I'm in love with Sam Neill to this day. (Yes, occasionally I lean on the breakwall around Lake Wakatipu and wonder why he can't just appear at that moment, like in a movie. Not that I'd even talk to him, I'd just stare and giggle and generally act like I'd just escaped from Charenton, or something.) But Owen Marshall was just...wonderful. He inspired me greatly, and was generally an all around awesome guy, so...I went out and bought one of his books. Living As A Moon. And I am deeply ashamed to admit that I only decided to actually read it the other day.
Reading this book proves to me again his general awesomeness, it must be said, but I'm finding that reading these short stories? Makes me think again about my own. I was planning to spend this weekend working on the first three chapters of Greywater so I could finally start sharing the story with people (most of the really complete draft stuff is from about chapter four onwards, unfortunately), but instead I've been messing about with short stories. One of them was my own damn fault; Becs asked me to act as a pinch-hitter for a group project of the Southern Scribes, as I haven't been going to the meetings regularly enough to have been a part of it in the first instance. It's a fascinating little experiment, which I'll tell you about another day when I've actually read the end result of the first draft (which is currently sitting in my inbox, along with half a dozen other things I really ought to read/reply to). But I had dragged my heels on it a bit, and at the dinner on Thursday I promised her profusely I'd email her my contribution either late Friday or early Saturday. Some drama later, it was sent by 2pm on Saturday afternoon. We're talking about a piece of flash fiction less than a thousand words long, here. My usual modus operandi rarely permits me to drop below ten thousand. Maybe that was the problem? Oh, well, at any rate Owen Marshall sustained me through my struggles. ...did I already tell you that this man is bloody awesome? ^_~
So, you'd figure that after this, I could go back to the novel. Apparently not. I'd been chatting via deviantart to one of the wonderful artists I've been commissioning, and she'd asked me about Ryenn and Arosek. I decided, rather than explaining some of their complicated history, I'd just show her by giving her a draft of The Simple Story. But then I realised this "short" story (it's far closer to a novella, at 22k) wasn't really in a fit state, so I spent yesterday putting it back together. And I ended up fascinated by those two all over again, and so today I returned to poking at the story I started in Australia last month. Just...what even is this thing. O_o It's not finished yet, but it's getting there. I'm going to work on it a little more in a bit, but...yeah. Gah. I'm also feeling the urge to return to the story I had intended last year to write for the long-since published anthology A Foreign Country, but I never finished the damn thing. It still fascinates me to this day, and...yeah. There's also the fact I should start writing properly for both the Dan Davin and Katherine Mansfield short story competitions, and...here I am, obsessing dreadfully over two characters who just make me horribly, horribly sad.
I've always had a habit of being cruel to my characters, I have to admit, but these two remind me of my overall reaction to the anime Death Note. I won't go into detail, because it's a long story best viewed on your own terms, but essentially the end result of the actions of the various protagonists is just...waste. Terrible, horrible, pointless waste. I once saw an AMV made of the show to Imogen Heap's Hide and Seek, and it summed it up perfectly for me. Just...so much pride, and so far to fall. I get that same feeling with Arosek and Ryenn, in that Ryenn just wasted Arosek's life. But with that said, Arosek chose that path just as much as Ryenn guided him towards it, and...I don't know. It just makes me cry.
It's interesting, though, because I've wandered back into reading histories of Alexander the Great again. Partially it's because I need to drum up interest in military history in order to make sense of Otho's position as a Major in the Sarinian army, but it was Alexander and then reading novels along the lines of The Other Boleyn Girl that first led me to develop these characters. It's that sense of never knowing what really happened, you know? We can imagine what Mary Boleyn did in the last days of her more famous sister, and we can draw conclusions about the relationship of Alexander and Hephastion from the ancient sources that remain, but we'll never know. And that's why I created Arosek and Ryenn. No-one knows why they did what they did.
...well, except for them. And now, as I dig deeper into their minds and hearts and pasts, I'm starting to see why too. And it's breaking my heart. Ah, stories, why can't I quit you? ;_;
Showing posts with label other authors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label other authors. Show all posts
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
Reading For Writing
I am no poet, and likely never will be. Still, yesterday I went along to the second of the workshops offered this year; this one was with Joanna Preston. I'd been a bit dubious about going right from the beginning because...well, I'm no poet. Teen Angst Drivel is still about my limit, and I haven't been able to use that excuse for nigh on ten years now. But on Friday night I went to the poetry reading and...I thought I'd made a good call. And after spending four or so hours in her company on Sunday along with a few hardy souls, I thought the whole experience well worth it.
Of course, I did come a bit unstuck when we actually got around to writing poetry. Another reason I went is because I thought it would mainly be close reading, which we did for the first half; I still rather treasure the moment I realised just what the first poem we read was about. That experience summed up rather neatly my problem with poetry, actually; I tend to read literary poems, find they sail over my head, and get frustrated and give up. For some reason T.S. Eliot got under my skin and wouldn't let me give up, but generally speaking...yeah. But this poem? Imperial, Don Paterson. Didn't want a bar of it the first read-through. Or the second. Or the third. In fact, I lost count of how many times I wrote that bastard off. Then...well, Joanna pointed us in a direction AND LO THERE WAS LIGHT AND IT WAS GOOD IN MY EYES. That's exactly what I wanted to happen when I went to the workshop -- to take pleasure in poetry. So, even though writing some later was like wringing blood from a stone, it was well worth the price of admission.
I also acquired Joanna's book The Summer King, although I'd decided I was going to buy it about ten seconds after she started reading her first poem on Friday night. I haven't started reading any more of them yet, partially because I am still reading those Jacqueline Carey novels, but it's also because Joanna pointed out to us that reading poetry fast and furious? Is like bolting a Michelin star meal. It's a waste, and you miss the craftsmanship that makes it so special. So, yeah, I'm saving it. I might actually take it with me on my little soujourn to the Millbrook later in the month. Reading poetry after a massage amongst the mountains...it's got to be relaxing, yeah?
Still, speaking of bolting food and Jacqueline Carey, I continue to stuff my face while reading and therefore have a bit of a sour taste in my mouth when it comes to Carey. It's not her fault, of course, but still. I should stop reading and start writing. I did find it amusing to discuss with Morag after the workshop, though, one thing I found very curious about Kushiel's Dart and my reading of it. I actually got into Carey through a short story in an anthology I'd bought specifically for a Diana Gabaldon short. I wasn't particularly enamoured of the latter and went sifting through the book for another story, and vaguely recalled having heard Carey's name somewhere down the fantasy line. The story in question -- You, and You Alone -- is bittersweet and lovely, told from the POV of Anafiel Delaunay. I fell in love with him then and there, let me tell you.
Anafiel is a poet. You'd think this would have been an impediment, but...I still loved him anyway. But the Anafiel in Kushiel's Dart doesn't write poetry -- that we know of. This is because his poetry was declared anaethema, but still...I ended up thinking "He's a poet with no poetry!" and I wanted to see it as it was such a fundamental part of his character. Which brings up the interesting question of how a novelist imbues a character with talents that they themselves do not have. Perhaps it's a mercy that Carey didn't attempt to give us much of Anafiel's poetry beyond a few couplets -- certainly I personally wish Anne Rice hadn't tried to go all Guns n' Roses in The Vampire Lestat as even my angsty teen ear smacked that shite down -- but...I don't know. I suppose I can but hope that I stick to my mathematicians and musicians, and pray that I never have to write a poet of my own.
...of course, saying that only encourages them. And Joanna didn't help; she was talking about how poetry is a powerful cultural force. It's the poems that we turn to in times of happiness or grief, and it's one of our oldest art forms. They still use poetic forms in Wales that began there three thousand years ago. Even I have the urge to read epic Norse poetry because something about it just sings to my mind. So, naturally, my personal insane "bard" archetype, one Aidan Jannock, is sneakily suggesting he tip his hand to poetry. He's usually more into talkative prose, if his entries in the Menhir journal throughout the latter third of The Juniper Bones are anything to go by, but Aidan's Aidan.
I'm in trouble.
It doesn't even help, when I try to tell him about something else Joanna said that stuck in my head -- apparently, when the revolutions come? The first artists they shoot are the poets.
In retrospect, I should probably just stick to being a novelist.
^_~
Of course, I did come a bit unstuck when we actually got around to writing poetry. Another reason I went is because I thought it would mainly be close reading, which we did for the first half; I still rather treasure the moment I realised just what the first poem we read was about. That experience summed up rather neatly my problem with poetry, actually; I tend to read literary poems, find they sail over my head, and get frustrated and give up. For some reason T.S. Eliot got under my skin and wouldn't let me give up, but generally speaking...yeah. But this poem? Imperial, Don Paterson. Didn't want a bar of it the first read-through. Or the second. Or the third. In fact, I lost count of how many times I wrote that bastard off. Then...well, Joanna pointed us in a direction AND LO THERE WAS LIGHT AND IT WAS GOOD IN MY EYES. That's exactly what I wanted to happen when I went to the workshop -- to take pleasure in poetry. So, even though writing some later was like wringing blood from a stone, it was well worth the price of admission.
I also acquired Joanna's book The Summer King, although I'd decided I was going to buy it about ten seconds after she started reading her first poem on Friday night. I haven't started reading any more of them yet, partially because I am still reading those Jacqueline Carey novels, but it's also because Joanna pointed out to us that reading poetry fast and furious? Is like bolting a Michelin star meal. It's a waste, and you miss the craftsmanship that makes it so special. So, yeah, I'm saving it. I might actually take it with me on my little soujourn to the Millbrook later in the month. Reading poetry after a massage amongst the mountains...it's got to be relaxing, yeah?
Still, speaking of bolting food and Jacqueline Carey, I continue to stuff my face while reading and therefore have a bit of a sour taste in my mouth when it comes to Carey. It's not her fault, of course, but still. I should stop reading and start writing. I did find it amusing to discuss with Morag after the workshop, though, one thing I found very curious about Kushiel's Dart and my reading of it. I actually got into Carey through a short story in an anthology I'd bought specifically for a Diana Gabaldon short. I wasn't particularly enamoured of the latter and went sifting through the book for another story, and vaguely recalled having heard Carey's name somewhere down the fantasy line. The story in question -- You, and You Alone -- is bittersweet and lovely, told from the POV of Anafiel Delaunay. I fell in love with him then and there, let me tell you.
Anafiel is a poet. You'd think this would have been an impediment, but...I still loved him anyway. But the Anafiel in Kushiel's Dart doesn't write poetry -- that we know of. This is because his poetry was declared anaethema, but still...I ended up thinking "He's a poet with no poetry!" and I wanted to see it as it was such a fundamental part of his character. Which brings up the interesting question of how a novelist imbues a character with talents that they themselves do not have. Perhaps it's a mercy that Carey didn't attempt to give us much of Anafiel's poetry beyond a few couplets -- certainly I personally wish Anne Rice hadn't tried to go all Guns n' Roses in The Vampire Lestat as even my angsty teen ear smacked that shite down -- but...I don't know. I suppose I can but hope that I stick to my mathematicians and musicians, and pray that I never have to write a poet of my own.
...of course, saying that only encourages them. And Joanna didn't help; she was talking about how poetry is a powerful cultural force. It's the poems that we turn to in times of happiness or grief, and it's one of our oldest art forms. They still use poetic forms in Wales that began there three thousand years ago. Even I have the urge to read epic Norse poetry because something about it just sings to my mind. So, naturally, my personal insane "bard" archetype, one Aidan Jannock, is sneakily suggesting he tip his hand to poetry. He's usually more into talkative prose, if his entries in the Menhir journal throughout the latter third of The Juniper Bones are anything to go by, but Aidan's Aidan.
I'm in trouble.
It doesn't even help, when I try to tell him about something else Joanna said that stuck in my head -- apparently, when the revolutions come? The first artists they shoot are the poets.
In retrospect, I should probably just stick to being a novelist.
^_~
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