Now that that project is completed, I'll hopefully be able to get back to blogging and writing fiction.
Over the past few week I've spent my free time writing educational materials. It was fun, but quite a challenge. I have a new respect for textbook writers. The last time I wrote history was in graduate school where nuance and depth were the currency of the realm. This past month I had to shoehorn the Renaissance and Reformation into 40 Power Point slides! Oh, the pain of leaving out so much good stuff. It is a talent to distill an historical period down to its essential characteristics. I shall try to bite my tongue the next time I have the urge to criticize a textbook author.
Now that that project is completed, I'll hopefully be able to get back to blogging and writing fiction.
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The Detroit Arsenal Factory – Warren, Michigan Maybe it's because I've been watching a lot of World War II movies on TCM, but I have decided to pick The Arsenal of Democracy, aka Detroit during WWII, for this month's writing prompt. The Challenge: Write a short story that takes place during WWII, and is set somewhere in metropolitan Detroit. Genre: This prompt is wide open. One could really spend a career writing fiction set in Detroit during World War II. However, here are a few ideas: You could write some literary fiction: This was time period filled with drama as sons, brothers, and husbands went off to war; and those left behind had to adjust to a new world. You could write a tale of wartime espionage or a story focused on a hard-boiled detective. Perhaps German agents and fifth columnists are seeking to sabotage one or more of Detroit's factories. Thinking of this summer's Captain America, you could write a pulp adventure complete with masked avengers and Nazi super-science. Of course, you could also write a mash-up of a hard-boiled detective story and Lovecraftian horror as exemplified by Jack Yeovil's, aka Kim Newman's "The Big Fish." Word Count: Short stories are generally no more than a few thousand words, but the length is up to you. If your idea turns into a novel, post the first chapter. If you'd like me to give you a hard number, here you go: Write a story about 1000 words long. Accepting the Challenge: Post your story on your blog. In your post, include a link to this post. Next, put a link to your story in the comments section below, and when I post the next challenge, I will post a list of all the stories. Finally, if you are on Twitter and tweet about your story, please include the hashtag #narrows. Let's share with the world what an excellent setting Detroit makes. I just posted a new story, Reflections, on my stories page. Click on over and check it out!
I have notebook where I keep all my story ideas. When something comes to me, I write down a short summary (usually a couple pages). Looking over these stories, I found that I had one that involved a 21st-Century woman traveling to the Celtic Otherworld and meeting a troll king (The Maiden and the Troll King), and another that involved a 21st-Century woman traveling to the Celtic Otherworld and battling a dragon (Georgianna and the Dragon). In both, the young woman was trying to rescue a friend/loved one. Setting them next to each other in the harsh light of day, it is clear that they are structurally the same. At different times, they grew out of my love of Celtic fairy lore and my desire to write a story about a 21st-Century person finding themselves in the Celtic Otherworld. Specifically, I wanted to retell the story of Sir Orfeo (which is itself partially a retelling of Orpheus). Of course, the solution was to merge the two stories together. So far this has proved fairly easy; indeed, the parts of the two stories that I had written meshed together perfectly. The working title of this combination is Georgianna. You can click on this category in the sidebar to see how this story is progressing. The moral of the story is to never throw anything away, and be willing to experiment. Take two things you have written and put them together and see what happens. You might find something interesting. Image Source: Wikimedia Commons Happy Birthday Detroit! Three hundred and ten years ago today, a group of Frenchmen landed on the northern shore of the Detroit River, and founded my hometown. Detroit has had many names: • The Paris of the West • The Arsenal of Democracy • Motown • Hockeytown • The D However, when it was founded it was called Fort Ponchartrain du Détroit – Fort Ponchartrain of the Narrows. You can learn more about how this came to be here. I've lived in metro Detroit for all but five years of my life, and as a writer I find the city makes a wonderful setting for my stories. Indeed, the vast majority of my stories are set here. This is not an accident. It is a conscious choice, but it was not my idea. I was inspired by the story of a young writer from England. This young writer from England once wrote a story, an homage to his favorite author H. P. Lovecraft, who was famous for his weird tales set in New England. The young writer showed his story to August Derleth, one of Lovecraft’s chief disciples and editors. The young writer so admired Lovecraft's work, he set his story in New England (where he had never been) rather than his native England. Derleth gave him some firm advice: Set the story in a place he knew. And so he did. Ramsey Campbell has gone on to write many weird tales and horror novels…set in his native England. This story of Derleth's advice to Campbell made a big impression on me. As Pablo Picasso once said, "Art is a lie that tells the truth." Stories have to have a certain level of authenticity to maintain the suspension of disbelief. I believe that if I wrote about a place that I had never been, that I did not know, the reader would feel this. The spell would be broken. When I started looking around Detroit for stories to set here, ideas seemed to jump out at me. I don't expect you to take my word for it. I'm going to prove it. Over the next 12 months, I will post 12 writing prompt/writing challenge for stories that are set somewhere in metropolitan Detroit. To link it up with Detroit's Birthday, I'll post the first writing challenge today. Since August is only a week away, I'll post the next writing challenge on the first Sunday in September. On the first Sunday in July 2012, I post the twelfth. I hope you will be inspired by these challenges and join me. If you don't know Detroit, look around your own hometown and come up with 12 challenges specific to it. Let's see what we can come up with! The Narrows Writing Challenge #1
When the French settled in Detroit they brought their folk beliefs with them and soon, storytellers were sitting by the fire telling tales of the lutin, fey creatures that were both good and evil. Some looked like creatures we would recognize as goblins. Others, took the form of black cats, who were considered the best protection a family could have. The storytellers also told tales of the Nain Rouge (the Red Dwarf), les dames blanches (will-o-the-wisps), and loup garou (werewolves). Many of these tales were collected by M.C.W. Hamlin in Legends of Le Détroit (1884) and retold for children in Were-Wolves and Will-o-the-Wisps by Dirk Gringhuis (1974). The Challenge: Write a short story that centers on one of these fey creatures and is set somewhere in metropolitan Detroit. Genre: Given the prompt, horror and urban fantasy would be the obvious choices. However, you could also write a children's story, an historical story, or use the fey creatures as metaphors and write a literary piece. Word count: Short stories are generally no more than a few thousand words, but the length is up to you. If your idea turns into a novel, post the first chapter. If you'd like me to give you a hard number, here you go: Write a story about 1000 words long. Accepting the challenge: Post your story on your blog. In your post, include a link to this post. Next, put a link to your story in the comments section below, and when I post the next challenge, I will post a list of all the stories. Finally, if you are on Twitter and tweet about your story, please include the hashtag #narrows. Let's share with the world what an excellent setting Detroit makes. At the beginning of the month, Sonia G Medeiros posted a cool writing challenge on her blog:
"Your challenge this month, should you choose to accept it, is to write a story that prominently features a moon (our moon, an alien moon, whatever)…" At least I think it's cool, but maybe that's because I'm always staring up at the moon. So I decided to take up the challenge. My plan was to set aside my current writing project and write a little stand-alone story. However, a funny thing happened on the way to the forum. After writing a few lines, my vague idea for a stand-alone story became the prologue for the novel I'm currently working on. I wrote it is one sitting. The Muses were truly with me. Without further ado, here is the prologue for Georgianna and the Dragon... * * * A gibbous moon hung in the east and illuminated a cloud that had drifted across it. In the west, the sun’s light was a mere line of orange on the horizon. Georgianna was concerned with neither the light of the moon nor of the sun. Her eyes were fixed on the ball of green light that floated in the blackness under the oak tree. She’s answered my call, Georgianna thought. She closed the book at her knees and slowly rose to her feet using the side of the stone fountain to steady herself. Her heart pounded, but without hesitation, she walked toward the light. When Georgianna was a couple yards away from it, she stopped. As in is the past, the ball of green light expanded into a cloud and then, as if being sculpted from luminescent clay, took the form of a tall woman with long black hair piled atop her head. Her skin was almost as white as her white gown. Something disturbed a nearby hedge. She had not come alone. Georgianna bowed her head and said, “Bon soir, Madame Blanc.” The White Lady had once spoken to one of her own kind in a language that sounded to Georgianna like the French she had learned from the nuns at school. So, Georgianna started to greet the White Lady in French. The fey creature seemed to appreciate it. “What great need do you have, my child? For it must be great to call me so urgently when the moon is not full.” Georgianna unconsciously took a step forward. “My lady, it’s my husband, Frederick. He is very ill. The doctors can’t help him.” Georgianna looked over her shoulder at the large house looming up in the darkness behind her. It’s that damn Jake’s fault, she thought. I knew those clams were off, and who knows where that bathtub gin came from. “I can’t lose him. We’ve only been married a few years.” The White Lady, at least two heads taller than the mortal woman, looked down at Georgianna for she was at-least two heads taller. “My dear girl. You have been a faithful servant since you were but seven summers old. Indeed, you have been very helpful to me in your own way. “And I have rewarded you. You have seen the things that compose the dreams of mortals. I even remember a draught slipped into a young man’s glass by a love-besotted maid.” “I know and I am thankful. But please, this one last favor.” The White Lady sighed and started to walk around the edge of Georgianna’s garden. Georgianna followed after her. “But what you ask.” She shook her head. “It is most perilous to deny the Fates. If the Fates are calling Frederick, who am I to deny them?” “But you could. I know you have done so in the past. I’ve heard the tale of Emile and Brendan.” The White Lady stopped and looked into Georgianna’s eyes, and Georgianna immediately looked at the ground. “One should not repeat what one hears from revelers who are full of wine.” “I am sorry, my lady.” The White Lady was silent for a moment and then continued to walk. “It is a beautiful night.” The last of the sunlight was gone, but it was still warm. Laughter and jazz floated to the two women from the neighboring mansion, and the moon’s reflection shimmered on the surface of Lake St. Clair. “Its beauty puts me into a bold mood.” “Thank you!” Georgianna surged forward and almost took hold of the White Lady’s hand. Something in the nearest bush moved violently. Georgianna checked herself. “I have done nothing yet,” the fey spirit said, as she held up her hand. “What? I thought…” “I may be able to help you, but I will need you to do something for me.” “Of course. Just tell me what it is.” Georgianna took another step closer, but then stepped back. “Someday I shall come to you and I will ask to take your eldest daughter.” Georgianna’s mouth fell opened, but the White Lady gently waved her hand. “It will please me to have her as a lady in my court. It will only be for a short while.” Georgianna bit her lip. She had read Lady Gregory’s book, and many others besides, about the good neighbors. They usually took human children without asking. Even if Georgianna refused, the White Lady could take the child whenever she pleased; and Georgianna would lose her Frederick. She would have nothing. Georgianna nodded. “I agree, please just help him.” The White Lady looked up at the moon and pointed. “Swear by the moon that you shall let me take your eldest daughter.” Georgianna looked at the moon and then back at the White Lady. “Didn’t Shakespeare say not to swear by the–” Georgianna silently cursed her own stupidity. “Inconstant moon? Ah, Master Shakespeare. Yes, he is well known to us.” The White Lady pressed her palms together. “First, Juliet said those words. Shakespeare might not agree with her. Second, the statement is clearly incorrect,” she said and waved her hand. “Every twenty-eight days, the moon travels through its cycle. Every fourteenth day it is half-bright and half-dark. Every seventh day and every twenty-first day it appears in the shape of the sacred horns of Cernunnos. What could be more constant?” Georgianna was silent. All she could do was shake her head. The White Lady continued. “As for the sun, on two different days the sun could shine equally bright. But on one of those days it provides no warmth at all, and on the other day–” “Too hot the eye of heaven shines,” Georgianna said. “Precisely. Now, if you want me to save Frederick, swear by the constant moon. But know this,” the White Lady paused and pointed an unnaturally long, thin finger at Georgianna’s abdomen. “If you refuse to give me the child when I ask, a shadow will follow your eldest daughter, and her eldest daughter, and so on. None shall die peacefully in their beds until one finally serves me in my realm.” Georgianna opened her mouth and then closed it. She glanced up at the moon and then opened her mouth again. This time the words came out. “I swear by the constant moon.” She took in a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. Maybe it’s a boy. I might have all boys. The back door opened, a black silhouette blocked most of the light. “Mrs. Beaumont! Mrs. Beaumont!” Georgianna started violently. “I’m here. What is it?” The silhouette left the door and ran towards her. It was the housekeeper, Mary. “Mr. Beaumont’s fever,” Mary stopped before Georgianna sucking in breath. “Yes? What? What’s happened?” “Praised be to God, Mrs. Beaumont. It’s a miracle. The fever’s broken. I knew the Virgin Mary would answer my prayers.” The housekeeper took hold of Georgianna’s hand. “Come, Mrs. Beaumont, he’s asking for you.” Georgianna let herself be led away, but as she did so, she looked over her shoulder. The White Lady was still faintly visible, gesturing toward the house and nodding. Georgianna smiled and turned back to the house and her husband. The White Lady’s green eyes narrowed and a smile curled the corners of her red lips. She spoke some words that no human ear would recognize. The hedge rustled one last time, and then the White Lady was gone. I've been working my way through Lovecraft's The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath and came across a very nice bit of description: The ship was about to pass over the weedy walls and broken columns of a sunken city too old for memory. It made me think of all the sunken cities in literature and myth. In addition to the sunken city Randolf Carter sails over in Unknown Kadath, Lovecraft also created R'lyeh, an alien city submerged in the South Pacific, which is home of an ancient malevolent being. R'lyeh will someday rise to the surface and humanity will be doomed. Tolkien, inspired by the story of Atlantis, created the story of Numenor. The Numenorians were not satisfied with what they had; they wanted immortality too. The Valar punished them by drowning the island. Recently, I stumbled across another sunken city story: The Legend of Ys. It is a part of Breton folklore, and tells the tale of a sinful city swallowed by the sea. The king's daughter, Dahut, had engaged in orgies and murder. Lucifer appeared in the guise of a Red Knight and tricked Dahut into opening the dikes that held back the sea. Doesn't make much sense to me. Wouldn't Lucifer want the orgies and murder to continue? The legend we have today is probably a jumble of a pagan myth that was rewritten with an added Christian moral by some medieval monk. Since Ys is below sea level, Dahut may represents a chthonic goddess. I think the story needs a retelling to sort things out. Indeed, while I haven't read any of them, the legend has inspired stories by Robert W. Chambers, Poul Anderson, and Jack Vance. It even inspired Claude Debussy to write some music for piano (listen below). If you were to rewrite the Legend of Ys (or a new sunken city story), why did Ys really fall? Perhaps Dahut was really a hero. Would you write it from the perspective of someone who witnessed the city's fall, or would you write it from the perspective of someone finding the ruins years or ages after the fall? I had an amazing dream last night; one of the rare ones that possessed a narrative structure. I was wearing the armor of a 14th-century knight, much like this picture of Bertrand du Guesclin, except that the jupon was a plain dark blue. As I was riding along an amazing landscape (more on that in a moment), I encountered a medieval lady who sent me on a quest. As in most dreams, it followed dream logic. That is, I did not hear her speak, or remember what the quest entailed; I simply found myself galloping across the countryside knowing she had sent me on my way. During the dream, I returned to her several times, and she always had another quest for me. The end of the dream has already faded from my memory, but I remember waking up happy. I mentioned the landscape. It had this hyper-reality about it. I remember thinking while in the dream that I was in some Pre-Raphaelite painting come to life. I rode across rolling hills sparsely covered with trees. The leaves on the trees were golden, but I had the feeling they were very much in their prime - these were not autumn colors. And the light. The dream world was bathed in a perpetual golden light, the kind you sometimes see at dawn or twilight. After I awoke, I was positive I had been dreaming about a specific Pre-Raphaelite painting, and I scoured the books on my bookshelves and the internet to find it. The closest I found was this painting, Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones' The Mirror of Venus. While the trees and light are very similar to those in my dream, the steep slopes are completely wrong. I guess the dream, as often happens, took pieces of various paintings I've seen, and it put them together to create its vivid visual element. Now, all I have to do is add some dialogue and an ending, and I'll have a nice little story...if only it was that easy. Some days it's hard being an English teacher. Grammar rules can seem as useful to the teenage mind as sand toys in the Arctic. Of course they do matter. I might accumulate some bad Karma for laughing at the grammar mistakes of others, but I'm going to take the risk. Here's a video that shows why things like punctuation matter. It shows the funny confusion not following the rules can cause, but it also eloquently argues that words matter, and that we should value those who use words well. After a lot of consideration, I've committed to The Servants of Illuyanka as my next major writing project. I'm going to be mysterious for a while, and only say that part of the story takes place on various islands in the Aegean Sea at the end of the Bronze Age. You know, the age of the Trojan War, Theseus, the Minotaur, and the Labyrinth of Crete.
Here's a picture that is part of my inspiration. It is the Queen's Megaron (or great hall) in the palace of Knossos. It's incredible to think that these beautiful frescoes (albeit with restoration) were painted about 3,500 years ago. |
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