He who is drowned is not troubled by rain.

I'm having trouble breathing. This is a fantastic short story - ethereal, clean, with elements just beyond what you can (or want to) grasp. And this folk tale has always haunted me:

Half Flight

My favorite retelling of it was "Daughter of the Forest," by Juliet Marillier. Look it up. But don't waste time on the sequels.

Till by broad spreading it disperses to naught.

I read an article by Terri Windling this afternoon that examines Rapunzel, the fairy tale. You can read it on the Journal of Mythic Arts' archive site, here: Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let Down Your Hair.

I remember having read a literary examination of Rapunzel before, but the woman in the tower never really caught my attention. I wrote essays about the madwoman in the attic, but never made a connection to the woman in the tower.

But the most interesting part of the essay (for me) was how Windling catalogues the watering-down of fairy tales. The originals are potent, meaning-laden tales that weren't simply crafted as a means to conveying a moral end - they were written for the beauty of the thing itself. And as they are picked down to the bones and restructured and bent to the shape of someone's political leanings over the centuries, they become sparse skeletons of what they once were. They become carriers for moral opinion, tools to convince children to behave.

I think it's a trend that is easily identifiable in thousands of aspects of modern life: we're wading through a mess of brittle, tired beauty. Kind of supports the deterioration of the universe theory, what's it called? Right. The Second Law of Thermodynamics. From order into disorder.

Glad I can be so chipper for you all this lovely, sunshiny Wednesday! Ha!

Man is distinguished from all other creatures by the faculty of laughter.

But I'm not laughing.
I'm cringing and squirming uncomfortably in my easy chair.
Don't get me wrong - I love furry pets and small woodland creatures.
But unless they're acting as furry pets or small woodland creatures, they have no place in marketing.

It all started a few years ago with the Quizno's Abomination. That...thing wasn't even recognizable as "animal" - it was a patchy conglomeration of roadkill bits at best. And they were hoping that that roadkill, through a series of grisly noises and stop-motion animations, would convince me to buy their over-priced sub sandwiches. Mmm, mmm, good!

Lately, KIA has jumped on the Quizno's bandwagon. Anthropomorphized hamsters will not sell cars. Even if they sport bling and rap. I don't care who you are. It will not work. Also, it will not give your kids warm-fuzzy feelings about the teddy bear hamster you're getting them for Christmas. Better start inventing bedtime stories about hamster-free worlds of gumdrops and unicorns now.

Someone somewhere in the deepest recesses of the pistachio business decided that the best way to boost sales of pistachios (the original low-fat snack...really? I had no idea. I thought it was Baked Lays.) was to run TV commercials. Ok. I can see the logic there: Monday Night Football fans are interested in snacking. Naturally low-fat is a bonus. However, instead of using things that appeal to MNF fans (ie: naked women, big burly beards, beer, and SouthPark), the pistachio marketing geniuses (genii?) featured a football player, Charlie Brown, and a cat.
Yes, a cat. Not even a fakey computer-manipulated cat. This cat is real, it's wearing an oversized t-shirt, it's playing a piano, its paws are being moved by human hands "hiding" under the shirt, and this cat is pissed. I NEED PISTACHIOS!

*Disclaimer: I am by no means insisting that I am a marketing genius or that my ideas are always brilliant enough to rake in gleaming piles of loot. However, I am a consumer. I buy things. I look at ads. I am moved by marketing schemes. Whether you move me to purchase your product, throw up, or look up a psychiatrist in the YellowPages is your choice. Choose well!

There is always some madness in love.

But there is also always some reason in madness. (Friedrich Nietzsche)

It must be love. I'm writing poetry. Icky-sticky poetry. It's been years since I've written anything resembling this stuff. I'm vaguely disgusted with myself, but I'm hopeful that it will shift a little as we settle into each other. I'd like to get back to writing myth poems. Per esempio:

Eurydice

I lead her this far,

hard-won with cleverness and

skill.  Even Hades

could not spare his stony heart

from the cry of Love’s sorrow.

The thread of her life

has frayed and snap’t.  I beg you,

return her to me.

Her shade follows your music.

Doubt not and look not behind.

With one hand in light,

I turned to my love, breaking

the single thread of

hope, watching her translucence

dissolve, grasping at shadows.

I sang out for death –

they came with equal passion.

Torn body and soul,

the Muses gather fragments,

scattering them on the winds.

Orpheus gazes

on her – no penalty for

reassurance now.

I miss writing this kind of stuff. That's a tanka, I think - Japanese form of poetry, syllable based. Someday, I'll publish a book of all my re-tellings and re-centerings, both prosaic and poetic.

Dusting off a few rabbit trails.

Since I haven't been writing for NaNo like I'd hoped (yeah, you read that - hoped; I had no particular zest behind it this year), I've been cleaning up a few loose ends of stories that have been swirling around between my ears.
Completed:

• a poem to my grandfather
• The Reproductive Habits of Lagomorpha leporidae pulvilagus
• several blogs (I write three...happy hunting!)
• journaling - I can't tell you how long it's been since I've journaled; there's a lot going on right now

I have a short list of story ideas still to be fleshed out. Wonder if these little tidbits can be part of my NaNo word count? It's writing, after all... And who knows - maybe my novel's not actually about Achilles? Maybe it's a psychological study of a writer...!

NaNoWriMo, Day 9 - Epic failure is imminent.

I've been distracted. I can hardly focus on my work, much less extra things outside of work. But I won't blame him - he's wonderful and encourages my writing, even though I'd rather not do it when he's around.


So remember my last post about how hard a time I was having with the high-English structure? And I kept finding myself bored with what was going on in the story. (Which is sad, since I'm only 6 pages in...) Well, the awesome people at NaNoWriMo headquarters sent around a pep talk today that really helped! It's by Aimee Bender, author of "The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake." Aimee says,

"Go to that anthill, instead—maybe it'll actually lead you back to where you need to go. We are surprisingly structured and repetitive in our preoccupations. And this NaNoWriMo process does not have to be linear.

So, in a nutshell: go where the writing goes. Follow your interesting work...A poet friend of mine, Allyson, once said, "It's so strange how our mind knows more than we are aware of it knowing." It IS strange. It's one of the strangest things of all about being human. But it is also your great and unending resource, and your instincts and impulses, your non-plans, your tangents—although messy!—(if you follow this, you will finish the month with a mess of pages! That I promise! But who cares?) have a higher chance of leading you to a deeper, more layered book."

And now let the self-doubt begin! Do I have the strength of character to override my OCD, type-A personality and write (all in one document!) about whatever pops into my head? That terrifies me. (I'm weird, ok? Really linear and orderly for a creative.) And at the same time, does the fact that I'm a little bored with what I'm writing mean that Aimee's is a good suggestion for me? I'm beginning to think so.

Aish. Here's to liberation and strength of character and whimsy!

A Brief British Bunny Trail

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,

The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,

I know of no reason

Why the Gunpowder Treason

Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent

To blow up the King and Parli'ment.

Three-score barrels of powder below

To prove old England's overthrow;

By God's providence he was catch'd

With a dark lantern and burning match.

Holla boys, Holla boys, let the bells ring.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

And what should we do with him? Burn him!

Author unknown. This is apparently a nursery rhyme in the UK.

I'm reminded of how morbid some of the backstories are for our own nursery rhymes. Which one's your favorite?

NaNoWriMo, Day 3 - The squirrels may be dead.

It's been so long since I've written fiction that each sentence is painstaking. (It doesn't help that I'm writing in a very high-English tone - I rarely speak that way and I find myself struggling for the just right word.) I'm beginning to suspect the poor squirrels in my brain have keeled over and died. Their tiny muscles atrophied (rather quickly, too - the smaller, the quicker, right?) and they just fell off the treadmill.

I must not write about squirrels.
I must not write about squirrels.
I must not write about squirrels.

My novel is now titled ("The Deadliest Arrow"), word-counted (varies, but I'm currently at 1371), and synopsised (or is that synopped? "The story of Achilles, as told by the five women who loved him."). Short and sweet. I should write more of it... it's pretty good, I think.

NaNoWriMo, Day 2 - The muse is...Hemant?

Our VP, Hemant, stopped to chat with me over lunch. He's got a brilliant background in physics and business, and he gives me and Rina a hard time for being artists. So he asked about the NaNo hashtags I've been using on Twitter, and he asked what I was writing.

So I kinda bumbled around about my niche is mythology, but specifically re-centering myths, but usually it's from a female perspective rather than male, but this one's been frustrating because it's about Achilles and he keeps talking too much... and I pretty much made a big mess of it.
And then, the most amazing (writerly) thing happened: I started telling him about this specific story, and what came out of my mouth did not match the notes on my page. It had it's own creative momentum, and it drew from all the research I had done, and it was true to my self-proclaimed re-centering niche. The muse! She's...Hemant!

So here it is, more coherently than it's been thus far:
I'm writing the story of Achilles, but told through the eyes of the women who loved him and who he loved.

Suddenly, there's less oppression in my mind. I might even give each of the five women their own Word doc, and let them ramble away. Hmmmm.