Meet Stygian

"There is no sun in Sodden.
'Ware the murk,
the dank dark earth,
the odd and awful fog -
where men have trod, and sank, and screeched
and each has frantic, thrashed and clawed 
the sucking, treacherous, murderous muck!
but none has ever 'scaped the bog.
There is no sun in Sodden."
      
      - A fragment on an ancient waystone marking the end of the marchlands between the King's country and the region of Meer.

The Cat sat motionless in the open. A light but depressing and steady drizzle was soaking its fur, but it paid no attention. It simply sat there and waited. This unusual display of resilience to wet did not go unnoticed. All areas of the Meer are watchful, even those left to themselves for centuries. And their guardians have very long memories.

Eventually, the Cat discovered that there was a figure resting against a stunted tree just on the edge of the surrounding gloom. He was wearing a burgundy coat two sizes too big for him which was patched in several places and missing buttons. A widebrimmed hat covered most of his face, but it was obviously reptilian. Scaly blue skin and grimy teeth are always a dead give away. He looked rather unpleasant. The Cat regarded him curiously for a long moment. Finally it said,

"Stygian."

The lizard-man grunted. "That's me."

"You haven't changed a bit."

"What're you doing in Bristlemeer?"

"A bit of a favor for a friend, actually. What do you say to a trip to Sodden?"

"Why did you come here? Sodden is in the other direction."

The lizard-man got up and turned to leave, but the Cat had somehow got in his way and he tripped and fell. It brushed against him and purred amiably at his cursing.

"Really? All right, it was a silly question. Sodden's a rotten place anyway. Not that I would know, of course. But there's something else I was going to ask you: what are you going to do about Candle Flame? Icarus has gone to find it, you know."

There was a pause.

"By Icarus, you mean the moth?"

"Exactly. It's a bit of a sticky business if the wrong person finds it. I'm sure you know what I mean."

Stygian scowled. "He's headed for Sodden right now, isn't he?"

The Cat grinned.

To Smithereens!

Writer's block is a common enough topic for discussion. I apologize in advance for anything of a cliche nature. I wish to draw attention to something often missed. 

Let us examine the phrase. I think the first word is straight forward enough. The writers in question are always tragically heroic, sometimes brilliant, and never given to exaggeration. The second word, on the other hand, is unfortunately chosen. What is a block? 

A) a fair to middling rectangular prism of some substance 

B) a rather ineffectual synonym for "parry" 

C) a french-canadian political party with a k attached. Alas, even the k cannot mask its true nature. But that is another story.

Obviously, none of these meanings are quite adequate to describe the deadly serious nature of writer's "block". They ignore the impenetrable fog of dense jungle, the frightening emptiness of vast and uncrossable deserts, the frigid isolation of deep space, all of which approximate the yawning chasm between pen and paper. I propose a rather stronger word:

Blockade.

Definition: a concerted effort to isolate a certain group of people from something of value to them. 

Friends, we are talking about acts of war. We are talking about all out seige. We are talking about nations. Doesn't it feel like myriad forces are conspiring against you? Like some superpower's navy has crammed the ports - the essential harbours for Ideas - so full of cannons that even doughty ol' Inspiration runs up the white flag? I am sure you will agree that "blockade" is a better term than "block". Even its greater length suggests less frequent usage: deliberation is exercised before employing so weighty a word. 

This new word's connotations also provide us with a mindset useful for returning us to our natural state of industrious scribbling. This is war. In the case of a rectangular prism, one might approach writer's block as a trivial nuisance to be hefted idly or turned over and over dispassionately. But passion is the key. Don't just escape writer's "block" - break the blockade! Burst free! Prime the guns! Blast 'em to smithereens! The longer you're trapped, the harder it is.  

PS I suggest a healthy dose of "The Medallion Calls" by Klaus Badelt for the extra-beleaguered. 

Family Breakfast

Here. Have a salutation, and let's get on with life. Today, because it suits me, I am the Story Teller. I'm in the mood to describe a breakfast scene. Some elements you will be familiar with; others may shock you. Perhaps you will find you care very little, in which case, you have my respect. It is not so easy to be perfectly apathetic. At any rate, I've gotten this far, so let us observe.

It is 7:15am. Good - nay, glorious! smells are wafting about, bouyed upwards by unusually lively conversation. The speakers are a family gathered around a home-made table. Golden, syrup drenched waffles grace every plate and there are large scraps of patterned paper scattered between cold glasses of milk and the occasional cup of orange juice. The next-to-youngest, fourth-from-oldest (but fifteen - already!) has forgotten her waffle, and the oldest, the boy (he prefers 'guy', and doesn't know what to make of 'man') is eyeing it and wondering how she got her priorities scrambled so. The mother eyes the oldest, in case he makes a move for the waffle.

Next-to-youngest eyes no one and tears hunks of paper from a box crammed with potential, not bothering to keep the wrapping intact. The crunching, scrunching, crinkling sound is to be reveled in - after all, this is a Birthday - but the voices soon overpower it. There is guessing to be done.

"It's gumboots. I know it... Yesss, I love these! Thanks Mom!"

"They weren't cheap. Guard them with your life."

"Open another one."

Next-to-youngest is handed another gift.

"Betcha that one's gumboots too."

A necessary part of the guessing game is to throw the opener off the scent. But Next-to-youngest is no fool.

"Yeah, looks like it could be the right size...if you were a mouse. Idiot."

Next-to-oldest says drily "Maybe it's a goat fetus. And you can grow it or something."

There is a brief silence. Everyone looks incredulously her way. And then hilarity breaks out. Next-to-youngest does indeed love goats. Luckily for all present, the wrapping falls away to reveal a christmas mug instead. Next-to-youngest celebrates, and the family is pleased that this is a good day for her.

Alone on the counter, on a vantage point at once near and far, the Story Teller chafes in impatience. There is food uneaten! And I want it. What is there to do but add to the noise? I meow urgently. I yowl a bit. I jump down from my perch and rub up against their legs and purr, to show how happy I am that they have finally noticed me starving to death, and that I will probably forgive them once they hand over the scraps. Ah, I can almost taste them - and oldest has lifted me up, up, towards the heady smell of syrup! and wait, no, we are moving away! Thumpthumpthump. We galumph down the stairs three steps at a time and I am hurled out the door mercilessly.

And that is life, is it not? True apathy is impossible. Love is a risk. Necessary, yes, but who can you trust? All for one...and that is all.
- Cat

Here be Monsters: What makes a Good Book?

I read an excellent story a few days ago. It's called Young Unicorns and written by Madeleine L'engle. It has nothing whatever to do with unicorns. I'm a bit puzzled about that actually, but it doesn't matter. This book stands out from the rest of L'engle's work, as far as I'm concerned. Something that defies description makes this a good book. Something about the unusual relationships between characters - about the odd but joyful family, about the importance of music and literature to them, about the unobtrusive and yet central disability (blindness) of one of the protagonists - made the flaws in the plot almost irrelevant. The ending was too convenient and almost hurried, and yet I loved the book. That hasn't happened to me for a long time. It's tempting to be flippant and say it comes from reading too many research papers and of course I'm bound to like something escapist after that much academese, but it's not that at all. 

What I want to know is: what is it exactly that attracts me to this book so much? And if I can pin it down, how can I use it in my own writing?

Today, I was re-reading an essay by J.R.R Tolkien on the nature of faerie stories, and realized Tolkien was searching for the very same thing that I am, only he was concerned with Faerie, and not the Primary World, as he calls every day "reality". Tolkien's essay shows that he really understands that elusive quality of the genuine faerie tale - of a story that doesn't require the willing suspension of disbelief (that would imply the need for a conscious decision!), but actually creates a secondary reality, something that demands description and at the same time resists it, by nature of its Otherness. I am explaining it badly, so if you haven't already, you'd better read the essay to see where I've mucked things up. It's called "On Faerie Stories".  

Now, I want more than ever to create a true faery tale. I fear for the Owl, the Moth and the Cat - they do not quite fit into true faery tales, not on their own. But they might be minor characters in legends or motifs in ancient snatches of half-forgotten songs which provide a depth to the deliberate vagueness of faerie tale history and setting. The beauty of Faerie seems to be in its ability to elude definition. We never know the whole story: Tolkien's elaborate world was never completely finished, and I don't think it ever would be. I think he was driven to create more and more (read his essay and you'll understand more why I use that word) precisely because of the simultaneously frustrating and enticing gaps in his world. The gaps make it infinite - and we need something infinite in any good faerie story. Some assurance that there is more, that this is not all there is, that we have not yet explored the entire world. 

This makes me think of cartography. Maps were so much more exciting before everything was explored. "Here be Monsters" must have been scrawled with a kind of savage delight that cannot be found in familiar, printed place names, like "Aldergrove, BC." I certainly read ancient and modern maps with  different levels of excitement. Luckily, unlike cartography, in writing the activity of exploring a world does not make it finite (providing it is done correctly.) And Tolkien nailed it in his stories.