Theodora Goss's Blog, page 36

Beautiful Women

“The definition of beauty is easy; it’s what leads you to desperation.” Paul Valery

I think we need two words for beauty, as the Greeks have two words for love: eros and agape. Eros is romantic love; agape is spiritual love. I want to divide beauty into two categories as well, because it seems to me as though there are two kinds. In On the Sublime and Beautiful, Edmund Burke describes beauty as what pleases and attracts us, as something small, gentle, comfortable. Of course, he defines women as beautiful, as opposed to the more sublime men (and the Alps, men are like the Alps). Or so I remember, from taking a class on aesthetic theory years ago. And it seems to me that we still talk about beauty that way: scientists have shown that we are more attracted to symmetrical faces, for example. To faces that tend toward an average.

But surely that’s only one sense of the beautiful? Nothing about that average, symmetrical face would lead us to desperation. The small, gentle, and comfortable does not launch a thousand ships or burn the topless towers of Ilium. So there has to be something else. I think there is, I think there’s something more to beauty, something that is dangerous, like a dark river winding through a forest. The women I think are beautiful have something about them that is dark in that way, as though there were something underneath the surface. I’ve chosen three women that I think are beautiful in the second sense I mean. They may not be the women you think are beautiful, but that may be because when you think of beauty, you are being a Burkean.

The first of them is Tilda Swinton, here in Orlando.

The second of them is Cate Blanchett, here in Elizabeth.

The third of them is Helena Bonham Carter, here in one of the Harry Potter movies.

I’ve chosen photographs of them that are relatively feminine, with long hair. They look gentler in these photographs than they do on the red carpet, for example, and they can each also look uncanny or grotesque, or masculine, depending on the movie and makeup. They have versatile faces. But even when make up as relatively conventionally beautiful women, there is something unusual in their faces, a particular angularity, a strange proportion. (Poe said something about that, about true beauty having a strangeness in the proportion, in “Ligeia.”)

I suppose for me, that is the sort of beauty Valery was talking about. It has a sort of despair at its heart. It speaks of death. And yet at the same time, it transcends both, because you know that having once existed, it will never cease to exist. Didn’t some poet say that?

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth,

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,

Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils

With the green world they live in; and clear rills

That for themselves a cooling covert make

‘Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms

We have imagined for the mighty dead;

All lovely tales that we have heard or read:

An endless fountain of immortal drink,

Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.

That’s Keats, of course. A funny thing happened as I was copying that stanza, which is only the first of the poem. A pop-up ad appeared for a movie starring Kate Winslet. Who is another one of those beautiful women, here in Titanic.

I just remembered why I was thinking about this today. On the newsstand, I saw the edition of People Magazine that lists the most beautiful people in the world. And I thought, but I don’t agree. Those are not who I would pick as the most beautiful people. They are attractive, yes, but they lack that darkness, that danger. The thing that leads you to desperation. The thing Poe and Valery were talking about.

May Day

Today is May Day, and I should be dancing in flowers. As we should all.

But it’s also the end of the semester, so all I’m dancing in is papers. And today was wet with one of those chill, soaking rains that we get in spring, in Boston. There was no dancing.

What does one do on a May Day like that? What I’m going to do is give you some things that seem, to me, very May. First, a girl standing among blossoms, dressed the way I wish I could have been dressed today (in a romantic summer dress, rather than a jacket and scarf).

Second, almond blossoms by Vincent Van Gogh, who understood trees in a way I don’t think anyone else has or will.

Third, clocks, because summer is coming when there will be more time, but at the same time, it is passing – time is passing as it always does, and the question we have to ask ourselves is, are we spending it well? (I hope to spend it well.)

And finally, one of my favorite poems by A.E. Housman, who understood both spring and time. He is one of the greats, like Van Gogh.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Is hung with bloom along the bough,

And stands about the woodland ride

Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,

Twenty will not come again,

And take from seventy springs a score,

It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom

Fifty springs are little room,

About the woodlands I will go

To see the cherry hung with snow.

That’s all I have for you tonight, because I have to go back to dancing among papers. But those pictures, that poem, symbolize the life I want to create: beautiful, magical. I can’t wait for summer.

Creative Disappointment

I was so disappointed last weekend: I was sick, sick, sick, and couldn’t go to New York to meet with my writing group, the Injustice League. We were workshopping a new novel by Delia Sherman that I can tell you is going to be absolutely wonderful. So on Friday night, instead of sitting on a bus to New York, I was in bed, coughing and aching.

But I couldn’t sleep.

So what did I do? I did what I always do when I’m sick or tired or even simply bored. I created something. In this case, I created a tumblr account. A student of mine had asked me if I had a tumblr account, and I had said no, and she said I should create one – which wasn’t why I created one, but the suggestion stuck in my head. So that’s what I did on Friday night.

Would you like to see it? Here it is: Living a Magical Life. It already has twenty-four followers, which I think is pretty good for two days! I thought of it as a place to put all the beautiful things I want to gather together, to not lose. The pictures, poems, quotations. In case you’re interested, I’ll show you a few of the sorts of things I mean. Here you go, beautiful things:

“Every day we have one foot in a fairy tale and the other in the abyss.” Paolo Coelho

In the end, I wasn’t as disappointed as I could have been, because I was able to skype into the workshop. There is nothing quite like talking about a novel that is in the process of being written, when it’s not quite firm yet – sort of like dough that has not yet taken its final form or been put into the oven. It made me want to work on my own novel. I’m going back to it as soon as the semester is over, although it looks as though I’ll have trips to New York and Florida as soon as the teaching is done. But I can write on buses and planes. I look forward to getting back to it . . .

Because even when I’m sick, sick, sick, I create beautiful things. It’s just what I do.

The Magical House

I have absolutely no energy to write a blog post tonight, so instead I’m going to play a game of Let’s Pretend.

Let’s Pretend that we live in a magical house. The house looks something like this:

Why are we living in this magical house?

1. Our wealthy but mysterious uncle left it to us.

2. It was rented to us very cheaply because there’s supposed to be a ghost.

3. We were hired as caretakers by a lawyer with a strange, lopsided walk named Mr. Pan.

When we walked into the front hall, we were awed, but to be honest, it gets creepy at night. Making our way down those long corridors in the darkness. We are trying to get to the kitchen, because we want to make ourselves a cup of tea, and we’re pretty sure there are some cookies left.

On the other hand, we are enchanted with our bedroom, which has a feather bed and  stars on the ceiling. If only we didn’t keep having that strange dream.

You know the one I mean. With the bed that is also a boat. Do you think it means something? Dreams usually mean something. Does this one mean that we are stranded? Or that we are about to set out on a journey? We’re just not sure.

I think there’s only one thing to be done. First, we’re going to have some breakfast. (Hot buttered toast with orange marmalade, the tea that we never made last night because we were too nervous at the thought of walking along those dark corridors.)

And then we’re going to go out into the garden. It’s early summer, and still cool although the sun is starting to warm the stones. Our ankles are wet with dew.

But we know that if we’re going to find an answer, it’s going to be in the woods. Haven’t the woods been there even longer than the house? And haven’t they been calling to us the entire time?

What will we find in the woods?

1. The answers we’re looking for.

2. Creatures we never imagined.

3. An adventure.

Or maybe all of the above. (You know it’s all of the above, right?)

If you’re wondering, these images are from one of my favorite blogs, The Hanging Garden. I don’t know if all writers are as visual as I am, but pictures always suggest stories to me – or perhaps what I mean is that I seek out pictures that suggest stories, and those become my favorites. So here is a little story for you, on a cold and soggy Thursday. Start in the magical house, and write the rest. And I may try to as well, although not until the semester is over . . .

Wild Geese

I’m very, very busy, so tonight I will give you a poem by Mary Oliver. Here it is:

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

I’ve always liked this poem. I suppose because it’s about how to live in the world, which is a very Taoist way: you do not have to repent, you do not have to despair, you do not have to curse or beg from the Fates. You just have to live. You can talk about your despair, but meanwhile the world goes on: the trees grow new leaves in spring, the roses bloom again, the wild geese fly north. Life continues, and if you stop, if you listen, you can hear it. You can participate in it.

Of course I’m writing this on very little sleep, in the middle of the end of the semester when I’m so completely swamped with work that I can barely breathe. I’m not living a particularly Taoist life at the moment! And this weekend I’m supposed to be in New York for a meeting of my writing group (The Injustice League: Ellen Kushner, Delia Sherman, Catherynne Valente, Lev Grossman, Kathleen Howard, and Claire Cooney). And I’m trying to plan for the trip this summer (Budapest and London). So perhaps I’m reading this poem and responding to it because it’s exactly not what I’m doing right now. I’m not listening. I haven’t stopped. (Wild geese? What wild geese?)

But to be honest, I’m excited. I’ll be traveling most of the summer, researching and working on the novel, and there’s so much happening, so many changes to come. I just have to remind myself to, when I can, stop and listen.  Even if the wild geese I listen to are winging their way over Hungary.

Into the Green

I have a new computer, which I’ve been getting used to. One way I get used to things like new computers is to decorate them, which in this case means that I’ve chosen a lovely desktop image. Here it is:

It’s inspired my blog post for today, which is yet another round of imaginary Etsy shopping. At this point in the semester, all I’m doing is continually meeting with students and grading papers, so to be honest, I have nothing left in my head to write about. There’s simply nothing there, no ideas, no source of inspiration. Imaginary shopping is the best I can do. So here we go. I call this round of shopping “Into the Green,” and it’s inspired by the image above and the fact that it’s spring, although at the moment a cold and soggy one.

The first item I’m going to imaginary buy is this green vase by Suzanne’s Pottery Farm. Isn’t it beautiful? I’ll put it on a dresser or low table.

Then, I think perhaps this print called “Looking Forward” by Shirae. I like how the little girl is looking into the distance, into what I think is probably the sunset. I like how she’s holding her doll, exactly the way little girls do hold their dolls, and how the mushrooms match her dress.

I’ve fallen in love with this – is it a scarf or a necklace? – from The Faerie Market. I just love the pretty pinkish-reddish flower. I honestly don’t know what I would do with something like this, but it’s romantic and imaginative. Perhaps I would have one of my characters wear it. It’s the sort of thing Thea would wear, for instance.

 

Rowan DeVoe Arts gives us this photographic print called “Ophelia Siren Child.” This is the sort of image I might have over my desk, actually. It’s dreamy and inspiring. I don’t think of her as dead but as a sort of dreaming siren who is also Ophelia, in a watery womb, waiting to be reborn.

And finally, this is for us to wear if we want to be as romantic as all of these items, the vase and scarf and prints: a green gypsy skirt from Fashion Dress 6. I wouldn’t wear it like this, not with a tank top and flip-flops, which makes it look too ordinary, but with a filmy white blouse and ballet flats. It’s a skirt that deserves better, and needs to be twirled around in.

The next two weeks are going to be crazy, as I’ve written. I’m going to try to keep updating here, but my posts will be like this one. They’ll be about dreams rather than reality, because that’s how I’m sustaining myself right now.

My Crazy Schedule

The next two weeks are going to be crazy.

I’ve been terrible about updating this blog anyway. And I’m just not sure what the next two weeks are going to be like. They’re the last two weeks of the semester, and I have a feeling that there won’t be much time to update anything, or write, or even breathe much. There are things I’ve been meaning to post, such as about the Arkansas Literary Festival, which was lovely. I felt so well taken care of there! And I was on television for the first time! You can see the segment here: Reading Up a Storm at Arkansas Literary Festival. But the pictures I wanted to post are on my other computer, the broken one, and anyway I don’t have much focus left for writing about it all.

What to do today? I think the best thing for me to do would be to talk a bit about the various things I’ve been doing and what’s coming out. So here goes!

First, as you know, I spent last weekend at the Arkansas Literary Festival, which was absolutely lovely. I was invited by the wonderful Kevin Brockmeier, whom you should most certainly read. I would link to his website, but he doesn’t seem to have one. He has very kindly put “Professor Berkowitz Stands on the Threshold” on his list of fifty favorite short stories.

And then I learned that the panel I did at the International Conference on the Fantastic in the Arts, on monsters, has been turned into a podcast and can be heard on the Locus website. Here’s a description of the panel:

“Today we’re bringing you one of the evening panels held at ICFA this past March. The panel, held late on Thursday evening, featured (in the order you will hear them): Moderator F. Brett Cox, China Miéville, James Morrow, Suzy McKee Charnas, Peter Straub, Theodora Goss, and Kelly Link. They particularly discuss the question of the appropriateness of applying the label ‘monster’ to a real person, from both a cultural and historical perspective. “

Go listen to the podcast: ICFA Podcast: The Monstrous. I really do think it’s interesting, and the panel was a lot of fun.

And I have two reprints coming out, although I don’t know when yet. “Singing of Mount Abora” will be reprinted online in Lightspeed, and “Professor Berkowitz Stands on the Threshold” will be reprinted on the World SF Blog. I’ll let you know when those come out!

While I was doing all this, I forgot that I still had the Arkansas Literary Festival pictures I wanted to post on my camera. So I’ve emailed them to myself. They’re nothing really, just silly pictures I took with my cell phone, but I’ll post them anyway. Saturday, I had the television appearance early in the morning, and then I had a panel in the early afternoon. For the television appearance, I wore a long black skirt and a black jacket. (You can see it in the clip.) For the panel, I changed into a dark green blouse, which you can see below. This was how I looked at my panel, on the main day of the festival:

When I got back to my room that night, I was so tired! I had done a lot that day, gone to other writer’s events in addition to my own and wandered around Little Rock. I’m not sure if I should even post this, but this is the writer in a state of collapse:

So, the next two weeks are going to be crazy. And then, once my grades are in, I’m taking a week off and going on vacation. But I’ll tell you about that another time.

Learning to Travel

I’m traveling more and more. In February I was at Boskone, which was a very short trip, just to the other side of Boston. In April, I was in Orlando for the International Conference on the Fantastic in the Arts. And last weekend I was in Arkansas for the Arkansas Literary Festival, which by the way was wonderful. I was even on television! I appeared on Today’s THV, a morning show on Channel 11 in Little Rock, Arkansas. You can see the segment here: “Reading Up a Storm at Arkansas Literary Festival.”

The thing about traveling, for me, is that it’s exhausting. And sometimes I feel as though I don’t do it very well, particularly when I’m traveling a lot. I don’t eat well, or get enough exercise, or get anywhere near enough sleep. But this time, I decided that I was going to create some rules for myself that would make traveling easier and healthier. I’ve got a couple of rules already.

1. Sleep when you can. You really do need to sleep whenever you can, and that includes on airplanes. I slept most of the way home today. (I took four planes in three days: two there, two back. Boston, Chicago, Little Rock, Chicago, Boston.) You should never hesitate to take a nap in the middle of the day. It’s very difficult, when you’re doing these sorts of events, to get enough sleep. Sometimes you’re at a cocktail party at night, and then you’re on television early the next morning. And you want to do all that, it’s important to do, it’s why you’re there. But when you can sleep, do. And don’t be afraid to miss events. On the last night, I missed two events I had originally intended to make, but I knew that if I went, I would be out late socializing. And I had a plane to catch the next morning.

2. Eat small meals frequently. First of all, you’re going to get small meals. You’re going to get crackers and cheese at a cocktail party. Or a free continental breakfast at the hotel. Travel is expensive, and you want to take advantage of all the free meals you can. You also want to try all the foods you don’t usually get to. In Little Rock, for example, I had a chai frozen popsicle covered with chocolate. It was very good, and not something I’ve ever had before. The trick is never to eat too much at once, and to eat at frequent intervals so that you’re never either full or hungry. You’re going to be so busy that you need constant energy, and small meals are best for that.

3. Bring short-sleeved shirts and sweaters. I inevitably find that I’m hot outside and cold (often painfully cold) inside. Planes are cold, hotels are cold, anywhere conferences are held are usually air conditioned. So I find that I need to be ready for both the heat and the cold. The best way to do that, for me, is to bring short-sleeved shirts to wear underneath and sweaters to wear over them. I also find it very useful to bring scarves. They fit into small spaces, and yet they can add color to basic black clothes and warmth when you’re cold even in a sweater. Otherwise, I travel in jeans. Jeans and black skirts of various lengths will take you through most events you need to attend, as a writer.

So those are some of my travel basics. It’s very hard to stay healthy, physically and mentally, when you’re naturally an introvert and you have an intense travel schedule that involves meeting a lot of people. The more travel tricks you learn, the easier it is . . .

(Oh, one last trick. Never try to read anything serious on an airplane. You may have the best of intentions, but you will inevitably give up. Trust me. Magazines and murder mysteries are best.)

The Real Problem

Yesterday, I asked a question on my Facebook page:

"How do you all find time to write? Seriously, I'm starting to wonder how people do it. I know you're supposed to make time, but out of what, thin air? It's frustrating . . ."

I got some wonderful comments about how to find time, and some that recommended things I was already doing: for example, I don't watch much television anyway. But reading through them, I realized that the real problem wasn't time. It was energy.

The real question is, how do you find the energy to write? Because honestly, some days I can't even write a blog post. Part of it is my schedule: I teach four writing classes, and I have a two-hour commute to the university. Those two things by themselves take an enormous amount of time, but they take even more energy. At the end of a working day, I often just want to lie in bed, under a warm blanket, and do nothing. I've spent the entire day interacting with people, solving problems, dealing with whatever issues come up, and I'm exhausted. Perhaps I'm different from other writers in this way, but I need a clear head to write. I need energy.

You've seen "Blanchefleur," right? Well, that's my first draft. And while I don't want to praise my own writing, that's the way it comes out: what I type up, for a short story at least, is usually close to a final draft. But when I write, I'm never sitting there, idly scribbling. It always takes my complete focus. An hour or two of writing can be exhausting, although at the same time it can also be exhilarating enough that I continue on, sometimes beyond the point where I'm about ready to fall over.

So I think the real solution isn't to find more time, but to change my life so that I have more energy to write. That partly involves making sure I'm doing writing that pays, so I can justify not taking on other paying work and focusing on the writing. That means writing novels, and I'm certainly going to focus on novel writing next.

So here's the plan. (You knew there was going to be a plan, right? I am an inveterate maker of plans. And, often, those plans work.)

The plan is to get through the semester and then finish the novel over the summer. That will mean a lot of work, a lot of writing, all over the world since I'm going to be traveling. But I'm looking forward to it. I know my characters, I know quite a bit of the story I want to tell, and I'm looking forward to that sense of full immersion I get when I'm really going, when I'm living in the world I've created.

I want to spend time with my girl monsters.

The visual I'm going to give you tonight is Sarah Bernhardt:

Why am I giving you Sarah Berhardt? Because in a way, she identified herself as a girl monsters long before Lady Gaga came along. She slept in a coffin and she sculpted an inkwell with an image of herself as a gargoyle. That takes guts.

I have an enormous amount of respect for Sarah Bernhardt. Maybe I'll write her into my novel, somehow . . .

Blanchefleur: Part 6

This is the difficult part. Up until this part, I had something typed, or at least something handwritten. Now I'm working with only a general idea of where the story is going. And I realized, after I finished last night's section, that I wrote an Oswald into the story. I have no idea who Oswald is, but because of the way I write, in which ends are neatly tucked in, Oswald has to show up later. I think he may be one of the people trying to defeat the dragon. (Yes, there's a dragon. He'll show up eventually.)

Ivan was used to waking up at dawn, so wake up at dawn he did. He found a small bathroom under the stairs, splashed water on his face, got dressed, and went downstairs. Blanchefleur was sitting on the table, staring at the kettle still set on it, with a look of disdain on her face.

"What is that mess?" she asked.

"I think it's porridge," he said, after looking into the kettle. It smelled inviting, but then anything would have at that hour. Next to the kettle were a wooden bowl and spoon, as well as a napkin. "Did you put these here?" he asked Blanchefleur.

"Why would I do such a stupid thing?" she asked, and turned her back to him. She began licking her fur, as though washing herself were the most important thing in the world.

Ivan shrugged, spooned some of the porridge into the bowl, and had a plain but filling breakfast. Afterward, he washed the bowl and spoon. As soon as he had finished eating, the kettle had emptied again – evidently, it did not need washing. Then he sat down at the table and pulled the first of Professor Owl's notes toward him.

It was tedious work. First, he would read through Professor Owl's notes, which were written in a cramped, slanting hand. Then, he would try to add an entry to the file, as neatly and succinctly as he could. He had never paid attention in school, and writing did not come easily to him. After the first botched attempt, he learned to compose his additions on the backs of Professor Owl's notes, so when he went to write the entries, he was not fumbling for words. By noon, he had finished additions to the entries on Justice, Rose, Darwin, Theosophy, Venus, Armadillo, Badminton, and Indochina. His lunch was chicken soup with noodles. He thought about having nothing but soup, every noon and night for an entire year, and longed for a sandwich.

He sat down at the table and picked up the pen, but his back and hand hurt. He put the pen down. The sunlight out the window looked so inviting. Perhaps he should go out and wander around the tower, just for a little while? Where had Blanchefleur gone anyway? He had not seen her since breakfast. He got up, stretched, and walked out.

It had been his habit, as long as he remembered, to wander around as he wished. That was what he did now, walking around the tower, then heading toward the scrubby pines on the hillsides, looking idly for Blanchefleur and finding only lizards. He wandered without thinking about where he was going or how long he had been gone. The sun began to sink behind the mountains.

That was when he realized that he had been gone for hours. Well, it would not matter, would it? He could always catch up with any work he did not finish tomorrow. He walked back in the direction of the tower, only becoming lost once. It was dark when he reached it again. He opened the door and walked in.

There were Professor Owl and Blanchefleur. The Professor was sitting in the chair Ivan had occupied earlier that day, scribbling furiously. Blanchefleur was saying, "What did you expect of someone named Idiot? I told you he would be useless."

"Oh, hello, boy," said Professor Owl, looking up. "I noticed that you went out for a walk, so I finished all of the notes for today, except Orion. I'll have that done in just a moment, and then you can sit down for dinner. I don't think I told you that each day's entries need to be filed by the end of the day, or the Encyclopedia will be incomplete. And it has never been incomplete since I started working on it, five hundred years ago."

"I'll do it," said Ivan.

"Do what?" said Blanchefleur. "Go wandering around again?"

"I'll do the entry on Orion."

"That's very kind of you," said Professor Owl. "I'm sure you must be tired." But he handed Ivan the pen and hopped onto the table. It was a lopsided hop: Ivan could tell that the owl's right foot was hurting.  He sat and finished the entry, conscious of Blanchefleur's eyes on him. When he was finished, Professor Owl read it over. "Yes, very nice," he said. "You have a clear and logical mind. Well done, boy."

Ivan looked up, startled. It was the first compliment he ever remembered receiving.

"Well, go on then, have some dinner," said Professor Owl. "And you'll be up at dawn tomorrow?"

"I'll be up at dawn," said Ivan. He knew that the next day, he would not go wandering around, at least until after the entries were finished. He did not want Blanchefleur calling him Idiot again in that tone of voice.