Lynn Flewelling's Blog, page 55
December 28, 2010
Guest Blogger: Josh Lanyon!
"On the third day of Christmas my author gave to meeeee--- three French maids, two turtle gloves, and a Josh Lanyon in a pear treeeeeee!"
That's right, boys and girls. I'm delighted to host one of my favorite authors here today. I know you'll all make him feel welcome. Now, I have to tell you, when Josh interviewed me at his LJ he made me write my own intro. And I quote "Lynn, I hate writing intros, my own or anyone else's so, if you wouldn't mind telling the at-home viewers a little about yourself." Turn about's fair play. OK, Josh, tell us a little about yourself.
Ouch. Well, let's see. I'm Josh Lanyon and I write gay or m/m fiction, usually mystery or adventure with a strong romantic subplot. I've been writing professionally for, well, longer than I want to admit to. If you know my work, it's probably through the Adrien English mystery series. In the last couple of years I've tried my hand at spec fiction, publishing Strange Fortune with Blind Eye Books and The Darkling Thrush with Loose Id. I enjoy spec fiction, but it's got to be the most demanding genre out there, so Lynn you have my utmost admiration.
I feel the same about your tightly plotted and often humorous mysteries. So, first to the important stuff: (Answer as shortly or longly as you likely.)
a. Coffee or tea?
Hot Earl Grey when I'm writing and Irish coffee on the weekends or when I'm doing a morning of promo.
b. Cats or dogs?
I do like cats a lot, but I love dogs. Usually big, dumb dogs, though it's been a few years since I've had one.
I've got one you'd love, and can have if he tracks mud in one more time.
c. Vampires or werewolves?
Let's have them fight it out and I'll take the winner.
d. Boxers or briefs?
On you or me? I'm not sure I fit into either after the holidays.
e. LAPD or FBI?
It depends on my crime and what kind of a head start I have. I do seem to write about LAPD a lot, don't I?
I have my own theory on that. ;-)
f. Plotter or pantser?
Given the fact that I write in layers starting with a horrendously rough draft and then filling in as I go, I'd say plotter. Certainly for novels.
g. Ravens or writing desks?
Ravens. Every time.
You are a very prolific writer. Please tell my readers a little about your latest publications, and where they can find them. (Shill, man, shill!)
Well, right now the big focus is on All She Wrote, the second book in the Holmes and Moriarity (spelling intentional) series.
It's both exciting and perilous to start out with a new cast of characters after winding up a series that readers were so fond of -- well, you know this! You've been there.
This series is about Christopher Holmes, a former bestselling mystery writer who turns forty about the same time his lover dumps him and his career hits the skids. But it's funny. At least I hope it's funny. It doesn't sound funny the way I describe it, does it? Anyway, in true Murder She Wrote fashion, every time poor Kit turns around he's stumbling over yet another dead body -- to the dismay of his ex-cop (and now more successful mystery writer) boyfriend, J.X. Moriarity.
This time around, Kit -- against the wishes of J.X. -- rushes to the aid of his former college mentor after a series of attempts on her life. So hopefully it's fun and sexy and mysterious and all that.
(Available from Samhain and Amazon.com today!)
There, now that we have all that sorted, let's get to why people are really here. What's the hardest thing about writing m/m sex scenes?
I think after 43 stories (according to the last count), the challenge is keeping them halfway original and meaningful. As a reader I can't help but notice the sameness to all these scenes in everyone's work (mine included). As a writer you hope to avoid rewriting yourself again and again -- even knowing that to some extent it's unavoidable.
Well, it does always employ the same basic parts . . .
What's the easiest thing about writing m/m sex scenes?
The human factor. If you've ever been to bed with anyone ever you have access to the elements that go into writing meaningful and memorable sex scenes. (I mean, assuming you were sober enough to remember what happened.) I hear aspiring/perspiring writers blabbing on and on about male physiology and biology and blah, blah, blah and the fact is that the only stuff that really resonates with readers -- male or female -- has to do with the emotional and sensory details -- and that's all universal. Touch, taste, smell, sound…a little bit of personal experience can go a long way if you're willing to remember and explore those memories.
Are you hard or easy?
Hard. Very hard. So they tell me.
What is your writing space like? What do you need around you, or not around you? One thing I'm often asked is what kind of music I listen to while I write.
My office currently looks like it was ransacked by Mongols. If I have to, I can work anywhere, but I prefer a comfortable chair -- support for my wrists is key -- and I'm better able to focus if things are halfway tidy. Most important is having no one around to interrupt. My ability to work through any and all distraction has faded with time. I like music -- and I'll try and match the music to the mood of what I'm writing -- but TV distracts me too much now days.
If you had to choose another career, what would it be?
I'd like to think it would be something dashing and romantic, but I'd probably teach. I taught for a number of years and I did enjoy it. Teaching is not something you do lightly or half-heartedly though. It's a vocation, not a job.
As a fellow former/sometimes teacher, Amen, brother.
Please solve the following equation (scrap paper allowed but no calculators): A + B = C , where A = first pet's name and B = mother's maiden name, and C = your porn name.
Sassy + Mileur = Sassy Mileur. I sound like a French stripper. Ooh la la!
Please tell us a bit about your development as a writer.
Holy crap you ask hard questions! ;-) Well…lemme think. I've been writing since I was a kid, but it's only really in the last few years that I've become what I consider a decent writer. I think it takes a while and a certain amount of living before you have anything worth writing about -- and I think that's true regardless of what you write. I think I always had a knack for turning a phrase, but I think these days I have something worth saying, and that's a different thing altogether.
Also, it takes time and a fair bit of writing and reading to be able to look really objectively at your own work. We all start out a little arrogant about our art -- even when we're insecure. I was lucky in that I had a number of editors work with me before I was really publishable. I didn't listen to them at the time (quite the opposite, in fact) but later when I grew up a little, I thought about things I'd been told and they began to click.
I think what happens is you start out thinking you know it all, then you realize you know basically nothing, then you get to a point where you do really know a lot. It's not quite full circle and you have to go through that painful realization that your work is shit before you can get anywhere. Very honestly, most writers never manage to make it to the point of realizing their work is shit -- so they remain mediocre. Assuming they remain at all.
Do you/have you participate/d in writing groups? If so, what do you think makes for a successful group, besides bad coffee in flimsy cups?
But the secret IS the bad coffee. It's only after you've spilt boiling coffee in your lap a few times that you can understand what it is to really suffer for your art.
I've participated in many writing groups. I like writing groups, as a matter of fact. If you can get the right blend of people -- and you've got someone in charge who can keep the focus positive and productive -- it can be a great experience. Even if everyone doesn't manage to reach publication, a good writing group can keep the pleasure of writing and creating alive. That's worth a lot right there. A bad group is worse than no group, though.
Do you believe in love? Do you believe it's true? Do you believe in love? (Oh, you can bet I believe it, too.) Name the musical group and answer the lyric. Extra points if you answer in "a b a b" rhyme structure.
Oh I believe in love
It cheers me when I'm blue
It flies just like a dove
And lands me in the goo.
Snerk! Goo!
(I know, I know. It's a gift. Now I can't remember the question.)
Bonus Question (50 pts): You mentioned in your blog that you love Maine. As a native Mainer, I must ask, what's your connection? Do you know, without Googling, what "Dirigo" means? Can you identify and pronounce "Wytopitlock"?
You know, my ideas of Maine are totally romantic and book-based. It just seems like a place I'd love to visit, and I set a lot of stories in places I'd love to visit. Assuming I ever stop writing long enough to leave the house I'm going to come to Maine and visit you and you can show me your Wytopitlock.
Really now, sir!
So Dirigo is Latin and it's your state motto. Alas, I totally had to look it up. I actually thought it was a small fishing boat.
Wytopitlock is, as everyone knows, a small series of narrow locks by which the fishing dirigos move from lake to lake along the coast of Maine.
Close enough. Half credit. This will be graded on a curve.
I hope it's a bell curve and not a bell jar.
Thanks, Josh! I hope all my readers enjoyed that as much as I did, and will ask you lots of good questions. As for me, Amazon.com just delivered the e-book of All She Wrote just now, so---- gotta go!
That's right, boys and girls. I'm delighted to host one of my favorite authors here today. I know you'll all make him feel welcome. Now, I have to tell you, when Josh interviewed me at his LJ he made me write my own intro. And I quote "Lynn, I hate writing intros, my own or anyone else's so, if you wouldn't mind telling the at-home viewers a little about yourself." Turn about's fair play. OK, Josh, tell us a little about yourself.
Ouch. Well, let's see. I'm Josh Lanyon and I write gay or m/m fiction, usually mystery or adventure with a strong romantic subplot. I've been writing professionally for, well, longer than I want to admit to. If you know my work, it's probably through the Adrien English mystery series. In the last couple of years I've tried my hand at spec fiction, publishing Strange Fortune with Blind Eye Books and The Darkling Thrush with Loose Id. I enjoy spec fiction, but it's got to be the most demanding genre out there, so Lynn you have my utmost admiration.
I feel the same about your tightly plotted and often humorous mysteries. So, first to the important stuff: (Answer as shortly or longly as you likely.)
a. Coffee or tea?
Hot Earl Grey when I'm writing and Irish coffee on the weekends or when I'm doing a morning of promo.
b. Cats or dogs?
I do like cats a lot, but I love dogs. Usually big, dumb dogs, though it's been a few years since I've had one.
I've got one you'd love, and can have if he tracks mud in one more time.
c. Vampires or werewolves?
Let's have them fight it out and I'll take the winner.
d. Boxers or briefs?
On you or me? I'm not sure I fit into either after the holidays.
e. LAPD or FBI?
It depends on my crime and what kind of a head start I have. I do seem to write about LAPD a lot, don't I?
I have my own theory on that. ;-)
f. Plotter or pantser?
Given the fact that I write in layers starting with a horrendously rough draft and then filling in as I go, I'd say plotter. Certainly for novels.
g. Ravens or writing desks?
Ravens. Every time.
You are a very prolific writer. Please tell my readers a little about your latest publications, and where they can find them. (Shill, man, shill!)
Well, right now the big focus is on All She Wrote, the second book in the Holmes and Moriarity (spelling intentional) series.
It's both exciting and perilous to start out with a new cast of characters after winding up a series that readers were so fond of -- well, you know this! You've been there. This series is about Christopher Holmes, a former bestselling mystery writer who turns forty about the same time his lover dumps him and his career hits the skids. But it's funny. At least I hope it's funny. It doesn't sound funny the way I describe it, does it? Anyway, in true Murder She Wrote fashion, every time poor Kit turns around he's stumbling over yet another dead body -- to the dismay of his ex-cop (and now more successful mystery writer) boyfriend, J.X. Moriarity.
This time around, Kit -- against the wishes of J.X. -- rushes to the aid of his former college mentor after a series of attempts on her life. So hopefully it's fun and sexy and mysterious and all that.
(Available from Samhain and Amazon.com today!)
There, now that we have all that sorted, let's get to why people are really here. What's the hardest thing about writing m/m sex scenes?
I think after 43 stories (according to the last count), the challenge is keeping them halfway original and meaningful. As a reader I can't help but notice the sameness to all these scenes in everyone's work (mine included). As a writer you hope to avoid rewriting yourself again and again -- even knowing that to some extent it's unavoidable.
Well, it does always employ the same basic parts . . .
What's the easiest thing about writing m/m sex scenes?
The human factor. If you've ever been to bed with anyone ever you have access to the elements that go into writing meaningful and memorable sex scenes. (I mean, assuming you were sober enough to remember what happened.) I hear aspiring/perspiring writers blabbing on and on about male physiology and biology and blah, blah, blah and the fact is that the only stuff that really resonates with readers -- male or female -- has to do with the emotional and sensory details -- and that's all universal. Touch, taste, smell, sound…a little bit of personal experience can go a long way if you're willing to remember and explore those memories.
Are you hard or easy?
Hard. Very hard. So they tell me.
What is your writing space like? What do you need around you, or not around you? One thing I'm often asked is what kind of music I listen to while I write.
My office currently looks like it was ransacked by Mongols. If I have to, I can work anywhere, but I prefer a comfortable chair -- support for my wrists is key -- and I'm better able to focus if things are halfway tidy. Most important is having no one around to interrupt. My ability to work through any and all distraction has faded with time. I like music -- and I'll try and match the music to the mood of what I'm writing -- but TV distracts me too much now days.
If you had to choose another career, what would it be?
I'd like to think it would be something dashing and romantic, but I'd probably teach. I taught for a number of years and I did enjoy it. Teaching is not something you do lightly or half-heartedly though. It's a vocation, not a job.
As a fellow former/sometimes teacher, Amen, brother.
Please solve the following equation (scrap paper allowed but no calculators): A + B = C , where A = first pet's name and B = mother's maiden name, and C = your porn name.
Sassy + Mileur = Sassy Mileur. I sound like a French stripper. Ooh la la!
Please tell us a bit about your development as a writer.
Holy crap you ask hard questions! ;-) Well…lemme think. I've been writing since I was a kid, but it's only really in the last few years that I've become what I consider a decent writer. I think it takes a while and a certain amount of living before you have anything worth writing about -- and I think that's true regardless of what you write. I think I always had a knack for turning a phrase, but I think these days I have something worth saying, and that's a different thing altogether.
Also, it takes time and a fair bit of writing and reading to be able to look really objectively at your own work. We all start out a little arrogant about our art -- even when we're insecure. I was lucky in that I had a number of editors work with me before I was really publishable. I didn't listen to them at the time (quite the opposite, in fact) but later when I grew up a little, I thought about things I'd been told and they began to click.
I think what happens is you start out thinking you know it all, then you realize you know basically nothing, then you get to a point where you do really know a lot. It's not quite full circle and you have to go through that painful realization that your work is shit before you can get anywhere. Very honestly, most writers never manage to make it to the point of realizing their work is shit -- so they remain mediocre. Assuming they remain at all.
Do you/have you participate/d in writing groups? If so, what do you think makes for a successful group, besides bad coffee in flimsy cups?
But the secret IS the bad coffee. It's only after you've spilt boiling coffee in your lap a few times that you can understand what it is to really suffer for your art.
I've participated in many writing groups. I like writing groups, as a matter of fact. If you can get the right blend of people -- and you've got someone in charge who can keep the focus positive and productive -- it can be a great experience. Even if everyone doesn't manage to reach publication, a good writing group can keep the pleasure of writing and creating alive. That's worth a lot right there. A bad group is worse than no group, though.
Do you believe in love? Do you believe it's true? Do you believe in love? (Oh, you can bet I believe it, too.) Name the musical group and answer the lyric. Extra points if you answer in "a b a b" rhyme structure.
Oh I believe in love
It cheers me when I'm blue
It flies just like a dove
And lands me in the goo.
Snerk! Goo!
(I know, I know. It's a gift. Now I can't remember the question.)
Bonus Question (50 pts): You mentioned in your blog that you love Maine. As a native Mainer, I must ask, what's your connection? Do you know, without Googling, what "Dirigo" means? Can you identify and pronounce "Wytopitlock"?
You know, my ideas of Maine are totally romantic and book-based. It just seems like a place I'd love to visit, and I set a lot of stories in places I'd love to visit. Assuming I ever stop writing long enough to leave the house I'm going to come to Maine and visit you and you can show me your Wytopitlock.
Really now, sir!
So Dirigo is Latin and it's your state motto. Alas, I totally had to look it up. I actually thought it was a small fishing boat.
Wytopitlock is, as everyone knows, a small series of narrow locks by which the fishing dirigos move from lake to lake along the coast of Maine.
Close enough. Half credit. This will be graded on a curve.
I hope it's a bell curve and not a bell jar.
Thanks, Josh! I hope all my readers enjoyed that as much as I did, and will ask you lots of good questions. As for me, Amazon.com just delivered the e-book of All She Wrote just now, so---- gotta go!
December 27, 2010
Holiday Hike
Matt's plane flights were cancelled, thanks to the snow, so we took off to the Mojave Desert to hike in to 49 Palms Oasis in Joshua Tree Nat'l Park. It was a gorgeous day, and a beautiful destination.
Landscapes as we go along
Nearing the Promised Land
Palm Grove
The family. (I was not having a photogenic day)
The spring that created the oasis
A skull-shaped boulder
A real place we passed on the road to the trail head. A guy had fenced in his yard and declared himself a town.
Landscapes as we go along
Nearing the Promised Land
Palm Grove
The family. (I was not having a photogenic day)
The spring that created the oasis
A skull-shaped boulder
A real place we passed on the road to the trail head. A guy had fenced in his yard and declared himself a town.
December 25, 2010
Dr. Who Christmas Special Observations
Space cruise ship reminiscent of "2001: A Space Odyssey."
What were Amy and Rory up to in the honeymoon suite? A police woman and a Roman? Heh.
Planetside: Ah, steampunk. Goggles and pseudo Victorian clothing. Sun parasols at night.
Love Michael Gambon!
Really now, why are the servants wearing dark goggles at night?
A lady in a deep freeze. "I think she's a bit cool about the whole thing."
Ha, Dr. Santa Who comes down the chimney. :-D
"Blimey! Christmas eve on a rooftop, saw a chimney, my whole brain said 'What the hell?'"
Why do the bad guys always have pipe organs, or things that look like pipe organs?
Lots of goggles! And shiny black aprons.
FIsh? What is this fish you speak of? Fish that can swim in fog!
**long series of annoying commercials**
"Quantum enfolding and a paperclip." :-D
I never get tired of the TARDIS sound. Read that it is the sound of a key being dragged over a piano string, played backward.
Psychic paper:
"It's just a lot of wavy lines."
"It shorted out. Finally a lie too big."
"Dangerous? We're boys. You know what boys say in the face of danger?"
"What?"
"Mummy!"
Dr. Who: world's worst baby sitter.
"What color is it?"
"Big!"
***More annoying commercials***
"it's bigger on the inside!"
"I keep amazing out here!"
*** Yet more annoying commercials.**
Sleigh ride, Dr Who style. Bells on Sharktail ring, making spirits bright. . . That was just me.
How did Dr. Who not notice the decreasing count on the cryo unit? Perhaps he did, and has his reasons for waiting for K. to tell him the truth? Or he believes that her death is part of the necessary future? K's secret pain is loss of her.
*** Still more annoying commercials. Time for pie**
Could Susan Boyle charm the fish, I wonder?
If you load a shark at the beginning of the story, you'd better fire it before the end.
Dr. Who comes to America and morphs into X-Files? Bring it on!
What were Amy and Rory up to in the honeymoon suite? A police woman and a Roman? Heh.
Planetside: Ah, steampunk. Goggles and pseudo Victorian clothing. Sun parasols at night.
Love Michael Gambon!
Really now, why are the servants wearing dark goggles at night?
A lady in a deep freeze. "I think she's a bit cool about the whole thing."
Ha, Dr. Santa Who comes down the chimney. :-D
"Blimey! Christmas eve on a rooftop, saw a chimney, my whole brain said 'What the hell?'"
Why do the bad guys always have pipe organs, or things that look like pipe organs?
Lots of goggles! And shiny black aprons.
FIsh? What is this fish you speak of? Fish that can swim in fog!
**long series of annoying commercials**
"Quantum enfolding and a paperclip." :-D
I never get tired of the TARDIS sound. Read that it is the sound of a key being dragged over a piano string, played backward.
Psychic paper:
"It's just a lot of wavy lines."
"It shorted out. Finally a lie too big."
"Dangerous? We're boys. You know what boys say in the face of danger?"
"What?"
"Mummy!"
Dr. Who: world's worst baby sitter.
"What color is it?"
"Big!"
***More annoying commercials***
"it's bigger on the inside!"
"I keep amazing out here!"
*** Yet more annoying commercials.**
Sleigh ride, Dr Who style. Bells on Sharktail ring, making spirits bright. . . That was just me.
How did Dr. Who not notice the decreasing count on the cryo unit? Perhaps he did, and has his reasons for waiting for K. to tell him the truth? Or he believes that her death is part of the necessary future? K's secret pain is loss of her.
*** Still more annoying commercials. Time for pie**
Could Susan Boyle charm the fish, I wonder?
If you load a shark at the beginning of the story, you'd better fire it before the end.
Dr. Who comes to America and morphs into X-Files? Bring it on!
Christmas
Well, it's been a bit of a mixed day. Both sons are home, which is great, and we've been having a wonderful time, and really looking forward to Christmas morning, a big deal at our house. We got as far as opening the stockings and the popovers were about to be started when Doug confessed to feeling Really Bad. Long story short we spent Christmas morning at the ER, Doug in agony with a kidney stone. Brought him home, drugged but still miserable, around noon and put him to bed. He got up later long enough to open gifts, and is back in bed now in a drugged fugue.
But the boys and I have been playing cards, and messing around with the truly awesome and addictive set of rare earth magnets Matt and Doug both got for Christmas. http://www.amazon.com/Neocube-216pc-Magnet-Puzzle-Children/dp/B001EM1SEA/ref=sr_1_1?s=toys-and-games&ie=UTF8&qid=1293327363&sr=1-1
Santa also put life size Jelly Belly gummy rats in certain stockings, which wasn't taken as funny as Santa (me) thought they would be. Oh well. I thought they were funny!
The next major event is the Dr. Who Christmas special at 9. In the meantime the boys and I voted to bag the big Christmas dinner and, as soon as the pumpkin and venison mincemeat (my Mom's) pies are baked, venture out in search of Chinese food. People will think we're Jewish!
Happy Holidays to all!
But the boys and I have been playing cards, and messing around with the truly awesome and addictive set of rare earth magnets Matt and Doug both got for Christmas. http://www.amazon.com/Neocube-216pc-Magnet-Puzzle-Children/dp/B001EM1SEA/ref=sr_1_1?s=toys-and-games&ie=UTF8&qid=1293327363&sr=1-1
Santa also put life size Jelly Belly gummy rats in certain stockings, which wasn't taken as funny as Santa (me) thought they would be. Oh well. I thought they were funny!
The next major event is the Dr. Who Christmas special at 9. In the meantime the boys and I voted to bag the big Christmas dinner and, as soon as the pumpkin and venison mincemeat (my Mom's) pies are baked, venture out in search of Chinese food. People will think we're Jewish!
Happy Holidays to all!
December 24, 2010
Holiday Snippet!
From Nightrunner 6: CASKET OF SOULS
Copyright 2010
Do not distribute
Ulia squatted in the weeds above the breakwater, poking at the dead gull's shiny gold eye with a twig. It was pretty, and she wished it was a bead she could wear on a string around her neck. But it also meant that the bird was freshly dead.
The child's bare arms and legs were like knobby twigs themselves, sticking out of the shapeless grey folds of her sister's cast-off dress. She picked the dead bird up by one still supple orange foot and carefully held it at arm's length so the blood dripping from its gaping bone-colored beak wouldn't get on her clothing or bare feet. The bird was nearly as big as she was. Even when she held her hand up high, the head dragged on the ground and the broad grey-backed wings flapped clumsily, as if it didn't want to go in her mama's stewpot. Ulia looked around quickly, judging the distance across the barren shorefront to the row of sagging tenements where she and her large family lived, and measuring who else was around to see. An older child, or even a grownup, would take it from her for sure, and then her family would go hungry another night. But there was no one at the moment, except for the bent old woman sitting on one of the granite anchor stones nearby, leaning on a gnarled stick.
Ulia would have avoided her, too, except that the woman was holding something up between her fingers that caught the light and sparkled like sunlight on ice. Curious, Ulia sidled over toward her, arm already aching from the weight of the bird. Keeping out of reach, she craned her neck, trying to see what it was that was sparkling so.
The old woman wore a dress as crude and tattered as her own, but the scarf wound around her head under the brown shawl might have been red once. Ulia was a child starved for color. Even the dead bird's blood was pretty to her. What she could see of the old woman's face under the kerchief was sun-browned and lined, and she had white whiskers on her chin. As Ulia came closer, she saw that the old grandmother had on the strangest belt; it was made of rope, and had things hanging from it on bits of string and yard. What she could see were bent spoons, broken hair combs, bones, a bracelet made of dried rosebuds and hair. But Ulia's gaze lingered longest on what the woman still held between her dirt-crusted fingers. It was a bit of rock crystal, clear as rain water, bright as a star in the daytime, prettier than the gull's golden eye.
"Hello, little one," the old woman said, given her a broken-tooth smile.
Ulia warily kept her distance. "Hello, old mother."
"I see you've found your dinner."
Ulia instinctively tried to hold the gull behind her.
The old woman laughed. "I've got my own supper waiting, love. I'm not going to take yours." She thumped her twisted stick on the ground. "My chasing days are over, anyway, don't you see?"
Ulia stood on one leg and scratched the back of her calf with the other foot where the seagull's wing feathers made it itch. "That's a pretty rock."
The old woman cocked her head and regarded the crystal. "It is, indeed, but I have so many!" She leaned her stick against the stone and rummaged in the folds of her skirts. At last she found a pouch on a length of fisherman's twine and dumped the contents into the palm of her hand. White and yellow stones caught the light like sharp crystal teeth. "Would you like to have one?"
Ulia's eyes widened at that and she let the gull fall and took a step closer, eyes fixed on the sparkling stones. "I can have one?"
As she raised her hand to reach for one, however, the old woman drew her own hand back and closed her fingers around them. "A trade, to keep the bad luck off."
Ulia glanced back at the gull.
"No, love, I don't need your dinner," the old woman said with a warm chuckle.
What else did she have? The child raised her hand to the little bit of faded blue silk ribbon knotted into a hank of her dark brown hair. It was only a few inches long; her mother had found a long piece trodden into the dirty snow in the marketplace last winter, lost by some wealthy girl. She'd washed it and cut it into five little pieces, one for each daughter, and tied it into their hair in bows that looked like tiny butterflies. Ulia pulled the bedraggled bit of cloth loose, wincing as several strands of hair came with it, and held it out.
The old woman smiled down at her, holding Ulia's gaze as she took it.
The old woman tucked the ribbon away inside her tattered glove and let the child choose the stone she wanted. The one the grandmother had been holding when Ulia had first seen her was the largest. Ulia's fingers hovered over that one and the old woman smiled. "Whatever one you like, love."
Ulia hesitated, then chose a smaller one that was yellow as a daisy's eye. "It's so clear! Is it magic?"
"No, sweetness, it's just a pretty stone I found. Not worth a broken penny, but to you and me. Now you better run along and get that fine bird to your mama."
Unused to such kindness, Ulia impulsively kissed the old woman's hand, then grabbed up the gull and ran home, laughing.
Copyright 2010
Do not distribute
Ulia squatted in the weeds above the breakwater, poking at the dead gull's shiny gold eye with a twig. It was pretty, and she wished it was a bead she could wear on a string around her neck. But it also meant that the bird was freshly dead.
The child's bare arms and legs were like knobby twigs themselves, sticking out of the shapeless grey folds of her sister's cast-off dress. She picked the dead bird up by one still supple orange foot and carefully held it at arm's length so the blood dripping from its gaping bone-colored beak wouldn't get on her clothing or bare feet. The bird was nearly as big as she was. Even when she held her hand up high, the head dragged on the ground and the broad grey-backed wings flapped clumsily, as if it didn't want to go in her mama's stewpot. Ulia looked around quickly, judging the distance across the barren shorefront to the row of sagging tenements where she and her large family lived, and measuring who else was around to see. An older child, or even a grownup, would take it from her for sure, and then her family would go hungry another night. But there was no one at the moment, except for the bent old woman sitting on one of the granite anchor stones nearby, leaning on a gnarled stick.
Ulia would have avoided her, too, except that the woman was holding something up between her fingers that caught the light and sparkled like sunlight on ice. Curious, Ulia sidled over toward her, arm already aching from the weight of the bird. Keeping out of reach, she craned her neck, trying to see what it was that was sparkling so.
The old woman wore a dress as crude and tattered as her own, but the scarf wound around her head under the brown shawl might have been red once. Ulia was a child starved for color. Even the dead bird's blood was pretty to her. What she could see of the old woman's face under the kerchief was sun-browned and lined, and she had white whiskers on her chin. As Ulia came closer, she saw that the old grandmother had on the strangest belt; it was made of rope, and had things hanging from it on bits of string and yard. What she could see were bent spoons, broken hair combs, bones, a bracelet made of dried rosebuds and hair. But Ulia's gaze lingered longest on what the woman still held between her dirt-crusted fingers. It was a bit of rock crystal, clear as rain water, bright as a star in the daytime, prettier than the gull's golden eye.
"Hello, little one," the old woman said, given her a broken-tooth smile.
Ulia warily kept her distance. "Hello, old mother."
"I see you've found your dinner."
Ulia instinctively tried to hold the gull behind her.
The old woman laughed. "I've got my own supper waiting, love. I'm not going to take yours." She thumped her twisted stick on the ground. "My chasing days are over, anyway, don't you see?"
Ulia stood on one leg and scratched the back of her calf with the other foot where the seagull's wing feathers made it itch. "That's a pretty rock."
The old woman cocked her head and regarded the crystal. "It is, indeed, but I have so many!" She leaned her stick against the stone and rummaged in the folds of her skirts. At last she found a pouch on a length of fisherman's twine and dumped the contents into the palm of her hand. White and yellow stones caught the light like sharp crystal teeth. "Would you like to have one?"
Ulia's eyes widened at that and she let the gull fall and took a step closer, eyes fixed on the sparkling stones. "I can have one?"
As she raised her hand to reach for one, however, the old woman drew her own hand back and closed her fingers around them. "A trade, to keep the bad luck off."
Ulia glanced back at the gull.
"No, love, I don't need your dinner," the old woman said with a warm chuckle.
What else did she have? The child raised her hand to the little bit of faded blue silk ribbon knotted into a hank of her dark brown hair. It was only a few inches long; her mother had found a long piece trodden into the dirty snow in the marketplace last winter, lost by some wealthy girl. She'd washed it and cut it into five little pieces, one for each daughter, and tied it into their hair in bows that looked like tiny butterflies. Ulia pulled the bedraggled bit of cloth loose, wincing as several strands of hair came with it, and held it out.
The old woman smiled down at her, holding Ulia's gaze as she took it.
The old woman tucked the ribbon away inside her tattered glove and let the child choose the stone she wanted. The one the grandmother had been holding when Ulia had first seen her was the largest. Ulia's fingers hovered over that one and the old woman smiled. "Whatever one you like, love."
Ulia hesitated, then chose a smaller one that was yellow as a daisy's eye. "It's so clear! Is it magic?"
"No, sweetness, it's just a pretty stone I found. Not worth a broken penny, but to you and me. Now you better run along and get that fine bird to your mama."
Unused to such kindness, Ulia impulsively kissed the old woman's hand, then grabbed up the gull and ran home, laughing.
Otters's Christmas Card
While I ponder what to do about our traditional holiday snippet, here's a little something from the Vancouver Aquarium.
December 23, 2010
Refugees
In the past 24 hours we have had three ant incursions. They are wearing life preservers and carrying their worldly goods in tiny muddy sacks, suitcases, and wheelbarrows. They have signed a secret pact with the spiders to pass unmolested. The spiders are in full battle gear and staging goose stepping public marches up and down the hall, but it's all just for show.
I hate the smell of Raid in the morning.
I hate the smell of Raid in the morning.
December 22, 2010
Shakespeare!
I must admit, my reading of Shakespeare has been spotty since college. I know a number of the plays, but few of the sonnets, although we did have "Let us not to the marriage of true minds" read at our wedding.
So I'm reading the sonnets in order, and was amazed to discover that the first 17 are clear admonitions to a male friend—possibly a lover, certainly someone he loved— to have children!
I need to find a guide to the sonnets. Can anyone suggest a good reference?
So I'm reading the sonnets in order, and was amazed to discover that the first 17 are clear admonitions to a male friend—possibly a lover, certainly someone he loved— to have children!
I need to find a guide to the sonnets. Can anyone suggest a good reference?
December 21, 2010
When Knitting Pays Off
During the summer I still knit, just because I really like to knit. But as I sit here on a cold rainy day, wearing my own knitted socks, scarf, wrap, and fingerless gloves, I am very happy with my efforts. Now how do I knit jeans and shoes, I wonder? Probably have to felt the shoes, which I could do by walking down the sidewalk today.
The fingerless gloves, done in Malabrigo's Silky Merino Nocturnal:
(http://www.malabrigoyarn.com/sub_yarn.php?id_sub_yarn=15)
(http://www.churchmouseyarns.com/collections/classics/products/welted-fingerless-gloves)
The fingerless gloves, done in Malabrigo's Silky Merino Nocturnal:
(http://www.malabrigoyarn.com/sub_yarn.php?id_sub_yarn=15)
(http://www.churchmouseyarns.com/collections/classics/products/welted-fingerless-gloves)
Happy Solstice!
It's still raining tigers and elephants here, so we missed the eclipse. :-( No end of rain in sight yet. Canoeing in the back yard is nice, though. And the koi are enjoying watching TV.
