Gillian Polack's Blog, page 196
April 1, 2012
On fantasy world building
I'm thinking back to the last few world building courses I have taught and also to a good few of the novels I have read in the last couple of years. Where the writer/student does a really solid base in one place (including geology, geography and how they affect daily life, including trade and personal space and other key cultural elements) they're likely to see the need for basic checks along these lines. This means that if a character starts in a well-built world (even if it's only the space of a one room cottage) they're more likely to continue travelling in a well- built world than if they start in a vaguer or more generic setting. That's the good news.
If they don't know enough about the world (or don't know enough about the physical structure of places or about people or about houses or about land use) they're more likely to design in patches. Give a character a house that sits on a lonely hilltop, for instance. Make the lonely hilltop bleak (for atmosphere) and brutal (no water, not much usable land) to give the character a solid environment. Then put a town in a fertile valley not a hundred years from this lonely hilltop. And, on the other side of the lonely hilltop, have an equally lonely road where no-one passes. It's a road, though, not an almost-invisible track, even though there is no government (despite the town, which is on a different road anyhow) and despite the fact that no-one passes. And then, suddenly there is an inn. With enough food at all times and with company (perhaps jolly, perhaps dangerous). Thinking about the scene in terms of a fantasy novel first and foremost, can lend to this patchiness.
This is because thinking first and foremost "I am writing a fantasy novel" can lead to world building from stereotype. "I need a fantasy world so it must have these characteristics." Given enough solid thought and the road can dwindle to a shack and the inn can disappear and the valley with its town can be further away and in a different micro-climate underpinned by quite different rock types.
Some of this, however, is something else. It's building different aspects of the world on different pieces of paper without bothering to see if they fit. I evilly tested this on my students last Tuesday, and it was a lot of fun. For me it was a lot of fun, but not for the students. One group suffered questioning from me when their lowland house with its stream running underneath ended high on a granite hillside, for instance. This is a very good and thoughtful class, which made the source of the problems particularly obvious.
Until recently, I thought that the problem was with lack of knowledge about the basics of world building and the resort (through lack of knowledge) to fantasy tropes. That's the problem for some people.
For others, though, the problem derives from the simple mechanics of how they went about their early world building. If you start (as I made my students start) with your main character's home, then put the page aside and start designing the town, it takes a conscious effort to realise and define their relationship with each other.
And that's my thought for the day. I can now turn my brain off.
If they don't know enough about the world (or don't know enough about the physical structure of places or about people or about houses or about land use) they're more likely to design in patches. Give a character a house that sits on a lonely hilltop, for instance. Make the lonely hilltop bleak (for atmosphere) and brutal (no water, not much usable land) to give the character a solid environment. Then put a town in a fertile valley not a hundred years from this lonely hilltop. And, on the other side of the lonely hilltop, have an equally lonely road where no-one passes. It's a road, though, not an almost-invisible track, even though there is no government (despite the town, which is on a different road anyhow) and despite the fact that no-one passes. And then, suddenly there is an inn. With enough food at all times and with company (perhaps jolly, perhaps dangerous). Thinking about the scene in terms of a fantasy novel first and foremost, can lend to this patchiness.
This is because thinking first and foremost "I am writing a fantasy novel" can lead to world building from stereotype. "I need a fantasy world so it must have these characteristics." Given enough solid thought and the road can dwindle to a shack and the inn can disappear and the valley with its town can be further away and in a different micro-climate underpinned by quite different rock types.
Some of this, however, is something else. It's building different aspects of the world on different pieces of paper without bothering to see if they fit. I evilly tested this on my students last Tuesday, and it was a lot of fun. For me it was a lot of fun, but not for the students. One group suffered questioning from me when their lowland house with its stream running underneath ended high on a granite hillside, for instance. This is a very good and thoughtful class, which made the source of the problems particularly obvious.
Until recently, I thought that the problem was with lack of knowledge about the basics of world building and the resort (through lack of knowledge) to fantasy tropes. That's the problem for some people.
For others, though, the problem derives from the simple mechanics of how they went about their early world building. If you start (as I made my students start) with your main character's home, then put the page aside and start designing the town, it takes a conscious effort to realise and define their relationship with each other.
And that's my thought for the day. I can now turn my brain off.
March 31, 2012
Women's History Month - guest post by Kate Forsyth
The Author of the first Children's Book in Australia
I've always wanted to be a writer. Perhaps this is because books have always been sunshine and solace for me, a magical portal that transports me away from my own world and into one that is infinitely more interesting.
Perhaps it's because writing is in my blood. Poets, journalists, novelists, academics, obsessive letter writers – my family is littered with them.
Among the most famous of my ancestors is Louisa Atkinson, the first Australian-born female novelist and journalist. She has even had a number of flowering plants named after her, among them Erechtites atkinsoniae and Xanthosia atkinsoniana.
Yet the most remarkable of all those writers was for many years forgotten. She struggled against poverty, grief, and violence to write the first children's book published in Australia.
Charlotte Atkinson was born two hundred and forty years ago in London, the third daughter of a rich and unconventional gentleman, Albert Waring, who spent his fortune collecting art and exotic animals. Charlotte was unusually well educated, having been a child prodigy who read by the age of two.
When her father died, all his money was left in trust for his young son. Charlotte, like the heroine of a Bronte novel, was forced to find work as a governess. Restless and unhappy, when Charlotte saw an advertisement for a governess offering a massive 100 pounds a year, she applied at once. The 24 other governesses who all applied withdrew once they were told the job was as governess to the Macarthur family, in the far-distant wilds of New South Wales. Charlotte took the job, though she insisted she must travel first class.
She had been engaged by Mrs King, the wife of Admiral Phillip King. A few weeks after they set sail, Mrs King wrote to her husband, "I am very much disappointed in Miss Waring, the Governess ... We had not been 2 hours on board before I saw she was flirting with Mr Atkinson, and ere 10 days were over she was engaged to him … I have spoken to her … but she (said) she must be mistress of her own actions.'
Charlotte Waring left Plymouth on 19th September 1826, a penniless governess, and arrived in Sydney on 22nd January 1827 engaged to James Atkinson, one of the richest young men in the colony. They married and built a grand manor, Oldbury Farm, at Sutton Forest in the Southern Highlands. Four children were born in quick succession - Charlotte Elizabeth (my great-great-great- grandmother), Emily, James John and Louisa.
When Louisa was only a baby, James Atkinson died and Charlotte was left alone, trying to run a vast, isolated property and raise and educate four children under the age of six. One day she was out riding with her overseer, George Barton, when they were attacked by bushrangers. One proceeded to brutally whip Barton, saying he "considered it his duty to … flog all the gentlemen so they might know what punishment was."
A month later she married George Barton – perhaps because she was afraid, perhaps because of the scandal, perhaps because he blackmailed her by threatening to tell what had really happened. It was a decision she was to regret bitterly.
George Barton was a violent drunk. In time he would be charged with murder and certified insane. Life with him was so intolerable that Charlotte packed up her four children and ran away. She had lost her husband, her home, her income … and soon she was to be threatened with losing her children too.
In Sydney, Charlotte applied to the courts for payment of the allowance she had been left in James Atkinson's will. The trustees of Oldbury Farm retaliated by declaring her "not a fit and proper person to be the Guardian of the Infants."
For the next six years, Charlotte battled the trustees through the courts. She sold her clothes and her jewellery, and ran up debts. Every night she drew her four young children about her and told them stories, creating for them an enchanted circle where they could feel safe and loved. At night, she wrote the stories down – tales of life in the new colony of Australia.
In July 1841, the NSW Supreme Court found in favour of Charlotte, allowing her to retain custody of her children. Although they ordered the trustees to pay Charlotte the allowance she was entitled to, they never did. Desperate to find a way to support herself, Charlotte sent the stories she had written to a publisher. To her great relief and pleasure, they agreed to publish her book.
Called 'A Mother's Offering To Her Children, By A Lady Long Resident In New South Wales', it was the first children's book to be published in Australia. Released in December 1841, it was an instant bestseller.
Kate Forsyth is the bestselling and award-winning author of 25 books, translated into 10 languages. Her latest book for adults, Bitter Greens, interweaves a retelling of the Rapunzel fairytale with the scandalous life story of the woman who first told the tale, the 17th century French writer Charlotte-Rose de la Force. Her latest book for children is The Starkin's Curse, a tale of high adventure and true love set in the same world as her bestselling novels The Starthorn Tree and The Wildkin's Curse. Kate is currently studying a doctorate in fairytales at UTS. Her website is http://www.kateforsyth.com.au
I've always wanted to be a writer. Perhaps this is because books have always been sunshine and solace for me, a magical portal that transports me away from my own world and into one that is infinitely more interesting.
Perhaps it's because writing is in my blood. Poets, journalists, novelists, academics, obsessive letter writers – my family is littered with them.
Among the most famous of my ancestors is Louisa Atkinson, the first Australian-born female novelist and journalist. She has even had a number of flowering plants named after her, among them Erechtites atkinsoniae and Xanthosia atkinsoniana.
Yet the most remarkable of all those writers was for many years forgotten. She struggled against poverty, grief, and violence to write the first children's book published in Australia.
Charlotte Atkinson was born two hundred and forty years ago in London, the third daughter of a rich and unconventional gentleman, Albert Waring, who spent his fortune collecting art and exotic animals. Charlotte was unusually well educated, having been a child prodigy who read by the age of two.
When her father died, all his money was left in trust for his young son. Charlotte, like the heroine of a Bronte novel, was forced to find work as a governess. Restless and unhappy, when Charlotte saw an advertisement for a governess offering a massive 100 pounds a year, she applied at once. The 24 other governesses who all applied withdrew once they were told the job was as governess to the Macarthur family, in the far-distant wilds of New South Wales. Charlotte took the job, though she insisted she must travel first class.
She had been engaged by Mrs King, the wife of Admiral Phillip King. A few weeks after they set sail, Mrs King wrote to her husband, "I am very much disappointed in Miss Waring, the Governess ... We had not been 2 hours on board before I saw she was flirting with Mr Atkinson, and ere 10 days were over she was engaged to him … I have spoken to her … but she (said) she must be mistress of her own actions.'
Charlotte Waring left Plymouth on 19th September 1826, a penniless governess, and arrived in Sydney on 22nd January 1827 engaged to James Atkinson, one of the richest young men in the colony. They married and built a grand manor, Oldbury Farm, at Sutton Forest in the Southern Highlands. Four children were born in quick succession - Charlotte Elizabeth (my great-great-great- grandmother), Emily, James John and Louisa.
When Louisa was only a baby, James Atkinson died and Charlotte was left alone, trying to run a vast, isolated property and raise and educate four children under the age of six. One day she was out riding with her overseer, George Barton, when they were attacked by bushrangers. One proceeded to brutally whip Barton, saying he "considered it his duty to … flog all the gentlemen so they might know what punishment was."
A month later she married George Barton – perhaps because she was afraid, perhaps because of the scandal, perhaps because he blackmailed her by threatening to tell what had really happened. It was a decision she was to regret bitterly.
George Barton was a violent drunk. In time he would be charged with murder and certified insane. Life with him was so intolerable that Charlotte packed up her four children and ran away. She had lost her husband, her home, her income … and soon she was to be threatened with losing her children too.
In Sydney, Charlotte applied to the courts for payment of the allowance she had been left in James Atkinson's will. The trustees of Oldbury Farm retaliated by declaring her "not a fit and proper person to be the Guardian of the Infants."
For the next six years, Charlotte battled the trustees through the courts. She sold her clothes and her jewellery, and ran up debts. Every night she drew her four young children about her and told them stories, creating for them an enchanted circle where they could feel safe and loved. At night, she wrote the stories down – tales of life in the new colony of Australia.
In July 1841, the NSW Supreme Court found in favour of Charlotte, allowing her to retain custody of her children. Although they ordered the trustees to pay Charlotte the allowance she was entitled to, they never did. Desperate to find a way to support herself, Charlotte sent the stories she had written to a publisher. To her great relief and pleasure, they agreed to publish her book.
Called 'A Mother's Offering To Her Children, By A Lady Long Resident In New South Wales', it was the first children's book to be published in Australia. Released in December 1841, it was an instant bestseller.
Kate Forsyth is the bestselling and award-winning author of 25 books, translated into 10 languages. Her latest book for adults, Bitter Greens, interweaves a retelling of the Rapunzel fairytale with the scandalous life story of the woman who first told the tale, the 17th century French writer Charlotte-Rose de la Force. Her latest book for children is The Starkin's Curse, a tale of high adventure and true love set in the same world as her bestselling novels The Starthorn Tree and The Wildkin's Curse. Kate is currently studying a doctorate in fairytales at UTS. Her website is http://www.kateforsyth.com.au
gillpolack @ 2012-03-31T12:23:00
My Passover shopping is done, insofar as it is possible. Refrigerated goods have not yet been delivered to Coles Manuka, nor has chocolate, nor has wine, nor has meat. I can use grapejuice instead of wine and I have already sorted alternates for cheese. I've decided to rejoice in multiculturalism and have halal meat, which I can pick up in Mawson on Wednesday.
All I need is to source kosher for Passover edelbitter, which is one of the joys in my Jewish year and which I don't want to miss. Chocolate covered matzah was always a bit of a dream - I don't need it and only 3/4 want it, but I totally adore kosher for Passover dark chocolate and don't want to do without. If I could get some of that chocolate and a bottle of the sweet concord wine for the seder and for charoset, then I'd be quite fine. Even without them, though, Passover is doable.
I do find it strange that I can get kosher for Passover potato chips and that the matzah was on sale, but that I can't get wine. Still, I have most essentials. And chestnuts. For chestnuts came into season early and I bought some to console myself for the totally strange Passover selection.
I should put my shopping away and do something about lunch. Should. Ought to. Which requires moving.
All I need is to source kosher for Passover edelbitter, which is one of the joys in my Jewish year and which I don't want to miss. Chocolate covered matzah was always a bit of a dream - I don't need it and only 3/4 want it, but I totally adore kosher for Passover dark chocolate and don't want to do without. If I could get some of that chocolate and a bottle of the sweet concord wine for the seder and for charoset, then I'd be quite fine. Even without them, though, Passover is doable.
I do find it strange that I can get kosher for Passover potato chips and that the matzah was on sale, but that I can't get wine. Still, I have most essentials. And chestnuts. For chestnuts came into season early and I bought some to console myself for the totally strange Passover selection.
I should put my shopping away and do something about lunch. Should. Ought to. Which requires moving.
March 30, 2012
gillpolack @ 2012-03-31T09:26:00
I started this morning by being edited. This means that there will be a new BiblioBuffet piece on Sunday (Us-time) or Monday (Australian East Coast time). It also means that I've started the day very nicely.
I'm going to continue it nicely, too, for a pair of wonderful friends has decided that my life will be easier if they take me shopping for Pesachtic food. They're right - it will be. Easier and more pleasant, for I get to spend an hour with friends this morning, before hunkering down to work for the day.
Last night I cleared and cleaned a section of the fridge, ready to be occupied and made them some cakes.
I'm beginning to feel a bit festive! I wonder if the one kosher for Passover bit of supermarket in this city (which has only just got anything in, and may not have received deliveries of refrigerated goods yet) will have chocolate covered matzah? If they do, I wonder if I shall have the courage to buy it?
A week ago I'd given my festive season up as a lost cause. Now it's all happening. Life is but a roller coaster ride.
I'm going to continue it nicely, too, for a pair of wonderful friends has decided that my life will be easier if they take me shopping for Pesachtic food. They're right - it will be. Easier and more pleasant, for I get to spend an hour with friends this morning, before hunkering down to work for the day.
Last night I cleared and cleaned a section of the fridge, ready to be occupied and made them some cakes.
I'm beginning to feel a bit festive! I wonder if the one kosher for Passover bit of supermarket in this city (which has only just got anything in, and may not have received deliveries of refrigerated goods yet) will have chocolate covered matzah? If they do, I wonder if I shall have the courage to buy it?
A week ago I'd given my festive season up as a lost cause. Now it's all happening. Life is but a roller coaster ride.
gillpolack @ 2012-03-30T23:07:00
I've done some work tonight. It was very strange, tweeting research during my break from it. Right now I'm thinking about the relationship between genre (in fiction) and how history is treated. Not just levels of accuracy, but what sort of research is needed and how that research is expressed. I've made significant progress in understanding what fiction can do when accepted by scholars as a testing ground, I think. It's early days, though - I still might disprove all my current thoughts!
I love this internal debate and the growth and testing of ideas against evidence. It's one of the big reasons why I don't want to give up the historian side of me. In fact, if I had to choose between the excitement of new research and the love of chocolate, I'd have to choose research.
I know, it's very sad.
Anyhow, this weekend my research is wholly in the land of modern historiographical theory as applied to novels. Just in case you were wondering.
I love this internal debate and the growth and testing of ideas against evidence. It's one of the big reasons why I don't want to give up the historian side of me. In fact, if I had to choose between the excitement of new research and the love of chocolate, I'd have to choose research.
I know, it's very sad.
Anyhow, this weekend my research is wholly in the land of modern historiographical theory as applied to novels. Just in case you were wondering.
Women's History Month - guest post by Russell Farr
Why I love Lucy
January 1992. I walked away from SwanCon 17 a very lucky person. Among the scars, trophies and memories, I had a list of new Australian writers I had to check out.
In the aftermath, I found myself holding a copy of a book that would change my life and blow my mind. It had lesbians reading Shakespeare, plaster-casting vampires, and troubled teens with an imaginary village. It had government secrets, and magic mushrooms. It had a whole lot more, besides.
Books are supposed to be magical, transporting the reader into fabulous worlds, and this one did that. Even the title was amazing, enchanting, My Lady Tongue and other tales. The title story has a recalcitrant, rebellious teenaged protagonist, expelled from a lesbian colony, and it was just the most amazing science fiction I had read. It spoke to the 18/19 year-old me like few other works, stretching my mind, taking me to places where the mundane was special. At the same time these stories made me feel, not just the exhilaration of exploring new worlds, but the full rollercoaster of emotions.
I was amazed, enthralled, to use a cliche, totally blown away.
Over the next year, Lucy came back to the next SwanCon, and I remember her on panels, talking about things like the Tiptree Awards. While I was on my way to becoming a brash young thing, I was totally intimidated by Lucy, her articulation, and her writing. I did manage to get her signature on a t-shirt (I believe she told me at the time it was the first time she'd signed a t-shirt).
Over the years I pursued her work, including her young adult anthologies The Lottery and The Patternmaker and her groundbreaking feminist anthology She's Fantastical. I have vivid memories of first reading "Merlusine" when it was reprinted in The Year's Best Australian Science Fiction 2 (edited by Jonathan Strahan and Jeremy G Byrne, 1998). I read that story late one night, on the train from Maddington to Perth. "Merlusine", her incredible tale of the hereditary dysfunction, mythology, research and the Deep South.
There's also Lucy's amazing novel, The Scarlet Rider (1996), full of ghosts and voodoo and inner urban living -- a groundbreaking paranormal romance full of wonderful characterisation, published back in the days when these were called urban fantasy. If it had been released 10 years later it would have been a runaway bestseller, genre-defining, widely acclaimed.
Though Lucy published less than a dozen stories between My Lady Tongue and Other Tales and the end of the 1990s, those stories were special works: "Kay and Phil", a fictional meeting between Philip K Dick and Katherine Burdekin, both creators of future dystopias resulting from Nazi rule; "A Tour Guide in Utopia", introducing 19th century concepts of utopia with feminism; "The lottery", where Sussex wipes out the human race millions of years before it evolves; and her fantastic retake on the Australian classic, 'Waltzing Matilda', in "Matilda Told Such Dreadful Lies".
The early 2000s saw Lucy publish some of her best macabre work, her incredibly dark doll stories, including "Frozen Charlottes" and novella "La Sentinelle", stunning stories that should be on everyone's recommended reading list. Her second collection, A Tour Guide in Utopia was published by Bill Congreve's Mirrordanse Books in 2005. An incredible collection of a dozen fantastic tales, at the time I envied Bill for publishing this book.
It's amazing to think that this year marks 20 years since I discovered Lucy's stories. How amazing is Lucy Sussex? A couple of years ago I finally thought I was worthy to publish a collection of Lucy's work, and it then probably took me months to work up the courage to approach her. The result was an amazing experience, Lucy is a delight to work with. We set the parameters of the book: that it be her best, awarded, nominated, and important: her essential works. This gave us 24 stories (we also included an original to give readers an extra treat), about 150,000 words, over 500 pages. At the same time, the number of "non-essential" stories that didn't make the cut probably only adds up to another 24 or 25 stories. That's an impressive hit rate.
How amazing is Lucy Sussex? Matilda Told Such Dreadful Lies received a Starred review at Publishers' Weekly (I've published some amazing books but none have scored this). It made the Locus Recommended Reading for 2011 (see above). In putting this piece together I came across a previously unseen review from Paul Kincaid where he calls it a "superb collection" (wow).
How amazing is Lucy Sussex? Some things can't be measured by conventional means.
January 1992. I walked away from SwanCon 17 a very lucky person. Among the scars, trophies and memories, I had a list of new Australian writers I had to check out.
In the aftermath, I found myself holding a copy of a book that would change my life and blow my mind. It had lesbians reading Shakespeare, plaster-casting vampires, and troubled teens with an imaginary village. It had government secrets, and magic mushrooms. It had a whole lot more, besides.
Books are supposed to be magical, transporting the reader into fabulous worlds, and this one did that. Even the title was amazing, enchanting, My Lady Tongue and other tales. The title story has a recalcitrant, rebellious teenaged protagonist, expelled from a lesbian colony, and it was just the most amazing science fiction I had read. It spoke to the 18/19 year-old me like few other works, stretching my mind, taking me to places where the mundane was special. At the same time these stories made me feel, not just the exhilaration of exploring new worlds, but the full rollercoaster of emotions.
I was amazed, enthralled, to use a cliche, totally blown away.
Over the next year, Lucy came back to the next SwanCon, and I remember her on panels, talking about things like the Tiptree Awards. While I was on my way to becoming a brash young thing, I was totally intimidated by Lucy, her articulation, and her writing. I did manage to get her signature on a t-shirt (I believe she told me at the time it was the first time she'd signed a t-shirt).
Over the years I pursued her work, including her young adult anthologies The Lottery and The Patternmaker and her groundbreaking feminist anthology She's Fantastical. I have vivid memories of first reading "Merlusine" when it was reprinted in The Year's Best Australian Science Fiction 2 (edited by Jonathan Strahan and Jeremy G Byrne, 1998). I read that story late one night, on the train from Maddington to Perth. "Merlusine", her incredible tale of the hereditary dysfunction, mythology, research and the Deep South.
There's also Lucy's amazing novel, The Scarlet Rider (1996), full of ghosts and voodoo and inner urban living -- a groundbreaking paranormal romance full of wonderful characterisation, published back in the days when these were called urban fantasy. If it had been released 10 years later it would have been a runaway bestseller, genre-defining, widely acclaimed.
Though Lucy published less than a dozen stories between My Lady Tongue and Other Tales and the end of the 1990s, those stories were special works: "Kay and Phil", a fictional meeting between Philip K Dick and Katherine Burdekin, both creators of future dystopias resulting from Nazi rule; "A Tour Guide in Utopia", introducing 19th century concepts of utopia with feminism; "The lottery", where Sussex wipes out the human race millions of years before it evolves; and her fantastic retake on the Australian classic, 'Waltzing Matilda', in "Matilda Told Such Dreadful Lies".
The early 2000s saw Lucy publish some of her best macabre work, her incredibly dark doll stories, including "Frozen Charlottes" and novella "La Sentinelle", stunning stories that should be on everyone's recommended reading list. Her second collection, A Tour Guide in Utopia was published by Bill Congreve's Mirrordanse Books in 2005. An incredible collection of a dozen fantastic tales, at the time I envied Bill for publishing this book.
It's amazing to think that this year marks 20 years since I discovered Lucy's stories. How amazing is Lucy Sussex? A couple of years ago I finally thought I was worthy to publish a collection of Lucy's work, and it then probably took me months to work up the courage to approach her. The result was an amazing experience, Lucy is a delight to work with. We set the parameters of the book: that it be her best, awarded, nominated, and important: her essential works. This gave us 24 stories (we also included an original to give readers an extra treat), about 150,000 words, over 500 pages. At the same time, the number of "non-essential" stories that didn't make the cut probably only adds up to another 24 or 25 stories. That's an impressive hit rate.
How amazing is Lucy Sussex? Matilda Told Such Dreadful Lies received a Starred review at Publishers' Weekly (I've published some amazing books but none have scored this). It made the Locus Recommended Reading for 2011 (see above). In putting this piece together I came across a previously unseen review from Paul Kincaid where he calls it a "superb collection" (wow).
How amazing is Lucy Sussex? Some things can't be measured by conventional means.
gillpolack @ 2012-03-30T16:15:00
For those who it was worrying, the cash bit of the insurance payout has just been deposited in my bank account. This means that things like the teaching materials and the backpack are all sorted. There are other bits (it's all surprisingly complex) but at the big worry right now was stuff I couldn't manage without. This is half that worry solved.
gillpolack @ 2012-03-30T14:26:00
Today I reached the stage where I could have a good look around without being scared of seeing more things missing. I fit into my flat much better than I did. I would rather have chosen what to get rid of all by myself (and I especially would not have gotten rid of the things that are important to me, like the pendant my father gave my mother when they married) but for the rest of the year the only real overflow will be my research notes and my books. There is a silver lining to this burglary then, even though it is small and full of caveats.
The insurance people are still doing processing, so it may be a while before my wonderful portable office is up and running and before I can replace all my teaching stuff. I will have to make decisions about things like the wool suit that was stolen (one of my few pieces of surviving woollen clothing after the Great Moth Infestation some years ago - it was a rather nice FJ suit, and FJ has gone into liquidation) but I can't do so yet.
Now I learn how to wait.
The insurance people are still doing processing, so it may be a while before my wonderful portable office is up and running and before I can replace all my teaching stuff. I will have to make decisions about things like the wool suit that was stolen (one of my few pieces of surviving woollen clothing after the Great Moth Infestation some years ago - it was a rather nice FJ suit, and FJ has gone into liquidation) but I can't do so yet.
Now I learn how to wait.
March 29, 2012
Secret rituals exposed
I have undertaken the strange annual ritual of delving into the dark heart of my larder and I have drawn forth the unwanted. I didn't do any baking this year, so the unwanted includes nearly 4 kg of flour. These will become biscuits and cupcakes for just as long as the other ingredients last, or until Passover, whichever comes first.
Let me predict that if you see me at all in the next few days, you may find yourself the unwilling recipient of baked goods. This is a family tradition and it would be really rude of you to resist. What you should do (if you look at them and think what an appalling cook I am, or wonder why I put those particular ingredients together) is hand them on to the next person you see. Develop a reputation as an eccentric deliverer of baked goods (not baked gods - the ancient family ways don't extend to baked gods any more, though I have heard stories...).
The recipes will all be ancient and traditional. They go something like this.
"Flour - yes. Lots. Good.
What goes with flour?
Eggs? Yes, have eggs.
Sugar. Where did all this sugar come from? Why didn't the ants get at it? Why do I have sugar at all? What about honey? Both. Why do I have both? Now I have to decide between them. {don't look at the treacle and molasses and corn syrup - they do not exist - my eyes are blind to them]
Almonds? Oh yes.
Oil or milk - got both - need to think
Vanilla essence - oh yes, but isn't it dull. Arak essence maybe, or pandan, or coffee, or apricot brandy or... I grab three at random and the problem is solved. Except that one is eucalyptus oil, so I switch that for something less extravagantly Australian. I'm not feeding my biscuits to koalas, after all. Although if they asked politely, they could have some.
And spices. Medieval, Ancient Roman or Other? Which goes with almonds? With chocolate? With nori? No, nori cake won't work. Nor will quinoa and galingale biscuits, though that one might be fun to try.
What have I forgotten? Let me check those dark recesses again to remind myself."
You can see the ancient process at work. I work through what I have and what I feel like making. A varied array of goods eventuates, but it always includes chocolate ginger biscuits, for these are my personal favourites, sometimes studded with almond shards. At the end of the day most of the ingredients will be finished, my larder will be saved from use by dates, weevils and chametz, and many many innocents will have suffered.
Recipes? I have them. The real family thing, written down in my handwritten memories of other peoples' cooking. Sometimes I remember to check them after I'm finished, just to wonder why I didn't think of them earlier.
PS I mostly cook this way when I'm not doing food history or discovering amazing new recipes. It's very wrong of me and I will reform. Except I will lose the joy of not knowing, if I reform. And what would I do with leftover verjuice and poppyseed and lemon myrtle?
Let me predict that if you see me at all in the next few days, you may find yourself the unwilling recipient of baked goods. This is a family tradition and it would be really rude of you to resist. What you should do (if you look at them and think what an appalling cook I am, or wonder why I put those particular ingredients together) is hand them on to the next person you see. Develop a reputation as an eccentric deliverer of baked goods (not baked gods - the ancient family ways don't extend to baked gods any more, though I have heard stories...).
The recipes will all be ancient and traditional. They go something like this.
"Flour - yes. Lots. Good.
What goes with flour?
Eggs? Yes, have eggs.
Sugar. Where did all this sugar come from? Why didn't the ants get at it? Why do I have sugar at all? What about honey? Both. Why do I have both? Now I have to decide between them. {don't look at the treacle and molasses and corn syrup - they do not exist - my eyes are blind to them]
Almonds? Oh yes.
Oil or milk - got both - need to think
Vanilla essence - oh yes, but isn't it dull. Arak essence maybe, or pandan, or coffee, or apricot brandy or... I grab three at random and the problem is solved. Except that one is eucalyptus oil, so I switch that for something less extravagantly Australian. I'm not feeding my biscuits to koalas, after all. Although if they asked politely, they could have some.
And spices. Medieval, Ancient Roman or Other? Which goes with almonds? With chocolate? With nori? No, nori cake won't work. Nor will quinoa and galingale biscuits, though that one might be fun to try.
What have I forgotten? Let me check those dark recesses again to remind myself."
You can see the ancient process at work. I work through what I have and what I feel like making. A varied array of goods eventuates, but it always includes chocolate ginger biscuits, for these are my personal favourites, sometimes studded with almond shards. At the end of the day most of the ingredients will be finished, my larder will be saved from use by dates, weevils and chametz, and many many innocents will have suffered.
Recipes? I have them. The real family thing, written down in my handwritten memories of other peoples' cooking. Sometimes I remember to check them after I'm finished, just to wonder why I didn't think of them earlier.
PS I mostly cook this way when I'm not doing food history or discovering amazing new recipes. It's very wrong of me and I will reform. Except I will lose the joy of not knowing, if I reform. And what would I do with leftover verjuice and poppyseed and lemon myrtle?
Women's History Month - guest post from Angela Slatter
Art is Eternal ...
"Art is eternal, but life is short..." "I will make up for it now, I have not a moment to lose."
I love Evelyn de Morgan – the quote above is from her diary on the morning of her 17th birthday! She was a Pre-Raphaelite painter – yes, there were quite a few, not all the women of the era were 'mere' models for Rossetti et al. I love the fact that she had to fight to go to art school. I love her use of mythological figures and themes, and two of my absolute favourites are Medea and Cassandra.
In viewing the paintings what you cannot see is the starting point for the art. You cannot know what the jumping off point was, what sparked the inspiration for the painting. You, as the viewer, don't know precisely what set off the artist's intent, but you see the result.
I love her use of colour and light, how the details in the background are as important as the figure in the foreground. The echo of the colour of Medea's dress in the discarded roses on the floor and the potion in the vial in her hand; the detailed work on the marbled walls, the tiled floors, the lion's head pedestal base, and the torch sconce on the wall behind the sorceress.
Similarly, the blue of Cassandra's robes is echoed in the smoke from the flames devouring Troy behind her; the famed Trojan horse is there too. The gold and sand hues of her wrap reflect that of the walls – and, tellingly, her hair is more flame-tinted than the inferno – can the burning of her mind, the intensity of her madness, be greater than that of her city? She has suffered longer than it has after all.
I love how these women stand, how they don't quite face the viewer. Cassandra because she is seeing things across time, her distress all-consuming. Medea because she's contemplating what she's about to do, and there is no shame, no second thoughts, she will have her rightful revenge. I love the implication of the dead birds on the floor that she's been testing out her potions in preparation. Medea is, no matter what, a very clever woman.
The viewer, to these women, is utterly irrelevant. They are captured in the moment of concentration, the very moment of turning inward and, conversely, looking ahead.
I can't know de Morgan's spark but I can know the spark it sets off in my own creative mind – Cassandra inspired a piece of micro-fiction when I was writing for The Daily Cabal, below for your reading pleasure.
Medea still eludes me. The image is powerful, I feel I know her better than Cassandra, but I haven't been moved to write anything based on this painting as yet. She has been a screensaver on and off for years. I look at her every so often and wonder when she will speak to me. Who knows how long it will take? To her, the viewer is irrelevant.
Foresight
I don't want to go in.
He's there now, didn't hesitate. It's his home though he's been away for long years. I warned him, or tried to but who listens to me?
I saw his wife in the shadows just before she stepped through the door, and in that moment she seemed a huge, swarming. Then she moved forward, into sunlight and she shone.
Not as beautiful as her sister, but no one is. Tall, broad-shouldered, jaw strong, forehead wide, cheekbones high. Clytemnestra is handsome rather than lovely. She moves with deceptive slowness, but there are muscles evident beneath her rich robes. She's a warrior queen and has not let herself run to fat. Her hair, red-gold in the sun burns like liquid copper.
The smile she gives Agamemnon is frozen; she speaks soft words of welcome and he is deceived. When she looks at me she sees no Trojan princess, merely a slave, hair lank and oily, back and shoulders hunched as if deprived of wings and ashamed of their nakedness.
'Don't go inside,' I whispered to my master, my owner, my thief. In spite of it all, I did not want him to walk all unawares into his fate, for his end means mine. But he gave me an annoyed glare, sick unto death of my constant warnings and plaints, of the sharp dreams that have broken my sleep (and thus his) these past months as we travelled to Argos. He has no patience. He is tired unto death of my madness.
He took his wife's welcome as his due and went in to the bath she had prepared for him. Clytemnestra watched me and nodded slowly before she turned and followed him. I waited, held my breath, counted the beats until I heard him scream, heard the wet sound of a great axe burying itself in muscle and flesh, releasing blood into the air. She waits inside now; another man by her side.
I have seen this for so many days. Fate cannot be avoided. I am a Trojan princess. I step down from the chariot, swallowing hard. I put my foot on the first step and mount the portico. My end lies here.
Angela Slatter is a Brisbane writer of dark fantasy and horror. Her work has appeared in venues such as Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, Fantasy Magazine, Dreaming Again, Steampunk Reloaded, and Strange Tales. In 2011 The Girl with No Hands and Other Tales won the Aurealis Award for Best Collection and Sourdough and Other Stories was shortlisted for the World Fantasy Award for Best Collection. Midnight and Moonshine, co-authored with Lisa L. Hannett, will be out in November 2012. She blogs over here about shiny things that catch her eye.
"Art is eternal, but life is short..." "I will make up for it now, I have not a moment to lose."
I love Evelyn de Morgan – the quote above is from her diary on the morning of her 17th birthday! She was a Pre-Raphaelite painter – yes, there were quite a few, not all the women of the era were 'mere' models for Rossetti et al. I love the fact that she had to fight to go to art school. I love her use of mythological figures and themes, and two of my absolute favourites are Medea and Cassandra.
In viewing the paintings what you cannot see is the starting point for the art. You cannot know what the jumping off point was, what sparked the inspiration for the painting. You, as the viewer, don't know precisely what set off the artist's intent, but you see the result.
I love her use of colour and light, how the details in the background are as important as the figure in the foreground. The echo of the colour of Medea's dress in the discarded roses on the floor and the potion in the vial in her hand; the detailed work on the marbled walls, the tiled floors, the lion's head pedestal base, and the torch sconce on the wall behind the sorceress.
Similarly, the blue of Cassandra's robes is echoed in the smoke from the flames devouring Troy behind her; the famed Trojan horse is there too. The gold and sand hues of her wrap reflect that of the walls – and, tellingly, her hair is more flame-tinted than the inferno – can the burning of her mind, the intensity of her madness, be greater than that of her city? She has suffered longer than it has after all.
I love how these women stand, how they don't quite face the viewer. Cassandra because she is seeing things across time, her distress all-consuming. Medea because she's contemplating what she's about to do, and there is no shame, no second thoughts, she will have her rightful revenge. I love the implication of the dead birds on the floor that she's been testing out her potions in preparation. Medea is, no matter what, a very clever woman.
The viewer, to these women, is utterly irrelevant. They are captured in the moment of concentration, the very moment of turning inward and, conversely, looking ahead.
I can't know de Morgan's spark but I can know the spark it sets off in my own creative mind – Cassandra inspired a piece of micro-fiction when I was writing for The Daily Cabal, below for your reading pleasure.
Medea still eludes me. The image is powerful, I feel I know her better than Cassandra, but I haven't been moved to write anything based on this painting as yet. She has been a screensaver on and off for years. I look at her every so often and wonder when she will speak to me. Who knows how long it will take? To her, the viewer is irrelevant.
Foresight
I don't want to go in.
He's there now, didn't hesitate. It's his home though he's been away for long years. I warned him, or tried to but who listens to me?
I saw his wife in the shadows just before she stepped through the door, and in that moment she seemed a huge, swarming. Then she moved forward, into sunlight and she shone.
Not as beautiful as her sister, but no one is. Tall, broad-shouldered, jaw strong, forehead wide, cheekbones high. Clytemnestra is handsome rather than lovely. She moves with deceptive slowness, but there are muscles evident beneath her rich robes. She's a warrior queen and has not let herself run to fat. Her hair, red-gold in the sun burns like liquid copper.
The smile she gives Agamemnon is frozen; she speaks soft words of welcome and he is deceived. When she looks at me she sees no Trojan princess, merely a slave, hair lank and oily, back and shoulders hunched as if deprived of wings and ashamed of their nakedness.
'Don't go inside,' I whispered to my master, my owner, my thief. In spite of it all, I did not want him to walk all unawares into his fate, for his end means mine. But he gave me an annoyed glare, sick unto death of my constant warnings and plaints, of the sharp dreams that have broken my sleep (and thus his) these past months as we travelled to Argos. He has no patience. He is tired unto death of my madness.
He took his wife's welcome as his due and went in to the bath she had prepared for him. Clytemnestra watched me and nodded slowly before she turned and followed him. I waited, held my breath, counted the beats until I heard him scream, heard the wet sound of a great axe burying itself in muscle and flesh, releasing blood into the air. She waits inside now; another man by her side.
I have seen this for so many days. Fate cannot be avoided. I am a Trojan princess. I step down from the chariot, swallowing hard. I put my foot on the first step and mount the portico. My end lies here.
Angela Slatter is a Brisbane writer of dark fantasy and horror. Her work has appeared in venues such as Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, Fantasy Magazine, Dreaming Again, Steampunk Reloaded, and Strange Tales. In 2011 The Girl with No Hands and Other Tales won the Aurealis Award for Best Collection and Sourdough and Other Stories was shortlisted for the World Fantasy Award for Best Collection. Midnight and Moonshine, co-authored with Lisa L. Hannett, will be out in November 2012. She blogs over here about shiny things that catch her eye.
