Susan Fadellin's Blog, page 3

“A writer writes, always”

That is one of my favorite quotes from the movie Throw Mama from the Train, a comedy about writers and writer’s block. I periodically and ritually repeat it to myself – not quite every day perhaps, but often enough. My problem, alas, is not writer’s block, but writer’s energy level. A writer writes, always … except when a writer spends nine to ten hours in a stressful office environment, and another two hours or more stuck in one of the nation’s top five worst commutes, and arrives home feeling brain dead and lobotomized, too tired to think of what to cook for dinner, let alone the structure of a future galactic civilization where humans are not the dominant species. A writer writes, always, I chant to myself, as I flop into a chair and pet the dog … and wake up an hour later. A writer wants to write, always …. tomorrow will be better.

Without the dog to remind me

My dog spent her formative years living with me in the heart of a northern city. My “yard” then was a 3×12′ well of cinderblock  off the back of the house, so we walked to the park that was six blocks away four times a day, and everything she did in the outside world was bounded by the length of a leash. When I moved to the South, my first requirement in selecting a house was to find one with a fenced-in yard where the dog could run. And she does … but only if I am there to watch her.  She is terrified of being left alone outdoors, even after five years. She is happy to chase squirrels and cats brazen enough to invade her yard, and to poke her nose where it doesn’t belong, like in wasp’s nests, or to bark with her deep-throated voice at sounds that might represent intruders – but only if I am standing within sight. She will always be a city dog in her heart.

But I don’t mind. Because what that means is that I must walk out my door and down the deck steps into the grass and clover beneath the towering trees that ring my yard at least four times a day. It means that I watch the sun rise and set each day, and I watch the moon in its phases as the stars wheel through the seasons at night. Without the dog to remind me, I might not remember the feel of the sun on my face, the smell of honeysuckle on a warm spring night, the bite of north wind on my ears, the mystery of a fog-shrouded dawn. She connects me to the world, to the earth beneath my feet and the arc of the sky above – when, without the dog to remind me, my life might be bounded by a 24″ glowing screen.

what is orc?

What is orc? No, it's not the Jeopardy answer to the clue: Creature Saruman bred for his army. It is a question posed to me by a co-worker today. What is orc? It came at the end of a long and particularly stressful day, when I was beset on all sides by inane questions, ignorant accusations, and general ineptitude. The co-worker had just realized that the cause of the latest customer issue about to be left on my doorstep like a dead mouse (of the furry kind) was in fact user error. Good, I quipped, that's one less orc that will have to fall to my sword tonight. It's how I de-stress, you see. I come home, pet the cat, scratch the dog's ears, pour myself a glass of wine and sit down to write, or to play one fantasy game or another where evil is easily identified and susceptible, given knowledge and skill, to the sweep of a sword or precise cast of a spell. But the response was only: what is orc? For a moment I was nonplussed. I work for a software development organization afterall. Nevermind that the software we produce isn't remotely related to games; it's virtually impossible to acquire more than passing knowledge of computers and not have been exposed to fantasy concepts. This was one of the "upstairs" crew though. Some leeway must be given. And because I have long since outgrown the naive notion that most people I talk to might actually read for pleasure as I do, I replied helpfully, "Did you see Lord of the Rings?" No. How can that be? The movies made millions, probably billions, of dollars. Was all that revenue generated by lunatics like me who went to see them more than a handful of times? What is orc? I began to doubt myself on the way home. Could it be that I'm the one seriously out of touch with reality? Am I the only one who finds American corporate reality absurd, demoralizing, and just plain stupid? Perhaps …. But now that I've pet the cat, scratched the dog's ears, and had my first glass of wine, it's time to sit down, paint woad on my face, sling my two-handed sword across my back, and go hunt some orc.

Haiku for a spring day

Seeds spin and tumble

Dancing in the sun-warmed air

Laughter on the wind

The language of dragons

"It is no secret. All power is one in source and end, I think. Years and distances, stars and candles, water and wind and wizardry, the craft in a man's hand and the wisdom in a tree's root: they all arise together. My name, and yours, and the true name of the sun, or a spring of water, or an unborn child, all are syllables of the great word that is very slowly spoken by the shining of the stars. There is no other power. No other name." 
― Ursula K. Le Guin, A Wizard of Earthsea

Across all the years and many, many books, this is one of my favorite quotes. I first wrote it down by hand in a cloth-bound journal almost 30 years ago, and since then I've shared it in more than a few conversations about fantasy novels and writing. I went hunting for it tonight because I've been playing Skyrim and just completed the 7000 step climb through wind-driven snow to begin learning the language of dragons. Besides being just plain fun, the game deftly plays on archetypal themes and this one rang like a bell. In Earthsea too, the primal language of Making was the language spoken by dragons. What struck the harmonious chord for me is the notion that dragons invest words with power, lift them out of the ordinary and make them resonate with meaning.

Well, when they aren't burning you to a crisp, that is…..

Character sketch for a cold night

A sliver of moon ghosts through drifts of luminous cloud. The air is crisp, with the promise of frost by morning; the dog's breath visible with each exhalation.  She feels the cold on her nose and the tips of her ears as the two of them stand in the dark, listening. Nothing can move quietly through the carpet of brittle leaves beneath the trees, but what is coming does not move by measured tread. She draws a slow breath and the dog moves forward. Not yet, she thinks. But neither the dog's companionship nor the weight of the great sword on her back offer much assurance against the endless black reaches of the night sky.

Something in the yard…

Something – some critter, it must be – is creeping into my backyard at night from the woods beyond the fence. Usually it stays beyond the fence, but twice now the dog has scrambled down the deck steps and sprinted across the yard to chase it. I have not seen it. The beam of my flashlight barely reaches to the fence, and until I can identify the critter, I am not going to move closer. Still, dim as the flashlight is, it bothers me that I haven't even seen a shape. Bigger than a cat, and smaller than a deer, my ears tell me. And fast, when the dog barrels after it. That rules out possum, and probably skunk and raccoon. It might be a large neighborhood cat. I would love to think so. It might be a coyote. I did see one once, in daylight, a couple of years ago. Why my yard, though, when the yard next door is wooded nearly to the back door? What is it doing, watching, waiting for? Whatever it is, it is, to quote Jayne Cobb, seriously "starting to damage my calm".