Olga Godim's Blog, page 29

Birthday with a Goya

This October, my blog hits its second anniversary. My first blog post went live on Oct 23, 2013.

I want to celebrate this date with a story that combines my favorite writing genre – fantasy – with classical art. I love art. I write about artists as a journalist and I’ve had interviews with fantasy artists on this blog too. I also have an art collection on my Pinterest boards.

Goya’s original “Majas on a Balcony”

Goya’s “Majas on a Balcony” at the Met

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The story below is about a famous painting Majas on a Balcony by Francisco Goya. There are two known versions of the painting, one in private collection, another at the Met in New York. Until recently, they were considered two variations of the same painting and attributed to the same artist, but lately, the opinion of most expects has undergone a transformation. Now they think that the Met version might be a forgery, or perhaps a copy by another artist.

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Carmela’s Copy

“I want this painting,” said the American, pointing at Carmela’s copy on the easel. He had roamed around Francisco Goya’s studio for an hour before finally making his selection, and it wasn’t a Goya’s painting.

“Uhm,” Carmela dithered. “The painting is not ready yet and not signed. Senor Goya—”

“I’m prepared to pay handsomely,” the American said and named his price. “I think it’s ready.” He patted his big belly smugly. “I like it the way it is.”

Carmela gulped. For this much money, she could pay all her debts and hire a day nurse for her grandpa. She could buy a decent house too, so her grandpa could spend his last days in comfort instead of dying on a cold pallet in their dingy hovel. Could she sell her painting as her master’s?

“I’ll have to ask Senor Goya,” she said quietly. “If you want it signed, you should come back tomorrow.” She didn’t tell him that Francisco was gone for a month. She didn’t tell him she was the artist’s maidservant, and Goya didn’t know she could paint. She didn’t tell him that Francisco had sold the original only last week.

Would it be a forgery, if she signed the painting by her master’s name? What would happen, if Francisco or someone else found out? Would they send her to prison? Despite the balmy weather outside the studio, she felt cold, and her palms turned clammy.

“My ship sails in two days, but I’ll be back tomorrow. I want to see Senor Goya,” the American said.

“Of course,” Carmela murmured. She still had a way to grant his wishes and sell her painting, if only she dared. Was the money and her grandpa’s comfort worth doing what she contemplated? She shivered as she watched the American sauntering out of the studio.

Locking the door after him, she pulled out her Velazar medallion, the legacy of her late sorceress grandmother. The imp Velazar, tied to the medallion, was bound to grant her wishes. She had only asked him once, several years ago, when she was young and stupid, and the price she had paid then hadn’t been too steep, although her grandmother had always maintained that the imp was sneaky. What would Velazar demand now in exchange for granting this wish?

Carmela glanced out the window, but the American had already left, and nobody was lurking there, witnessing her folly. Good. She took a pen knife, pricked her finger, and smeared a drop of blood on the medallion’s cloudy face. The crystal absorbed her blood with a loud slurp, and the surface of the medallion cleared to translucent, sparkly opal. She felt a lurch, and Velazar materialized in front of her in all his glory: the big brown gazelle’s eyes, the cloven hoofs, the curving white horns among lush dark curls, and the thumping tail.

“What is your wish, Mistress?” Velazar smirked. “Money? A nice young senor falling in love with you?”

“No. I wish you to impersonate Francisco Goya tomorrow for the American?” she said and picked up her palette. “He wants to buy this painting. Francisco has already sold his Majas on a Balcony, but the American doesn’t want anything else. He can’t tell the difference between the master and me. He thinks it’s Goya.”

“Impersonate…” Velazar said faintly. “If anyone finds out, they’ll put you in prison. And me too. I don’t do well behind iron bars.”

“Nobody will find out,” Carmela said firmly, projecting reassurance she didn’t feel. “I’ll sign it with the master’s name.” She touched the golden lace on the painting with the tiniest of her brushes and smiled at the result. “Damn, I’m good. Look at those flounces. Francisco could never do details.”

“So you want me to put on an illusion?” Velazar swished his tail through the air.

“Yes. And I want you to lie. Tell the American that you—that’s Goya—promised this painting to the royal family. If they found out that he sold it, there could be repercussions. The American can’t display this painting until the master died.”

“He wouldn’t agree.”

“Yes, he would. He looked at the painting as if he wanted to devour it.”

“Why don’t you sell it as your own then?”

“Nobody would pay the same price for mine as for Goya’s,” Carmela said gloomily. “I need the money, Velazar. My grandpa is dying. He needs a nurse, and we both need a house.”

“Then split the money with me.”

“You? Why do you need money?” She thought he would demand a year of her life or her blood or something equally gross and painful. She was prepared to bargain.

“I want to become a matador. I need a costume.”

Carmela couldn’t help herself; she giggled. “You a matador? You have horns and a tail.” She put the finishing touch on Goya’s signature and stepped back, eyeing her handiwork. “They’ll mistake you for a bull.”

“If I can put on the illusion of your master, I can put on the illusion of a matador too. And I’ll get to stay in your world, not sit in the medallion. It’s… boring there.”

Carmela blinked and looked at the imp closer. Was he lonely?

He didn’t meet her gaze. He wandered around the studio, his hooves clacking on the wooden floor.

“I can help you start your own studio,” he said without looking at her. “Sell your own paintings.”

“If I let you stay out of the medallion?” Her grandmother was right: he was sneaky, but what would be the harm? “Maybe,” she said finally.

He whirled to face her, his big eyes hopeful, his tail thrumming.

“We’ll do it year by year” she said. “Once a year, I’ll call you, and you’ll come, and we’ll negotiate for the next year. You’ll owe me a wish a year. And this year, you’ll impersonate Francisco Goya. Deal?”

“Deal,” Velazar said swiftly. “Ole! I’m going to be a matador. I’m going to wear a red cape.”

Carmela sighed.

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According to the records at the Met Museum, their painting was first mentioned in 1835, seven years after Francisco Goya’s death.

Mermaid’s mackintosh – WEP challenge

For this post, I wrote a flash fiction story that combines all three points of the current WEP Challenge: “Halloween – Youthful Frights vs. Adult Fears”. It was fun writing this story. Thanks, Yolanda and Denise.

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“You’re going to wear a costume for Halloween?” Marsha’s voice in the phone sounded incredulous. “What costume? You never wear costumes.”

Chloe laughed self-consciously and settled deeper into her armchair. “Derek prodded me into it. They have a school contest for parents’ costumes. He chose this ridiculous costume.” Her thirteen-year-old son had laughed like crazy when he first found the tawdry costume in a rental shop. He had insisted she borrowed it. It was so funny she might even win the contest.

“What costume?” Marsha repeated.

“A naked mermaid with huge quivering boobs and a scaly tail. Green. With seaweeds everywhere.”

“Marvelous!” Marsha’s laughter gurgled in the phone. “Do you get to keep your legs?”

“Yes,” Chloe said primly. “The tail goes behind the legs. The costume includes a green hose for the legs. With dangling weeds.” She giggled.

“It’s almost like those nightmares of yours. Remember?”

“Things of the past,” Chloe said breathily.

Marsha still laughed when she finally ended the call a few minutes later. Chloe put down the receiver and stared at it. She had had the recurring nightmares all through middle and high school. They had attacked her every few months, those strange and disturbing dreams where she dashed through the school corridors naked. In the dreams, everyone sniggered and pointed, and there was nowhere to hide, just endless corridors, her shame, and jeering classmates. Even now, years later, she remembered her dream-self’s mortification and helplessness.

Mercifully, the dreams had stopped when she started college. She had forgotten about them until now. Must be a coincidence, she thought with amusement. It would be hilarious to tromp along the same school corridors dressed in the naked mermaid costume, trailing nylon weeds.

She chuckled as she made her way to the bathroom. She had about an hour until Derek came home from his karate practice. She would take a shower and then make pizza for dinner. She was already undressed and running hot water, when the phone rang again.

“Mom, could you pick me up,” Derek said. “The practice ended early, and Jake’s dad can’t get here until six. Jake can walk home, but I’m kinda stranded. Pick me up in your car, okay.”

“Yes, sure,” Chloe said. She turned off the water and sighed, eyeing her dirty jeans, sweatshirt, and underwear on the floor. She didn’t want to put them back on. The drive to school was only ten minutes. She didn’t have to dress. She could just put on her long mackintosh atop her naked body. If she stayed in the car, Derek wouldn’t even notice her bare legs.

She grabbed her car keys, buttoned up the old mackintosh, and hopped in the car. At the last intersection before the turn towards the school, she waited for the light to change. When it flashed green, she pressed the accelerator. She was halfway across, when a car appeared out of nowhere and turned at speed, careening straight at her. Chloe pressed the brake, tried to swerve, but it was too late. Her last thought before darkness was about Derek. Thank God, she hadn’t picked him up yet. He was still waiting for her. Still safe.

When she came to, the intersection was flooded with vehicles, flashlights, and sirens. A policemen was trying to open her driver’s door, but it seemed stuck. Her chest hurt from the safety belt, but her hands and arms seemed to be working. She flexed her fingers—no problem. She wriggled her toes, moved her knees, and didn’t feel any pain. Only her chest hurt and her head throbbed. And her neck.

“I don’t think I’m badly hurt,” Chloe muttered. “It’s just my head.”

The policeman nodded. “Sit still, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll get you out in no time. The ambulance will take you to the emergency for a checkup.”

While he labored on her door, she found her cell phone and called Derek to stay with Jake tonight. Then she called Marsha.

Only inside the ambulance, when a nurse started unbuttoning her mackintosh, she remembered that she was naked beneath it. “No!” she screamed, clutching at her still buttoned middle, both her hands holding the closed front of the mackintosh in a dead grip. “Don’t take it off. No. No.” With shaking fingers, she redid the top buttons.

The nurse tried to insist, but Chloe wouldn’t budge. She screamed, she wept, she battered away the nurse’s hands, but she wouldn’t let anyone unbutton her mackintosh. Not even when Marsha came to the hospital. Not even in the X-ray lab. She wouldn’t let her teenage nightmare come true and haunt her forever. Eventually, half the night later, still dressed in her irremovable mackintosh, Marsha drove Chloe home.

“I’ll help you undress,” Marsha said. “Come on.” Her fingers approached the buttons. “I’m supposed to keep you awake for a while because of your concussion, but we should make you comfortable first. It will be okay, Chloe.” She talked in a pacifying tone, as if Chloe was a sick child.

“Marsha,” Chloe said weakly. She hurt everywhere. She would probably have bruises all over her body in the morning, and her head ached spitefully. Luckily, she didn’t break any bones, but her car was totaled. And amid all that, the only disaster she could think about was her lack of clothing underneath the mackintosh.

“Remember those nightmares of mine, about me naked?” Chloe slowly unbuttoned her single garment. “Don’t laugh.” She opened the mackintosh.

Marsha’s eyes grew big. Then she started laughing. “Sorry,” she wheezed. “Where is your mermaid? I want to see it.”

“No. I’m not wearing it. No way!” Chloe wailed. “Never.”

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Word count: 950, FCA

Thank you, Regency ladies

My Regency romance novella on Wattpad, Fibs in the Family, is slowly gaining readers and Likes. On this day, Oct 12, 2015, when Canadians celebrate Thanksgiving, I want to thank those who helped me write the story.

Fibs in the Family is my first historical romance, and it took some research. Most of my research was done through the internet, where I found several fascinating website and a number of very knowledgeable writers. They were very generous with their time answering my questions.

Vic Sanborn and her Jane Austen’s World blog  is a treasure trove of information about every aspect of life in Regency England, from fashion to transportation. I was most interested in family finances, and of course, she has a post for that. It helped tremendously. Thank you, Vic.

My story includes paintings by an imaginary artist. I was trying to find out what were the prices of paintings in Regency England. Kathryn Kane of the website The Regency Redingote replied to my questions with a detailed email. Her knowledge on the subject seemed bottomless, and she shared it without reservation. Thank you, Kathryn.

Regina Jeffers of the eponymous blog helped me find what I needed to know on several subjects. She also directed me to other websites, where I could find additional info. Thank you, Regina.

Nancy Mayer, Regency Researcher answered my questions about death and mourning, specifically mourning for a traitor. My story might’ve been very wrong without her input. Thank you, Nancy.

There are other websites I read or scanned through while seeking specific or obscure details about Regency England: food and Christmas, politics and medicine. I can’t list them all, I don’t even remember them all, but I want to express my gratitude to all of them. Thank you.

Cheat?

It’s the first Wednesday of the month again, time for a post for the Insecure Writer’s Support Group.

In September, New Republic published an eye-opening article by Theodore Ross called Cheat! It’s the Only Way to Get Published.

I read this article and thought the author might be right. Sometimes, it seems to me that aside from self-publishing, cheating is the only way to get my writing in front of the readers. Mr. Ross describes his work as a junior editor at a literary magazine:

“…one of our responsibilities was to read the piles of unsolicited submissions—the slush pile—and reject them. Once a month or so, the editors would order in pizza and beer for us and we’d spend a night in our group cubicle, dashing the hopes of foolhardy writers with money to waste on postage. I would make it through a few sentences on each one, drunkenly reading selections from the laughable worst, sign the rejection slip … with a fake name, and move on to the next.

The great majority of stories that crossed my desk were, of course, terrible. A smaller subset were mediocre; a tiny fraction were good; one was excellent; I rejected it, too. (It ended up in the Paris Review.) Graduate students, retirees, lunatics, published authors, and untold residents of this country’s federal and state prison systems sent me their work, as did one of the stars from the television show, Scrubs. To all I said no. The literary editor at the publication once told me that in his many years only one story had emerged from the slush pile and into print. He said it with some distaste. It hadn’t been his decision and he considered it something of a stunt.”

I’ve been sending my latest bunch of short stories to magazines for the last year, collecting rejections. I’m running out of magazines to send. Not one acceptance so far. Mr. Ross advises all writers to come up with a strategy of cheating and stick to it, but no stratagem comes to my mind. Any suggestions?

Perhaps I should approach the cheating problem the way I approach my fiction? Perhaps I should create a character, a writer disadvantaged, sensational, and ethnically diverse enough to warrant a second glance from an editor.

Michael Derrick Hudson, a white poet recently included in the Best American Poetry anthology under the pen name Yi-Fen Chou, did just that. Look what it got him. Should I follow his lead?

Should I become a former ISIS fighter? Or perhaps a refugee boy soldier from Sierra Leone? Or a political dissident from North Korea? Anything other than myself – a peaceful middle-aged white woman from Canada. Should I build a website for my imaginary alter ego and start sending out my stories signed by his made-up name? Perhaps then, my stories will have more chances of being accepted. What could be a genuine Sierra Leone name, I wonder?

Fibs in the Family – new cover

My regency romance novella Fibs in the Family on Wattpad finally got a new cover. I made it myself using a charming painting by the Flemish artist Joseph-François Ducq (1763-1829). The image is so fitting, it feels like I traveled to the artist’s studio in Bruges specifically to commission the painting. Maybe I did… Or maybe, by some magical means, he read my story all those centuries ago and liked it so much that it inspired him to paint a cover for it.

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A retired officer + an enterprising young woman = love and trouble

Captain Alex Woodward was fighting Napoleonic troops on the Peninsula, until his wounds forced him to retire. Now he travels to an estate of his former comrade, killed by the enemies, to fulfill his promise and help the slain officer’s sisters any way he could.

The estate is entailed, but the eldest sister Rebecca comes up with an ingenious solution to their problem. Although Rebecca’s idea is highly irregular and somewhat illegal, Alex’s promise wouldn’t let him to back off.

It could’ve been easy, if their mutual attraction didn’t complicate matters. And then, Rebecca’s brother’s secret past comes to light, and a worse entanglement ensues. 

 

Disobedient story

I’m writing a new short story, and it doesn’t behave. I want it to do one thing, go in one direction, and it stubbornly refuses. Like a cat that walks where it will and doesn’t heed anyone, my story seems to have a mind of its own.

I’m trying to find a way out for my fairy protagonist, but wherever I turn, I don’t see a happy ending for her. Did I put my fairy into an untenable situation?

Do your stories obey you, friend-writers? What do you do if they don’t?

Where are my millions?

It’s the first Wednesday of the month again, time for a post for the Insecure Writer’s Support Group

I wrote about this before, but the issue has been bugging me, so I’m venting it here again. I put my regency novella Fibs in the Family on Wattpad, and as of this writing, it has 154 reads, which made me happy. People were reading my story, right? I also entered it into the Wattys2015 challenge, which meant for me adding a tag #wattys2015 to the story.

Then I did something stupid and spoiled my happiness: I decided to check who else is in the challenge and how many reads they have. The list of participants is very long, and the top entries are roughly those with the most reads. Do you know how many reads the top ones have? 20million. 30 million. My piddling 154 doesn’t count. It doesn’t qualify to show up at all. Maybe on page 4,731… I didn’t scroll that far.

I wonder: how do they get those millions? Who are their readers? And if they have so many readers already, why don’t these writers snatch their stories off Wattpad and publish them for profit. They could get millions of $$$, right?

Something doesn’t add up here, but I can’t figure out what. Are those millions real? Anyway, the entire number game made me unhappy.

For those kind enough to add to my numbers, you can read the story here.

 

I entered Battle-Off contest

I recently sent a fragment of my fantasy novel Eagle En Garde – the winner of 2015 EPIC eBook Award – to Grimdark Magazine’s Battle-Off competition. The conditions are simple: only scenes of battles (less than 1,000 words) from published works in speculative fiction genres need to apply, and only indie writers are eligible. Then, readers vote. The winner with the most votes gets a Kindle, plus a bunch of other prizes are available.

Here is my battle scene. I’ll be blatant about it. I want that Kindle. As far as I understand the rules of this game, that’s how it’s done. Writers apply to their friends and utilize their network to the utmost. If I want the prize I must play the game.

Please VOTE FOR ME!

Fibs in the Family finished!

The story of Alex and Rebecca is finally complete. The last two chapters of my regency romance novella Fibs in the Family are on Wattpad, the lovers got their happily-ever-after, and the villain is caught in his own web. Phew!

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A retired officer + an enterprising young woman = love and trouble

Captain Alex Woodward was fighting Napoleonic troops on the Peninsula, until his wounds forced him to retire. Now he travels to an estate of his former comrade, killed by the enemies, to fulfill his promise and help the slain officer’s sisters any way he could.

The estate is entailed, but the eldest sister Rebecca comes up with an ingenious solution to their problem. Although Rebecca’s idea is highly irregular and somewhat illegal, Alex’s promise wouldn’t let him to back off.

It could’ve been easy, if their mutual attraction didn’t complicate matters. And then, Rebecca’s brother’s secret past comes to light, and a worse entanglement ensues. 

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I entered the novella into the #Wattys2015 competition, so please read and comment.

Read Chapter 1 here.

Read Chapter 2 here.

Read Chapter 3 here.

Read Chapter 4 here.

Read Chapter 5 here.

Read Chapter 6 here.

Read Chapter 7 here.

Read Chapter 8 here.

Read Chapter 9 here.

Read Chapter 10 here.

Read Chapter 11 here.

Read Chapter 12 here.

Read Chapter 13 here.

Read Chapter 14 here.

Any suggestions and critique are welcome. After some time on Wattpad, I’m going to take the story down and publish it on Amazon. At that point, I’ll change the cover, as my cover on Wattpad – the one you’ve seen in these update posts – is a temporary placeholder. I’m working on the new cover and I’ll reveal it here soon.

 

Fibs in the Family, Chapters 11-12

The story of Alex and Rebecca is progressing towards the end. I posted two more chapters of my regency romance novella Fibs in the Family on Wattpad. The villain finally makes his move, but Alex is out of touch at the moment. It is up to Rebecca to set things to rights. Only two more chapters are left before the final kiss.

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A retired officer + an enterprising young woman = love and trouble

Captain Alex Woodward was fighting Napoleonic troops on the Peninsula, until his wounds forced him to retire. Now he travels to an estate of his former comrade, killed by the enemies, to fulfill his promise and help the slain officer’s sisters any way he could.

The estate is entailed, but the eldest sister Rebecca comes up with an ingenious solution to their problem. Although Rebecca’s idea is highly irregular and somewhat illegal, Alex’s promise wouldn’t let him to back off.

It could’ve been easy, if their mutual attraction didn’t complicate matters. And then, Rebecca’s brother’s secret past comes to light, and a worse entanglement ensues. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I entered the novella into the #Wattys2015 competition, so please read and comment.

Read Chapter 1 here.

Read Chapter 2 here.

Read Chapter 3 here.

Read Chapter 4 here.

Read Chapter 5 here.

Read Chapter 6 here.

Read Chapter 7 here.

Read Chapter 8 here.

Read Chapter 9 here.

Read Chapter 10 here.

Read Chapter 11 here.

Read Chapter 12 here.

Any suggestions and critique are welcome.