Saturday, November 16, 2013

Saturday

Very low key Saturday. First one in a long while. I feel like I've been running around and worrying much too much. I'm going to stay abed until beach time (low tide) and let my spirit rest. 

A chorus of my inner voices berate me for being lazy and fat. For not cleaning the garage, the birdcage, the laundry. for not gardening, exercising, writing and scooping dog shit.

Hey! STFU! I cleaned the toilet. I fed the animals, I put away some clean laundry! It does not all have to get done NOW.

I exhaust myself with the berating and fighting the berating. I think I will read a favorite book and take a nap.

Friday, November 01, 2013

Stark Nova by Chris Mark, Reviewed by ME!

In the latest issue of SF in SF I review Stark Nova AND interview the author!

http://efanzines.com/SFSF/SFSF146.pdf

Check me out, and read Stark Nova if it sounds like your kind of thing!

Yvette

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Synopsis for my NaNoWriMo novel - Maybe.

I promise nothing, but this MIGHT be a synopsis that will have something to do with whatever I end up writing this month. 

After a year full of the deaths of friends and family, Janette was tired, emotionally hollowed out, and in need of closure. Or Fun. Or Both. So when her pagan friend Allie invited her to a Wiccan "ritual" with costumes, dancing, and an introduction to a hot guy she wanted to meet, it seemed like a good alternative to a night alone handing out (scarfing down) Halloween candy. As it turned out, Janette's dead were not as ready as she was to say farewell.Now on the wrong side of the veil between the worlds, Janette has to navigate across the Isle du Mort, making peace with "beloved dead" who want to weigh her down with rummicube rules, very odd favors, and midlife crisis advice. If she can make peace with every dead person she has ever known - and FAST - she might make it back to the world of the living in time for her date.

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Jump from a good platform

I only jumped from a very-high-dive platform once. I have no memory of where, or why or how anyone talked me into it, but I remember doing it.

I also remember wanting desperately NOT TO.

During the olympics I sometimes catch the diving, and although I admire the sport, watching it requires me to actively quiet a visceral cringing. It feels like every internal organ I've got is sandwiched between a convulsing spinal column and the shriveling of every skin cell covering my body. It is a recoil against height from the inside and out.

So now that I've decided to "leap into" writing more publicly, and chosen to do it from the tall, supportive backs of persons I know and admire, utilizing the very tall platforms of OTHER folks I know and admire...I'm having that moment where I'm high up in the air, and I know SOMETHING will go wrong.

My writing will be truncated. My intended message will fall flat. I'll write too much, or not enough. I'll look like an idiot...or worse, panic and take someone down with me into a fatal bellyflop.

So, I'm visualizing the climb, the foot-thick, solid, stable, grainy concrete platform, my toes are off the edge, and I'm just telling myself over and over, "It's just water."

Monday, October 14, 2013

Horror

I'm almost finished reading The Ocean at the End of the Lane. The boy is in the fairy circle, surrounded by all the spectres of seven years, and I have come to a sudden realization about why I don't write. As I am crying, and blowing my nose, and breathing in hiccoughs, I realize that I am afraid of writing and being a writer because I am afraid that I will write stories like this. Horror stories. Stories that I do not like to read.

Saturday, October 12, 2013

The Scroll of Years - A Review

The Scroll of Years
A Gaunt and Bone Novel

Having finished The Scroll of Years by Chris Willrich only moments ago, I hereby judge that it is not an average, everyday book. By that I mean it is not about a cast of characters placed in stories and committed to the written word.

Instead, Willrich has written a magical invitation to peruse a series of bound pages where, by happy chance, fantastic figures’ own paths direct them to travel back and forth in this specific vicinity…and they happen to have been captured by a sensitive translator.

My ruling on The Scroll of Years is based on many things, but foremost the structure of the book.  Willrich’s debut novel is comprised of long and short chapters, tales within tales, and shifts in time, location, culture, perspective, and language.  The result is deceptive: the simple exterior of a fantasy softcover hides an interior that is a complex literary work. This book insistently demands that any prospective reader thrust away their grasp of linear tale telling as a prerequisite to jumping into this adventure.

I will not mince words: This is not a book everyone will enjoy. The protagonists travel an entire world of territory, and the stories told are drawn from every major occurrence of a human lifetime. I found it difficult at times to catch up again after putting it down, as if somehow the story had continued to evolve while I wasn’t actively reading it.

To enjoy the work, I suggest that you be a reader who can be dropped without warning or explanation onto the back of a Springfang, into a bottomless pit, or through the portal of scholarly monastic life. This is not a book for any reader requiring reason or exposition. Persistent readers will find some of each inside this novel, but it will be wrapped carefully and carried next to a character’s true heart.

The Scroll of Years is a collection of tales about persons generally meeting the modern definition of “westerners” and “easterners.” The travels and antics of the characters are guides or perhaps crutches, for the reader seeking wisdom about an astonishing range of life experiences. From the book, readers can steal treasures about true growing up, forgiveness, partnership in love, parenting, and even coming to peace with our own flawed selves.

The thrilling cover illustration of high-fantasy artwork, and Willrich’s own description of the novel as “sword and sorcery” does the book an injustice.  I believe it is well beyond what the traditional fantasy novel has provided. The Scroll of Years is more than one rich world-building adventure; it is easily three or perhaps, lucky seven. Characters go beyond the traditional troupe of scout, fighter, thief, wizard, and cleric, to include the avocations of monks, politicians, assassins, poets, mothers, fathers, adolescents, emperors, dragons, walls, ways, ghosts, vampires, accountants, sailors, outcasts, and even a loyal log-chasing dog.

What I enjoyed about the novel was being tossed into a wonderful new way to use language. Willrich has invented novel techniques for dialog and storytelling that derive from opposites. His writing incorporates east and west, man-on-the-street and sage, human and animal, child and adult. I can only describe my reaction toward writing so completely new and different as similar to how I felt reading Gibson’s cyberpunk for the first time. Reading this book is likely to cause a disturbance in your Chi, but channeling will reward the reader tenfold.

What I had to overcome to enjoy the book was the idea that I was picking up a recreational-fantasy drug. This book requires attention, commitment and participation from its readers. If you allow it, this book can teach you more than a little bit about life’s biggest lessons. To the inattentive, I imagine this book is just a muddied flood that will wash over you, scrape you up with pointed words, and carry you away, without ever allowing you to plumb its depths of meaning.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Writing Exercise: What smells would you want to take with you to heaven?

  • Husband's forehead
  • Cockatoo powder
  • Fresh popcorn with real butter
  • Bruising unexpected bushes
  • Fresh, post-storm seaweed
  • Hot, dry pine needles in the woods
  • Horse brushing
  • Horse manure
  • Shampoo
  • Hot, sweaty, buff guy running past on the narrow hiking trail
  • Santa Barbara Sandstone dust in the summer
  • Fresh bread
  • Cinnamon
  • Baked apples
  • Lysol
  • Dr. Bronner's peppermint soap
  • Honeysuckle
  • Starch - hot on the ironed clothes
  • Warm clothes from the dryer
  • Downy
  • Freshly poured hard cider
  • Fine cabernet
  • Hot leather seats in the car
  • Open window in a stuffy room
  • Basement
  • Concrete slab
  • Crawl space under the house
  • Wine cellar
  • Doug's pipe smoke
  • Hawaii
  • Lemon verbena
  • Grease paint make up
--------------

Exercise: Write about one smell (with prompts during continuous writing)

Open window in a stuffy room

The smell of an open window in a stuffy room hits me in the neck,
behind each ear. This part of my body relaxes as the fresh air pushes curtains aside. 
There is blue sky outside and fresh green of the grass and
bushes outdoors. This smell makes me relaxed. My stuffed inside body
can expand with air, and the neck and ears get bigger, wider, longer.

The smell is always available but needs precaution from weather. 
Rain into the stuffy room is best even when frills of lace get damp. 
The day - end of day - is time to come home and open windows and chase out
the heavy waiting. Bird waiting for attention. Home waiting to be
lived in. 

Each home needs to be allowed to steep - to become what it IS all day alone. 
And then the people come in and open the windows and
let the fresh movement in. From outside. Fresh halts the decay.
Rejuvenates, sparkles the wooden floor, warms linens, releasing the
comfort smells of husbands and laundry and fabric softener. 

A solitary smell. Open the window anytime, but the smell only comes when alone -
when there is time to just breathe. Maybe it could be shared with an
intimate loved one. Open windows merge the possible future and the
current moment. The outside of fresh with the inside of decay...or dust...or simply calm. Calm. Warm. Settled. Not stirred...moved...complicated. In/out and constant versus perpetual motion.

Sunday, March 17, 2013

Scared to Breathe

Rob Brezny posted this as his FB status today:
"I resolve not to automatically assume that negative feelings are more profound and authentic than positive ones, or that cynical opinions are smarter and more accurate than the optimistic kind."
I'm going to try to find the truly believable optimism as it applies to my Sunday, St. Patrick's Day morning: 

12 hours after the medicine, the wracking coughing begins. 

This means my body is strong - functioning well, and the drugs I'm taking to alleviate my symptoms are being efficiently used and flushed out of my system. I'm grateful for that strength, that functionality. 

This cold/flu cannot last. It is probably not Spanish, and I am not small, tragic Lavinia

Instead, this is my opportunity to read voraciously without guilt or distraction. 

It is an opportunity to practice trusting my husband and communicating how best he can help and care for me. Like asking for salty, cheesy grits for breakfast. (OMG, YUM.)

It is an opportunity to cherish each breath - especially when I fear that the deep, healing breathing that will relax and energize me may also lead to the coughing fits. So it is also an opportunity to practice my mindfulness, awareness and "body talk." 

"Hey, body. How's is going?"
"Not well."
"Yeah...More artificial help is on the way...the pain will be gone soon...but how can we stretch a little and make the stiffness and soreness go away? How can I help you? How can I keep you strong?"
"Piss off."
"Oh, come on."
"EVERYTHING HURTS, ASSHOLE."
"Everything?"
"Pretty much, yeah - everything."
"But it will hurt less in a little while, we just have to get the drugs in our bloodstream."
"I can't wait..."
"Sure you can! Don't give up! Think about how much we have to see and do together! We have to get strong, and be ready for the ride in a couple of months."
"Yeah, about that - It is one thing to be pushing all this extra hiking and cycling and spinning on me, but it is something else to pair that with all these extra fear and stress hormones. Can you try to cut those out?"
"I will try."
"Good. And another thing, you know where we got this flu bug dontcha? I bet good money on the YMCA. Lots of people, lots of kids, and lots of people with lots of kids. Germ factories! Wipe down the bicycle before and AFTER we use it for spin class, and get some hand wipes."
"Okay, I will do that too. What else? How can I help?"
cough, cough, cough, cough, cough, cough, cough, cough>
"Careful! Yeah, okay. We can breathe. And stretch some. And lie back down. And wait for the drugs to kick in."
"Yeah, let's do that together."


Friday, January 04, 2013

Too Good to Use

It is time to admit something publicly:
For awhile after we got married, my husband and I only used our Wedgewood china for occasional dinner parties.

I'm ashamed, but it is true. I decided that dishes people had given us as gifts were somehow too precious, too good to use. What if they got broken? Chipped!? If the gilt edge…wore OFF!!!! DISASTER!

My husband's family has a phrase for this. You may have heard it.  It applies to special feast day food, and gets pulled out at annual gatherings.  Children often hear it, at that time before the clock strikes the appointed dinner-hour, but well after the children's stomachs are growling and their mouths are watering from amazing kitchen smells:

Don't eat that! That's for people!

THAT'S FOR PEOPLE.

(Not you. You are not people. You are not good enough to be "people.").

A phrase that translates to:
You may not use and enjoy your own dishes because you are not special enough for these dishes.
You do not deserve the gift of these dishes…you may only protect them, but not enjoy them.

 

After I had been married for awhile, I was invited to the home of an amazingly "perfect" couple.  They had fallen in love and married when they were a bit older.  It was a second marriage for one of them.  When the time came to serve food, I noticed (because I am fond of beautiful things) their divine, all white, dishes. Plates, serving pieces, all white, and very fine, with delicious, subtle, botanical designs, and that melodic ringing sound as plates were picked up and set down.

"What lovely china," I said, admiring it.

"Isn't it wonderful!" my hostess said, genuinely looking at it and appreciating it anew herself. "We bought all white so that we could eat off of it and enjoy it every day. It makes me so happy to use it all the time.  I reminded my husband to buy all the extra pieces so that we had a complete set before the style was discontinued, along with a few extra pieces…but we haven't had many break, have we, Darling…?"

And as she shared a moment of wonder and joy with her husband - about their everyday dishes - I thought of my china:
 

Tucked in dark cupboards.
Unrecognizable shapes in bubble wrap.
Or zipped up in padded, specially designed, quilted china covers.
(A small piece of foam in between each plate, bowl, and cup…serving pieces in the original plastic, for extra protection).
Bored, waiting China.
China despairing of ever being used.

 

Our china pattern, Persia, had seen only small dinner parties.  We had a small wedding that we paid for ourselves, and we were not gifted a generous table of very expensive china. Despite small numbers, the few parties where we pulled out the china had been merry, and fun.  The rich, burnt orange design included stylized pheasant and leopards that lent a bit of excitement to the parties. Eating the food off of our china revealed intricate designs and possibly even imagined vignettes.

I can count the dinners, and retell the tales because they are so few: A Corned beef dinner on St. Patrick's Day. An improvised community dinner of soup that got extended and extended and extended with cans of whatever from the cupboard as the numbers of people swelled.  We ran out of the good china, and had to use old one-off dishes instead, but no one seemed to mind. At all of the parties there was much admiration of the china.

After our most recent move, I decided it was ridiculous to covet my own china. I should commit to it. Complete my set. Use it.

Despite reminders when the pattern was discontinued, my husband did not spend thousands of dollars to acquire a full set for twelve to sit for dinner. Our dining table could only hold eight, so eight was a good enough number.  With eight settings, and some extra dessert plates, we put all the china in an easily accessible cupboard and vowed to use it.

That intention soon faded. Hand-washing fine, fancy dishes, when there's a dishwasher right there is not fun.

Today I have a cupboard full of very plain, dishwasher safe, white dishes.  I have a second cupboard full of fine china. I pull it out when we run out of everyday dishes.

I covet the space my china is taking up in my cupboards.  I dream of the money I could make selling off all the fancy china. I imagine reclaiming the cupboard space.

Every once in awhile I pull out a very pretty dish to eat off of.  More often than not, I put it in the dishwasher when I'm done. Who cares about the gilt edge coming off? What good is ANY object if it is neither utilized nor admired? 


No good at all, I now think.  It might as well be given away, sold, or smashed. If it was a gift, the sin of under-utilization is even worse: not using the gift, not appreciating it on a daily basis is an insult to the giver.

I want to learn from my china to look carefully. Decide wisely. I don't want any gifts in my home too good to use!  I deserve all of the beautiful things I have been given out of love. I refuse to keep food around that can only be eaten by people! I'm all the PEOPLE that matter, and if you are a guest in my house, if it is good enough for me, it is good enough for you.

I have outgrown a tendency I was somehow taught to preserve and protect objects. I strive to learn now to desire no object so precious that it loses its usefulness or its ability to bring me joy. If it cannot be used, or it is painful, I will take a picture of it, and get rid of it. Make a scrapbook of the objects I have loved, write about WHY I loved them.  Why I coveted them as if they were not mine, because I wouldn't let myself enjoy them…even when they belonged to me.