There’s something wonderful and terrifying about starting a new story.
Extra terrifying if you’re working in a genre where the nerds will kill you if you desecrate their sacred rites but will not give you the time of day if you don’t make something new.
Also corpses. Thankfully not mine. This time.
In case you’re confused, I started writing a new short story last night. Around midnight, yes. Per usual. It should be gothic horror/hard science fiction, but it’s not yet, because it’s not much of anything yet aside from a blob of words on a page.
It’s always harder for me to write if it’s a story I need to finish. Not a story that’s going to be published right away perhaps, but a story that slams itself against the walls of my skull demanding to be let out. This one has been demanding for a few weeks at least.
There’s also the constant argument between the voices in my head that I am brilliant and that I am writing hackneyed, self-indulgent fanfiction.
Yeah. My inner editor has some cruelty to her.
But aside from all the feelings that I’m about to plunge off a cliff into a pile of pillows and will only be coaxed out by my violin/ice cream…
I’m writing a new story.
And there’s something magical about it. When I manage to breathe, to let it happen, it’s one of those stories that just wants to tell itself. I don’t know if anyone else experiences this, but often as a writer I don’t feel that I’m writing. It’s more like being a stenographer. The characters start telling me the story themselves. All I have to do is keep up.
So in case you were wondering if I was hauled off by an errant dragon, got hopelessly lost somewhere between Les Miserables and the present day, or just quit blogging,
Hi. I’m not dead.
I’d say I needed a vacation, but I’ve been spending almost every spare minute editing a half-written novel, so that would be a lie. I don’t take vacations from writing.
Ever. I don’t know how.
But in between beta reading, snagging reader copies of new books, and figuring out the vast and alarming world of Twitter, I needed a break.
To make it up to you for the long lack of posts, I’m going to let you in on a little of what I’ve been up to.
This novel.
This novel I love.
This novel in which I am doing absolutely everything wrong.
So you probably deserve a little background. When I talk about the 1,000-page WIP, this is it. This is my monster. My Legendarium. This book and I have a gamble over whether it’s going to be finished and published before or after my demise.
To put it another way, I have a really hard time imagining life without this book.
I started writing it down when I was about eighteen. Trying to find a place to sort it all out, just a single thread to untangle and follow. It felt about as impossible as trying to lift an elephant. But how long I’ve known this story, these characters?
I have an even harder time trying to remember when they weren’t there, every step of my life, laughing in my head, whispering in my ear, standing just out of sight behind my shoulder, telling me this story, telling me they’ll always be there.
Except, of course, when I have writer’s block. Then they fly the coop faster than pigeons scared of a cat.
Oh, and it’s greedy, this book! I can’t write a short story anymore without it reaching out, pulling it in, as if it was always intended to be a part of this massive, crazy, beautiful world.
I could wax poetic about what this story, these characters mean to me. But I doubt I can accomplish anything by it. I can’t make you understand them. There’s no magic word I know that can encapsulate it.
They’re family. I’ll leave it at that.
Sounds great, right? Ha.
With a draft that’s over 1,000 pages long, it’s really, really easy to get disorganized. So I made up my mind to straighten things out, clean up my timeline, explain how two characters who have sworn eternal hatred in one chapter are hanging out in the next, why I’m getting away with all the time/genre-hopping I’m doing (steampunk dragons. Don’t argue with me).
So I started with the section that finally worked, back when I started writing it. I sat down and told myself I wasn’t skipping anything. I could go back and change it if I didn’t like it, but if there was something missing, I was filling it in. No empty chapters.
It took me about a month, with everything else going on, to edit through 50,000 words.
And that’s when I realized my first mistake.
I am a high fantasy writer.
I am a diehard high fantasy writer.
I have 50,000 words of a novel with no magical element.
How does this happen?
Arguably, the novel’s going to be spewing magic later on, but how long can I persuade my reader to wait? Am I engaging, fascinating, weird enough that I can get readers to last 50,000 words without giving up before they get to the good stuff?
Can I cut anything out?
I already have. If anything, I probably still have missing scenes.
So what did I do?
I fixed one mistake with another mistake.
I broke the 4th wall.
Not like in a Deadpool way! The novel is fiction, but it’s in first person and reads sort of like a really interesting memoir, so I just…added a note at the 50,000 word point from the narrator giving a little explanation for why…things are a mess.
(Cue BookmarkedOne burying her head in her arms and screaming into a pillow)
Crisis at least temporarily averted, I kept writing.
I broke my rule. I skipped scenes. I jumped ahead. I kept teasing threads back together.
I am now 81,000 words in.
This seemed like a good time to google what the average fantasy novel length is. Just to see where I should consider an “ending.” Think about splitting the 1,000 page draft into a few separate installments.
Did I mention that I was 81,000 words in and showing no signs of stopping? Did I further mention that I hate the cliffhanger ending to a book that is clearly written as the middle installment of a series, that’s just meant to tease you into buying the next book?
Okay. 150,000 words. I can do that. Right? Make exactly 1/3 of the book empty of magic, then get into the good stuff? That seems fair, doesn’t it?
Except…there are so many “big fat fantasy books” out there. Surely 50,000 as the low end is way off, right?
Google, I knew you were a liar.
Long story short,
I have no idea what I’m doing. But I’m doing it.
Because as critical as I can be, as long as this has taken, I can see I’m making progress. I mean, I almost have a novel already, and this is only the smallest drop in the waterfall that is my Legendarium.
I’m scared. But I think it’s a good kind of scared for once. And when I’m writing, when something falls into place, when it clicks, when past me whispers to me, “ooh, that was good. I’m so glad we finally figured out what to do with that,” I actually feel happy.
Like I said. These characters are family. My family. And if they ask me to stay up until one o’clock in the morning for a month running to spend time with them, well, if your besties wanted a sleepover with a running siege of Monopoly and cheesy movies after you haven’t seen them for long ages uncounted, you’d say yes. It’s not complicated. You’d say yes.
We’ll return to regular blog programming…eventually. More updates for the Legendarium & Co. coming soon.
So I’ve finally dug my grubby little claws into James Riley’s latest series, The Revenge of Magic! Hold on to your dragons and grab your moral support cats because we are in for exactly one romp of fabulous magic, monsters, and mayhem, where the biggest threat of all is nerds with teenage angst and antibacterial soap.
There’s no way you’re prepared for this.
Book: The Revenge of Magic by James Riley
Series: The Revenge of Magic, No. 1
Genre: Middle-grade fantasy (magic school/urban fantasy)
Content for the sensitive reader: Some thematic/suspenseful moments via disgusting monsters, possession/mind control, morally gray character choices, utterly useless adults. Appropriate for a wide audience.
BookmarkedOne Rating: 8/10
So this feels like half of forever since I read a James Riley book. I was finishing the weird, bafflingly wonderful Story Thieves series the summer before I started college.
I’m still trying to decide if that’s too long ago or not long enough.
Either way, there are some important rules attached to reading James Riley books. A friendly list of reminders then, for those of you who are new to this dimension of the library:
The acknowledgements and author bio are part of the story. Do not skip them.
All the books connect, so keep your eyes skinned for that subtle (or very obvious) character cameo from another series.
No. You’re wrong. This is better.
Pretty sure that’s the right order. Wouldn’t hurt to add that James Riley gets referred to around my book hoard variously as “the lunatic,” “the idiot,” or “the mad genius.” Not to be confused with Patrick Rothfuss, who holds the title of “the bearded madman.” Very different.
Anyway.
After Story Thieves, I knew I had to get my hands on this. And technically this book review wasn’t supposed to happen for a while yet, because I still have the Les Miserables and The Thief reviews squishing my brain and a lot of mercenary fiddler/academic papers/work stuff going on this week.
And what happens?
I ditch all of that and stay up after three in the morning reading The Revenge of Magic. Because nothing says “de-stress” like reading another book. And apparently I hate being told what to do.
But on to the review itself,
It’s a magic school book.
It’s a middle-grade magic school book with the dead mom trope thrown in and a “chosen one” on top.
But.
It’s a James Riley magic school book.
(And now I’m really tempted to break my no-gifs-in-the-book-reviews rule to go find that Agent Carter clip of Dottie Underwood saying “six walls” instead of “four walls” because “We’re in a cube, Peg. Keep up.” Complicated reference or not, it is the perfect expression of James Riley happily creating havoc and discovering new dimensions.)
And that means full of tropes or not, this isn’t going to be what you expect. Try a military compound magic school on for size. Oh yeah, and that magic system from Kiel Gnomenfoot, that nonexisting book series from Story Thieves that I and probably a lot of other people would read every word of if Riley chose to write it? That’s back. On a new level, but not so different we couldn’t recognize it. And a clairvoyant that I, the grumpy hater of all fictional Prophesies actually adore?
Yeah, Cyrus is actually my favorite character so far. He’s my type of weirdo.
Even if after the whole time-travel thing in Story Thieves I know he’s included just to remind us all that James Riley is Lord and Fiend of Paradoxes, everyone. Because so what if you change the future in about a trillion different ways after you see it? Isn’t that what clairvoyance is for, spoilers and convenience?
Sometimes you have to wonder if these things just happen to this author or if he stands awake at night in front of his wall-sized whiteboard, crossing lines of time travel until he can let out an especially delighted villain laugh.
We know he has a villain laugh. That’s not a question.
And can we just talk about how James Riley frolics over the issue of “why does magic work this way because it disagrees with physics and natural laws” by answering “Oh, that’s the perceptions of your dumb human brain. You like oxygen and gravity and all that boring stuff. Weird, right?”
He’s also one of the few writers I’d let get away with dream sequences.
Begrudgingly.
And he doesn’t do too shabby a job with the “If I was under mind control but I managed to overcome the mind control is it still my fault that I did some horrible stuff while I was under mind control and hadn’t yet figured out how to overcome said mind control?” paradox, either.
Yeah, that one is a Rubik’s Cube for writers. Don’t stare at it too long if you can feel your brain start to stretch too far.
Oh, and can we please applaud this book for the fact that it has diverse characters without calling attention to them and shouting “Hey! I’m a Diverse Book! Did you notice? Did you see what I did? Did you notice the percentage of different types of characters?” Because it’s so refreshing to have a writer say “Hey! This is my African American character. This is my British character. This is my girl character. This is–etc. They’re cool people. Look at all the awesome things they do. Cool? Cool. Let’s get on with the story.” I’ve been so sick of seeing books lately treat characters of different backgrounds like trading cards–gotta have them all to win whatever award and recognition the world is offering–and that’s all they are. Static faces smiling stiffly in the background.
We hate that. We hate that a lot. It’s as bad as putting a moral in bold print after a short story.
I’m going to move on before I ruin the glory of Riley’s accomplishment by drawing too much attention to it.
But what I loved most about the book?
Riley stops to take the time to talk about what a hero really is. Not so much in the preachy “Have I got a lesson for you kids” type of way. No. His protagonist struggles with heavy stuff–revenge, grief, loss, self-doubt–it’s a lot for a middle-grade book to carry on its shoulders. But The Revenge of Magic does it well. Sometimes life stinks. Sometimes you want to tear it apart. But there is a real difference between lashing out and being a hero. Between destruction and justice, even if the two both look like victory. Between being strong and being a protector.
And for that alone, our brilliant idiot writer gets my applause. I don’t know how many migraines went into crafting it, but I can say the resolution was satisfying.
Yes, even to a curmudgeonly little book hoarder like me.
So.
Was it as good as Story Thieves?
No. The characters in Story Thieves leaped out at me from the very beginning. There were more laughs. And let’s not forget the multiple dimensions, book-hopping, time-traveling, supervillain-stomping adventures.
But I’m going to read the next one. It’s already waiting to distract me from responsibilities on a shady corner of the shelf.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go look at that “Banish Fear” spell again and contemplate whether or not it would work on stage fright.
Drumroll, please, for BookmarkedOne’s second blogiversary!
I’m still here!
Woo!
So first order of business is to say thank you to my 181 followers for putting up with my book snobbery and reading my late-night rants about dragons and tea (or sometimes dragons drinking tea).
Thank you. Your comments usually wind up making my day. It’s quite a refreshing change from writing into the void.
Second is to note that this is post #145 on BookmarkedOne. It would be a higher number than that, but life has been cruelly busy for me this summer and I have been neglecting my blog. And I needed to recuperate after Les Miserables.
Third upis that BookmarkedOne is now on Twitter (click here) to say hi or deliver that 280-character-or-less death threat you’ve been itching to loose upon the world. Either way, come visit your antisocial book hoarder and see what havoc we brilliantly sleep-deprived minds can come up with on a new platform.
And last but not least, following last year’s tradition, I’m going to post a list of random stuff to make this post look like it has a reasonable length.
If I’ve done my job, you’ll be hard-pressed to actually find my real name anywhere on the site.
I have officially typed so much on my laptop that different keys are beginning to stick and create weird typos. So far the stickiest contenders are “n” and “0.” Observers would probably be confused to see me punch those keys with extra gusto. One of the many reasons I’m not one of those cute writers who sits with their drink and types in a café. Definitely more the things that go bump in the garret writing type.
Current WIP draft length is 1,712 pages.
I made a mock SF/F journal this week and problematically friends and fellows told me how much they wanted it to be real. I do not have time or resources to launch a real literary journal, thank you. Stop tempting me because we all know I could.
I love NaNoWriMo.
Indie books make me sad because usually (sorry) they don’t get traditional publishers because they aren’t ready to be published and sometimes I find one that could be really good but now it will probably never get the press it deserves and the whole situation makes me want to curl up under a giant blanket with a mug of cocoa even in 96-degree weather because good stories deserve to be read by everybody and shabby ones shouldn’t waste our time.
Search history on said sticky-keyed laptop for the letter “a” suggests “afternoon tea time,” “argent of avalon,” “average december temperature new york,” and “agents of shield.” Maybe I should start writing prompts where the readership has to build a story out of what I’m up to this week…
I still can’t find it in me to appreciate literary fiction. I tried.
I refer to the nights I’m sitting up reading as the Insomnia Book Club, even though the only member is myself. Any takers?
Desperately want dragons and time machines. Or dragon time machines. Or time machine dragons. Or all three.
I would rather sit and listen to you tell me about your fictional characters and why you love them for hours on end than a lot of other hobbies that are inexplicably more popular. I have no patience for people who interrupt said discussions with “not real.”
That’s probably enough from me for today. I’m off to practice some Bach on my violin before it’s too late and I get angry letters from the neighbors. As always, thank you for reading.
So I accidentally started reading my first NaNoWriMo novel yesterday.
A couple of clarifications here:
I’m not one of those people who has done NaNo since I was twelve,
When I say “accidentally,” I don’t mean I fell in a hole and remarkably discovered my manuscript typed and tied together with a ribbon.
With that understood–
My manuscript is only about three years old. I did not intend to spend much longer than I should have getting engrossed in this weird steampunky thing that I have barely looked at since November 30, 2018.
I know we say as writers, “I wrote it. I can’t possibly forget it,” or some kind of endearing sentimental nonsense like that and it really feels true. I still think about my 2018 project a lot and even after three years can tell you the main plot points, who I like, who I don’t, what needs fleshing out, how it (probably) fits into the growing legendarium.
I forgot a lot of stuff.
I forgot that I balked at a lot of the worldbuilding and just used “Saxon” and “Englishman” and Romani slang as insults because I am a lazy coward. It’s going to be an alternate universe now and I will reinvent what I need to.
I forgot that I wrote this snarky mechanic girl entirely. How did I forget that? I love her. She needs a bigger role. Can I give her a bigger role? Please?
I forgot that I apparently really like the name Florrie because I’ve now unwittingly used it twice, once for said snarky mechanic girl.
I forgot that I left a pile of notes about what might happen/research/drafts I couldn’t bear to delete at the end of the document and scared myself into thinking I hadn’t actually written that heart-wrenching ending that I really thought I wrote–but okay, there it is, I can breathe now.
I sort of forgot how many characters this thing has! Did I think I was building the Fellowship of the Ring? Twice?
There’s something about reading your old drafts that’s a little bit hypnotic. You come up feeling like you’ve just watched a sporting event or a chess competition, slightly dizzy, and wondering who won–the writer or the critic.
I love my hideous old draft. Someday it will be a book. A real book.
In the meantime, I made a beautiful synopsis mock-up that makes me sound like a brilliant creature and the book the greatest thing since Joel Ross’ The Lost Compass.
Writers, after all, can be pretty good liars. Especially if someday, somewhere, it just might be true.
Still reading Les Miserables, by the way. Eventually I’ll finish and review this gorgeous thing. Spoilers: I love it.
Oh, and BookmarkedOne is on Twitter now, by the way. Come visit me @bookmarkedone. I promise to talk about books…and probably not much else. Which is what happens when you get introverts to be social. Right?
I am writing about mermaids. Or I will be. Right now I am writing about a shy, stuffy little professor-type in 1901 who blushes whenever a pretty girl is in the room and who is following the plot about as much as a sleepy cat chasing a pussy willow.
Which is to say not at all. He could bonk his face into the walls trying to find the door and nobody would think it’s out of character. First drafts, my friend, first drafts. We haven’t gotten to the mermaids yet. I need to plan (how does a mermaid’s tail attach to its body? How does echolocation change the form of their language? Relationships to sharks? Vehicles of transport? Technology? Coloration? Family structures? Currency? Culture? Cue maniacal BookmarkedOne laughter to frighten the neighbors.
And to my consternation, the form the short story is taking? An epistolary, remarkably similar in style to Dracula.
Ooh, that’s hard to admit. Especially after just ranting about how terrible Dracula is. And my personal belief that the epistolary and frame narrative, unless in the hands of someone exceptionally brilliant (i.e., not me) are dead forms as far as modern fantasy is concerned.
cue BookmarkedOne grabbing a friendly teddy bear and screaming “What was I thinking?” into his unblinking black eyes.He sagely does not reply.The dragons do not deign to get involved.
Moving on.
How am I?
My weird sleep habits are wearing on me. The first Revenge of Magic book came in the mail and into my greedy little hands today (Hardback! Brand-new! Silver lettering! Mine!). I keep having to remind myself to eat while I’m working. Have devoured all the episodes of Sherlock (it’s terrible. I love it). I start a playwriting course on Monday. The West End is reopening Sunday. I’m playing Paganini Violin Caprice 20.
It’s funny, that piece. No, really. The book has a rich red paper cover, and it seems to smile and laugh at me just the way I imagine Paganini would. It starts in D major, all lyrical and peaceful as boating on a summer lake, and then–Aha! It’s b minor and you’re in a mine field of unfamiliar faces and your heart is racing and the air is cold but your breath is hot and you will triumph, but keeping your balance, that’s the thing now, keeping your balance, not falling off the edge of the knife, clinging to the top of the world even when it spins so quickly it’s dizzying–
And then it’s in D major again. The same peaceful, serene melody as before, lilting. As if it were all a great joke.
You can almost feel him smiling.
Or that’s how it would be if I could play it in any suitable fashion. My fingers are still learning to dance the steps.
Hm? How I feel?
What, emotionally?
Well, since you’re so pushy, my urban fantasy characters (yes, from the 1,000+ page monster draft) are on hiatus. Vacation. Adventure. At the bottom of a well probably stabbing a giant spider. They do that from time to time, particularly when I need to take better care of myself. I’d say it’s because my characters care, but I don’t see how missing them is going to make me any less intractable.
I like to say that they go on adventure when I can’t find inspiration. Half because they are so very real to me now, and half because well, if you have writer’s block, what else are you going to do?
I’m lonely. When they’re gone. When my head isn’t full of their voices. Do you know, the other day, I heard a song and I asked myself, “Hey, I wonder what J’s voice sounds like. You know, because you’ve never really heard it. I bet it sounds like that, only he’d never sing that loud when anybody was listening, and it would be a little gentler, a little less perfect, do you hear it, the difference?”
The difference. Like the slightest curve of a fingerprint.
What can I say?
What can I possibly say?
I want you to imagine hearing the voice of someone you love. Someone you love, someone lost, just a breath, just a thousand, thousand miles away. A best friend. A brother. Your hero.
Everything. It means everything.
And even so, it seems perfectly idiotic that I was sitting there listening to an upbeat pop song with my throat going tight.
Fictional. Not even finished.
Everything.
Don’t worry about me too much. I’ll lure my characters back with Twizzlers and the language of flowers and promises (lies) to take better care of myself while I write. They’ll come back. They always do.
In the meantime, I have a language for mermaids to dream up and sleep probably wouldn’t be a bad idea either.
I stayed away from this book for years because of its reputation. This newfound obsession is entirely my artsy friend’s fault.
She was watching the play version by the National Theater online during lockdown–and it is a wonderful production. But, being unaware of the greater requirements of the genre, she saw old-fashioned light bulbs and a train and cried steampunk.
You can imagine what happened after that. Frankenstein might be something I had little interest in, but a steampunk theater version was something I was not about to miss.
A word of warning, in case you haven’t guessed–the production isn’t steampunk. It’s deeply gorgeous and horrible and throws in a lot more foul language than the book, implied rape and partial nudity, so be forewarned what you’re getting into if you watch it.
The acting is sublime. It broke my heart a little.
So that was the introduction. Accompanied by several weeks of pained expressions whenever I heard a sound remotely similar to the Creature’s desperate groans of agony.
It wasn’t long after that I stumbled upon the Frankenstein musical soundtrack.
Yes, Frankenstein has a musical. The soundtrack is incredible and I love it more than I, a writer, can find words to say. And being a musical, it’s a little less traumatizing than the stage version. Lighter, as much as the tragedy can be. And each version is slightly different, all of it a far cry from the standard green monster fare.
Which brings us to now. Summer, the season of reading as much as humanly is possible and sometimes beyond that.
Time to read Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.
Book: Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
Genre: Science-fiction/horror
Content for the sensitive reader: Mild language, murder (although not particularly graphic), corpses, discussions and attempts of suicide
Format read: Audible audio narrated by Dan Stevens
BookmarkedOne Rating: 10/10
I’m not sure any review can fully capture what’s inside that book. So if you decide not to read this and simply take my heartfelt recommendation and find a copy of the book, I won’t be too disappointed.
I had a feeling I would fall in love with it. And though Shelley does spend a great deal of time talking about the landscape (ice, snow, mountain, ice, ice, glacier, river, oh, hi Henry), reminding me of one too many dry YA books, I have few other real complaints.
The Dan Stevens narration is lovely, if it cannot quite equal the gorgeous, unbelievably deep voice of the Creature in the musical. He changes his voice just slightly for each of the characters, but more than that, you can hear the emotion in it. Every word is soaked with the experiences each character has in the story, good, bad, and beautiful. As far as audiobooks go, it’s a very good one.
Frankenstein himself is, as expected, a helpless little over-dramatic fainting goat of a protagonist, but somehow better in Shelley’s version than in the National Theater.
Perhaps it’s the fact that he prefers reanimating life forms over going to university lectures.
It is…a valid reason.
And the Creature?
I stopped reading after his first few words to Frankenstein, trying to cover his creator’s eyes with his hands like a child. Not because I was unhappy. Simply because it was so beautiful and endearing I couldn’t read any more, perhaps knowing what I know.
I know it’s supposed to be scary. But I wonder if I’m really the only one who came away, instead of being terrified, with wanting to give the Creature a hug.
Another interesting thing is how much isn’t in the book. We all think we know the story of Frankenstein and his monster, how the Creature was stitched together and animated with a bolt of lightning. There is no mention of either in the entirety of the book. To readers then, how the Creature was made remained an eternal mystery.
I think it’s a pity the world has remembered the monstrous, invented the explanations, and forgotten how tragic and beautiful it all could be. I’m never going to quite get over the idea of the Creature admiring flowers in spring.
My only other complaint is the ending, and not being the author, it’s hardly mine to decide. I grew so fond of the Creature I wanted him to be happy again. I have such a terrible weakness for happy endings. I’d give them to almost anyone, if I could. At least in the musical things end a little better than they do in the book.
But that’s Frankenstein, everyone! The real story, not the one everybody thinks they know. Now if you don’t mind, I’m off to devour another book and start hunting the rest of Mary Shelley’s works that I can get my grubby claws on.
By now you know I am convinced fantasy is the best and most beautiful genre of fiction in the world. But I don’t often talk about why.
A while back (yes, concerts and work and university finals, I know. I’m awake now) I stumbled across Sarah Seele’s lovely post “They Found Loveliness Everywhere.” Do go read it because it’s a fascinating discussion on escapism and it should convince you to read Tolkien’s On Fairy-Stories and rethink your life.
How I envied him, getting to write academic papers on fantasy.
I, however, am going to take an entirely different direction on the topic.
I’m going off on the deep end by examining actual characters who use escapism in literature and how it matters. And then promptly get far too dewy-eyed and philosophical and say things that might not mean anything at all.
So here I was, reading about escapism.
I was almost instantly reminded of a scene from The Princess Bride. In the Zoo of Death (Pit of Despair in the movie version), when Count Rugen is torturing Westley. There’s a line that echoes in my mind from the day I read it until now.
You have gone away in your mind!
Goldman, William. The Princess Bride.
In context, it’s about how Westley could withstand anything, absolutely anything, because he could think about Buttercup and leave the real world behind, completely oblivious to his own pain. Romantic, I know. Do not light your hands on fire at home.
What does it mean, going away in your mind? Escapism? Something more?
No. Nothing. Of course. Nothing.
Patrick Rothfuss does something similar in his genius, revolutionary, to-die-for novel The Name of the Wind. He calls it “Heart of Stone,” when a man “could go to his sister’s funeral and never shed a tear.” A mental process that makes external situations totally remote, even unimportant. Further, the magic system is based on splitting one’s mind into sections, each one focused on a different thought, and with it, controlling the physical world. Knowing that you can’t make something that is real be any different from what it is, and somehow, somehow with the power and strength of your will and mind, changing it anyway.
Impossible. Beautifully so.
Even Death in Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief uses escapism to cope with the struggles of a stressful job. The opening descriptions of colors, little vacations he takes in his thoughts since he can’t get away in reality is more mesmerizing than it has any right to be.
A pirate, a wizard, and Death, all using escapism. All finding a place, even within their beautiful, enormous, enchanting fictional worlds, where they can rest, feel safe, breathe again.
So?
Maybe nothing. Fictional characters are reflections of people in unexpected situations. Maybe it’s nothing remarkable at all.
But before we’re done, let me tell you one last story. One that isn’t published anywhere, and lies much closer to home.
This may come as a surprise to you, but I’m terrible at communicating in real life. Seriously. As in I don’t talk. At all. Strider the Ranger in the corner of the Prancing Pony Inn is more chatty than I am. It’s difficult to have people understand you when that’s the case, when conversation is often endlessly irritating. And so one day I found myself, at the end of my rope, saying (not quite shouting) to a loved one You have gone away inside your mind!
It was the only way I knew how to explain it.
The situation boiled down to this–as long as I could handle the trashy stuff in my life (and let’s face it, we all have a little) with one eye on something else, it didn’t bother me. As long as I didn’t have to discuss all the finer points of planning out solutions, as long as it didn’t fill the whole of my thoughts, I could handle it. And be chipper enough at the same time.
How?
By being a very good liar. By telling myself stories in my head, all the time. By preoccupying myself with the fact that the Phantom of the Opera’s mask is perfect for a violinist because it only covers the right half of the face. By laughing at one of my character’s reactions to old movies. By always having a story, a novel, a movie, a play, at the tip of my tongue, the corner of my eye, playing itself out in the back of my mind. By not looking down.
By going away inside my mind.
It’s rubbish. Nonsense. Not real.
Except, maybe, for someone who’s a little insane. Or a writer. Someone like me.
This is more an observation than anything else. A question. Something book characters do. Readers. And me, apparently. But I’ll take this chance to express a dangerous sentiment.
Suppose escapism isn’t just a coping mechanism. Suppose instead that it’s a perspective. A different way of looking at life. One where dragons and hovercraft populate the sky and untold treasures and lost empires lie buried in the soil beneath your feet. One where anything can happen, and we act like characters in books.
I don’t mean, of course, the standard YA trope fests, stereotypical romance novels, or spy stories that think CIA means “I can shoot anything that moves and get away with it.” I mean the sort of characters who live in the moment because the reader doesn’t have the patience to sit through chitchat or coffee or putting off the adventure until tomorrow. Book characters get things done. They face their fears. They live, in ways that make them more vibrant and real than any of us.
So I wonder. What would happen if we treated the world as a story? One we have the power to write. To change. Just a little.
Nor have I quit blogging. A dragon still hasn’t swept down and decimated my suburban village, I didn’t disappear into the void or get lost trying to find my way out of hallways stacked full of books.
Just thought you might like to know.
I meant to post. Regularly. Often.
I’ve been kind of zonked after my solo violin recital. And that other recital. And the orchestra recordings where I played principal second and hoped the conductor couldn’t hear my internal screams bleeding out through my eyes (for those who don’t know, this is my way of saying I loved it and can’t wait to do it again).
In other words, yes, I have been a little lazy. I like to keep myself at least 2% sane this time of year.
And it’s probably going to be a week or two before things get back to normal.
Sorry. Try being a classical musician from March-May sometime. It’s Cheshire Cat levels of mad.
In the meantime, I thought I owed you a little update. So–
Another Honorable Mention from Writers of the Future (throws confetti in the air)! Seriously, it’s been so long since I submitted the short story (December!) I had to dig through my files to figure out what I did. Now it’s just waiting another three months for the results on the next one…
I am reading Perelandra as an insomniac bedtime story. I might have mentioned this before, but it’s C.S. Lewis, so…deal with it. It’s going to come up a lot. I forgot how beautiful the landscape is. Seriously. Everything is gorgeous. Oranges, purples, little dragons–the first time I tried to read it and failed I was fifteen and sort of rushed past it. Now I’m gorging myself on every last scintillating detail.
I wrote a fluff scene the other day where a few urban fantasy characters went out for ice cream for no other reason than because I wanted to and I had to fiercely struggle not to judge a character I absolutely adore because he said he wanted orange sherbet (Are you sure? You have the whole menu–?).
I accidentally threw my music halfway across the stage during a trio performance.
I am going to another Epic Library Book Sale for the first time since the Plague descended upon our lands. Excuse me as I go scream in utter delight.
There are Oreos in the cookie jar. If you don’t appreciate this…I don’t understand you.
Mentioning Oreos means I’ve most likely forgotten something important. But if I don’t post this now I’ll probably forget or will edit it to death, so just use your imagination and add another adventure to the bottom of the list. Preferably with dragons. You know how I like dragons.
So a little life update. I’m having my first solo violin recital tomorrow. In translation–I’m going to play like 33 minutes of classical music onstage with just a pianist behind me instead of a symphony orchestra around me. The difference is akin to dueling versus being part of a Roman legion.
I’m balancing between “Everything will be fine!” and being a nervous wreck (If you’re wondering about the lack of posts lately, yes, this is why!).
I shouldn’t be. Following Plague Policy, there’s only going to be maybe a dozen people there. Some of this music I’ve had in my hands for–wow, has it really been a year? So no pressure, right?
Yeah. Right.
On the bright side, I’m playing two of my favorite pieces. The Baal Shem and “Meditation.” If you’ve ever been to a wedding, you probably know the second piece. Most people name it by saying, “Oh, you know, the “Da—da-da-da-da Daa-da,” and if you know it you probably had no trouble hearing the melody in your head just from that horrible little transcription. The Baal Shem is a piece that you can’t hum, but once you’ve heard it, you never forget. I’ve wanted to play it since, what, second semester of my freshman year in college? When my wee little hands didn’t have enough strength or technique in them yet.
I bought a new dress. I know, it’s something I almost never do. Orchestral attire is black. Solid black. Ask anyone in a symphony, and they’ll tell you how much of their closet is just black for concerts.
Except it’s just me this time. I don’t have to match. So I bought a floor-length dress. In green. Because I can.
Technically it’s slightly more than floor length, and to be honest, I’m a little nervous about tripping and falling flat on my face once I get onstage. Then again, I’d worry about that if I were wearing slacks. When I played in a production of Fiddler on the Roof, I didn’t fall off the ladder, didn’t trip dancing with Tevye–I found the one loose microphone cord trying to get up the stairs to the stage and almost went splat in front of the whole audience. Almost.
Everything is new about this concert, really. Even the concert hall is just a few years past its renovation (the acoustics, my love, the acoustics). And I’ll be playing on a new violin.
Okay, technically it’s old. But we’re new to each other. And I am falling a little in love. I could write a whole post about this violin, and I probably should. For now–the sound is subtle but strong when it needs to be. It looks ordinary until it’s under the stage lights, and then it shines like crystallized honey or sweet amber, like someone’s hair that looks brown until the sun hits it and you suddenly see red and gold and living fire. It has scars from getting bashed up years before it ever reached my hands. It’s a breath smaller than is typical and fits my hands just the way it should.
Oh. And the scroll is carved like a lion sticking out its tongue.
I love this violin.
I know I should just relax. Everything will be fine if I just relax. But when you want something so badly, sometimes it’s hard to remember to even breathe.
But not tomorrow. Tomorrow I will breathe. Tomorrow I’ll just stop thinking about everything new, everything that might go wrong. I’ll forget the violin isn’t actually part of me. I’ll stop caring so much if something goes awry. The house lights will go down, and I will play the music. I’ll fall into it, disappear, feel the notes in my fingers, in the ache of my shoulder, the pull of my wrist and nothing else will matter. Just the music. The singing, the screaming. The magic spilling out. I’ll be home.
BookmarkedOne 