How the birds do whisper...

I've heard a whisper that I am to have a story in an upcoming anthology! It'll be named, and we'll squee about it later, when the anthology is out and able to be purchased. It's a very exciting thing, though, and I feel like I've been dancing around with ice cream cones under the threads of rainbows, and how can that be bad?

I do have a story of Cottage Life.

Oh, dear, do I ever have a story!

We are the perennial recipients of swallows' nests under one of the porches. The swallows are not much to endure. They're beautiful to watch, and I've grown accustomed to their chirping, their expert funambulism as they perch on lines and preen themselves.

Already this year, Tails had to clean up the rather sad little body of one swallow baby who'd fallen from the nest.

A little more than a week later, I was tested in almost the same way. Except my swallow baby was still alive.

I was downstairs doing laundry, and I kept hearing this "cheep, cheep!" I went out the door to look, and couldn't find anything unusual. I went back to the washer. "Cheep, cheep, cheep!" Then I thought, "Oh, no, the bird is inside!"

So I went back to the door and waited.

"Cheep, cheep, cheep!"

No. It wasn't inside. It was definitely outside.

So I looked again. Of course I hadn't seen it right away, it was very small and more like a heap of dried, cut grass than a living creature.

What a terrible thing! At least it was alive, though.

I walked up to it carefully, trying to test its ability to fly. Its wings flapped helplessly. Tiny wings made of tiny feathers. It wasn't going to get back to where it belonged, and I didn't know what else to do but help it.

Whenever I try and help, I inadvertently make things worse. I was terrified to help, afraid that I'd kill it.

But I put on some thick cleaning gloves, knowing that if I tried, I would've at least tried, and leaving it there to be eaten or die was an option worse than dealing with my curse.

I do not. Do not. Recommend. Doing. This. I do not recommend doing this. It's scary trying to save a little bird.

But I had to chase it around the slab of cement for a little while, into the high grassy area nearby, where I was finally able to get a hold of it. To keep it from walking out of my hand, as it seemed inclined to do, my little funambulist-in-training, I covered it with my other hand in a kind of cage, with my fingers splayed, like Gandalf holding the moth. (Now, don't be coy with your geekiness, you know what I'm talking about.) I checked around to find its nest among the rafters of the porch above my head. It's kind of hidden, tucked away behind an aluminum sheet, and not easy to find with the naked eye bothered by sunny glare and dirty spectacles.

I unfolded my hands carefully to check on the baby bird. It'd hunkered into my fingers and closed its eyes. It must've thought, "Oh, right, a parent is on me now and I will just rest! Phew, glad that's over!" It was cute...

After a few more seconds of frantic searching, I finally found an opening between beams and sheet that I could wrench my hand into. At first, the bird was reluctant. I pulled my gloved hand out, little birdie and all, afraid I'd squish him. Then, bravely, I tried again. This time it hopped out, as if it knew exactly where it was!

Now, I was relieved! I waited a few seconds to be sure it didn't fall out again. Then I went upstairs, breathing heavily, and washed the gloves in a solution of diluted bleach, and washed my hands with soap and water.

Through the evening, I checked to be sure the baby bird wasn't again on the ground. It wasn't. I could hear its lone cheep, cheep as its parents swooped in to drop morsels in its beak.

I felt I'd done something good. And the important part is that I tried to do something good.

This is kind of what it looked like. (From Keepers Cottage Wildlife Garden Diary)

Workshop of Mythical Creatures (and book titles)

A few days ago I opened up one of my old manuscripts and cringed at its title.

I hate titles. I hate titling stories. Sometimes it comes quickly, without any effort at all. More often, it's a slow and agonizing process, like decay - like cooking dinner.

Then, sometimes, a title will come along and smack me in the face just when I least expect it. Even more than a year later, when the story's done, and sitting on the back of my hard drive counting up its dust particles.

I've thought of renaming this old manuscript The Unicorn and the Griffin.

It seemed imbecilic at first, but it's kind of grown on me. Both creatures are mentioned in the story, although neither is actually in the story.... only as suggestions. And perhaps metaphorically... or allegorically... in the two main characters. Paul would be the unicorn. Nick would be the griffin.

It's a Civil War-era story (the world needs more of these, right?), not exactly a romance and not exactly literature. More like a character study... or of how two very unalike people learn to be friends.

The more I thought about the unicorn and the griffin, the more I wondered at the mythology and meaning behind the creatures. Symbolism is everywhere, and sometimes titles are more than they appear.

In my very old encyclopedia, it mentions that unicorns were often the symbol of virginity. It's also used in heraldry as a living thing that has broken free of its bonds. It's a "supporter" (in heraldic terminology) in the Scottish Royal Coat of Arms. These meanings suit Paul very well. He's a very non-sexual entity, and his people are from Scotland (he was himself born in Canada). I don't know that all that nonsense about a unicorn being tamed by a maiden would do Paul any good...

As for Nick and his creature, the griffin represents vigilance. In the story, Nick was used as a scout and cartographer. In heraldry, griffins are for military courage and leadership. Also appropriate for Nick. He joined the Union Army far before Paul did, and Nick was definitely the dominant one in the partnership.

There's also a nice little bit on Wiki that suggests that griffins mate for life, and when its mate dies, for the rest of its life it is alone. That would apply, too, in a way, though I haven't written that sequel yet, so perhaps I shouldn't give too much away.

This is the fun I run into being a writer. Now back to sitting on my nest of unpublished books...

Unicorn wiki
Griffin wiki

Twenty-thirteen has started off well.

After a couple years of getting full-blown novels out of our heads, we're toning it back a bit and trying to tell small or short stories. We've been collecting submission calls from online zines and anthologies. Our general idea of "short" stories is, for Lore, anything less than fifty thousand words, and, for me, anything less than a hundred thousand.

I'm not really good at small. It's not that I'm compensating for a quality/function I lack, it's just that characters don't know when to shut up.

Lore can do short. If we were betting who'd get more short stores completed this year, Lore would win, and I'd have to take out the trash (or, worse still, do all the social media updates) for the next twelve months. No bets, thankfully.

But I can write a short blog entry. It seems I know when to shut up: my mind goes blank.

Blogger/blogspot is a foreign land to me. I've done my fair share of online journal-keeping, only not at this particular dot-com. It might take me a while to learn the functions. Or I could find the instruction manual.

Truth is, we're too busy doing what we're supposed to be doing (i.e. writing, keeping the house together) that we don't devote any time to the restrictive social interactions of many internet playpens labyrinths websites. We're not good at this. It's why we get along. Look for many short blog entries in the future!

Be thrilled and excited when we actually update one (or maybe more!) of the following sites:
 @ twitter
 @ dreamwidth