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 Now back to sitting on my nest of unpublished books...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

4 - A Puddle of Ants

I must write something to get my mind away from ants.

"They're not crawling on me, are they, Tails?"

"I don't see any more. You might wanna shower, though."

"But you said there weren't any more."

"Not that I can see."

Blaaaah!

"You should write a blog entry about this. If this isn't cottage life, I don't know what is."

So, here I am. With Necco Wafers and Kool-aid (strawberry), after changing my clothes... I am getting away from ants.

No matter how far you go, or how hard you run, or how clever you think you are — the ants always find you.

I picked up a pot in the greenhouse, carried it about ten feet, then put it back in the greenhouse... then I noticed a puddle of ants where the pot had been. Puddle. A Puddle of Ants. The spot was so black-brown with the confused and slogging goobery things that, yes, it looked like a puddle. A moving, rippling puddle with a tiny creek of ambling ants leading to and from it...

It's not that I really mind ants. They're small and harmless, and when you squish them, on purpose or accidentally (because they don't know the difference), they smell rather funny—metallic and earthy and soapy. But I like my ants like I like my evil dryads: with an awareness that they're there, but so far off as to be invisible.

Living the cottage life means sharing your precious domain with six- and eight-legged visitors. Unwanted ones. They're like old college mates who stop by — then won't leave. Had the unfortunate detail of smashing a big brown spider in my room the other night. To give you an idea of how things can be here, I keep a fly swatter like Remus Lupin keeps his wand: always at the ready. The kitchen has finally lost most of its insectile infestation after someone of a skillful standing was brought in to remove the ants' bivouac. This blockade hasn't stopped them from acquiring a taste for my room, though they appear there on a small scale — one for every millionth speck of dust. A ratio I can live with. I don't like killing things, even things smaller than me that are threatening the comfort of my abode. I feel it is an abuse of power and a collapse of compassion.

Other than preparing Breezy Day Cottage for spring, there is little going on. Tails is not working on anything.  Other than the yard. And his tan, when, you know, we actually have sunlight and it's not 40 degrees outside.

I've decided to do some rewrites for a short young adult (sorta?) book I wrote a few years ago. That's coming along well, or it does when I sit down and write. I'm using the same world/planet that Tails used for one of his "epics" (he doesn't like that word, epic), but a different country in that world. He's enjoying it, and recently gave me a list of semi-vulgar colloquialisms (used in his epic)... like "gaff the gods!" and "bilk it all!" and "Old as Vaniel's Mere!" which means "as old as the hills." I'm surprised we're not going around the yard saying "Gaff the gods!" to one another...

All and all, I've felt incredibly lazy and overwhelmed by the amount of stuff I have to do and the stuff I want to do. The warmer temperatures have been uplifting, though they keep coming on days of wind (otherwise known as "how the cottage got its name"), and we've had more than our fair share of clouds, too. Considering the winter I had, I've not been too unhappy and sulky, even if my lavender seeds haven't sprung up yet, but, lo, the iris* bulbs are sprouting whether or nay they are in the ground. I should run down and get a photo... It would mean seeing the ants again...

All right, I'm back! The ants were pretty well gone, just a handful looking around dolefully to be sure they were supposed to leave, too. (Can you just imagine their talk? "Hank, where's my hat?" - "Beats me. Last time I saw it you was wearin' it." - "You're no help." -  "Oh, Manny, lookie, I think you're still wearing it!" - "Gaff the gods, I am!") And, as promised, here's a picture of the iris bulbs already sprouting. The other day I was in there repotting plants, and I turned all of the bulbs over so that they might sprout the way they're supposed to. They'll probably be planted around Beltane.

PS: Commenting from non-registered users now accepted, since neither of us realized that wasn't the default setting...

* Correction: these are gladiolus bulbs, not iris.

3

This is probably not the best way to go about studying French...

Please note that the black thing at high right-center is Lore's leg. She snapped this mobilely with the cat on her lap, and books where the cat should be. If she'd sat at the desk, the image would've been almost the same, perhaps sans leg. Maybe. Also, the circular blob up-center is the kitty's bed, which she refuses to sleep in when there is a human about.

-x-

We're both having good and bad winters. Bad for personal reasons, and good for Lore! She has one short story up at the lovely Hyacinth Noir!

Hyacinth Noir | Imbolc Issue | The Willow and the Dove

Lore's been the busy one. She had four submissions, three of them already in and done with (and pending), and one of them she hasn't sent in yet. I've had only two submissions so far this year, and one rejection notice for one of the two submissions. Lore found it in our joint Inbox when she was sending out a new submission. ("Could that be one of the elusive definitions of irony?") One of my friends was like, "Wow, so proud of you, sending out something even though you got a rejection notice!" But I told her that rejections are just a part of my everyday (well, maybe not everyday) life. Then I cite all the famous authors who faced numerous rejections before anyone even glanced at their manuscripts...

I have one submission up and coming, due April 1. I spent many days and eleven thousand words working on a story that I suddenly deemed "too long" for the submission. It would've been 17,000 or so words before it was complete. It's now in the "pending expansion into a novel" pile (which I invented just now), and I started a new, shorter story that has a couple of the elements of the scrapped one. I have less than a week to get it finished, looked at by my reader, and sent in. No problem.... really.

Depending on how things go, I might take off the entire month of April. Not write anything. I'm not sure what Lore will work on, if applicable. We might just potter about the garden.

-x-

In addition to studying French, Lore's been reading Mary Hunter Austin. I read a little bit of it myself, and it's luscious and potent. It stings me. Lore likes wordsmiths who sculpt daggers. Anything she can learn from is good for her. I prefer more entertainment value, but that's me. I've been reading The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Haven't read any Holmes stories since I was about nine. I didn't know what half the words meant, but it was Sherlock Holmes and that was enough! Both of us were dismayed to discover the lack of Noel Coward plays in our local library system. We bought a couple volumes (put out by Methuem at Coward's birth centennial) and have been enjoying them when our brains need downtime — and that's often.

Musically, I am getting into Secret Garden and Green Sun. Lore discovered trance-rockin' Aussie Emma Hewitt. Can't say I blame her. It's nice to have something other than Adam Lambert's Tresspassing album to listen to while I'm fixing dinner. Not that there's anything wrong with that album, I love it, it's now in the top ten of my favorite albums of all time. But expanding horizons cannot be bad, especially when it comes to music. Lore's purchased Spirit of the Celtic Violin by Arlene Faith. She doesn't appear to have a website (good for her! wish I didn't feel pressured to have one), but here's a song of hers on You Tube.

= We're planning to wear red on March 26th. See why, though neither of us looks good in red. Unfortunately, it's a Tuesday, and I won't be doing much of anything Tuesday, especially if we're still snowed in.
= Cheers to Ohio Senator Robert Portman (R) for changing his mind about equal marriage.
= Things are looking better for our home state: Ohio Views of Marriage Shift. A big deal for a state that supported DOMA less than a decade before.

Old is best

For years, I've been using a plain old beige-colored cardboard table as a desk. It's sufficient. It's flat. It wobbles if I'm in a typing frenzy. It's been good to me. But I dreamed of what it would be like to use a desk that didn't wobble when I was in a typing frenzy. What must that be like? Is it wonderful to have a desk that compliments the other aesthetics in your room? Most of my stuff is hodge-podge miscellany. It's this and that ... and, above all else, it is never just one thing. I like my cardboard table. I even put a nail (don't ask me how) into one side, between metal brace and tabletop, to hang my headphones. (Headphones: essential ear-wear for the creation of typing frenzies.) Along the table can be traced accidents (a slip of a cutter's blade) and haphazard wanderings of black ink, and tiny holes in the vinyl here and there that mark the presence of my visiting "What are you doing, and why is it more important than petting me?" cat. On the wall next to my table, equally important marks of my life: two sayings I look upon to give me necessary gumption:

"Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear." - Yeah, like my longing to be a writer (that other people have actually heard of).

"Courage does not always roar. Sometimes it is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, 'I will try again tomorrow.'" - Absolutely imperative following last year's barrage of rejections.

A couple months ago, I got a new desk. A very nice one with a good, classic design, with a faux front drawer that pulls out to become the keyboard space. I waited two months for it to be put together and take its place in my room. More than a week ago, it was together at last, and I prepared myself to get used to it.

Only... I can't seem to get used to it at all! I tried removing the top piece. I tried leaving it on. I tried angling it. I tried pushing it flat to the wall. I tried elevating my chair, lowering it, too. I tried and tried, but none of it would do!

With another submission call to answer by the end of the month, I need to feel comfortable writing at my own desk, at my good old computer!

So, this morning, I decided to remove the desk and bring back the wobbly cardboard table. Here I am! I've used the top piece removed from the desk to lift the computer up to a satisfactory height (ergonomics be hanged!), and with the top piece I've doubled the size of tabletop square footage. Now I can have more papers and more books and more scraps of notes! And, strangely enough, the wobbling is not so noticeable. I mean, it's really diminished. To anyone used to a solid surface, whereupon objects such as computers do nothing so indecorous as wobbling, the twinges would be visible. But I, used to the movement, find it almost eliminated.

Will I be working on my short story now? No. I'm still not completely well, and I think moving a piece of furniture was stupid of me. I feel a little light-headed. And as long as I've waited for the desk, I've waited for the NHL to resume, and to validate my need for it, I will tune into NBC to watch Buffalo. Sure, I can't get used to the home-town team (although they won their shootout last night), but I can like other teams! It's still weird thinking of Parros as a Coyote PANTHER, and Tyson Nash is not as Exquisitely Tan as I thought he'd be. Seems like half the Panthers didn't dress; I miss Kris Versteeg and his hair. (I'm sure those magical locks got at least two assists last year. But he could be all freshly shorn for the start of the season.) And I feel like this is enough hockey talk... (before Tails climbs into this entry and deletes my puck-muck).

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