The Wild

Although I've lived most of my life in one city or another, I've always thought of my life as being surrounded by tall, dark forest.

The perimeter of my life left wild.

In childhood, the wild forest was freedom, a place to run where the tether of safety and security trailed lightly behind me. A beloved place whose dark corners held only enchantment, promise, secrets to be ferreted.

As a young adult, the wild forest became overgrown. Childhood tether cut, now thorns rose up, drawing blood when I reached into the darkness. In fear, I counselled myself clear from the wild edges and drew a tighter circle in order to be protected from my childish illusions. Taught myself that terrible things happen in wild places.

In my striped down adult years, life didn't venture past the new thin line I'd drawn so far in from the dark wild. Quiet. Dutiful. Faithful. Safe.

And yet.

In the barren of my tiny circle the wild came for me.

Took me up.

Shook all that could be shaken.

It was then I made myself look the dark forest in the eye. Fearsome wild stared into me. It spoke:

Come back.

Beloved.

Come back.

Out of the Garden Part 19

Today's installment comes from Debbie Thomas.  (To read the story from the beginning click here.)

I dropped Hector and followed close on Peta's heels. Callan tried to block her way, but she elbowed him aside, saying, "Out of my way, boy."  She continued on into the living room, sniffing like a wolf after a scent.

"You can't hide her from me, I don't even know why you would try."  She opened the hall closet and stuck her nose into the winter coats.  She shut the door and turned the corner into the bathroom, her dark gaze sliding over every crevice large enough for a faerie to hide in.

"Peta," I said, drawing on all my courage.  "It's time for you to go.  I...I mean it.  Go. Now."

Peta paused and slowly pivoted.  She took a step toward me, and in spite of my resolve, I stepped back. Her look pinned me to the spot where she held me, squirming. "Poor Maeva," she said, finally. She looked me over like I was a specimen.  "You still don't remember, do you?"  She turned back to her search and said, almost to herself, "Dara.  Cait.  And that stupid Torin."  She glanced back over her shoulder to gauge my reaction.  "They made it so easy."

Members of the court.  Some of Princess Orlagh's inner circle.  A shooting pain blinded me and I pressed my fingertips into  my forehead.  I sagged against the wall until it subsided.  When I looked up, Peta was rifling through my bedroom. 

Callan caught my eye and slid his gaze toward the dresser.  It took a moment to find her.  Princess Orlagh was crouched by a bottle of Youth Dew with her wings folded as best she could.  The strong scent was potent enough to disguise her faerie musk.  Peta had her back to me and I motioned toward a blanket on the edge of the bed.  Callan licked his lips and nodded.

I stepped to the dresser and scooped up the Princess, carefully slipping her into my pocket.  Peta turned to see what I was doing and rage filled her.  She reached for me, but Callan threw the blanket over her head and tackled her to the floor.  I raced for the back door, throwing it open with one hand and protecting the Princess with the other.  Hector ran ahead of me to the tree with the exposed roots by the wall.  I looked over my shoulder, but saw no sign of Peta.  I could only pray she wouldn't hurt my grandson.

I carefully removed the Princess from my pocket and set her on the ground.  Her luster was dimming and I feared that she would be too weak to cross over.  Muffled scuffling could be heard inside the house, and the Princess lifted her eyes to the sound. 

"Brathadair."  Traitor.

 "Yes, she is.  I remember now.  Go,"  I urged her. 

She reached for my hand, and at her touch, I felt the queer sensation of shrinking.  The tree roots climbed twisted and dark above my head, the sword blades of grass past my ears.  Hector's feet and legs stood like silent columns just outside the portal.  From the corner of my eye, I saw iridescent shimmer from my shoulder blades. I felt light and airy as a sunbeam.  A wondrous feeling after years of pain and loneliness.

The screen door slammed and Callan ran up to us at the portal.  His speed and the sight of his enormous shoes and pumping legs overwhelmed me, but he stooped down when he approached us.

He looked at me.  Words failed us both. I touched his hand, feeling the loss of him already.  And gently from his shoulder blades, iridescent wings unfurled like a newly hatched butterfly.

Feeling the growth coursing through him, he turned his head this way and that trying to see the wings, reaching his hands around himself like a cat chasing its tail. 

An angry curse went up from the kitchen, and he said, "Go.  Go on.  We'll stall her."

"You and Hector.  There's more to him than meets the eye. Take care of your mom and Bree."  I blew him a kiss.  "Slan agat, my sweet Callan."

"Slan leat, Grandma,"  he answered, clearly surprising himself.

Callan piled rocks in front of the portal as the Princess and I moved deeper into the base of the roots toward an unexpected pinpoint of light.  I glanced back one last time when the screen door slammed.  Through a chink in the rocks, I saw Peta huffing and disheveled from her struggle with the blanket.  Her wrists were bound with the cords to the earbuds of Callan's IPod.

The Truth About Introverts

 I recently read an article titled Ten Myths About Introverts by Carl King. You can read it here. If you're an introvert, it might explain a few things, like why you may sound eloquent on the written page but babble like an idiot in a radio interview, or send awkward (even standoffish) body language at a book signing. A lot of unfortunate, misunderstood signals going on here.

 I’m an introvert and a writer, and I’m in good company.

Carl’s list had several points that resonated with me, like providing insight as to why I squirm at the phrase ‘self-promotion.’  Social media tools like Twitter or Facebook are pretty non-threatening in their brevity. Blog interviews let you blaze past all the chit-chat and small talk, and send the answers in an email. Words like ‘media interview’ and ‘book signing,’ on the other hand, can both excite and strike fear in your little introverted heart, or at least drain your energy and leave you craving solitude before it’s over.

 Don't misunderstand - we enjoy signing books and meeting readers, no matter what our body language may say.  We're just experiencing a big learning curve.

Writer-introverts greatly value privacy, even if it’s on the edge of the social universe. While we don’t mind the distant drone of the coffee shop crowd, we prefer to stake out our own little orbits.   It’s not that we don’t like people - we just like them one at a time and not when we’re on the verge of solving a plot point.  Making chit chat is trying for some of us, but get us started about something we love (our books!) and we’ll give you TMI about our characters.

So, what’s the problem? This is what we wanted when we became writers, isn't it? We have a work of art that we’ve labored over for years and we’re excited to spread the word.  I’m not saying we aren’t willing and able to follow through on what’s necessary to promote our work and build a career.  We just have to work harder at it than extroverts.  It doesn’t come naturally.   We really have to want it.

Extroverts just don’t get us. Some may not even like us.  Some think we could change if we really want to. But being introverts tempers us into the kinds of writers we are, and I don’t know about you, but I’m not willing to give that up.

I’m an introvert and a writer, and I’m in good company. 

What about you?  Do you suffer the challenges of the introvert writer or are you an extrovert who believes we should just hitch up our pants and get over it?

 

Art, I want you

We're riddled with angst this week - feeling the chill in our bones, wondering if we've got the goods.

This is apt for someone like me - my first book is coming out in 87 days (uh, no, I'm not counting....it's an...um...educated guess. Ahem.), and I am in the throes of writing a second book (coming June 2010 - but again, I'm not counting. Ahem), and I'm looking for the magic. Hoping, when I peer into my bag of literary goodies, I will find it - that truth, that shine, that brilliance. Wondering if it was ever in there in the first place.

But the task is to write, and so write I do. Clacking away, muttering to self and computer, wondering - always wondering - if any of this is of any merit.

I'm comforted by the fact that this deep down doubt is universal in the world of art and artists. Let me introduce you to someone who has poured out this artist's angst in a way I simply adore. Tanya Davis is a Canadian, from Newfoundland (which accounts for her accent - she has a true "Newfie" accent I love [no, I don't sound like that when I speak - I sound exactly like Queen Elizabeth]). Her wonderful accent is the reason I posted the words to the song below. She is a poet, singer, songwriter, and more. I included her website at the bottom of this post in case you want to find out more about this wonderful artist.
I love how she expresses the questions all artists feel, deep in their bones.

art

I wondered what would be the worth of my words in the world
if i write them and then recite them are they worth being heard
just because i like them does that mean i should mic them
and see what might unfurl

i think of the significance of my opinions here
is it significant to be giving them does anybody care
just because i'm into this does that mean i should live like it
and really do i dare

art, art i want you
art you make it pretty hard not to
and my heart is trying hard here to follow you
but i can't always tell if i ought to

so i pondered the point of my art in this life
if i make it will someone take it and think it's genuine
will they be glad that i did 'cause they got something good out of it
will they leave me and be any more inspired

i question the outcome of the outpouring of myself
if i tell everyone my stories will this keep me healthy and well
will it give me purpose, to this world some sort of service
is it worth it, how can i tell

art, art...

http://tanyadavis.ca/poetry.html

Here are my thoughts about self-doubt: better not to dwell on it. Better to write, and keep writing for purposes that are bigger than me, for reasons I don't need to understand.

The Age at Which We Read

If you asked me what kind of book would have a profound affect on me at this stage of my life, one of my last choices would have been a book about the Jazz Age in the 1920s. After all, I took a whole semester of F. Scott Fitzgerald in college (only because it was the only lit class offered during the semester that I could fit in my crammed class schedule) and I hated it.

So. . . I buy books on tape, whatever’s available at the time, at a local charity thrift store. (Fortunately for me, someone with literary tastes like mine donates regularly.) So I ran through the Grisham and the Sharon Ewell Foster and the Cornwell and the Hillerman. So all that was left was The Great Gatsby. So I began to listen to it because it was narrated by KJV Bible narrator Alexander Scourby.

When I read Fitzgerald in my twenties, I was newly and happily married. I couldn’t muster up sympathy for alcoholics who danced in Manhattan’s fountains, years before my mother was even born. I couldn’t relate to the angst of those people with their marital problems that bled over into their writing. After all, my life was wonderful – and not only that, I had a whole lifetime ahead of me.

But now I am myself a novelist, and writing about issues that destroy people’s souls, that wash hope beyond the most distant shores, issues that demand re-evaluation because they determine where people will spend a mobius loop of eternity. Issues which demand our attention because ignoring them can put us in a position in which it can be too late, irretrievably too late.

For the first time, the description at the end of The Great Gatsby made sense to my soul:

And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning——

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

I am a different person than when I first read that, years ago.

And now I think that I shall never recover from those words; the simplicity, the finality, the truthfulness of those words.