THIS

“At some point in life the world's beauty becomes enough. You don't need to photograph, paint, or even remember it. It is enough.”

― Toni Morrison

 

A slew of Patricia McKillip's book. McKillip was always a favorite read. The first book I read by her was Winter Rose, a sort of retelling of Tam Lin. After that, I bought her Riddle-Master books and then bought everything she wrote. I am rereading her at the moment, while I pause and relax. It was such a loss to lose McKillip in 2022. Covers are by artist, Kinuko Y. Craft.

Taking the rest of the month off.

 I made a post on Twitter/X that I am having a difficult time working right now.

In fiction, tone, mood, voice, and style interrelate, — things I am learning to improve. So at the moment, writing is hard work for me. All learning and practice is. But I crave process. That's the artist/creative/messy in me. [MJ]

I posted an image of Francesca Woodman in her studio for several reasons, but to hint that emotionally, I am exhausted. I attribute some of this fatigue to winter and illness, to what it simply is as seasonal depression, but there are other reasons, too. My process as a creative is very messy and immersive and I've been working for months, relentless. Even obsessively. I tend to neglect other aspects of living when I do this.

I have been sitting in this creative corner since last November. In December, I made strides, but they were costly. Francesca Woodman always sat in this corner, metaphorically and it destroyed her. I don't do that. I am too self-aware. I know then to pause, to rest, and yes, I should not wait to do this when I am this flat and lost in feeling. Pausing is not a failure. It's a salvation. During my pauses, I usually go to handwriting and reading, to reflection. To a sort of reinvention of the work in my mind and notebooks. These allows me spaces. I need these spaces. I need to be alone. I need to be away from social media, but it all just becomes noise to me, chatter, and I become overwhelmed as though the images and words of so many people are:

 'abnormally rapid and even auditory.'

 That's a metaphor but it fits.

  

I have to do something. I have to make a change. And I do.

Alan Garner is a rare mind.

"I live, at all times, for imaginative fiction; for ambivalence, not instruction. When language serves dogma, then literature is lost. I live also, and only, for excellence. My care is not for the cult of egalitarian mediocrity that is sweeping the world today, wherein even the critics are no longer qualified to differentiate, but for literature, which you may notice I have not defined. I would say that, because of its essential ambivalence, 'literature' is: words that provoke a response; that invite the reader or listener to partake of the creative act. There can be no one meaning for a text. Even that of the writer is a but an option. "Literature exists at every level of experience. It is inclusive, not exclusive. It embraces; it does not reduce, however simply it is expressed. The purpose of the storyteller is to relate the truth in a manner that is simple: to integrate without reduction; for it is rarely possible to declare the truth as it is, because the universe presents itself as a Mystery. We have to find parables; we have to tell stories to unriddle the world. "It is a paradox: yet one so important I must restate it. The job of a storyteller is to speak the truth; but what we feel most deeply cannot be spoken in words. At this level only images connect. And so story becomes symbol; and symbol is myth." 

                        — Alan Garner

                     The Voice That Thunders

Failure is part of a writer's daily life.

 

"If you are writing well and failing and submitting and persevering, there is no more that anyone can ask of you, even yourself."

— Stephen Marche

Berthe Moriset, Girl Writing

(Writers are always making decisions. Some of them are failures and will be cut, pasted, and moved, or even deleted. Some will stay and be published. But failures and mistakes are part of the writing process. Revisions are like purgatory. Dante's.)

48 Days until Spring

 

The countdown begins. I survived January. Spring is coming. My late mother's Heritage Iris, surrounded by spiderwort. I am going to work both the gardens this year. Do, as they say. Get some sunshine, be with nature. Spring is coming. The spiderwort is the first to pop up after early bulb plants. Spiderwort and irises are always springtime. I didn't really make plans this winter. I am going to play it day by day this year. Have fun. This is one of the most beautiful flowers I know. I love gardening so much. I do. I do. I do.

The perfect quote to describe my main character..

“It was a fairy tale, no fooling. It was unreality becoming real. This frightened her. Because people don't care for unreality becoming real. It pricks their well-fed minds, you see, with something like a hunger pang. They prefer the logical stuffiness of expectancy." 

                                       — Richard Matheson

Genre writers I love.

Naomi Novik, Juliet Marillier, Patricia McKillip, Holly Black, Laini Taylor, Katherine Harbour, Anne Rice, Anne Bishop, Rebecca Ross. Grace Draven, Maggie Stiefvater. In no certain order. That's 11 because Anne Rice is really an out of the box fantasy and paranormal writer. These are all wordsmiths, too, exceptional prose writers. Writers who have romance in their stories. Writers who like girls and goblins.

So far, so good

My mother told me once that "disappointment" was a feeling that destroyed more dreams than failure. Genuine disappointment in people or personal expectations or predicament. Its cousins are frustration and despair. Disappointments are always cruel and sharp and cold. But she reminded me, there are worst things than disappointment and most of us, if we are lucky, only read about those things in books.

Gray 2024

 

I've got a moment, since I am working online tonight and I thought I would post a pic of me, all gray. Just gray. Laughing. It's so appropriate for January 2024, a month where I have suffered from the flu and endured, ice, snow, and brutal cold weather. I wrote on Twitter/X that January is always a year to me, and it is. I seem to fade into a gray ghost in January, but by the middle of February I am buying tulips and looking at seeds and planning a garden. I just have to get through this month and the first half of February, and my countdown to spring begins. Little writing is going on now. Just organizing files and a little revision. I opted to read a few new books and try to relax. Today was the first day of January that I really had a decent meal, I had a filet, some air fry okra, baked potatoes done in herbs and paprika and even a glass of tea. I've been drinking only water all month. I've also been living on can soup and baked potatoes, and scrambled eggs. Tomorrow I am having some sausage pinwheels for breakfast. At the end of next week, I'll go back to creating new words and moving on with the work in progress. I've been working hard since November 1 when I began NaNo. This is my NaNo project. A new version of the older book that went nowhere. I am energized. I like it. It's got the right hero now, it's got a better conflict, it's more compelling in story and voice. It's rich in folklore. It's terribly romantic at times. It's got kicker conflict. I just love it. Laughing. I am almost compelled to write it, something I haven't experienced in a few years since John's death. I miss John. Seven years now. It seems like yesterday at times, some days it seems long ago, almost foggy. It's insane at times. I think a loss like this is like a hole. It's there and most days you just walk around it, and some days you kind of fall into the hole and sink. Most days now, I walk around it. I feel okay. I sort of feel safe in myself if that is a thing. I feel moored to something again. Me. I don't care for selfies anymore. I don't really care about social media. I have this nice life going. Art. Writing. A garden to plan, books to read. A cat who annoys me. My blog is for bits and pieces. I don't even talk about writing that much. I write instead. I try to be kind to others. I made a pen pal list so I would be more than a name and photo on social media to some of my friends. I would be a real person writing snail mail and sending post cards and all that old stuff that people ignore nowadays. I have plans. I play vinyl music and dance. I like to cook. I want to exercise and be able to do cartwheels again. I have these little ambitions. They make me smile. Smiling is important. Laughing is important. Living the best me I can is extremely important. Giving back is nice. Being kind is nice. I can do all this. I can make a difference. Gray and all.

The Middle of January 2024

“Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found. Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped to help you in their turn. Trust dreams. Trust your heart, and trust your story.” — Neil Gaiman

Symbol and Metaphor

There is no language and no knowledge without symbol and metaphor. Two consequences arise from this: one is that we require imagination both to make and to interpret symbols, and the other is that symbols themselves beckon us through language to that which is beyond language. In other words, symbols are energized between the two poles (as Coleridge would say) of immanence and transcendence. 

                          — Malcolm Guite

 Malcolm Guite

Neil Gaiman on Making Mistakes

“I hope that in this year to come you make mistakes because if you are making mistakes then you are making new things, trying new things, learning, living, pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world. You're doing things you've never done before and, more importantly, you're doing something. So that's my wish for you, and all of us, and my wish for myself. Make new mistakes. Make glorious, amazing mistakes. Make mistakes nobody's ever made before. Don't freeze, don't stop, don't worry that it isn't good enough, or it isn't perfect, whatever it is: art or love or work or family or life. Whatever it is you're scared of doing, do it. Make your mistakes, next year and forever.”

— Neil Gaiman

"With the Uncanny one has reached the fringes of the Numinous."

                  —  C. S. Lewis

More and more I appreciate Tolkien and all those writers who inspired him

“All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.”

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

'I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.' — W B Yeats

The Silver Apples of the Moon by Margaret Macdonald Mackintosh

Not a canary in a cage.

‘I want to be light and frolicsome. I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing, as though I had wings.’

— Mary Oliver

The King of Owls by Louise Erdrich

They say I am excitable! How could

I not scream? The Swiss monk’s tonsure

spun till it blurred yet his eyes were still.

I snapped my gaiter, hard, to stuff back

my mirth. Lords, he then began to speak.

Indus catarum, he said, presenting the game of cards

in which the state of the world is excellent described

and figured. He decked his mouth

as they do, a solemn stitch, and left cards

in my hands. I cast them down.

What need have I for amusement?

My brain’s a park. Yet your company

plucked them from the ground and began to play.

Lords, I wither. The monk spoke right,

the mealy wretch. The sorry patterns show

the deceiving constructions of your minds.

I have made the Deuce of Ravens my sword

falling through your pillows and rising,

the wing blades still running

with the jugular blood. Your bodies lurch

through the steps of an unpleasant dance.

No lutes play. I have silenced the lutes!

I keep watch in the clipped, convulsed garden.

I must have silence, to hear the messenger’s footfall

in my brain. For I am the King of Owls.

Where I float no shadow falls.

I have hungers, such terrible hungers, you cannot know.

Lords, I sharpen my talons on your bones.

Detail from Simone Martini's Annunciation with St. Margaret and St. Ansanus

Detail from Simone Martini's Annunciation with St. Margaret and St. Ansanus

—

"He shall be called the son of the Great God, and by his name shall he be hailed as the Son of God, and they shall call him Son of the Most High."

— Dead Sea scrolls manuscript Q4Q246

Translated from the Aramaic. It has been suggested that Luke's version was taken from this Qumran text. The Feast of the Annunciation is in March, but I find myself looking at images in December as Christmas approaches. The center of 3 panels painted, the saints being positioned on outside panels. This painting was worked on in 1333, a beautiful example of Christian art done in the early medieval period. The angel Gabriel announcing to Mary that she was to be the mother of the Son of the Most High. Simone Martini did this work, I believe for the Pope in Avignon, and it was later moved a few times. It's one of my favorites of the full Annunciation works from that period. My focus in study has always been Greco-Roman to the death of Joan of Arc, because this was when the world made a big change that is still in action today.

Life is precious

'There is a space between the setting of the sun and the fall of night that we all long for, twilight, dusk, that singular moment of ambiguity and mystery. We don't know what color it might be, what time of the day it really is, and we cannot call it night yet— all this, only for a moment and then it is gone.'

Twilight by Ed Org.