"Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree
How lovely are your branches.
They're green when summer sun is bright
And in the winter when it's white.
Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree,
How lovely are your branches!"
When I was decorating my apartment this week and setting up my little gold artificial tree, I thought of this story I'd written a few years ago. I used to lug a real tree home on my trolley and set it up in my apartment, but the last couple of years I've opted for an artificial one. It's pretty though, all hung with gold and burgundy balls with an angel on top. As usual I decorated my plants with lights and baubles too, so my new apartment looks festive and bright, all ready for the holidays! I even have a fireplace where I have hung my Christmas stockings!
Oh Christmas Tree!
Two weeks before Christmas. The tree lots are full of fresh-cut firs and pines. Families make special outings to pick this year's tree. Around the city, coloured lights shine heralding the Yuletide.
In the line-up at the Supermarket, I browse through the display of magazines, their covers advertising theChristmas season, displaying showcase homes with plump trees bedizoned with extravagant decorations. Some trees are sprayed gold or silver. And under the dazzling branches are heaps of designer-decorated packages.
I am reminded of other Christmas trees. MY Christmas trees. Although perhaps not so grandly decorated, they are distinctly memorable and remarkably special.
At home I open a box of photo albums and take a nostalgic trip to Christmases past. in a black-and-white photograph, hand tinted by my mother, is Tree Number One. My first Christmas tree: a spindly fir garlanded and hung with lots of tinsel and ornaments. Under its thin branches are the toys Santa has left. In front of the tree, on a litle rocking chair sits a large doll with a frilly bonnet and pink dress. Next to it is a doll crib filled with stuffed toys and more dolls. Two stockings hang on the red-brick fireplace behind it, one lumpy with fruit and candy, the other a store-bought stocking full of surprises.
In another photo, taken several years later, the tree has ivory-soap 'snow' on the branches and garlands of popcorn and cranberries. My Mom enjoyed creating special effects for our Christmas tree. Under it are two dolls in highchairs, the boy dolls our mother lovingly sewed wardrobes for. Mine was named Tommy.
Every Christmas was magic when I was a child, a splendid family affair with a house full of visiting relatives and good cheer. Even when we grew older, each year at tree decorating time, it was a special family get-together with mom's delicious Christmas cookies, ginger ale and popcorn for treats as we dipped into the box of decorations and drew out a bauble for the tree. It was a time of nostalgia too, because each ornament had its own little memory attached.
When I grew up and had children of my own, their tree always had some of the decorations they hd made: toilet-roll angels wiht cotton-batting hair and gold wings; egg-carton bells painted red and green and glued with sparkles; cut-out trees with sticker decorations.
One year we had a cookie-decorating contest. We baked sugar cookies, decorated them, and hung them on the tree. The most elaborately decorated cookie won. We saved the best one. They lasted a year or two until some mice discovered them.
Another year we set out a box of ribbons, glue, paper and sparkles and invited each guest that entered our house to make a special decoration for our tree.
Sometimes, other things had to make do for Christmas trees. The year I was going away to California to attend my daughter's wedding, my avocado plant served as a tree, hung with tinsel and silver balls. Another time, when I was living in a cramped bachelour suite, I decorated my ficus plant with lights and tinsel. The year I went to live in Greece, I bought a small laurel plant and decorated it with tiny lights and baubles.I still have a few of the old treasured ornaments, and every Christmas as I unpack the decoration box to trim my Christmas tree, I am filled with nostalgia, remembering Christmases past: the chenille wreaths from my childhood trees, the expensive silve and gold globes bought to decorate the first tree shared by my husband and I; oiur children's special ornaments -- little creamic bells collected on my children's visits to Santa Claus; special little gift ornaments made by friends; starched snow-flakes crocheted by my daughter; ethnic decorations from Mexico and China given to me by newcomers at the daycares where I have worked.
I always look forward to Christmas, especially to the tree decorating time. Some of those old ornaments are getting tattered and tarnished. Each year I have to part with a few, but each year I buy one new ornament to replace the old. Today my visiting friend and I went and bought a tiny fir. Tomorrow we will decorate it together. This will be a memorable Christmas because I'm sharing the tree-decorating with this special friend. And while we're decorating, we'll be singing the old familiar song:
"Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree, how lovely are your branches!"
This year's special ornaments came from Chile and Argentina: A little clay Nativity scene with Mapuchu Indians and a small glass angel from Mendoza.
"The holly and the ivy,
When they are both full grown,
Of all the trees that are in the wood,
The holly bears the crown.
The rising of the sun
And the running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ,
Sweet singing in the choir."
Anonymous Carol
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
CHRISTMAS STORIES #2: AWAY FROM HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS
"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas,
Just like the ones I knew before
Where the tree-tops glisten
and children listen to hear
sleigh-bells in the snow...."
Christmas in 1983 was the first time I had ever spent Christmas away from my family. I couldn’t have been any farther away from Vancouver than Athens, Greece. It looked as though it would be a dismal time.
I had been living in Athens since October and shared a two-bedroom sparsely furnished flat with another woman. My room-mate’s ill-humour didn’t add to my mood as I faced the holiday season. I had met Connie the year before when we were both tourists in Greece, attracted by her sense of humour which she had somehow lost during the months we shared our apartment and struggled to adjust to life in Athens. We both worked as E.S.L. teachers. What money we earned bought the barest necessities for our flat. I used an upturned drawer to put my typewriter on and bashed out travel stories for newspapers at home. After what we were accustomed to, life in Athens was bleak.
I made friends with two Irish men, Donald and Barry, who made their living busking on the metro enchanting the Greeks with their Irish songs. They were homeless, and as we had an empty salon, I invited them to stay with us. Donald and Barry became my saviours, cheering me with their Irish humour and lively music.
As Christmas drew near I searched for festive signs around town. There were no decorations and in the store windows no sign of Santa Claus, Rudolph or Frosty. A large tree with lights was erected in Syntagma Square, but I missed the cheery sound of Salvation Army bell-ringers and carollers.
I went to the street market where the gypsies sold holly, pine branches and flowers and bought a little laurel bush with shiny green leaves and little wax-like red apples spiked on the ends of the branches. I put it in a flower pot and hung gold garlands on it with three red paper birds for ornaments and a string of tiny coloured lights. Soon parcels arrived in the mail and I placed them underneath.
My room-mate’s Greek boyfriend was opening a bar on Christmas Eve in the town of Chalkis on the island of Euboeia and hired Donald and Barry to play.
The cozy little pub was located near the sea. On Christmas day, as we walked along the waterfront. Barry played his guitar. Some seamen called us over so Barry and Donald sang Irish songs for them, and we all joined in singing Christmas carols. We found a little crèche with models of Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus surrounded by live goats and sheep. It was beginning to feel a lot more like Christmas.
That night we reminisced about Christmas at home, describing in detail the turkey dinners we remembered from past Christmas. We imagined what our families would be eating that Christmas day, savouring every vicarious mouth-full: the succulent turkey meat, the spicy stuffing, the cranberry jelly, the candied yams, mashed potatoes swimming in gravy, the variety of fresh vegetables and best of all, the delicious aromas that went with the food. We imagined the steaming plum pudding smothered in hot rum sauce, and how we would get the piece with money wrapped up inside. We felt comfort in each other’s company like a ‘family’. Because of Donald and Barry, Christmas became special after all, even though we were all so far away from home.
"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents."
Louisa May Alcott 1832-1888 "Little Women" 1868 ch. l
Just like the ones I knew before
Where the tree-tops glisten
and children listen to hear
sleigh-bells in the snow...."
Christmas in 1983 was the first time I had ever spent Christmas away from my family. I couldn’t have been any farther away from Vancouver than Athens, Greece. It looked as though it would be a dismal time.
I had been living in Athens since October and shared a two-bedroom sparsely furnished flat with another woman. My room-mate’s ill-humour didn’t add to my mood as I faced the holiday season. I had met Connie the year before when we were both tourists in Greece, attracted by her sense of humour which she had somehow lost during the months we shared our apartment and struggled to adjust to life in Athens. We both worked as E.S.L. teachers. What money we earned bought the barest necessities for our flat. I used an upturned drawer to put my typewriter on and bashed out travel stories for newspapers at home. After what we were accustomed to, life in Athens was bleak.
I made friends with two Irish men, Donald and Barry, who made their living busking on the metro enchanting the Greeks with their Irish songs. They were homeless, and as we had an empty salon, I invited them to stay with us. Donald and Barry became my saviours, cheering me with their Irish humour and lively music.
As Christmas drew near I searched for festive signs around town. There were no decorations and in the store windows no sign of Santa Claus, Rudolph or Frosty. A large tree with lights was erected in Syntagma Square, but I missed the cheery sound of Salvation Army bell-ringers and carollers.
I went to the street market where the gypsies sold holly, pine branches and flowers and bought a little laurel bush with shiny green leaves and little wax-like red apples spiked on the ends of the branches. I put it in a flower pot and hung gold garlands on it with three red paper birds for ornaments and a string of tiny coloured lights. Soon parcels arrived in the mail and I placed them underneath.
My room-mate’s Greek boyfriend was opening a bar on Christmas Eve in the town of Chalkis on the island of Euboeia and hired Donald and Barry to play.
The cozy little pub was located near the sea. On Christmas day, as we walked along the waterfront. Barry played his guitar. Some seamen called us over so Barry and Donald sang Irish songs for them, and we all joined in singing Christmas carols. We found a little crèche with models of Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus surrounded by live goats and sheep. It was beginning to feel a lot more like Christmas.
That night we reminisced about Christmas at home, describing in detail the turkey dinners we remembered from past Christmas. We imagined what our families would be eating that Christmas day, savouring every vicarious mouth-full: the succulent turkey meat, the spicy stuffing, the cranberry jelly, the candied yams, mashed potatoes swimming in gravy, the variety of fresh vegetables and best of all, the delicious aromas that went with the food. We imagined the steaming plum pudding smothered in hot rum sauce, and how we would get the piece with money wrapped up inside. We felt comfort in each other’s company like a ‘family’. Because of Donald and Barry, Christmas became special after all, even though we were all so far away from home.
"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents."
Louisa May Alcott 1832-1888 "Little Women" 1868 ch. l
Monday, December 11, 2006
CHRISTMAS STORIES #1: HOW THE NAZIS HELPED SANTA CLAUS
"Oh, you better watch out, you better not cry.
You better not pout. I'm telling you why.
Santa Claus is coming to town..."
I was nine years old when my Dad was called up to be a Chaplain in the Canadian Army during World War II. Before that he was a circuit preacher on the Canadian Prairies, and he had been in the army reserve. But when the War was raging and all the available men had to go overseas, he went too.
Almost everyone at school those days had a dad, grandpa, uncle or older brother off in the war, and quite often the word would go around that someone’s relative was killed or missing in action.
Everything was rationed during the war years. I remember going to the store with ration coupons for dairy products. But my younger sister and I didn’t suffer or want for anything. We had our Mom and our grandparents, and every holiday season the relatives came to Grandpa’s house for get-togethers. There was a lot of love in our house, making up for the absence of my father.
When the War finally ended, the first newsreels were released about the horrible atrocities of the Nazi death camps. I was deeply touched by the films of the war and I’ve never forgotten those images of the Holocaust victims.
My Dad had sent many letters and gifts from overseas. We received books from England, Dutch dolls and wooden shoes from Holland. And when Dad finally returned home, he brought an antique German clock which had been wrapped up in an enormous Nazi flag and hidden at the place in Antwerp, Holland, where the armistice was signed. Dad said the soldiers of his hospital unit had brought it to him.
Inside the clock was a treasure-trove of antique jewellery, which he gave my mother. The clock was hung on the wall. The Nazi flag was wrapped up and packed away in Dad’s war box along with his photos of bombed buildings and army camps and letters from the families of the dead and wounded soldiers he had tended while he was the army hospital chaplain.
The year after my Dad returned from the war, our family moved to the West Coast of Canada where he would be pastor of a Baptist church. That Christmas was our first Christmas together in a new home. At the church where Dad was the new pastor, there was to be a Christmas concert. My parents enjoyed organizing concerts and pageants. Mom was a clever seamstress and loved making costumes, and Dad always made sure the Church was beautifully decorated with pine and cedar boughs and lots of Christmas candles. There would be a creche and a candlelight processional in the church Christmas Sunday and a pageant with shepherds, Wise men, angels and the Holy Family. We used the life-like little doll named Peter that Dad had sent my sister from Belgium for the Baby Jesus in the creche.
At the Sunday school concert, Dad would perform his amusing rendition of “When Father Papered the Parlour” and there would be a visit from Santa Claus for the little ones. But there was one big problem. Nobody had a Santa Claus suit.
So Dad unpacked his box of war souvenirs and got out the big Nazi flag, the flag that symbolized everything evil. Mom remarked how lovely and thick the red wool fabric was. And there was so much of it!
“Why not?” Mom asked.
“What a splendid idea,” Dad agreed.
Mom went to work designing, cutting and sewing and by the night of the Christmas concert, she had created a perfect Santa Claus suit out of the flag. Even though the war was over, and the bad things the Nazis had done would always be remembered, the flag had been put to good use.
The red woollen Santa suit made out of a Nazi flag made that Christmas extra special. In fact, the Sunday school Santa at the Grandview Baptist Church’s Christmas concert wore that Santa suit for many years afterwards.
"Nobody shoots at Santa Claus!"
Alfred Emmanual Smith ("The Happy Warrior of the Political Battlefield")
Campaign Speeches 1936
You better not pout. I'm telling you why.
Santa Claus is coming to town..."
I was nine years old when my Dad was called up to be a Chaplain in the Canadian Army during World War II. Before that he was a circuit preacher on the Canadian Prairies, and he had been in the army reserve. But when the War was raging and all the available men had to go overseas, he went too.
Almost everyone at school those days had a dad, grandpa, uncle or older brother off in the war, and quite often the word would go around that someone’s relative was killed or missing in action.
Everything was rationed during the war years. I remember going to the store with ration coupons for dairy products. But my younger sister and I didn’t suffer or want for anything. We had our Mom and our grandparents, and every holiday season the relatives came to Grandpa’s house for get-togethers. There was a lot of love in our house, making up for the absence of my father.
When the War finally ended, the first newsreels were released about the horrible atrocities of the Nazi death camps. I was deeply touched by the films of the war and I’ve never forgotten those images of the Holocaust victims.
My Dad had sent many letters and gifts from overseas. We received books from England, Dutch dolls and wooden shoes from Holland. And when Dad finally returned home, he brought an antique German clock which had been wrapped up in an enormous Nazi flag and hidden at the place in Antwerp, Holland, where the armistice was signed. Dad said the soldiers of his hospital unit had brought it to him.
Inside the clock was a treasure-trove of antique jewellery, which he gave my mother. The clock was hung on the wall. The Nazi flag was wrapped up and packed away in Dad’s war box along with his photos of bombed buildings and army camps and letters from the families of the dead and wounded soldiers he had tended while he was the army hospital chaplain.
The year after my Dad returned from the war, our family moved to the West Coast of Canada where he would be pastor of a Baptist church. That Christmas was our first Christmas together in a new home. At the church where Dad was the new pastor, there was to be a Christmas concert. My parents enjoyed organizing concerts and pageants. Mom was a clever seamstress and loved making costumes, and Dad always made sure the Church was beautifully decorated with pine and cedar boughs and lots of Christmas candles. There would be a creche and a candlelight processional in the church Christmas Sunday and a pageant with shepherds, Wise men, angels and the Holy Family. We used the life-like little doll named Peter that Dad had sent my sister from Belgium for the Baby Jesus in the creche.
At the Sunday school concert, Dad would perform his amusing rendition of “When Father Papered the Parlour” and there would be a visit from Santa Claus for the little ones. But there was one big problem. Nobody had a Santa Claus suit.
So Dad unpacked his box of war souvenirs and got out the big Nazi flag, the flag that symbolized everything evil. Mom remarked how lovely and thick the red wool fabric was. And there was so much of it!
“Why not?” Mom asked.
“What a splendid idea,” Dad agreed.
Mom went to work designing, cutting and sewing and by the night of the Christmas concert, she had created a perfect Santa Claus suit out of the flag. Even though the war was over, and the bad things the Nazis had done would always be remembered, the flag had been put to good use.
The red woollen Santa suit made out of a Nazi flag made that Christmas extra special. In fact, the Sunday school Santa at the Grandview Baptist Church’s Christmas concert wore that Santa suit for many years afterwards.
"Nobody shoots at Santa Claus!"
Alfred Emmanual Smith ("The Happy Warrior of the Political Battlefield")
Campaign Speeches 1936
Sunday, December 10, 2006
'TIS THE SEASON...
"Deck the halls with boughs of holly,
Fa la la la la lala la la!
'Tis the season to be jolly,
Fa la la la la lala la la!"
Here is it is, the Christmas season, one of my most favorite times of year! To keep in the spirit of things, I've decided to post a few of the Christmas memoir stories I've written in the past.
I started writing them a few years ago when my writer's group "The Scribblers" decided that at our annual Christmas get-together we would submit anonymous stories (fiction or non fiction) about the Yule time season.
Yesterday I went to a senior's Christmas luncheon at my Dad's old church, Grandview Baptist.
We came to live in Vancouver in 1947, after the war, when Dad accepted a position of pastor at this church. Mom and Dad always loved the seasonal holidays: Easter. Thanksgiving, Christmas and went to a lot of trouble to decorate the church and organize Christmas concerts and pagents. Mom was an expert seastress and usually it was she who became wardrobe mistresses of these events. Dad would participate at the concerts but putting on his old paint-splattered overalls, paint cap and, holding an empty pail of paint ,would recite his rendition of
"When Father Papered the Parlour." It always brought the house down with laughter.
Every time I go into that old church hall I remember the many happy times we had there. My parents' spirits are still very much there. (Dad left the church in 1960 to take a position of chaplain at Valleyview Hospital, a care home for elderly who had dementia or alzheimers. But many of the old parishoners and the folks my age remember him and my mom with many loving thoughts.) So yesterday when I was at the banquet, sitting the daughter of my late friend Doreen, we began to reminisce. Paula and her brother are my kids' ages and they all grew up together, going to Sunday School and at the summer homes our parents had on Keats Island. Doreen, their mom, was one of my best friends and hiking companion. She died of liver cancer about 10 years ago. So Paula likes being with me and I consider her like a surrogate daughter. We had fun remembering the many Christmas concerts and events that my parents organized at the Church. So when it came my turn to speak about how the Church affected my youth, I had to tell some of these Grandview-related Christmas tales.
Some of the stories I'll post are related to these events and others are Christmas memories of my childhood or things that have made Christmas memorable in some way.
"I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past."
"Long past?" inquired Scrooge.
"No, your past."
Charles Dickens 1812- 1870 "A Christmas Carol." 1843
Fa la la la la lala la la!
'Tis the season to be jolly,
Fa la la la la lala la la!"
Here is it is, the Christmas season, one of my most favorite times of year! To keep in the spirit of things, I've decided to post a few of the Christmas memoir stories I've written in the past.
I started writing them a few years ago when my writer's group "The Scribblers" decided that at our annual Christmas get-together we would submit anonymous stories (fiction or non fiction) about the Yule time season.
Yesterday I went to a senior's Christmas luncheon at my Dad's old church, Grandview Baptist.
We came to live in Vancouver in 1947, after the war, when Dad accepted a position of pastor at this church. Mom and Dad always loved the seasonal holidays: Easter. Thanksgiving, Christmas and went to a lot of trouble to decorate the church and organize Christmas concerts and pagents. Mom was an expert seastress and usually it was she who became wardrobe mistresses of these events. Dad would participate at the concerts but putting on his old paint-splattered overalls, paint cap and, holding an empty pail of paint ,would recite his rendition of
"When Father Papered the Parlour." It always brought the house down with laughter.
Every time I go into that old church hall I remember the many happy times we had there. My parents' spirits are still very much there. (Dad left the church in 1960 to take a position of chaplain at Valleyview Hospital, a care home for elderly who had dementia or alzheimers. But many of the old parishoners and the folks my age remember him and my mom with many loving thoughts.) So yesterday when I was at the banquet, sitting the daughter of my late friend Doreen, we began to reminisce. Paula and her brother are my kids' ages and they all grew up together, going to Sunday School and at the summer homes our parents had on Keats Island. Doreen, their mom, was one of my best friends and hiking companion. She died of liver cancer about 10 years ago. So Paula likes being with me and I consider her like a surrogate daughter. We had fun remembering the many Christmas concerts and events that my parents organized at the Church. So when it came my turn to speak about how the Church affected my youth, I had to tell some of these Grandview-related Christmas tales.
Some of the stories I'll post are related to these events and others are Christmas memories of my childhood or things that have made Christmas memorable in some way.
"I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past."
"Long past?" inquired Scrooge.
"No, your past."
Charles Dickens 1812- 1870 "A Christmas Carol." 1843
Thursday, December 07, 2006
THE VIEW FROM THE POET'S STUDY
Ode to the Book
When I close a book I open life.
I hear faltering cries among harbours.
Copper ignots slide down sand-pits to Tocopilla.Night time.
Among the islands our ocean throbs with fish,
touches the feet, the thighs,the chalk ribs of my country.
The whole of night clings to its shores,
by dawn it wakes up singing as if it had excited a guitar.
The ocean's surge is calling.
The wind calls me and Rodriguez calls,and Jose Antonio--
I got a telegram from the "Mine" Union
and the one I love (whose name I won't let out)
expects me in Bucalemu.
No book has been able to wrap me in paper,
to fill me up with typography,with heavenly imprints
or was ever able to bind my eyes,
I come out of books to people orchards with the hoarse family of my song,
to work the burning metals or to eat smoked beef by mountain firesides.
I love adventurous books,
books of forest or snow, depth or sky
but hate the spider book in which thought has laid poisonous wires
To trap the juvenile and circling fly.
Book, let me go.
I won't go clothed in volumes,
I don't come out of collected works,
my poems have not eaten poems--they devour exciting happenings,
feed on rough weather, and dig their food out of earth and men.
I'm on my way with dust in my shoes
free of mythology: send books back to their shelves,
i'm going down into the streets.
I learned about life from life itself, love
I learned in a single kiss and could teach no one anything
except that I have lived with something in common among men,
when fighting with them,
when saying all their say in my song.
Pablo Neruda
I'm back from my amazing adventures in Andes country. One of my chief aims in going to Chile was to visit the houses of the poet, Pablo Neruda, and this I achieved. You can read all the details of my Chilean adventures on my travel blog at
http://travelthroughhistory.blogspot.com
but now, in refelcting on my journey, I want to write about the Poet's houses and in particular, how it felt to visit those rooms in which he and his beloved Matilde lived and entertained guests.
It was interesting to see the many unusual and eccentric collections of various trinkets and artifacts that Neruda loved to have around him. There was so much colour, objects that would conjur the Muse and spark the imagination. But mostly, to stand in his studies, surrounded by his books and manuscripts, see in his own handwriting (usually always blue or green ink because those were sea colours) his penmanship, the poems he is famous for crafted on the page before publication.
In each of the houses: La Chascona in Santiago, La Sebastiana in Valparaiso, and Isla Negra on the shores of the Pacfic, I stood in his study, touched the chairs he sat on at his desks, felt his presence as I looked around, viewing from there exactly what he would have seen while he was writing. Always it was a pleasant scene, the green of the gardens and city scape of Santiago, the sweeping view over the rooftops to the sea in Valparaiso, the crashing waves of the ocean at Isla Negra. How could one not have been touched by the Muse in such glorious settings?
Pablo Neruda died in September 1973 shortly after his friend Salvadore Allende was killed in the bombing fo the Presidential Palace in Santiago when Augusto Pinochet led the military coup. Neruda had returned to Chile from France because he had cancer. But shortly after the junta, and when Allende was murdered, he died of his illness and, they say, of a broken heart. He is buried at Isla Negra in a simple grave covered by flowers facing the sea. Beside him is his beloved Matilde, who died in 1983. (Neruda was obsessed with the sea although he didn't like to be "on" it. Each of the three houses has a ship motif, even to the creaking floors that give the impression of being aboard a ship.)
Neruda is very much revered in Chile and every Chilean can recite his poems. I thank my chileno friend Anibal for introducing me to the Poet. It was because of him that I went to Chile, and because of Anibal that I desired to visit Neruda's homes. I came away feeling as though I had really got in touch with the Poet and appreciate his beautiful words more than ever before. If you haven't read his work, I encourage you to do so. You can find most of his poems on-line if you google his name. My most favorite collection is "Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair." But I also have a copy of "The Captain's Poems" which he wrote using a nom-de-plume while living on the Isle of Capri in Italy during one of his exiles from Chile. The poems were written for Matilde, his third wife, the one known as "La Chascona" (crazy hair) because of her wild unruly locks.
And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
Abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was withut a face
and it touched me.
Pablo Neruda from "Poetry"
When I close a book I open life.
I hear faltering cries among harbours.
Copper ignots slide down sand-pits to Tocopilla.Night time.
Among the islands our ocean throbs with fish,
touches the feet, the thighs,the chalk ribs of my country.
The whole of night clings to its shores,
by dawn it wakes up singing as if it had excited a guitar.
The ocean's surge is calling.
The wind calls me and Rodriguez calls,and Jose Antonio--
I got a telegram from the "Mine" Union
and the one I love (whose name I won't let out)
expects me in Bucalemu.
No book has been able to wrap me in paper,
to fill me up with typography,with heavenly imprints
or was ever able to bind my eyes,
I come out of books to people orchards with the hoarse family of my song,
to work the burning metals or to eat smoked beef by mountain firesides.
I love adventurous books,
books of forest or snow, depth or sky
but hate the spider book in which thought has laid poisonous wires
To trap the juvenile and circling fly.
Book, let me go.
I won't go clothed in volumes,
I don't come out of collected works,
my poems have not eaten poems--they devour exciting happenings,
feed on rough weather, and dig their food out of earth and men.
I'm on my way with dust in my shoes
free of mythology: send books back to their shelves,
i'm going down into the streets.
I learned about life from life itself, love
I learned in a single kiss and could teach no one anything
except that I have lived with something in common among men,
when fighting with them,
when saying all their say in my song.
Pablo Neruda
I'm back from my amazing adventures in Andes country. One of my chief aims in going to Chile was to visit the houses of the poet, Pablo Neruda, and this I achieved. You can read all the details of my Chilean adventures on my travel blog at
http://travelthroughhistory.blogspot.com
but now, in refelcting on my journey, I want to write about the Poet's houses and in particular, how it felt to visit those rooms in which he and his beloved Matilde lived and entertained guests.
It was interesting to see the many unusual and eccentric collections of various trinkets and artifacts that Neruda loved to have around him. There was so much colour, objects that would conjur the Muse and spark the imagination. But mostly, to stand in his studies, surrounded by his books and manuscripts, see in his own handwriting (usually always blue or green ink because those were sea colours) his penmanship, the poems he is famous for crafted on the page before publication.
In each of the houses: La Chascona in Santiago, La Sebastiana in Valparaiso, and Isla Negra on the shores of the Pacfic, I stood in his study, touched the chairs he sat on at his desks, felt his presence as I looked around, viewing from there exactly what he would have seen while he was writing. Always it was a pleasant scene, the green of the gardens and city scape of Santiago, the sweeping view over the rooftops to the sea in Valparaiso, the crashing waves of the ocean at Isla Negra. How could one not have been touched by the Muse in such glorious settings?
Pablo Neruda died in September 1973 shortly after his friend Salvadore Allende was killed in the bombing fo the Presidential Palace in Santiago when Augusto Pinochet led the military coup. Neruda had returned to Chile from France because he had cancer. But shortly after the junta, and when Allende was murdered, he died of his illness and, they say, of a broken heart. He is buried at Isla Negra in a simple grave covered by flowers facing the sea. Beside him is his beloved Matilde, who died in 1983. (Neruda was obsessed with the sea although he didn't like to be "on" it. Each of the three houses has a ship motif, even to the creaking floors that give the impression of being aboard a ship.)
Neruda is very much revered in Chile and every Chilean can recite his poems. I thank my chileno friend Anibal for introducing me to the Poet. It was because of him that I went to Chile, and because of Anibal that I desired to visit Neruda's homes. I came away feeling as though I had really got in touch with the Poet and appreciate his beautiful words more than ever before. If you haven't read his work, I encourage you to do so. You can find most of his poems on-line if you google his name. My most favorite collection is "Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair." But I also have a copy of "The Captain's Poems" which he wrote using a nom-de-plume while living on the Isle of Capri in Italy during one of his exiles from Chile. The poems were written for Matilde, his third wife, the one known as "La Chascona" (crazy hair) because of her wild unruly locks.
And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
Abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was withut a face
and it touched me.
Pablo Neruda from "Poetry"
Monday, November 13, 2006
GONNA TAKE A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY...
"And for a long time yet, led by some wondrous power, I am fated to journey hand in hand iwth my strange heroes and to survey the surging immensity of life, to survey it through the laughter that all can see and through the tears unseen and unknown by anyone."
Nikolai Gogol 1809- 1852 "Dead Souls" 1942 vol 1, ch. 7
It's been a busy time for me, preparing to go on my sentimental journey to Chile. Five more days and I'm off. Today I spent time sorting out the proposed travel wardrobe which I will pack in a day or two. It's always a game of 'elimination' when I'm packing, making the right decisions isn't always easy. This time I have to prepare for a day in the icy winter weather of Toronto en route home. It's late Spring in Chile so no need for many heavy clothes there. Up in the foothills of the Andes in Argentina, at Mendoza the temperature is a moderate 68F
I'm meeting my friend Patrick, from Germany, in Toronto and we fly together to Santiago. He has already phoned Cecilia, our friend Anibal's ex-wife and she is very excited about our arrival. I'm so looking forward to my visit with her, both in the city and at her place by the ocean where she has made a little memorial shrine for Anibal. I've bought a candle embedded with tiny seashells to leave in his memory. I'm sure she'll show us all the places in Santiago that Anibal told me about. And another friend of his is going to be in Valparaiso and has invited us to see his city too. Of course, one of my main desires to visit all three of Pablo Neruda's houses, especially the one at Isla Negra. It was Anibal who introduced me to the Poet.
The trip up to the Andes (by bus from Santiago is about 7 hrs to the border) should be another spectacular part of the trip. This will be in memory of my Argentine friend and soul-brother Roberto Hallberg who passed away in Athens six years ago without having been able to get home to Buenos Aires again. I wish we had time to go to B.A. but this trip is only two weeks so there won't be enough time to see it all.
This week I'm winding up my lessons and even working one shift at the daycare. So I'm looking forward to this vacation after a busy Autumn season.
This will be my last blog here for a couple of weeks, but you can keep track of my travels on my travel blog: http://travelthroughhistory.blogspot.com
Hasta luego!
"You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Tu sabes como es esto:
si miro
la luna de cristal, la rama roja
del lento otono en mi ventana,
si toco
junto al fuego
la impalpable ceniza
o el arrugado cuerpo de la lena,
todo me lleva, a ti,
como si todo lo que existe,
aromas, luz, metales,
fueran ewquenos barcos que navegan
hacia las islas tuyas que me aguardan.
Pablo Neruda -- from "If You Forget Me" (The Captain's Verses. The love Poems.)
Nikolai Gogol 1809- 1852 "Dead Souls" 1942 vol 1, ch. 7
It's been a busy time for me, preparing to go on my sentimental journey to Chile. Five more days and I'm off. Today I spent time sorting out the proposed travel wardrobe which I will pack in a day or two. It's always a game of 'elimination' when I'm packing, making the right decisions isn't always easy. This time I have to prepare for a day in the icy winter weather of Toronto en route home. It's late Spring in Chile so no need for many heavy clothes there. Up in the foothills of the Andes in Argentina, at Mendoza the temperature is a moderate 68F
I'm meeting my friend Patrick, from Germany, in Toronto and we fly together to Santiago. He has already phoned Cecilia, our friend Anibal's ex-wife and she is very excited about our arrival. I'm so looking forward to my visit with her, both in the city and at her place by the ocean where she has made a little memorial shrine for Anibal. I've bought a candle embedded with tiny seashells to leave in his memory. I'm sure she'll show us all the places in Santiago that Anibal told me about. And another friend of his is going to be in Valparaiso and has invited us to see his city too. Of course, one of my main desires to visit all three of Pablo Neruda's houses, especially the one at Isla Negra. It was Anibal who introduced me to the Poet.
The trip up to the Andes (by bus from Santiago is about 7 hrs to the border) should be another spectacular part of the trip. This will be in memory of my Argentine friend and soul-brother Roberto Hallberg who passed away in Athens six years ago without having been able to get home to Buenos Aires again. I wish we had time to go to B.A. but this trip is only two weeks so there won't be enough time to see it all.
This week I'm winding up my lessons and even working one shift at the daycare. So I'm looking forward to this vacation after a busy Autumn season.
This will be my last blog here for a couple of weeks, but you can keep track of my travels on my travel blog: http://travelthroughhistory.blogspot.com
Hasta luego!
"You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Tu sabes como es esto:
si miro
la luna de cristal, la rama roja
del lento otono en mi ventana,
si toco
junto al fuego
la impalpable ceniza
o el arrugado cuerpo de la lena,
todo me lleva, a ti,
como si todo lo que existe,
aromas, luz, metales,
fueran ewquenos barcos que navegan
hacia las islas tuyas que me aguardan.
Pablo Neruda -- from "If You Forget Me" (The Captain's Verses. The love Poems.)
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
BREAKING THROUGH THE BARRIERS
"All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath."
Francis Scott Fitzgerald 1896- 1940 (undated letter)
With all my moving, a house guest, broken printer, classes etc I've been somewhat 'blocked' with my writing, although once I had time to sit and make handwritten notes I managed to break through the barrier and finish another chapter segment of my novel.
I'm always looking for new techniques to overcome writer's block. Making notes is one of the things I do, looking over research notes, browsing through other historical novels for little 'prompts' that jog my subconcious into action and in no time I have whole paragraphs, even pages written which I then transpose onto the computer and work from these rough drafts. It works for me. So does taking long walks by the sea or in lovely parks (at the moment the crisp Autumn colours are inspiring.)
In my novel writing classes, the first night is always a discussion about "Plotting Your Story". We play a plotting game, in groups, which is fun and also a good 'ice breaker' for the class.
Then I ask them to prepare a rough outline of a plot for the following week: think of what the theme is and sketch in the story (which, of course, may change as they go along, but it's a kind of road map so the novice writer knows where they are going.) Next, characters and voice. Who are your characters, who's story is it? I suggest they begin keeping bio files on their characters which will include description (perhaps pictures of like characters) and other pertinent data about the character. The following week we talk about settings. Where does your story take place? What is that place like? Even invented worlds have to seem real to the reader so it's important to have a clear image in mind of where your characters are living.
Now I have learned of another technique for visualizing plot, characters and settings. I recently attended an interesting workshop at the Surrey International Writers' Conference with
a presenter I have enjoyed on other occasions. Jennifer Crusie (www.jenniecrusie.com )
was presenting a workshop on"Brainstorming with scissors and glue". A story collage workshop.
What a novel idea! She explained she is a writer who doesn't easily visualize settings and characters so she has devised a way to make it more visual for her as she is working on her novels. She uses collage as a visual first draft. She cuts pictures from magazines, brochures, and newspapers and pastes them onto a collage: pictures of her characters, settings, ideas for the plot etc. She explained that as she is working on the collages she often has new inspiration for the story, plot changes etc. She not only pastes on clipped out pictures but other objects that relate to the story and chracters. By the time she's finished, she has a visual idea of her story to refer to as she is writing. (She also uses a 'shadow box' technique which is equally successful for visualizing, giving a more 3-D affect.)
I thought this was an excellent idea to go along with keeping the character bios and in my next novel writing sessions I'd like to suggest to the class to try this technique.
I do something similar in a way... surrounding my work space I have many objects and pictures on the walls that remind me of my characters and the setting (ancient Greece) where they lived. Fortunately for me, I have visited some of the sites and studied many pictures and history books of places I couldn't visit, so I have a clear visual image of the ancient settings. And in my travels I have met people who to me were the incarnations of characters in my novel. But for those writers who are not so lucky as to be able to visualize their characters and scenes, I think the collage idea is brilliant.
As for my own writing, I'm back into it now and will hopefully get another chapter segment finished before I fly off to Chile. (Two weeks to go...check my travel blog at
http://travelthroughhistory.blogspot.com )
"True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance..."
Alexander Pope 1688 - 1744 An Essay on Criticism (1711) l. 162
Francis Scott Fitzgerald 1896- 1940 (undated letter)
With all my moving, a house guest, broken printer, classes etc I've been somewhat 'blocked' with my writing, although once I had time to sit and make handwritten notes I managed to break through the barrier and finish another chapter segment of my novel.
I'm always looking for new techniques to overcome writer's block. Making notes is one of the things I do, looking over research notes, browsing through other historical novels for little 'prompts' that jog my subconcious into action and in no time I have whole paragraphs, even pages written which I then transpose onto the computer and work from these rough drafts. It works for me. So does taking long walks by the sea or in lovely parks (at the moment the crisp Autumn colours are inspiring.)
In my novel writing classes, the first night is always a discussion about "Plotting Your Story". We play a plotting game, in groups, which is fun and also a good 'ice breaker' for the class.
Then I ask them to prepare a rough outline of a plot for the following week: think of what the theme is and sketch in the story (which, of course, may change as they go along, but it's a kind of road map so the novice writer knows where they are going.) Next, characters and voice. Who are your characters, who's story is it? I suggest they begin keeping bio files on their characters which will include description (perhaps pictures of like characters) and other pertinent data about the character. The following week we talk about settings. Where does your story take place? What is that place like? Even invented worlds have to seem real to the reader so it's important to have a clear image in mind of where your characters are living.
Now I have learned of another technique for visualizing plot, characters and settings. I recently attended an interesting workshop at the Surrey International Writers' Conference with
a presenter I have enjoyed on other occasions. Jennifer Crusie (www.jenniecrusie.com )
was presenting a workshop on"Brainstorming with scissors and glue". A story collage workshop.
What a novel idea! She explained she is a writer who doesn't easily visualize settings and characters so she has devised a way to make it more visual for her as she is working on her novels. She uses collage as a visual first draft. She cuts pictures from magazines, brochures, and newspapers and pastes them onto a collage: pictures of her characters, settings, ideas for the plot etc. She explained that as she is working on the collages she often has new inspiration for the story, plot changes etc. She not only pastes on clipped out pictures but other objects that relate to the story and chracters. By the time she's finished, she has a visual idea of her story to refer to as she is writing. (She also uses a 'shadow box' technique which is equally successful for visualizing, giving a more 3-D affect.)
I thought this was an excellent idea to go along with keeping the character bios and in my next novel writing sessions I'd like to suggest to the class to try this technique.
I do something similar in a way... surrounding my work space I have many objects and pictures on the walls that remind me of my characters and the setting (ancient Greece) where they lived. Fortunately for me, I have visited some of the sites and studied many pictures and history books of places I couldn't visit, so I have a clear visual image of the ancient settings. And in my travels I have met people who to me were the incarnations of characters in my novel. But for those writers who are not so lucky as to be able to visualize their characters and scenes, I think the collage idea is brilliant.
As for my own writing, I'm back into it now and will hopefully get another chapter segment finished before I fly off to Chile. (Two weeks to go...check my travel blog at
http://travelthroughhistory.blogspot.com )
"True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance..."
Alexander Pope 1688 - 1744 An Essay on Criticism (1711) l. 162
Sunday, October 22, 2006
THE WRITERS' CONFERENCE
"One writes a novel in order to know
why one writes. It's the same with life --
you live not for some end, but in order
to know why you live."
Alberto Moravis
"But have the courage to write whatever
your dream is for yourself."
May Sarton
I spent the weekend at the Surrey International Writers' Conference www.siwc.ca
I volunteered again this year because it allows me a chance to sit in on workshops and shcmooze with other writers and I otherwise couldn't afford to attend. It has now become one of the biggest and best writers' conferences on the Pacific Coast and I highly recommend it to anyone who can come next year.
It's not only informative but quite a thrill to rub shoulders with the published authors and meet agents and editors. Some of those who attend yearly are authors Diana Gabaldon, Jack Whyte, Jennifer Crusie, Elizabeth Lyon (editor) and Donald Maass (agent). As well, there are always a lot of the local writing community attending and it's a great time to socialize.
Again this year I was given the honorable task of introducing the guest presenters. On Friday I introduced The Wandering I, a workshop by David Leach, a B.C. adventurer, author and award winning freelance writer who is managing editor of Explore: Canada's Outdoor Magazine. And I also introduced Jill Amadio, an award winning journalist and author who was presenting a workshop on The Autobiography and Personal Memoir. On Saturday I was able to sit in on one of Jennifer Crusie's entertaining workshops Story Collage - Brainstorming with Scissors and Glue. Later I introduced an agent, Nadia Cornier for a most informative presentation Stuck in Query Hell. She gave some excellent tips for writing the winning query letter.
I always come away from these events feeling inspired and encouraged. Last week I started a new chapter of my novel, so this week I am hoping to stay on track and get a little farther along with it. Now I'm actually beginning to 'see' the end in sight and it was fun yesterday thinking about what I might write in a query letter once I'm ready to pitch to an agent. I also got some new ideas to use in my classes. It's good to have some variety in the program and I liked Jenny Crusie's collage idea for brainstorming the plot and characters. By the way, if you ever get chance to sit in a workshop with this particular writer, do so. She is not only extremely informative but hilarious and you will be pleasantly amused for the whole time you are learning great things!
"One writer excels at a plan or a title page,
another works away at the body of the book,
and a third is adapt at an index."
Oliver Goldsmith 1728 - 1774 "The Bee" 1759
"The writer's point of view is a choice among tools" Tracy Kidder
why one writes. It's the same with life --
you live not for some end, but in order
to know why you live."
Alberto Moravis
"But have the courage to write whatever
your dream is for yourself."
May Sarton
I spent the weekend at the Surrey International Writers' Conference www.siwc.ca
I volunteered again this year because it allows me a chance to sit in on workshops and shcmooze with other writers and I otherwise couldn't afford to attend. It has now become one of the biggest and best writers' conferences on the Pacific Coast and I highly recommend it to anyone who can come next year.
It's not only informative but quite a thrill to rub shoulders with the published authors and meet agents and editors. Some of those who attend yearly are authors Diana Gabaldon, Jack Whyte, Jennifer Crusie, Elizabeth Lyon (editor) and Donald Maass (agent). As well, there are always a lot of the local writing community attending and it's a great time to socialize.
Again this year I was given the honorable task of introducing the guest presenters. On Friday I introduced The Wandering I, a workshop by David Leach, a B.C. adventurer, author and award winning freelance writer who is managing editor of Explore: Canada's Outdoor Magazine. And I also introduced Jill Amadio, an award winning journalist and author who was presenting a workshop on The Autobiography and Personal Memoir. On Saturday I was able to sit in on one of Jennifer Crusie's entertaining workshops Story Collage - Brainstorming with Scissors and Glue. Later I introduced an agent, Nadia Cornier for a most informative presentation Stuck in Query Hell. She gave some excellent tips for writing the winning query letter.
I always come away from these events feeling inspired and encouraged. Last week I started a new chapter of my novel, so this week I am hoping to stay on track and get a little farther along with it. Now I'm actually beginning to 'see' the end in sight and it was fun yesterday thinking about what I might write in a query letter once I'm ready to pitch to an agent. I also got some new ideas to use in my classes. It's good to have some variety in the program and I liked Jenny Crusie's collage idea for brainstorming the plot and characters. By the way, if you ever get chance to sit in a workshop with this particular writer, do so. She is not only extremely informative but hilarious and you will be pleasantly amused for the whole time you are learning great things!
"One writer excels at a plan or a title page,
another works away at the body of the book,
and a third is adapt at an index."
Oliver Goldsmith 1728 - 1774 "The Bee" 1759
"The writer's point of view is a choice among tools" Tracy Kidder
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
HOW MUCH DOES NOSTALGIA INFLUENCE YOUR WRITING?
"NOSTALGIA: Nostos (Gr) "Returning home" - algia (akin to Old English 'genesan') "to survive", the state of being homesick, a wistful or excessively sentimental, sometimes abnormal yearning to return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition."
The other day, while browsing the shops in my new neighbourhood, I saw for sale a 10 lb bag of green olives. I bought them and brought them home, and later that day, sat on my balcony and began to prepare them for pickling. First, you slice them to the pit, then put them in a heavy salt brine for 10 days before finally packing them in jars with olive oil, vinegar, oregano and a bit of lemon. Delicious home-made olives! As I sat there, I had such strong feelings of nostalgia for the village in Greece, remembering sunny afternoons sitting on the porch cutting olives that I'd picked from the trees around my little spitaki. I had a big crock to put them in with the brine. Antonia's son told me I made better olives than his mother. And when I brought some home to my family in Canada, my little two year old grandson gobbled them down like popcorn.
I am a writer who tends to be influenced by nostalgia. Perhaps it's my life style, the fact I've always been on the move, even from when I was a small child. Perhaps it's my keen interest in the past, history and old family stories.
I just finished reading an excellent memoir by Isabel Allende, "My Invented Country: A Nostalgic Journey Through Chile" . She writes that at a conference where she was a guest speaker, a young man asked her what role nostalgia played in her novels. According to the dictionary, nostalgia is "A bittersweet longing for things, persons, or situations of the past. The condition of being homesick." She said she hadn't realized til then that she writes as an exercise in longing.
I thought, as I read this, of how much of my own writing has a nostalgic theme as well. Like Allende, in spite of my many friends and family I have often felt like an outsider, and like her I've traveled many roads, said goodbye so many times.
My friend Anibal, who I loved so much, often spoke to me of his nostalgia. Like Allende, he was an exile from the horrifying events that occured in Chile in 1972. Like her, his life was changed forever by these events. I still have an email message he sent to me (written on Oct 26, 2004 - exactly 1 year before the day he died) We had been discussing nostalgia and here is what he wrote to me. "Hey there, friend, here is what I found about Nosta algos ..."the Greek word for "return" is Nostos. Algos means "suffering. So nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return. In each language this word has a different nuance. Often it means only the sadness caused by the impossibility of returning to one's country" a longing for country, for home. What in English is called "homesickness"...You are far away and I don't know what has become of you. My country is far away, and I don't know what is happening there. The dawn of ancient Greek culture brought the bird of "The odyssey, the founding epic of nostalgia. Odysseus, the greatest adventurere of all time, is also the great nostalgic"
Anibal, like Allende, was a political exile. I'll never forget how, on the day the World Trade Centre collapsed, Anibal, clearly shocked as we all were, told me the blood chilling story of how he had watched the media towers in santiago attacked and bombed by military planes in the 1973 military coup in Chile, a terrorist act orchestrated by the CIA against a democracy, at exactly the same day, week and month and almost the same time of morning. Nothing was ever the same again for him as it was all Chileans, (and Americans after 9/11). He fled to Argentina, and after the coup there in '78 he fled to Canada. He was forever haunted by nostalgia, that deep longing to return home.
I recalled the story of Sappho, the poet, and my as yet unfinished play House of the Muses.
Sappho's life changed forever when she was sent into exile far from her island of Lesbos. her life was never to be the same again, and when she returned she found her world turned upside down, her shool (The House of the Muses) in chaos, her land taken by the tyrants, her most beloved friend gone. because of her political stance against the tyrants and her love of the girls in her shcool, she was accused of disorderly conduct and being a 'woman-lover'. She was slandered and defiled, and most of her poetry was destroyed. In the end, betrayed by her young male lover and desrted by her goddess, Aphrodite, she committed suicide.
Nostalgia and tragedy often seem to go hand-in-hand.
I've spent enough time in Greece to have put downs some small but firmly planted roots there. I am forever torn, not knowing where I want to be most -- there or here. I have nostalgic memories of the hey-days of the '80's when I'd sit with friends in Plaka Square drinking retsina and spinning yarns with my pal Roberto, who like Anibal, suffered the nostalgia of an exile and dreamed of returning to his home in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Robbie died without his dream being fulfilled. He's buried in a simple grave in Athens. After Anibal died, his wife Cecilia took his ashes home to Chile. She's made a little shrine for him on the beach "Where he is quiet and happy."
I'm looking forward to retracing his steps soon, seeing the places he told me about, visiting the houses of the poet Pablo Neruda who he loved so much; accompanying Cecilia around their city, Santiago, to the places where they used to go and loved to be together before theri world was turned upside down that September day in 1973.
Strange, as I was making the notes for this blog, I suddenly realized that the melody of the bolero we often danced to was playing in my head. Nostalgia brought the tears once again.
How much does nostalgia influence your writing?
"...for some reason or other, I am a sad exile.
In some way or other, our land travels with me
and with me too, though far, far away, live the
longitudinal essences of my country." -- Pablo Neruda, 1972
The other day, while browsing the shops in my new neighbourhood, I saw for sale a 10 lb bag of green olives. I bought them and brought them home, and later that day, sat on my balcony and began to prepare them for pickling. First, you slice them to the pit, then put them in a heavy salt brine for 10 days before finally packing them in jars with olive oil, vinegar, oregano and a bit of lemon. Delicious home-made olives! As I sat there, I had such strong feelings of nostalgia for the village in Greece, remembering sunny afternoons sitting on the porch cutting olives that I'd picked from the trees around my little spitaki. I had a big crock to put them in with the brine. Antonia's son told me I made better olives than his mother. And when I brought some home to my family in Canada, my little two year old grandson gobbled them down like popcorn.
I am a writer who tends to be influenced by nostalgia. Perhaps it's my life style, the fact I've always been on the move, even from when I was a small child. Perhaps it's my keen interest in the past, history and old family stories.
I just finished reading an excellent memoir by Isabel Allende, "My Invented Country: A Nostalgic Journey Through Chile" . She writes that at a conference where she was a guest speaker, a young man asked her what role nostalgia played in her novels. According to the dictionary, nostalgia is "A bittersweet longing for things, persons, or situations of the past. The condition of being homesick." She said she hadn't realized til then that she writes as an exercise in longing.
I thought, as I read this, of how much of my own writing has a nostalgic theme as well. Like Allende, in spite of my many friends and family I have often felt like an outsider, and like her I've traveled many roads, said goodbye so many times.
My friend Anibal, who I loved so much, often spoke to me of his nostalgia. Like Allende, he was an exile from the horrifying events that occured in Chile in 1972. Like her, his life was changed forever by these events. I still have an email message he sent to me (written on Oct 26, 2004 - exactly 1 year before the day he died) We had been discussing nostalgia and here is what he wrote to me. "Hey there, friend, here is what I found about Nosta algos ..."the Greek word for "return" is Nostos. Algos means "suffering. So nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return. In each language this word has a different nuance. Often it means only the sadness caused by the impossibility of returning to one's country" a longing for country, for home. What in English is called "homesickness"...You are far away and I don't know what has become of you. My country is far away, and I don't know what is happening there. The dawn of ancient Greek culture brought the bird of "The odyssey, the founding epic of nostalgia. Odysseus, the greatest adventurere of all time, is also the great nostalgic"
Anibal, like Allende, was a political exile. I'll never forget how, on the day the World Trade Centre collapsed, Anibal, clearly shocked as we all were, told me the blood chilling story of how he had watched the media towers in santiago attacked and bombed by military planes in the 1973 military coup in Chile, a terrorist act orchestrated by the CIA against a democracy, at exactly the same day, week and month and almost the same time of morning. Nothing was ever the same again for him as it was all Chileans, (and Americans after 9/11). He fled to Argentina, and after the coup there in '78 he fled to Canada. He was forever haunted by nostalgia, that deep longing to return home.
I recalled the story of Sappho, the poet, and my as yet unfinished play House of the Muses.
Sappho's life changed forever when she was sent into exile far from her island of Lesbos. her life was never to be the same again, and when she returned she found her world turned upside down, her shool (The House of the Muses) in chaos, her land taken by the tyrants, her most beloved friend gone. because of her political stance against the tyrants and her love of the girls in her shcool, she was accused of disorderly conduct and being a 'woman-lover'. She was slandered and defiled, and most of her poetry was destroyed. In the end, betrayed by her young male lover and desrted by her goddess, Aphrodite, she committed suicide.
Nostalgia and tragedy often seem to go hand-in-hand.
I've spent enough time in Greece to have put downs some small but firmly planted roots there. I am forever torn, not knowing where I want to be most -- there or here. I have nostalgic memories of the hey-days of the '80's when I'd sit with friends in Plaka Square drinking retsina and spinning yarns with my pal Roberto, who like Anibal, suffered the nostalgia of an exile and dreamed of returning to his home in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Robbie died without his dream being fulfilled. He's buried in a simple grave in Athens. After Anibal died, his wife Cecilia took his ashes home to Chile. She's made a little shrine for him on the beach "Where he is quiet and happy."
I'm looking forward to retracing his steps soon, seeing the places he told me about, visiting the houses of the poet Pablo Neruda who he loved so much; accompanying Cecilia around their city, Santiago, to the places where they used to go and loved to be together before theri world was turned upside down that September day in 1973.
Strange, as I was making the notes for this blog, I suddenly realized that the melody of the bolero we often danced to was playing in my head. Nostalgia brought the tears once again.
How much does nostalgia influence your writing?
"...for some reason or other, I am a sad exile.
In some way or other, our land travels with me
and with me too, though far, far away, live the
longitudinal essences of my country." -- Pablo Neruda, 1972
Sunday, October 01, 2006
ROADBLOCKS AND DETOURS
roadblock: (1940) 1 A a barricade often with traps or mines for holding up an enemy at a point on a road covered by fire. B. a road barricade set up especially by law inforcement officers.
2. an obstruction in a road.
3. something (as a fact, condition, or countermeasure) that blocks progress or prevents accomplishment of an objective.
I went for a bike ride today along a favourite route that I haven't travelled on for a long time. You used to be able to ride right along by the docks but since 9/11 the waterfront has been blocked off for anything but business traffic. So I rode down the sidewalk on the nearest through street, and managed finally to connect with the sea-wall path through a little park, right to Canada Place downtown. The last time I cycled there, you could go right past there and keep on the sea-wall all the way to Stanley Park. But when I got there today there was a lot of construction work so the route I was familiar with was blocked off and I had to make a lot of detours. Eventually I turned back. Then I couldn't find the waterfront road where I'd come, so I had to walk my bike through Gastown and all the crowds of tourists out sightseeing on this lovely sunny Autumn day. Finally I reached the street that I'd ridden on downtown and managed to get back home. But it wasn't nearly as insteresting a ride as the one going. The detours were frustrating and confusing. And it turned into mostly a 'bike walk' instead of a 'bike ride'.
detour (F): a deviation from a direct course or the usual procedure; specif: a roundabout way temporarily replacing part of the route.
The same thing happened to me when I went back to my writing after several weeks away moving and travelling. I had been on a roll before, a pretty straight route, and had my notes planning out the next moves, but in all the confusion and detours, I've somehow lost my way and come to a roadblock. For one thing, the event I'd been about to write (Phokion's execution), I have learned doesn't really happen at that time. Can I tinker with the historical facts and have it occur earlier? Being such a stickler for the correct timelines in my novel, I really don't think so. So it means skirting around it and coming back to it later. A detour.
A couple of other small glitches: I'm not totally comfortable with my work space. It's a bit too crowded and uncomfortable. And for some reason I can't get my printer to work which is certainly preventing me from accomplishing what I need to do. This morning I worked for awhile on the novel, writing most of the scene I'd originally planned, but I need to edit from hard copy. That works best for me. I guess I'll just have to persevere and hope that I can figure out how to get the printer to co-operate. Meanwhile it's back to the drawing board in order to plan a new scene. I'm hoping the Muse will co-operate. It's easy for me to get distracted, go off on wild-goose chases instead of focusing on my writing. I'm hoping for a smooth journey all the way, but there's bound to be a few glitches, little bumps in the road, before I reach my final destination. Meanwhile, I just hope I can relax and enjoy the ride!
"Improvement makes straight roads; but the crooked roads without improvement are roads of genius." William Blake (1757 - 1827) "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (1792-1793) Note to the Voice of the Devil." l. 66
2. an obstruction in a road.
3. something (as a fact, condition, or countermeasure) that blocks progress or prevents accomplishment of an objective.
I went for a bike ride today along a favourite route that I haven't travelled on for a long time. You used to be able to ride right along by the docks but since 9/11 the waterfront has been blocked off for anything but business traffic. So I rode down the sidewalk on the nearest through street, and managed finally to connect with the sea-wall path through a little park, right to Canada Place downtown. The last time I cycled there, you could go right past there and keep on the sea-wall all the way to Stanley Park. But when I got there today there was a lot of construction work so the route I was familiar with was blocked off and I had to make a lot of detours. Eventually I turned back. Then I couldn't find the waterfront road where I'd come, so I had to walk my bike through Gastown and all the crowds of tourists out sightseeing on this lovely sunny Autumn day. Finally I reached the street that I'd ridden on downtown and managed to get back home. But it wasn't nearly as insteresting a ride as the one going. The detours were frustrating and confusing. And it turned into mostly a 'bike walk' instead of a 'bike ride'.
detour (F): a deviation from a direct course or the usual procedure; specif: a roundabout way temporarily replacing part of the route.
The same thing happened to me when I went back to my writing after several weeks away moving and travelling. I had been on a roll before, a pretty straight route, and had my notes planning out the next moves, but in all the confusion and detours, I've somehow lost my way and come to a roadblock. For one thing, the event I'd been about to write (Phokion's execution), I have learned doesn't really happen at that time. Can I tinker with the historical facts and have it occur earlier? Being such a stickler for the correct timelines in my novel, I really don't think so. So it means skirting around it and coming back to it later. A detour.
A couple of other small glitches: I'm not totally comfortable with my work space. It's a bit too crowded and uncomfortable. And for some reason I can't get my printer to work which is certainly preventing me from accomplishing what I need to do. This morning I worked for awhile on the novel, writing most of the scene I'd originally planned, but I need to edit from hard copy. That works best for me. I guess I'll just have to persevere and hope that I can figure out how to get the printer to co-operate. Meanwhile it's back to the drawing board in order to plan a new scene. I'm hoping the Muse will co-operate. It's easy for me to get distracted, go off on wild-goose chases instead of focusing on my writing. I'm hoping for a smooth journey all the way, but there's bound to be a few glitches, little bumps in the road, before I reach my final destination. Meanwhile, I just hope I can relax and enjoy the ride!
"Improvement makes straight roads; but the crooked roads without improvement are roads of genius." William Blake (1757 - 1827) "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (1792-1793) Note to the Voice of the Devil." l. 66
Monday, September 25, 2006
WORDS ON THE STREET
"Copy your forefathers, for work is carried out through knowledge; see, their words endure in writing..."
The Teaching for Merikare Par. 4 2135 - 2040 BC
(a treatise on kingship addressed by a king of Heracleopolis whose name is lost, to his son and successor, Merikare.)
Yesterday was the annual "Words on the Street" festival of written and spoken word presented by the Public Library. Tents are set up around Library Square and there are booths with various writer's organizations and magazine/book publishers as well as indoor lectures. It's all free and a wonderful opportunity to hear from the experts, listen to poetry and readings from published fiction or non-fiction works and attend lectures. As well, it's a good day for schmoozing with other local writers and for this it becomes a pleasant Sunday afternoon social event.
The day was bright with sunshine and very warm. I headed down a little late so missed some events I'd have otherwise attended. But I did sit in on a very informative lecture by an agent who gave some excellent tips for submitting queries etc. And later I sat in on a workshop for "Writing for the Stage" which provided a little inspiration for me to once again tackle my Sappho play. In the tents on the street, a number of people I know were reading poetry and some well-known published authors were presenting their work along with short discussion. I wish I had paid attention to the program and got there early enough to sit in on the historical fiction writer's performances as I need some inspiration now to get back into my own writing.
I'm pretty well all settled in my new apartment, and let me tell you that this is heaven! On these bright Autumn days the sun streams through the skylights and I have no need to use the electric lights until early evening. From my balcony is a panoramic view of the sunset and twinkling city sky-line. I can visualize myself sitting on the balcony writing once I get a table and umbrella for shade. And now I have my work space set up, though it's a bit crowded, I am all set to get back to writing.(There wasn't as much floor space here with the built-ins, so it was tricky fitting my furniture in, but I'd done it and it is very cozy!)
My classes started last week too, and it looks like a successful season has begun. That in itself is an inspiration. To be among writers, and even the wanna-be-writers is stimulating to me. So I plan to start work back on the novel this week after this little break. Between the packing/moving and trip to New York it hasn't been possible for me to concentrate on the complex political goings on of Alexander's world. But things are calmer now and I am ready to start.
One last little bit of sticky business with the old landlords, and then my life should resume its serenity. (Yes, of course those nasty people intend to gyp me out of my damage deposit but I won't let them get away with it. So it looks like another trip to arbitration. Then I'll be rid of them!) I will post my rants about these sleaze-artists on my "Conversations with Myself" blog at http://ruthakik.blogspot.com)
In spite of the move, I've managed to do a little bit of writing the past two weeks, posting all the blogs about my short, sweet vacation in the Big Apple. You can see these on my travel blog site:
http://travelthroughhistory.blogspot.com
I note by reading some other writers' blogs that sometimes it's necessary to abandon one's projects, sad as it is. I know this well as I had to abandon my Celtic story and have also abandoned my Sappho play -- temporarily of course -- though it's been a number of years since I revisited Olwen's world, "Dragons in the Sky". Sometimes it's necessary to take a break just to let the idea brew for a longer time. Scott, do not despair because Medjay will speak to you again when he's ready. I have already heard Olwen's voice whispering to me -- and Sappho's too -- but they know they have to wait awhile longer before I can 'speak' for them.
So here's to Autumn! And for me, a new beginning. Alexander and his friends are waiting and I must focus, and get their story finished!
"In the world of words, the imagination is one of the forces of nature."
Wallace Stevens 1879-1955 "Opus Postumous - 1957 - Adagio"
The Teaching for Merikare Par. 4 2135 - 2040 BC
(a treatise on kingship addressed by a king of Heracleopolis whose name is lost, to his son and successor, Merikare.)
Yesterday was the annual "Words on the Street" festival of written and spoken word presented by the Public Library. Tents are set up around Library Square and there are booths with various writer's organizations and magazine/book publishers as well as indoor lectures. It's all free and a wonderful opportunity to hear from the experts, listen to poetry and readings from published fiction or non-fiction works and attend lectures. As well, it's a good day for schmoozing with other local writers and for this it becomes a pleasant Sunday afternoon social event.
The day was bright with sunshine and very warm. I headed down a little late so missed some events I'd have otherwise attended. But I did sit in on a very informative lecture by an agent who gave some excellent tips for submitting queries etc. And later I sat in on a workshop for "Writing for the Stage" which provided a little inspiration for me to once again tackle my Sappho play. In the tents on the street, a number of people I know were reading poetry and some well-known published authors were presenting their work along with short discussion. I wish I had paid attention to the program and got there early enough to sit in on the historical fiction writer's performances as I need some inspiration now to get back into my own writing.
I'm pretty well all settled in my new apartment, and let me tell you that this is heaven! On these bright Autumn days the sun streams through the skylights and I have no need to use the electric lights until early evening. From my balcony is a panoramic view of the sunset and twinkling city sky-line. I can visualize myself sitting on the balcony writing once I get a table and umbrella for shade. And now I have my work space set up, though it's a bit crowded, I am all set to get back to writing.(There wasn't as much floor space here with the built-ins, so it was tricky fitting my furniture in, but I'd done it and it is very cozy!)
My classes started last week too, and it looks like a successful season has begun. That in itself is an inspiration. To be among writers, and even the wanna-be-writers is stimulating to me. So I plan to start work back on the novel this week after this little break. Between the packing/moving and trip to New York it hasn't been possible for me to concentrate on the complex political goings on of Alexander's world. But things are calmer now and I am ready to start.
One last little bit of sticky business with the old landlords, and then my life should resume its serenity. (Yes, of course those nasty people intend to gyp me out of my damage deposit but I won't let them get away with it. So it looks like another trip to arbitration. Then I'll be rid of them!) I will post my rants about these sleaze-artists on my "Conversations with Myself" blog at http://ruthakik.blogspot.com)
In spite of the move, I've managed to do a little bit of writing the past two weeks, posting all the blogs about my short, sweet vacation in the Big Apple. You can see these on my travel blog site:
http://travelthroughhistory.blogspot.com
I note by reading some other writers' blogs that sometimes it's necessary to abandon one's projects, sad as it is. I know this well as I had to abandon my Celtic story and have also abandoned my Sappho play -- temporarily of course -- though it's been a number of years since I revisited Olwen's world, "Dragons in the Sky". Sometimes it's necessary to take a break just to let the idea brew for a longer time. Scott, do not despair because Medjay will speak to you again when he's ready. I have already heard Olwen's voice whispering to me -- and Sappho's too -- but they know they have to wait awhile longer before I can 'speak' for them.
So here's to Autumn! And for me, a new beginning. Alexander and his friends are waiting and I must focus, and get their story finished!
"In the world of words, the imagination is one of the forces of nature."
Wallace Stevens 1879-1955 "Opus Postumous - 1957 - Adagio"
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
TRAVELING AND WRITING
"The use of traveling is to regulate imagination by reality and instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are."
Samuel Johnson 1709- 1784 from "Mrs Prozzi - anecdotes of Samuel Johnson" 1986
'Way back in the late '70's, after taking a long break from writing, I began taking Creative Writing Classes. Up until that time all my writing had been in the form of short historical novels and plays, although when I first started my writing 'career', fresh out of high-school as a copy-runner for a newspaper, I had aspirations of becoming a journalist, specifically a crime reporter. That never came to be, and I ended up as a news librarian instead. But this basic knowledge of journalism never left me, and when I began to realize that to get a large piece of work published, such as a novel, I should first try to get some publishing experience, I decided to try my hand at travel writing.
At that time I was making some interesting trips abroad as well as to Central America and Mexico. I knew I had plans to eventually move to Europe, mainly Greece, so I decided to try my hand at travel writing. The very first piece I sent out in 1981 was published, and that was the beginning of my 'career' as a travel journalist. When I moved to Greece in 1983, I had already established a contact with a travel editor of the Globe and Mail newspaper and he was happy to accept any stories I mailed to him. Meanwhile, I was also working on my Celtic novel, Dragons in the Sky.
At that time I was writing on a little portable red Brother typewriter. I had it set up on an upturned drawer on the floor of my apartment in Athens. I wrote about all my journies around my new country, and I sent home hundreds of letters about my adventures, which fortunately my friends saved for me. Eventually I will compile stories from those letters to write a memoir about Life Under the Acropolis.
When I came back to Canada to live (regretfully) in 1987, I decided to start on a new novel, which was to be a short juvenile historical. This project grew into the Homeric saga Shadow of the Lion a story about the fall of Alexander the Great's dynasty, which has kept me occupied all the years since including researching in libraries and at sites in northern Greece. This is when I began combining research trips with travel journalism, and because of my love of history, most of my travel stories have a strong slant toward the history of the places I visit.
I've been fortunate this past year to make some fantastic journies. Usually my destination choice is Greece, via England. Last year I won the door-prize at the B.C. Travel Writer's Association yearly gala -- a trip to Malaysia. This year, recently returned from Malaysia, I again won the door prize, two plane tickets and City Pass tours to N.Y.C. I was floored by my good fortune as I had just purchased my ticket to visit Chile, a sentimental journey in memory of my friend Anibal, by invitation of his ex-wife. That trip is scheduled for mid November. And plans are already forumlating to visit Greece via Venice next May.
I just returned from the Big Apple, and I'm starting to write my blogs about that short, sweet adventure (see my travel blog at http://travelthroughhistory.blogspot.com )
I've found that by writing the blogs first, and taking the time to do the research about the places I've visited, then I can go back and easily write the travel articles.
Of course the problem these days for a free-lance writer, is finding the markets and because I am also busy writing my novel and teaching writing classes, I'm not as diligent as I should be when it comes to marketing. I don't always get the travel stories written that I've intended to write either. But I'm hoping to mend my ways!
This weekend I'm moving up in the world, out of an apartment building I'd consider my 'home' for some years, into a beautiful new condo apartment. I'm excited about this move. As much as I have loved my current 'home', there have been on-going hassles with the building owners/managers for the last two years and the place is getting run-down and happens to be in a neighbourhood where there are constant distractions like police cars, fire trucks, and noisy folk on the streets not to speak of the infamour Dragon Lady (the landlady) who makes me cringe every time I see her or hear her grating annying voice.
So I anticipate this move with great excitement. I know my new home will be quiet, clean (no more roaches and mice!) and will be far more conducive to conjuring the Muse.
It make take me a week or so to reorganize before I can start seriously writing again, but I know I will be back at the keyboard and in Alexander's world before too long.
I'll sign off here by this Saturday and be back as soon as they come to hook up my internet again. See you all then!
"I've never believed that one chance is all I get. Writing is my way of making other chances."
Anne Taylor
Samuel Johnson 1709- 1784 from "Mrs Prozzi - anecdotes of Samuel Johnson" 1986
'Way back in the late '70's, after taking a long break from writing, I began taking Creative Writing Classes. Up until that time all my writing had been in the form of short historical novels and plays, although when I first started my writing 'career', fresh out of high-school as a copy-runner for a newspaper, I had aspirations of becoming a journalist, specifically a crime reporter. That never came to be, and I ended up as a news librarian instead. But this basic knowledge of journalism never left me, and when I began to realize that to get a large piece of work published, such as a novel, I should first try to get some publishing experience, I decided to try my hand at travel writing.
At that time I was making some interesting trips abroad as well as to Central America and Mexico. I knew I had plans to eventually move to Europe, mainly Greece, so I decided to try my hand at travel writing. The very first piece I sent out in 1981 was published, and that was the beginning of my 'career' as a travel journalist. When I moved to Greece in 1983, I had already established a contact with a travel editor of the Globe and Mail newspaper and he was happy to accept any stories I mailed to him. Meanwhile, I was also working on my Celtic novel, Dragons in the Sky.
At that time I was writing on a little portable red Brother typewriter. I had it set up on an upturned drawer on the floor of my apartment in Athens. I wrote about all my journies around my new country, and I sent home hundreds of letters about my adventures, which fortunately my friends saved for me. Eventually I will compile stories from those letters to write a memoir about Life Under the Acropolis.
When I came back to Canada to live (regretfully) in 1987, I decided to start on a new novel, which was to be a short juvenile historical. This project grew into the Homeric saga Shadow of the Lion a story about the fall of Alexander the Great's dynasty, which has kept me occupied all the years since including researching in libraries and at sites in northern Greece. This is when I began combining research trips with travel journalism, and because of my love of history, most of my travel stories have a strong slant toward the history of the places I visit.
I've been fortunate this past year to make some fantastic journies. Usually my destination choice is Greece, via England. Last year I won the door-prize at the B.C. Travel Writer's Association yearly gala -- a trip to Malaysia. This year, recently returned from Malaysia, I again won the door prize, two plane tickets and City Pass tours to N.Y.C. I was floored by my good fortune as I had just purchased my ticket to visit Chile, a sentimental journey in memory of my friend Anibal, by invitation of his ex-wife. That trip is scheduled for mid November. And plans are already forumlating to visit Greece via Venice next May.
I just returned from the Big Apple, and I'm starting to write my blogs about that short, sweet adventure (see my travel blog at http://travelthroughhistory.blogspot.com )
I've found that by writing the blogs first, and taking the time to do the research about the places I've visited, then I can go back and easily write the travel articles.
Of course the problem these days for a free-lance writer, is finding the markets and because I am also busy writing my novel and teaching writing classes, I'm not as diligent as I should be when it comes to marketing. I don't always get the travel stories written that I've intended to write either. But I'm hoping to mend my ways!
This weekend I'm moving up in the world, out of an apartment building I'd consider my 'home' for some years, into a beautiful new condo apartment. I'm excited about this move. As much as I have loved my current 'home', there have been on-going hassles with the building owners/managers for the last two years and the place is getting run-down and happens to be in a neighbourhood where there are constant distractions like police cars, fire trucks, and noisy folk on the streets not to speak of the infamour Dragon Lady (the landlady) who makes me cringe every time I see her or hear her grating annying voice.
So I anticipate this move with great excitement. I know my new home will be quiet, clean (no more roaches and mice!) and will be far more conducive to conjuring the Muse.
It make take me a week or so to reorganize before I can start seriously writing again, but I know I will be back at the keyboard and in Alexander's world before too long.
I'll sign off here by this Saturday and be back as soon as they come to hook up my internet again. See you all then!
"I've never believed that one chance is all I get. Writing is my way of making other chances."
Anne Taylor
Friday, September 01, 2006
HISTORICAL FICTION BOOKS THAT MADE ME WANT TO WRITE H.F.
"Advice to Persons about to write history - Don't."
John Emerich Edward Dalber-Acton, Lord Acton 1834 - 1902
Letter to Bishop Mandell Creighton April 5, 1887
I'll clarify that statement. If you want to write history, be prepared to spend hours, maybe years, researching your subject. May sure you are avidly keen on the subject and willing to devote yourself to long periods of time immersed in that other world. It will be an adventure that you will never regret taking!
Recently there was a blog about the five historical novels that inspired the writer to write historical fiction. As long as I can remember going to the library most of the books I borrowed or collected for my own use were historical fiction themes. Some of them had a profound affect on me at an early age. Being brought up in a Christian family where the Bible was daily reading material, and my father a Baptist minister, I became keenly interested in the Holy Lands and from there, Greece and Rome. I not only read all the books I could find with those settings, but saw movies as well and was totally drawn into that ancient world. By the time I was sixteen I had already written a few short novels (and plays) with Biblical themes set in Palestine, Rome or Greece. And then, I discovered Alexander the Great and my life was to be changed forever as I grew to know this amazing young man. I wrote my first novel with an Alexander theme the last year of high-school. Almost failed my grades because of it. But I was consumed, intrigued, and totally in love with the character. I spent all my spare time in the library researching. And from that time on Alexander and his World have become a major part of my life.
I also grew up reading about British history and was greatly influenced by Shakespeare when I saw my first Shakespearean play "Richard the Third" when I was 14. Other writers of ancient and medieval and Victorian Britain also influenced me. My second work-in-progress
Dragons in the Sky is a Celtic novel set in Iron Age Britain near Stonehenge.
What did I read (and what do I read?) that inspires me to write in this genre?
Here are some of the writer's and their books that have definitely influenced me.
CHARLES DICKENS I was particularly fond of "Oliver Twist" and, of course,
"A Christmas Carol."
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE All his plays. I can watch them time and time again and never grow tired of them. My favorite, of course, is Richard the Third. But I also love Othello and A Midsummers Night Dream.
SIR WALTER SCOTT: "Ivanhoe"
THOMAS B. COSTAIN I was particularly impressed by "The Black Rose" and always thought it was written by Sir Walter Scott. It turns out that Costain was known as the Canadian Sir Walter Scott. He also write The Silver Chalice . Both of these were made into movies which I loved. I googled the Black Rose which was filmed in 1950. I knew that it had starred Tyrone Power, but was amazed to find that the cast also included such notables as Orson Wells, Michael Rennie, Laurence Harvey, and get this: Robert Blake of "In Cold Blood" fame. The other film , The Silver Chalice, starred Paul Newman.
HOMER "The Iliad" and "The Odyssey" are my Greek history 'bibles'
SOPHOCLES & EURIPIDES All their plays. I love Greek drama, especially the tragedies.
MARY RENAULT I read her novels over and over and refer to them constantly. I have learned from her how to construct stories from ancient history and make them live. She, in a way, has been my historical fiction 'mentor'. My favorite is Fire From Heaven but I'm also fond of The Mask of Apollo and the two books about Theseus and the Minoans, The King Must Die and The Bull From the Sea
MARY STUART Her Celtic stories, especially Song for a Dark Queen
MARGUERITE YUCENOR "Memoirs of Hadrian" and "Fires"
MARGARET GEORGE Memoirs of Cleopatra
STEVEN PRESSFIELD He's my current favorite historical writer. "Gates of Fire" is a masterpiece about the Spartans. And his newest novel is "The Afghan Campaign"
(check out the dedication!) I can dream, can't I? Or is it a dream come true?
What books (or writers) have influenced you?
"A few hints as to literary craftsmanship may be useful to budding historians. First and foremost, get writing!"
Samuel Eliot Morison 1887 - 1976 History as a Literary Art, Old South Leaflets 1946
John Emerich Edward Dalber-Acton, Lord Acton 1834 - 1902
Letter to Bishop Mandell Creighton April 5, 1887
I'll clarify that statement. If you want to write history, be prepared to spend hours, maybe years, researching your subject. May sure you are avidly keen on the subject and willing to devote yourself to long periods of time immersed in that other world. It will be an adventure that you will never regret taking!
Recently there was a blog about the five historical novels that inspired the writer to write historical fiction. As long as I can remember going to the library most of the books I borrowed or collected for my own use were historical fiction themes. Some of them had a profound affect on me at an early age. Being brought up in a Christian family where the Bible was daily reading material, and my father a Baptist minister, I became keenly interested in the Holy Lands and from there, Greece and Rome. I not only read all the books I could find with those settings, but saw movies as well and was totally drawn into that ancient world. By the time I was sixteen I had already written a few short novels (and plays) with Biblical themes set in Palestine, Rome or Greece. And then, I discovered Alexander the Great and my life was to be changed forever as I grew to know this amazing young man. I wrote my first novel with an Alexander theme the last year of high-school. Almost failed my grades because of it. But I was consumed, intrigued, and totally in love with the character. I spent all my spare time in the library researching. And from that time on Alexander and his World have become a major part of my life.
I also grew up reading about British history and was greatly influenced by Shakespeare when I saw my first Shakespearean play "Richard the Third" when I was 14. Other writers of ancient and medieval and Victorian Britain also influenced me. My second work-in-progress
Dragons in the Sky is a Celtic novel set in Iron Age Britain near Stonehenge.
What did I read (and what do I read?) that inspires me to write in this genre?
Here are some of the writer's and their books that have definitely influenced me.
CHARLES DICKENS I was particularly fond of "Oliver Twist" and, of course,
"A Christmas Carol."
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE All his plays. I can watch them time and time again and never grow tired of them. My favorite, of course, is Richard the Third. But I also love Othello and A Midsummers Night Dream.
SIR WALTER SCOTT: "Ivanhoe"
THOMAS B. COSTAIN I was particularly impressed by "The Black Rose" and always thought it was written by Sir Walter Scott. It turns out that Costain was known as the Canadian Sir Walter Scott. He also write The Silver Chalice . Both of these were made into movies which I loved. I googled the Black Rose which was filmed in 1950. I knew that it had starred Tyrone Power, but was amazed to find that the cast also included such notables as Orson Wells, Michael Rennie, Laurence Harvey, and get this: Robert Blake of "In Cold Blood" fame. The other film , The Silver Chalice, starred Paul Newman.
HOMER "The Iliad" and "The Odyssey" are my Greek history 'bibles'
SOPHOCLES & EURIPIDES All their plays. I love Greek drama, especially the tragedies.
MARY RENAULT I read her novels over and over and refer to them constantly. I have learned from her how to construct stories from ancient history and make them live. She, in a way, has been my historical fiction 'mentor'. My favorite is Fire From Heaven but I'm also fond of The Mask of Apollo and the two books about Theseus and the Minoans, The King Must Die and The Bull From the Sea
MARY STUART Her Celtic stories, especially Song for a Dark Queen
MARGUERITE YUCENOR "Memoirs of Hadrian" and "Fires"
MARGARET GEORGE Memoirs of Cleopatra
STEVEN PRESSFIELD He's my current favorite historical writer. "Gates of Fire" is a masterpiece about the Spartans. And his newest novel is "The Afghan Campaign"
(check out the dedication!) I can dream, can't I? Or is it a dream come true?
What books (or writers) have influenced you?
"A few hints as to literary craftsmanship may be useful to budding historians. First and foremost, get writing!"
Samuel Eliot Morison 1887 - 1976 History as a Literary Art, Old South Leaflets 1946
Saturday, August 26, 2006
WHERE DO YOU WRITE?
"A man may write at any time if he will set himself doggedly to it."
Samuel Johnson 1709-1784 From James Boswell, Life of Johnson March 1750
We had a discussion the other night of the places where people situate themselves to write. One woman told of an Irish writer (female) who only likes to write in bed. A lot of famous writers like Scott Fitzgerald and Dylan Thomas used to write in pubs. The "Harry Potter" series was created in a coffee shop. Other writers retreat to solitary places. Where do you write?
I generally prefer to write notes by hand before working at the computer. I sit at the kitchen table and go through research and then make notes for my new chapter segments. Then I retire to my bedroom where my computer is set up, surrounded by a lot of memorabalia of Greece that offers me inspiration (pictures, nick-nacks and other stuff). Some of my initial notes are often made spontaneously while I'm walking, perhaps on the sea wall, or at the beach, and once in awhile at my favorite coffee shop on the Drive. When I was working on my play "The Street" because it had Italian characters in it, The Calabria coffee shop was very conducive to setting a mood as they always play Italian music there and the place is decorated with Italian kitch with photos of famous Italians (movie stars, singers, musicians, dancers) on the walls.
When I travel I don't take a lap-top. I do have a palm pilot but when I decided to use it instead of my word processor, I ended up forgetting to keep the battery charged and lost all my work. So the tried-and-true method of notes is the best policy for me. I also keep daily journals, especially when travelling, for these are invaluable reference tools. I have often written copious scenes and notes for my writing while sitting on the beach, or at a sea-side taverna, or just resting by the wayside.
Where to you prefer to write? What environment inspires you? Do you make notes first or just write cold in front of an empty computer screen? Does anyone still use a manual typewriter? (I've saved my red portable Brother for a souvenier of those days I used to have it set up on the wide stone window sill of my shepherd's cottage in Greece when I was writing away in the village. Those were happy times. Productive too. Frankly I find the computer can be quite a distraction even though it's quicker for making edits and changes.)
"True ease in writing comes from art, not chance.
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance,
'Tis not enough so harshness gives offense
The sound must seem an echo to the sense."
Alexander Pope 1688- 1744
Samuel Johnson 1709-1784 From James Boswell, Life of Johnson March 1750
We had a discussion the other night of the places where people situate themselves to write. One woman told of an Irish writer (female) who only likes to write in bed. A lot of famous writers like Scott Fitzgerald and Dylan Thomas used to write in pubs. The "Harry Potter" series was created in a coffee shop. Other writers retreat to solitary places. Where do you write?
I generally prefer to write notes by hand before working at the computer. I sit at the kitchen table and go through research and then make notes for my new chapter segments. Then I retire to my bedroom where my computer is set up, surrounded by a lot of memorabalia of Greece that offers me inspiration (pictures, nick-nacks and other stuff). Some of my initial notes are often made spontaneously while I'm walking, perhaps on the sea wall, or at the beach, and once in awhile at my favorite coffee shop on the Drive. When I was working on my play "The Street" because it had Italian characters in it, The Calabria coffee shop was very conducive to setting a mood as they always play Italian music there and the place is decorated with Italian kitch with photos of famous Italians (movie stars, singers, musicians, dancers) on the walls.
When I travel I don't take a lap-top. I do have a palm pilot but when I decided to use it instead of my word processor, I ended up forgetting to keep the battery charged and lost all my work. So the tried-and-true method of notes is the best policy for me. I also keep daily journals, especially when travelling, for these are invaluable reference tools. I have often written copious scenes and notes for my writing while sitting on the beach, or at a sea-side taverna, or just resting by the wayside.
Where to you prefer to write? What environment inspires you? Do you make notes first or just write cold in front of an empty computer screen? Does anyone still use a manual typewriter? (I've saved my red portable Brother for a souvenier of those days I used to have it set up on the wide stone window sill of my shepherd's cottage in Greece when I was writing away in the village. Those were happy times. Productive too. Frankly I find the computer can be quite a distraction even though it's quicker for making edits and changes.)
"True ease in writing comes from art, not chance.
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance,
'Tis not enough so harshness gives offense
The sound must seem an echo to the sense."
Alexander Pope 1688- 1744
Monday, August 21, 2006
HIDDEN SURPRISES AND DRAGONS IN THE SKY!
"If great help comes from on high, this increased strength must be used to achieve something great for what he might otherwise never have found energy, or readiness to take responsibility. Great good fortune is produced by selflessness, and in bringing about great good fortune you remain free of reproach." Hexegram 42 I Ching "Increase"
Something tells me the Muse is having a hand in this move. I had been longing for the inspiration of my classical scholar friends as I struggle to finish "Shadow of the lion" and now I'm in daily contact with one of them, my friend in Norway who is herself working on her doctorate. This past week I've had so many inspiring things happen, including emails from three historical novelists, one of whom was a sort of mentor of mine several years ago who I had lost contact with. As a result my writing energy is in high gear. And as far as the packing is concerned, because I am thrilled about finding an excellent new place to live, I've been a whirling dervish packing/cleaning/sorting/throwing out and preparing.
Isn't it funny how things happen? This sudden move (an eviction) is day by day revealing surprises and rewards. As I pack and sort I'm uncovering hidden treasures -- some of them almost like 'signposts' to my future. Today, as I was clearing out closets and shelves I found
an assortment of important memorabalia that brought back so many memories and some that were hugely inspiring!
(1) a bag of canvases and water-color paper and paints/brushes etc. Just when I have been considering taking up the brush again!
(2) photo albums and stray bags of pictures from my first trips to Greece in '79/'80. And some more recent albums I haven't looked at in ages. It brought me right back there, among friends (some of whom have passed on now). Such a lot of reminiscing.
(3) The special journal notes I kept '799-'80 when I made those first trips first to England and then to Greece. I was in the process of developing my Celtic novel "Dragons in the Sky" at the time, and paid a visit to Stonhenge and later the iron-age hill fort near Salisbury. It was there I had my first significant deja-vus experiences regarding this story and heard Olwen's voice loud and clear. And again, when I arrived in Athens and walked into the agora, I had another significant deja-vus moment. Later at Delphi too. I had carefully recorded it all. There are poems I'd written too, and lots of observations connected to my planned novel.
I made many notes, spontaneous writing all of which are recorded in this journal. In it I am planning how to write the story and getting in touch with the characters. It's a valuable find for me as in the future I want to go back and finish that novel which I set aside in favour of writing "Shadow of the Lion". It's also a record of my early days in Greece which I want to eventually incorporate into a memoir. "Life Below the Acropolis."
In the journal I had written: "I was reading Mary Renault's "Fire from Heaven" as I was travelling (in Greece) and up til I was almost to Athens, and oddly it was approximately covering territory (geography etc) in proper sequence to my own journey. But she's such a magnificent writer and I'm intimidated to even think I could write a novel dealing with that period of time (Alexander's world). I don't know if I can do it."
Now, here it is all these years later and I am actually doing it!
Here's more notes from that journal:
"Turn to the ancient sources of whatever spiritual path you have chosen..."
"In the words and deeds of the past there lies hidden a treasure that men may use to strengthen and elevate their own characters, the way to study the past is not to confine oneself to mere knowledge of history, but through application of this knowlege, to give actuality to the past."
Hexegram 26 I Ching
I used to throw the I Ching coins and read the hexegrams regularly back then. This weekend I realized I hadn't done so for some time. It's an interesting way to find a focus and to meditate on whatever fortune the coins predict. This is the reading I got on Sunday. Once again,
"dragons" and "good fortune" .
Hexegram 1 "Ch'ien" The Creative Principle (***this hexegram is all about dragons)
1. The concealed dragon avoids action
2. The dragon is percieved in an open space
3. The superior man busies himself the whole day through and evening finds him thoroughly alert. Disaster threatens - no error!
4. Leaping about on the brink of a chasm -- no error.
5. The dragon wings across the sky. It is advantageous to visit a great man.
6. A willful dragon -- cause for regret
Nine in all six places: A brood of headless dragons -- good fortune.
(In China dragons have been regarded as a highly admirable creature of celestial origin.
Interesting, because the infamous Dragon Lady -- my current landlord -- fits more the description of the European dragon, one to be feared! -- rather ironic considering she's Chinese!)
Something tells me the Muse is having a hand in this move. I had been longing for the inspiration of my classical scholar friends as I struggle to finish "Shadow of the lion" and now I'm in daily contact with one of them, my friend in Norway who is herself working on her doctorate. This past week I've had so many inspiring things happen, including emails from three historical novelists, one of whom was a sort of mentor of mine several years ago who I had lost contact with. As a result my writing energy is in high gear. And as far as the packing is concerned, because I am thrilled about finding an excellent new place to live, I've been a whirling dervish packing/cleaning/sorting/throwing out and preparing.
Isn't it funny how things happen? This sudden move (an eviction) is day by day revealing surprises and rewards. As I pack and sort I'm uncovering hidden treasures -- some of them almost like 'signposts' to my future. Today, as I was clearing out closets and shelves I found
an assortment of important memorabalia that brought back so many memories and some that were hugely inspiring!
(1) a bag of canvases and water-color paper and paints/brushes etc. Just when I have been considering taking up the brush again!
(2) photo albums and stray bags of pictures from my first trips to Greece in '79/'80. And some more recent albums I haven't looked at in ages. It brought me right back there, among friends (some of whom have passed on now). Such a lot of reminiscing.
(3) The special journal notes I kept '799-'80 when I made those first trips first to England and then to Greece. I was in the process of developing my Celtic novel "Dragons in the Sky" at the time, and paid a visit to Stonhenge and later the iron-age hill fort near Salisbury. It was there I had my first significant deja-vus experiences regarding this story and heard Olwen's voice loud and clear. And again, when I arrived in Athens and walked into the agora, I had another significant deja-vus moment. Later at Delphi too. I had carefully recorded it all. There are poems I'd written too, and lots of observations connected to my planned novel.
I made many notes, spontaneous writing all of which are recorded in this journal. In it I am planning how to write the story and getting in touch with the characters. It's a valuable find for me as in the future I want to go back and finish that novel which I set aside in favour of writing "Shadow of the Lion". It's also a record of my early days in Greece which I want to eventually incorporate into a memoir. "Life Below the Acropolis."
In the journal I had written: "I was reading Mary Renault's "Fire from Heaven" as I was travelling (in Greece) and up til I was almost to Athens, and oddly it was approximately covering territory (geography etc) in proper sequence to my own journey. But she's such a magnificent writer and I'm intimidated to even think I could write a novel dealing with that period of time (Alexander's world). I don't know if I can do it."
Now, here it is all these years later and I am actually doing it!
Here's more notes from that journal:
"Turn to the ancient sources of whatever spiritual path you have chosen..."
"In the words and deeds of the past there lies hidden a treasure that men may use to strengthen and elevate their own characters, the way to study the past is not to confine oneself to mere knowledge of history, but through application of this knowlege, to give actuality to the past."
Hexegram 26 I Ching
I used to throw the I Ching coins and read the hexegrams regularly back then. This weekend I realized I hadn't done so for some time. It's an interesting way to find a focus and to meditate on whatever fortune the coins predict. This is the reading I got on Sunday. Once again,
"dragons" and "good fortune" .
Hexegram 1 "Ch'ien" The Creative Principle (***this hexegram is all about dragons)
1. The concealed dragon avoids action
2. The dragon is percieved in an open space
3. The superior man busies himself the whole day through and evening finds him thoroughly alert. Disaster threatens - no error!
4. Leaping about on the brink of a chasm -- no error.
5. The dragon wings across the sky. It is advantageous to visit a great man.
6. A willful dragon -- cause for regret
Nine in all six places: A brood of headless dragons -- good fortune.
(In China dragons have been regarded as a highly admirable creature of celestial origin.
Interesting, because the infamous Dragon Lady -- my current landlord -- fits more the description of the European dragon, one to be feared! -- rather ironic considering she's Chinese!)
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
DIALOGUES
"There studious let me sit, and hold high converse with the mighty dead."
James Thomson 1700-1748 "The Seaons: Winter" 1726 l 431
Dialogue has always been a strong forte of mine. Rarely do you find me speechless. I must have inherited the gift of the gab from my father who loved to get into long conversations. I recall how often he'd fail to come home when scheduled and it was usually because he was wrapped up in conversation with someone he'd met along the way.
I started writing plays when I was about 10, maybe sooner. So dialogues have always come easy to me. I'm not often shy about regaling my friends with discussions and stories, nor am I usually shy about striking up conversations with strangers on buses, trains or planes. There's always something interesting to talk about.
When writing, it's important to have your characters talk, and more importantly, to speak in their own particular voice, a distinct level of diction unique to themselves. So far in my writing I've managed this well, but occasionally it daunts me, especially when writing dialogue suitable for men's voices, and in particular the voices of Macedonian generals and Athenian senators. Most of the time I think I've 'nailed' it. At least, when men have read or listened to my novel excerpts they haven't criticised the way the men speak. So I assume that the characters are coming over as themselves, not in my own voice, but theirs. There's nothing worse than 'wooden' dialogue.
"Like a strutting player, whose conceit
Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich
To hear the wooden dialogue and sound
"Twixt his stretch'd footing and the scaffoldage."
William Shakespeare 1564-1616 "Troilus and Cressida" 1601-1602
I was bogged down for awhile recently writing a specific chapter segment of "Shadow of the Lion". I'm dealing with some intricate political stuff that is important as the final part of the novel hinges on these events. So I've had to read over a lot of research notes, and pay attention to the way other historical fiction authers present their character's dialogues in order to peg the exact way these men would speak when addressing Assemblies or friends. I always start a new scene by making lots of notes, and as this process unfolds, bits of dialogue come to me and paragraphs of action, setting details, descriptions etc. Then I let it gel for a few days, settle my mind, try to listen to their voices in my head. Finally, I go to work writing the scene.
The first time I wrote this new segment it was written too flat. There wasn't enough action and definitely not enough dialogue. So I've been struggling a bit with it, reviewing research and making further notes. Finally, yesterday, it all came to me and I wrote for several hours straight, seven pages in all, and when I went back later to do my edits, I was pleased to find that there was little editing to do. Here's a sample of the kind of dialogue I was writing.
The setting is an Assembly in which the Macedonian Regent, Polyperchon, is conducting a 'trial' for the military governor of Athens, Phokion, who is accused of treason. Polyperchon's rival, the second in command, Kassandros, is plotting to overturn Polyperchon and seize the Regency and control of the Greek city states. Phokion has ignored a royal edict sent to Athens by Polyperchon, allowed Nikanor the garrison commander to escape when the Athenians wanted to arrest him, and thus put himself in jeopardy, accused by his own citizens of siding with Kassandros and supporting the aristocrats who have fared well under the oligarchies imposed by the old regent Antipater. Here is a scene from the 'trial'.
The atmosphere in the Hall was hushed and solemn. The audience pressed forward eagerly, waiting for him to address them. He glanced across at Phokion who sat with his supporters in front of the dais flanked by Deinarchos and Solon. Neither of the men were visibly armed but he did not doubt that beneath their cloaks were hidden daggers. They claimed to have come ‘out of regard’ for Phokion, but undoubtedly they had been sent by Kassandros to protect him.
When questioned earlier, Deinarchos had apologized for their delay in arriving, saying he had fallen ill. Polyperchon felt certain this was a ploy to delay the Assembly. Was Kassandros sailing into Athens on this very day? He’d had no word from his son Alexandros and had to rely solely on what the delegations told him.
His feelings of unease overcame him and before anything else transpired, he ordered both men forward.
“What is your purpose here?” he commanded.
Solon, a thin man with a narrow face and thick brows that shaded his small dark eyes,
shuffled nervously. “In truth, Sir, I have come as a friend of Phokion.”
“And you?” Polyperchon scowled down at Deinarchos, a short, stout man who seemed dwarf-like beside his own height and girth.
“I too, Sir,” Deinarchos stammered. His ruddy face flushed deep crimson. “We are here to speak on Phokion‘s behalf, my Lord.”
Polyperchon asserted his disapproval of them fiercely. “You two men have been Antipater’s agents and thus owe allegiance to his son. If in truth you are lying, and have come here as spies for Kassandros, I will have you put to death as traitors!” He turned to his guards. “Take these men out and torture the truth out of them. And if they prove, as I believe is so, to be Kassandros‘ men , put them to the sword!”
There was a gasp of disbelief from the members of Phokion’s party and from Phokion himself came a cry of protest. The two men stood in frozen silence as the guards came forward to seize them. Solon’s face had gone white. Deinarchos glanced nervously around at Phokion
“They have come in good faith and friendship,” cried Phokion. “You are wrong to accuse them. They are no more traitors than I am!”
Until then he had remained aloof and silent but now, summonsed by Polyperchon to speak in his own defence, he drew himself up to his full height and stepped up to the dais like a general ready to address his troops. Instead, he was greeted by boos and cat-calls.
“Macedonians, fellow Greeks, “ he shouted. His crisp, soldier’s voice cut through those of the dissenters. “These men are loyal friends of mine. They did not coerce me to support Kassandros, but came here in good faith to show their trust in me. I appeal for justice. I need no representative to plea for my own cause. The good have no need of an advocate! These charges that are raised against me are false. I was relieved of my command by the same foreigners and rabble rousers that you allowed to return to Athens. This, Polyperchon, is one reason why I hesitated to obey the decree. I knew it would
irreparably divide the city. Because you ordered the exiles to return to claim their land, Athens would, as it is now, be plunged into civil strife. I have, as you know, been a friend of Macedon. Have I not allowed the garrison to remain at Munychia?”
His strong voice carried to the rafters. There were murmurs of admiration from his supporters which were soon overruled by jeers from the opposing democrats.
Polyperchon shouted a call to order and silenced them. He turned to the old general and gave him an accusatory stare. “You betrayed your citizens by collaborating with Nikanor, allowing him to escape.”
“I counted Nikanor as trustworthy, taking into account his family association with Aristotle,” Phokion retorted. “I had no reason to suspect him of ill-intentions. In any case, I prefer to suffer wrong rather than to inflict it. I did not arrest him because I was afraid of plunging the city into war. I am a man of good faith, sir, and known to deal fairly and I had hoped Nikanor would respect this and do no harm to the Athenians.”
Loud voices broke out among the opposition until Polyperchon’s booming voice reprimanded them. There was a complete silence as he spoke.
“You have endangered your country’s safety by doing so, Phokion, and this violates an important and sacred obligation: that is your duty toward your fellow citizens. It is not a good enough defence that, when Nikanor had betrayed you, you went to my son Alexandros to seek his help. By then Nikanor, who was clearly under Kassandros’ command, had already taken control of Pireaus so that Kassandros might sail in unhindered with his warships. You have thus failed as military commander and chief magistrate of Athens, Sir, and your acts are clearly treasonous against me, the Regent, and my country, Macedon.”
“When I learned that Nikanor had betrayed my trust I was willing to lead out the Athenians...” argued Phokion.
“Your act was too late, Phokion,” Polyperchon shot back. “You ignored the warnings of your fellow citizens and because of this you have put Athens in great peril.”
Then Agonidis, a popular orator Phokion had once saved from exile, stood to speak. He accused Phokion of hoodwinking the Athenians by withholding news at the
time of Antipater’s death; conniving to abort an attempt to seize the Macedonian garrison, and accusing him of ignoring the call to arms by the citizens.
Phokion attempted to shout him down,. He reminded Agonidis how he had negotiated a peace policy between Nikanor and the Macedonians, thus saving the city from an invasion that could have destroyed Athens as Thebes had been destroyed.
An uproar of angry Athenians shouted accusations and derisions at him, their voices raised in condemnation. Phokion stood amid the clamour, stolid as a marble pillar, the barrage of insults and accusations brushing off him like dry leaves. He tried to speak again but Polyperchon interrupted him, so he struck his staff on the floor, clamped his mouth shut, and remained silent.
James Thomson 1700-1748 "The Seaons: Winter" 1726 l 431
Dialogue has always been a strong forte of mine. Rarely do you find me speechless. I must have inherited the gift of the gab from my father who loved to get into long conversations. I recall how often he'd fail to come home when scheduled and it was usually because he was wrapped up in conversation with someone he'd met along the way.
I started writing plays when I was about 10, maybe sooner. So dialogues have always come easy to me. I'm not often shy about regaling my friends with discussions and stories, nor am I usually shy about striking up conversations with strangers on buses, trains or planes. There's always something interesting to talk about.
When writing, it's important to have your characters talk, and more importantly, to speak in their own particular voice, a distinct level of diction unique to themselves. So far in my writing I've managed this well, but occasionally it daunts me, especially when writing dialogue suitable for men's voices, and in particular the voices of Macedonian generals and Athenian senators. Most of the time I think I've 'nailed' it. At least, when men have read or listened to my novel excerpts they haven't criticised the way the men speak. So I assume that the characters are coming over as themselves, not in my own voice, but theirs. There's nothing worse than 'wooden' dialogue.
"Like a strutting player, whose conceit
Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich
To hear the wooden dialogue and sound
"Twixt his stretch'd footing and the scaffoldage."
William Shakespeare 1564-1616 "Troilus and Cressida" 1601-1602
I was bogged down for awhile recently writing a specific chapter segment of "Shadow of the Lion". I'm dealing with some intricate political stuff that is important as the final part of the novel hinges on these events. So I've had to read over a lot of research notes, and pay attention to the way other historical fiction authers present their character's dialogues in order to peg the exact way these men would speak when addressing Assemblies or friends. I always start a new scene by making lots of notes, and as this process unfolds, bits of dialogue come to me and paragraphs of action, setting details, descriptions etc. Then I let it gel for a few days, settle my mind, try to listen to their voices in my head. Finally, I go to work writing the scene.
The first time I wrote this new segment it was written too flat. There wasn't enough action and definitely not enough dialogue. So I've been struggling a bit with it, reviewing research and making further notes. Finally, yesterday, it all came to me and I wrote for several hours straight, seven pages in all, and when I went back later to do my edits, I was pleased to find that there was little editing to do. Here's a sample of the kind of dialogue I was writing.
The setting is an Assembly in which the Macedonian Regent, Polyperchon, is conducting a 'trial' for the military governor of Athens, Phokion, who is accused of treason. Polyperchon's rival, the second in command, Kassandros, is plotting to overturn Polyperchon and seize the Regency and control of the Greek city states. Phokion has ignored a royal edict sent to Athens by Polyperchon, allowed Nikanor the garrison commander to escape when the Athenians wanted to arrest him, and thus put himself in jeopardy, accused by his own citizens of siding with Kassandros and supporting the aristocrats who have fared well under the oligarchies imposed by the old regent Antipater. Here is a scene from the 'trial'.
The atmosphere in the Hall was hushed and solemn. The audience pressed forward eagerly, waiting for him to address them. He glanced across at Phokion who sat with his supporters in front of the dais flanked by Deinarchos and Solon. Neither of the men were visibly armed but he did not doubt that beneath their cloaks were hidden daggers. They claimed to have come ‘out of regard’ for Phokion, but undoubtedly they had been sent by Kassandros to protect him.
When questioned earlier, Deinarchos had apologized for their delay in arriving, saying he had fallen ill. Polyperchon felt certain this was a ploy to delay the Assembly. Was Kassandros sailing into Athens on this very day? He’d had no word from his son Alexandros and had to rely solely on what the delegations told him.
His feelings of unease overcame him and before anything else transpired, he ordered both men forward.
“What is your purpose here?” he commanded.
Solon, a thin man with a narrow face and thick brows that shaded his small dark eyes,
shuffled nervously. “In truth, Sir, I have come as a friend of Phokion.”
“And you?” Polyperchon scowled down at Deinarchos, a short, stout man who seemed dwarf-like beside his own height and girth.
“I too, Sir,” Deinarchos stammered. His ruddy face flushed deep crimson. “We are here to speak on Phokion‘s behalf, my Lord.”
Polyperchon asserted his disapproval of them fiercely. “You two men have been Antipater’s agents and thus owe allegiance to his son. If in truth you are lying, and have come here as spies for Kassandros, I will have you put to death as traitors!” He turned to his guards. “Take these men out and torture the truth out of them. And if they prove, as I believe is so, to be Kassandros‘ men , put them to the sword!”
There was a gasp of disbelief from the members of Phokion’s party and from Phokion himself came a cry of protest. The two men stood in frozen silence as the guards came forward to seize them. Solon’s face had gone white. Deinarchos glanced nervously around at Phokion
“They have come in good faith and friendship,” cried Phokion. “You are wrong to accuse them. They are no more traitors than I am!”
Until then he had remained aloof and silent but now, summonsed by Polyperchon to speak in his own defence, he drew himself up to his full height and stepped up to the dais like a general ready to address his troops. Instead, he was greeted by boos and cat-calls.
“Macedonians, fellow Greeks, “ he shouted. His crisp, soldier’s voice cut through those of the dissenters. “These men are loyal friends of mine. They did not coerce me to support Kassandros, but came here in good faith to show their trust in me. I appeal for justice. I need no representative to plea for my own cause. The good have no need of an advocate! These charges that are raised against me are false. I was relieved of my command by the same foreigners and rabble rousers that you allowed to return to Athens. This, Polyperchon, is one reason why I hesitated to obey the decree. I knew it would
irreparably divide the city. Because you ordered the exiles to return to claim their land, Athens would, as it is now, be plunged into civil strife. I have, as you know, been a friend of Macedon. Have I not allowed the garrison to remain at Munychia?”
His strong voice carried to the rafters. There were murmurs of admiration from his supporters which were soon overruled by jeers from the opposing democrats.
Polyperchon shouted a call to order and silenced them. He turned to the old general and gave him an accusatory stare. “You betrayed your citizens by collaborating with Nikanor, allowing him to escape.”
“I counted Nikanor as trustworthy, taking into account his family association with Aristotle,” Phokion retorted. “I had no reason to suspect him of ill-intentions. In any case, I prefer to suffer wrong rather than to inflict it. I did not arrest him because I was afraid of plunging the city into war. I am a man of good faith, sir, and known to deal fairly and I had hoped Nikanor would respect this and do no harm to the Athenians.”
Loud voices broke out among the opposition until Polyperchon’s booming voice reprimanded them. There was a complete silence as he spoke.
“You have endangered your country’s safety by doing so, Phokion, and this violates an important and sacred obligation: that is your duty toward your fellow citizens. It is not a good enough defence that, when Nikanor had betrayed you, you went to my son Alexandros to seek his help. By then Nikanor, who was clearly under Kassandros’ command, had already taken control of Pireaus so that Kassandros might sail in unhindered with his warships. You have thus failed as military commander and chief magistrate of Athens, Sir, and your acts are clearly treasonous against me, the Regent, and my country, Macedon.”
“When I learned that Nikanor had betrayed my trust I was willing to lead out the Athenians...” argued Phokion.
“Your act was too late, Phokion,” Polyperchon shot back. “You ignored the warnings of your fellow citizens and because of this you have put Athens in great peril.”
Then Agonidis, a popular orator Phokion had once saved from exile, stood to speak. He accused Phokion of hoodwinking the Athenians by withholding news at the
time of Antipater’s death; conniving to abort an attempt to seize the Macedonian garrison, and accusing him of ignoring the call to arms by the citizens.
Phokion attempted to shout him down,. He reminded Agonidis how he had negotiated a peace policy between Nikanor and the Macedonians, thus saving the city from an invasion that could have destroyed Athens as Thebes had been destroyed.
An uproar of angry Athenians shouted accusations and derisions at him, their voices raised in condemnation. Phokion stood amid the clamour, stolid as a marble pillar, the barrage of insults and accusations brushing off him like dry leaves. He tried to speak again but Polyperchon interrupted him, so he struck his staff on the floor, clamped his mouth shut, and remained silent.
* * *
"Conversation ...is the art of never appearing a bore,
of knowing how to say everything interestingly,
to entraing with no matter what, to be charming with nothing at all."
Guy de Maupassant 1850-1893 Sur l/Eau (On the Water) 1888
"What is the use of a book," thought Alice "without pictures or conversation?"
Lewis Carroll 1832-1898 "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" 1865 ch 1
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
PAINTERS AND POETS
' "Painters and poets," you say, "have always had an equal license in bold invention." We know; we claim the liberty for ourselves and in turn we give it to others." '
Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus) 65-8 BC Ibid III (Ars Poetica) c8 BC
I've spent the last few days painting and retouching my furniture, spiffying it up for the move next month into my beautiful new apartment. I spent three days painting my wicker telephone shelf. Why didn't I spray paint? Well I'm using two colours: saffron and blue -- Moroccan colors -- to match several other pieces of my furniture. It was a long, sometimes tedious job, but pleasurable too. It's been awhile since I had a paint brush in my hands and in this case I did a lot of the work with an art brush because of the curlikews and slender woven wicker pieces. I find painting a meditative task. And it reminded me of how long it's been since I held an art brush and actually did a painting (as in picture).
There was a time, when I had stopped writing for awhile, that I focused my attention to art. I 'inherited' a box of oil paints and some canvases (this is an incredible story which must be retold) and started classes at art school. For several years I painted landscapes and still lifes and occasionally painted from a model. I also painted in water-colors and inks. I have several watercolor painting of my village in Greece on my kitchen wall. I gave up painting when I moved into an apartment and found the lack of space for setting up and working was restrictive and the oil paints too much fuss to work with. I've always intended to try working in acrylics instead, but in the end turned my attention back to writing again. Painting word pictures.
"As in painting, so in poetry." Ut pictura poesis
Horace 1.361 (Ars Poetica)
My daughter became a successful painter while she was living in San Diego. She received many commissions and was doing very well as an artist. Now she's living here again she's had no time to pursue her art and it seems such a shame. So I thought of asking her to paint a picture for me for my new apartment. When I told my son this yesterday he said: "Well, Mom, Why don't you paint one yourself?" It made me remember some of my own work, in particular a very good painting of a Guatemalan village which I was quite proud of. I'd taken that painting to Greece with me when I went to live there in the '80's and when I returned to Canada it got left behind. My intention was to collect it on a future trip. But somehow the painting got lost. Remembering that particular painting gave me the idea that yes, perhaps I can do my own painting. I want a Moroccan or Turkish scene so it's a matter of finding a photograph that I could work from. And then, perhaps for my Fall projects I'll take an art course to refresh me.
Painting and writing do somehow go hand-in-hand. A lot of writers I know are also artists.
In my writing classes I always point out, when writing descriptions you are actually painting a picture with words, using all the senses so the reader can visualize being in that scene. I guess because I like to look at things with an artist's eye it makes my descriptive scenes visual and real. Now, if I can reverse that and get my written and mental images down on the canvas, I might come up with something really fantastic!
"Painting is silent poetry, and poetry painting that speaks."
Simonides 556-468 BC From : PLUTARCH, De Gloria Atheniensium iii. (346)
Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus) 65-8 BC Ibid III (Ars Poetica) c8 BC
I've spent the last few days painting and retouching my furniture, spiffying it up for the move next month into my beautiful new apartment. I spent three days painting my wicker telephone shelf. Why didn't I spray paint? Well I'm using two colours: saffron and blue -- Moroccan colors -- to match several other pieces of my furniture. It was a long, sometimes tedious job, but pleasurable too. It's been awhile since I had a paint brush in my hands and in this case I did a lot of the work with an art brush because of the curlikews and slender woven wicker pieces. I find painting a meditative task. And it reminded me of how long it's been since I held an art brush and actually did a painting (as in picture).
There was a time, when I had stopped writing for awhile, that I focused my attention to art. I 'inherited' a box of oil paints and some canvases (this is an incredible story which must be retold) and started classes at art school. For several years I painted landscapes and still lifes and occasionally painted from a model. I also painted in water-colors and inks. I have several watercolor painting of my village in Greece on my kitchen wall. I gave up painting when I moved into an apartment and found the lack of space for setting up and working was restrictive and the oil paints too much fuss to work with. I've always intended to try working in acrylics instead, but in the end turned my attention back to writing again. Painting word pictures.
"As in painting, so in poetry." Ut pictura poesis
Horace 1.361 (Ars Poetica)
My daughter became a successful painter while she was living in San Diego. She received many commissions and was doing very well as an artist. Now she's living here again she's had no time to pursue her art and it seems such a shame. So I thought of asking her to paint a picture for me for my new apartment. When I told my son this yesterday he said: "Well, Mom, Why don't you paint one yourself?" It made me remember some of my own work, in particular a very good painting of a Guatemalan village which I was quite proud of. I'd taken that painting to Greece with me when I went to live there in the '80's and when I returned to Canada it got left behind. My intention was to collect it on a future trip. But somehow the painting got lost. Remembering that particular painting gave me the idea that yes, perhaps I can do my own painting. I want a Moroccan or Turkish scene so it's a matter of finding a photograph that I could work from. And then, perhaps for my Fall projects I'll take an art course to refresh me.
Painting and writing do somehow go hand-in-hand. A lot of writers I know are also artists.
In my writing classes I always point out, when writing descriptions you are actually painting a picture with words, using all the senses so the reader can visualize being in that scene. I guess because I like to look at things with an artist's eye it makes my descriptive scenes visual and real. Now, if I can reverse that and get my written and mental images down on the canvas, I might come up with something really fantastic!
"Painting is silent poetry, and poetry painting that speaks."
Simonides 556-468 BC From : PLUTARCH, De Gloria Atheniensium iii. (346)
Friday, August 04, 2006
EVICTIONS, CONVICTIONS...WHATEVER, I'M MOVING ON!
"Those opposed to righteousness meet with injury.
Those who do what is right win great success.
Those opposed to righteousness will suffer and have nowhere favorable to go (for without integrity what remains for them?)" I CHING, Hex 25 "Integrity"
I haven't had the time to post here during the past week or so what with all the upsets going on around me. I was no sooner getting over the near-death sudden illness of my son and the almost fatal heart-attack of one of my friends, when my sleazy landlords slapped me with an eviction notice. Not surprising these unscrupulous, dishonest shysters would pull such a stunt...only the timing was, for me, quite upsetting. I didn't waste any time, though, filing for an arbitration hearing as I don't t hink people like this ought to get away with their dirty tricks without the authorities knowing about it. This isn't the first time they've pulled this off. Since they took over the building two years ago, after the first week they evicted a long-term resident who had lived here over 20 years. Then another. Then another. And who knows how many others since then, besides all the dishonest dealings that have been going on here. Anyway, I get my day in tenant's court on Aug. 24 and I will make sure they don't get off too easily.
Meanwhile, though, fortune smiles (on the 'good'?) My son is recovering and so is my friend so that crisis is over. And not a week went by after the eviction notice before I found myself an excellent new apartment, one owned by friends of mine, where I will move in mid September, after my trip to New York. The nasty landlords here will have to give me a month's rent, and I will only give them a short required notice of my move. I'm not sure if the arbitration board will award me more, but I intend to keep an eye on things. They claimed (as always, and probably a lie, as always) that the Dragon Lady wants to move into my suite. If she doesn't, she'll pay, as required by law she has to live in it for six months. And, as I am certain she's evicting me in order to raise the rent, that probably won't happen. In which case, I can sue them for another two months rent back-pay. I don't intend to let these sleazy people get off scott-free.
All this just when I'm about to begin a new chapter in my novel in which the Polyperchon, the Regent is meeting with Phokion, the military governor of Athens, with the intention of banishing him so he can take over the city. The Athenians are accusing Phokion of treason because he refused to insist the Macedonians remove their garrison from Athens, and stop the return of former exiles to the city. They want the death penalty for Phokion. Meanwhile, Kassandros, the villain of our story is about to sail into Pireaus with a fleet of battle-ships and armed troops. The country is on the brink of civil war. Who will win?
Well, at this point, regarding my 'eviction', I know that I'm going to win because these landlords have been pulling off dishonest stunts since the day they took over ownership of the building two years ago. Everything from wrongful evictions to partioning suites and renting them out as 'rooms' (illegal) as well as some accusations of thievery and other dishonest deeds.
I knew from the very first day I laid eyes on Dragon Lady, seeing her greedily eyeing my apartment, observing the shennanigans and dirty-dealings that have been gonig on here, that is was only a matter of time before they'd pick on me. A couple of times I wanted to move out, but dug in, determined not to be 'forced' out of my suite which I happen to like a lot, and out of a building that I have called 'home' for over ten years. In the end, I'm moving on to much better things -- a secure, well-maintained building, an apartment with all the amenities, two new 'landlords' who I know, who are talented, honest, creative, friendly people. Kind people with integrity. Something the people who operate this building certainly don't have!
"The good have no need of an advocate." Phokion, 402-317 BC
from : Plutarch, Apothegms, Phocion sec 10
Those who do what is right win great success.
Those opposed to righteousness will suffer and have nowhere favorable to go (for without integrity what remains for them?)" I CHING, Hex 25 "Integrity"
I haven't had the time to post here during the past week or so what with all the upsets going on around me. I was no sooner getting over the near-death sudden illness of my son and the almost fatal heart-attack of one of my friends, when my sleazy landlords slapped me with an eviction notice. Not surprising these unscrupulous, dishonest shysters would pull such a stunt...only the timing was, for me, quite upsetting. I didn't waste any time, though, filing for an arbitration hearing as I don't t hink people like this ought to get away with their dirty tricks without the authorities knowing about it. This isn't the first time they've pulled this off. Since they took over the building two years ago, after the first week they evicted a long-term resident who had lived here over 20 years. Then another. Then another. And who knows how many others since then, besides all the dishonest dealings that have been going on here. Anyway, I get my day in tenant's court on Aug. 24 and I will make sure they don't get off too easily.
Meanwhile, though, fortune smiles (on the 'good'?) My son is recovering and so is my friend so that crisis is over. And not a week went by after the eviction notice before I found myself an excellent new apartment, one owned by friends of mine, where I will move in mid September, after my trip to New York. The nasty landlords here will have to give me a month's rent, and I will only give them a short required notice of my move. I'm not sure if the arbitration board will award me more, but I intend to keep an eye on things. They claimed (as always, and probably a lie, as always) that the Dragon Lady wants to move into my suite. If she doesn't, she'll pay, as required by law she has to live in it for six months. And, as I am certain she's evicting me in order to raise the rent, that probably won't happen. In which case, I can sue them for another two months rent back-pay. I don't intend to let these sleazy people get off scott-free.
All this just when I'm about to begin a new chapter in my novel in which the Polyperchon, the Regent is meeting with Phokion, the military governor of Athens, with the intention of banishing him so he can take over the city. The Athenians are accusing Phokion of treason because he refused to insist the Macedonians remove their garrison from Athens, and stop the return of former exiles to the city. They want the death penalty for Phokion. Meanwhile, Kassandros, the villain of our story is about to sail into Pireaus with a fleet of battle-ships and armed troops. The country is on the brink of civil war. Who will win?
Well, at this point, regarding my 'eviction', I know that I'm going to win because these landlords have been pulling off dishonest stunts since the day they took over ownership of the building two years ago. Everything from wrongful evictions to partioning suites and renting them out as 'rooms' (illegal) as well as some accusations of thievery and other dishonest deeds.
I knew from the very first day I laid eyes on Dragon Lady, seeing her greedily eyeing my apartment, observing the shennanigans and dirty-dealings that have been gonig on here, that is was only a matter of time before they'd pick on me. A couple of times I wanted to move out, but dug in, determined not to be 'forced' out of my suite which I happen to like a lot, and out of a building that I have called 'home' for over ten years. In the end, I'm moving on to much better things -- a secure, well-maintained building, an apartment with all the amenities, two new 'landlords' who I know, who are talented, honest, creative, friendly people. Kind people with integrity. Something the people who operate this building certainly don't have!
"The good have no need of an advocate." Phokion, 402-317 BC
from : Plutarch, Apothegms, Phocion sec 10
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