PROGRESS REPORT #28: The Busy Life of a Writer

Britannia High School
(I graduated from here in 1952 and still go there weekends to study Spanish)

I've been pretty busy lately but managing to get a little more of the novel finish as well as all the other things I've been doing. Luckily I have had some extra classes to teach, two memoir classes back-to-back at a senior's centre; one full day memoir writing class for the school board, and this week I instructed a class of eager young journalism students at the college in a class on travel writing.

I'm really grateful for these extra teaching opportunities. Not only for the extra money, but because it's a real 'learning' experience for me as well. I've done the college classes for several years now for my friend who teaches journalism. It reminds me when I first graduated from high school with the dream of being a full-time writer. As luck would have it, I landed a job as copyrunner (nowdays they'd call it an 'intern' job, in the editorial department of The Vancouver Sun newspaper. Those years I worked up on the fourth floor of the Sun Tower were some of the most exciting and fun times in my life. I really wanted to be a crime reporter, but due to the fact the city editor didn't feel an 18 year old preacher's kid was suitable for that kind of job, I ended up as a news librarian. That was pretty interesting too, and I learned to hone my research skills. (I still got to delve into the crime world too, as I was in charge of the crime files and bios. Pretty fascinating stuff for a naive young gal like I was!)

The Vancouver Sun Tower
(I worked here in the editorial dept. and new library for several years after high school)

One summer just before the Sun and Province amalgamated into one central news building, I worked at the old Province newspaper editorial helping to put their library research files into the same format and order as those in the Sun. That was fun too, but after that I moved away from the city and when I returned after seven years, although former colleagues and work-mates encouraged me to get back into the business, times had changed and I was told I had to have a library science degree to work there (even though the job was the same and by then everyone was learning the computer system, which I could have easily learned as well.) So...after that disappointment, I went into daycare work for a long, long time, directing and supervising at various daycares around the city.

I gave up full time daycare work in 1993 in order to spend more time traveling and writing, and after that just subbed up until a year ago. And now I really am a full-time writer. Strangely enough, I am now also an 'editor/publisher' of my own travel website. That that's one reason why I have fallen behind a little on my work on the novel -- because I have spent some time networking on-line, editing submissions and even writing a few new stories to publish on the site. The new material should be up within a week or so. Check it out at:

TRAVEL THRU HISTORY www.travelthruhistory.com

The Province newspaper building
(I worked here one summer helping to redo the news library files)

I finally got back to work on "Shadow of the Lion" yesterday and finished off another chapter segment. For some days I was wondering if I had writer's block or was just using every procrastination method in the book to keep myself from returning to work on it.

Yesterday I took a little walk and as usual, I get lots of ideas flowing when I'm walking. Suddenly the whole sticky scene came to mind. I realized that one reason I'd procrastinated was it is a scene that is quite sad ...the departure of a beloved character from the lives of Alexander's Soghdian wife and her son, little Iskander (Alexander IV). This is my Persian fictional character, Nabarzanes, who has been with them since they left Babylon. He is Roxana's Royal Cousin and chief court advisor, dedicated to protect and be loyal to Alexander's child who he calls Iskander-shah. Of course, Olympias will not abide anyone, especially a Persian, having influence and control over her grandson. So Nabarzanes' is told to leave...or else! Well, after my walk I went home and wrote the scene. It could probably be a little more emotional but I didn't want to go over the top with dramatics. Perhaps I am feeling distanced from it as I've anticipated it almost from the beginning. At one time I had thought I'd have to kill off Nabarzanes along with the many others (real historical characters) who have to die, because that's the way it was...But, I decided I couldn't kill off someone who is so gentle and kind. Instead I would banish him. He will play a bit more of a role in the novel, but at a distance from Roxana and Iskander. However, basically he's out of the picture now. Which is kind of sad, because I've grown to love him and he is 'real' to me.

The next few scenes leading to the end of Part VI in the novel are also going to be rather brutal. Why am I feeling so distanced over the killings? I guess I'm innured to it now, because when I had to assassinate the first character in the book I actually cried. Now I am more objective. I suppose the test will come when I read through the entire text and see if it needs more tension or if I get the right emotion over when then these events happen. At any rate, I am back on track after a couple of days doing travel stuff. Now I'm travelling with the Macedonian royals down the coast to the sea-port fortress of Pydna. Just wait til you find out what happens there!

ALL ABOUT WRITING

This award is yours if you've been following these handy writer's tips.

A couple of weeks ago Marie awarded me this Powerful Words award from the Shameless Lions Writing Circle. I'm not sure which individuals I should 'tag' to receive this award, so it's yours if you've been hard at work, focused and nose-to-the-keyboard accomplishing what you can of your works-in-progress.

The gist of this meme is to list three important things that help make your writing powerful and good. Well, here's three things I always stress to the people who join my writing classes:

1. If you want to succeed, you need to be dedicated, disciplined and driven. You will not accomplish a great work if you only dabble in writing once a week or once a month. You need to write daily and often even if it's in a journal or for 10 minutes while you take a coffee break. Just as a musician must practice every day to become accomplished at whatever instrument he/she plays, so must a writer write. And be prepared to do lots of rewriting. It's all part of learning the craft and making your work excellent. Being in a critique group is especially helpful.

2. Carry a notebook with you at all times. You never know when that fabulous line of dialogue, description or narrative is going to pop into your head and you need to write it down immediately. It's those spontaneous bits of writing that give your work it's zip and shine and immediacy.

3. Write about what you know or are fascinated with. And be prepared to do endless research in particular if you're writing about historical periods (and that includes 'near history'.) If you're writing a story set in New York and you've never been to that city, then you'd better take yourself there! And most of all DON'T GIVE UP.

In addition to this 'award' meme, Marie has recently posted another fun exercise.
See how many of these questions you can answer:

1. What was the last thing you wrote?
I've been editing and rewriting a piece about Papua New Guinea for my travel
web site. (It's another person's story but I had to do some additional text for it.)
2. Was it any good?
It is now!
3. What's the first thing you wrote that you still have?
A hand-written little 'novella' about pioneers, written when I was 12.
4. Write poetry?
Sometimes.
5. Angsty poetry?
Often.
6. favorite genre of writing.
historical fiction/ drama
7. Most fun character you ever created?
There's been a few but I love Nabarzanes, the Persian Court Advisor (a fiction
character in "Shadow of the Lion"; and Olwen, who I 'channeled' in "Dragons in the Sky."
8. Most annoying character you've created?
Maybe that would be Alkides, the soldier poet in my Sappho play.
9. Best plot you've ever created?
"Shadow' is written from a historical plot, so I didn't create it. I'd say the
best one I actually created is the plot for "Dragons"
10. How often do you get writer's block?
Not too often and usually it's brief.
11. Write from facts?
"Shadow" and "House of the Muses" (a play) are based on historical facts.
12. Do you type or write by hand?
I usually write notes by hand first, and often write paragraphs of narrative,
some dialogue and always jot down lots of ideas and possibilities.
13. Do you save everything you write?
I save on my hard drive file as well as on CDrom and flash disc as well as
keeping hard copy. If I erase something from the computer I always make sure I have the hard copy just in case i decide it's something I can use after all.
14. Do you ever go back to an old idea long after you abandoned it?
Sometimes.
15. What's your favorite thing you've written?
Currently, I'm loving my work on "Shadow". I also feel an urge to return to my
Celtic tale "Dragons" though I'd shelved it out of frustration. I'm also quite
proud of my play "The Street" which was successfully produced in 2000.
16. Do you ever show people your work?
All the time. I believe that a good critique group is one of the most helpful
learning tools a writer can have.
17. Did you ever write a novel?
I've been writing novels since I was in my teens.
18. Ever written romance or teen angst drama?
I love writing drama. "The Street" was a drama based on a true story from
my late teens (and written first when I was 18); I tried writing romance
(such as Harlequin) but I'm not that fond of that genre. I do love putting
romance in my novels though.
19. What's your favorite setting for your characters?
In the case of "Shadow" that would be Greece, of course. And "Dragons" is set
near Stonehenge in England.
20. How many writing projects are you working on right now?
I am mainly working on "Shadow" (have put "Dragons" and "House of Muses"
on hold til it's done) But I also write travel and currently do a lot of editing for
submissions for my travel web site. Also do editing for people in my writing
classes.
21. Do you want to write as a living?
Of course! I'm now a full-time writer but I mainly make my writing money from teaching, editing, some travel submissions, and occasionally one-on-one
writing coaching or workshop groups. (Don't expect to get 'rich' from writing)
22. Have you ever won an award for your writing?
I once won first prize in a 1 page writing contest. My "awards" are publication.
23. Ever written anything in script or play format?
I began writing plays when I was about 10. I wrote "The Street" when I was 18
and rewrote it in 1998 (it took 2 years to rework it including taking a playwright's course). I have a script in progress "House of the Muses' about the poet Sappho. I love the theatre!
24. What are your five favorite words?
I love dictionaries and thesauruses.
25. Do you ever write based on yourself?
"The Street: a Modern Tragedy" was based on a true story involving me and
the first love of my life who became a heroin addict. I think the protagonist,
"Olwen" in "Dragons in the Sky" the voice of me coming from another time.
26. What characters have you created that most resemble yourself.
"Angela" in "The Street" and "Olwen" in "Dragons"
27. Do you favor happy, sad or cliff-hanger endings?
Well, I'm a drama queen and love tragedies. "The Street' was a true tragedy,
'House of the Muses" is also tragic and the ending of "Shadow" is strewn with
the bodies of people I've grown to love.
28. Have you written based on an artwork you have seen?
Yes. Art is a great prompt for writing. I have written a poem based on
artwork.
29. Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as you write?
Not in my first drafts. I try to keep the internal editor out until I'm ready
to let her take charge for later and final drafts.
30. Does music help you write?
Music is another powerful prompt. But while I'm writing I am fussy about
what I listen to as it has to set the tone for my thoughts and what I am writing. I listened to a lot of '50's music and jazz while I wrote "The Street
I have a CD of Sappho's poems set to music (with an ancient tone) for when
I am writing writing "House of the Muses"; I have Persian and some special Greek music, classical or music from certain movies I listen to while writing "Shadow".
31. Quote something you've written
"It was my thirteenth year with the Druids. I had learned all the incantations of magic before I was ten years old. Essylt, being a sorceress and diviner of the auguries, was both my guardian and my teacher. I caller her modryb, Auntie, because she had nursed me in infancy as though she were my natural mother. The Druid said my real mother died in childbirth. I would have been exposed for the wolves if someone had not brought me to the Great Stone Circle on the plain.
Listen to my song: I am an honored child.
I am Olwen, daughter of the Earth Mother, Child of the Raven."

From "Dragons in the Sky: A Celtic Tale."

PROGRESS REPORT #27: A BIT OF HISTORY

The Vancouver Public Library

Last Friday I went on a little field trip downtown. At the Vancouver Public Library there was a small exhibit presented by the Biblical Museum of Canada www.biblicalmuseum.com
The display included some interesting accurate facsimiles of historical artefacts of cultures and civilizations that provoke memory and inspire vision. This display included artifacts from the 5000 year Glory of Egypt and the Ancient World. There were a number of interesting objects from Egypt, and some Sumerian images (early Hebrew). The Golden Age of Egypt was represented by Pharaoh Amenhotep IV and his beautiful wife Nefertiti.

In one case there were articles referring to the Exodus including various papyrii. Then there was a case devoted to the downfall of Egypt begining with the Persian invasion, the the Greeks, under Alexander the Great. I was thrilled to see a (replica) of the beautiful bust of Alexander that I have seen in the Pella Museum in Northern Greece. In this bust he is about 18 years old and it was likely sculpted after the Battle of Chaironea. Following the Ptolelemaci Dynast, came the Romans. There was a copy of the Rosetta Stone and some Roman artifacts as well including a bust of Julius Caesar. (Here I should add, that our library is built to resemble the coliseum of Rome.)

Bust of Alexander from the Pella Museum

I found the diplay, though modest, inspiring and interesting. Seeing Alexander there was a huge surprise and that, if anything, made my day!

I also enjoyed the little tidbits from ancient Sumeria and Mesopotamia and it reminded me of the early part of my novel which takes place in Babylon, and all the research I did about that ancient city of Nebuchadnezzar. So I thought I'd post a snippet from the early part of my novel Shadow of the Lion (It's from Chapter Two and is in the point of view of one of my fictional characters, Nabarzanes, the Persian Court Advisor.) So, enjoy a little visit to Babylon.

NABARZANES
From outside the north gates of the palace a throng had been gathering since before dawn. The cries of jubilation at the news of the royal birth spread down the bustling Processional Way into the narrow streets of the suburbs. From the rooftops of the tall, three-storied houses, trumpets and voices proclaimed the arrival of the imperial child.

Above the glowing temples, thin plumes of smoke rose into the still air as one by one fire altars were rekindled. Pennants and garlands appeared on the city walls where adornments had been removed after Alexander’s death. The Processional Way blazed with colour and on the palace battlements the purple and gold pennants of the Shahanshah fluttered from their gilded standards.

Nabarzanes left the palace by the eastern court, avoiding the press of the crowds who waited near the main gates. He was weary from his long day in the palace. He had tarried there long after the Annointments Rites, waiting until the Magus came from the Shahryar’s bedchamber. The old man had seemed transfixed and looked as though the blood had been drained out of him. He mumbled something about a dream -- a serpent -- (had he interpreted it to be the infant Prince’s daimon?) He had said that the newborn son of Alexander needed their allegiance, and complained that the Macedonians did not see their Shah as the Hand of God. Now that Alexander was gone, there was little respect for order. It was men like he, Nabarzanes, the Magus had said, who must be loyal, as the imperial child would be dependant on those who followed the Good Religion and believed in the Truth.

Nabarzanes pushed his way through the crowds on the Processional Way, past the parade of lions adorning the high brick walls. Outside of the Temple of Ishtar with its gleaming blue-tiled steps and Ishtar’s guarding lions, hawkers were selling votive offerings and trinkets to commemorate the royal birth. Farther along, in the courtyard of the little Temple of Nabusha-hare, the temple concubines plied their trade in honour of their goddess, dancing to the music of timbrels and flutes under the orange trees. A group of richly clad men stood by laughing. One of the girls beckoned to Nabarzanes as he passed. Another day he might have stopped.

The sun, setting in a crimson blaze over the western walls of the city, reflected from the temple’s silver ornaments and red glazed bricks. Through the palms, the river shone like polished brass. A fleet of little straw-hulled boats drifted downstream toward the harbour. The coarse voices of the boatmen echoed clearly across the breadth of the river.

As he turned into the palm grove he could hear the chanting of the magi from the fire temple on the ziggurat's top tier. A long line of supplicants wound like a coloured streamer up the whorl of steps to Marduk’s shrine. The sacred fire would be ablaze on the altar. At the entrance gates, the money-lenders were doing a brisk trade.

A hand tugged at the hem of his tunic. He looked down to see a wizened face imploring him. Days of celebration were profitable for beggars too. He tossed a shekel toward the bundle of rags.

“A thousand thanks, good sire,” a cracked old voice said. “May your sons have many sons.”

The words, meant as a compliment, cut through him instead. He remembered a stormy day in Ekbatana, the birth of another child. He had tried to put it out of mind until today -- the long cold winter he had spent with Darius’s army waiting in the sanctuary fo the mountain palace after the king’s cowardly flight from the Macedonian troops. He still felt an ache in his heart when he thought of it.

That winter had taken its toll. Freezing and hungry, snowed in and trapped in the mountain palace, his wife had died in childbirth; his newborn son lived only for a day. Today, seeing the Soghdian’s infant had brought it all back to him.

He turned toward the marketplace. As far as the eye could see where tents and pavilions, astonishing colours, sounds, smells. Bright banners marked the start or terminus of this or that caravan. There were merchants here from every part of earth; jugglers, acrobat, soothsayers and snake charmers.

A parade of horsemen approached. He recognized their standards: the golden starburst on a deep blue field, the royal emblem of Macedon. He stood aside to let them pass.

General Meleager glowered down at him sullenly. Nabarzanes recollected seeing that same expression of hatefulness on the man’s face when he was viewing the Soghdian’s newborn. He saluted, but was not acknowledged. Meleager had long made known his dislike of Persians. Several henchmen rode beside him, their horses bedizoned with silver trappings and scarlet ribbons. In their midst was Philip Arridaios, dressed in Alexander’s state robe, a sleeveless chlamys made of fine wool, dyed with rich Tyrian murex, clasped at the shoulder with golden lion masks. Alexander always wore it on parade days, its rich purple-red colour distinguishing him as the King. Arridaios, wearing full parade armour under the cape, sweated in the sultry evening heat. There was a look of dull uncertainty in his eyes and he glanced around nervously as his horse approached the crowded by-way.

Nabarzanes made a gesture of prostration out of deference to royalty. One of the escort soldiers proclaimed: “Make way for Philip Arridaios, King of Macedon!”
The soldiers began to cheer. Arridaios brightened and clapped his hands. Some men came running from the street to greet the cavalcade. They were Greeks, by their dress.

“Long live Philip Arridaios!” they cried.

Meleager looked around, beaming triumphantly. “Behold! Our new king!” he shouted.

Nabarzanes watched uneasily as the troop passed. He smelled treason. He knew it from his days with Darius, when the Persian army was on the run from the Macedonians. That winter in Ekbatana, he had known that Darius would die because of it, and he was unable to protect him. He wondered if he would be able to protect Alexander’s son. For as surely as Darius’s own generals had turned against their Shah, these Macedonian soldiers were conspiring to rid themselves of Alexander’s newborn heir.

He turned into the King’s Paradise, isolated from the jubilant cries . Nabarzanes kept to his solitary walk and entered the park, away from the bustling avenue. It was quiet in the park, the street sounds were muted and ring doves cooed from the trees. He wandered through the grove, under the tall sycamores and poplars, the grass soft under his slippered feet. The exquisite perfume of jasmine permeated the evening air, mingling with the fragrance of roses from the gardens. Near the river he passed the grand mansion of the Grand Vizier Perdikkas, and could hear the sounds of revelry. The Macedonians like a good feast. This one, to celebrate the royal birth, would far surpass any other they had had in recent days. Whether they accepted the child or now, it was as good an excuse as any for a banquet.

Over the music of kitharas and flutes, he could hear their voices raised in a raucous drinking song. Judging from the sound of the merriment, it was a large feast, perhaps fifty couches. There would be dancing girls and tables heaped with food. He could smell the drift of roasting lamb.He had not been invited, a slight he had long ago grown accustomed to. When Alexander lived, Persian noblemen were always included in his banquet and state affairs. But since he had become Grand Vizier, Perdikkas had tried to please the faction who opposed Persian supremacy and only addressed him in the role of Court Advisor. Revelry was left to the Macedonians.

Being a modest and temperate man, Nabarzanes felt no ill will at being snubbed. Persian modesty greatly amused the Greeks who were happiest when they were watching naked youths play games. Persian often drank large amounts of wine on ceremonial occasions, but Nabarzanes considered Macedonian manners boorish and uncouth. He abhorred the violence that erupted each time these high-spirited mountain warriors sat round banquet table.They were always borne along on a wave of sentiment. This celebration would undoubtedly go on for days, until the wine took hold of reason and blood was spilled. Even Alexander had been known to draw his sword on occasions. Once, at Marakanda, ihe had thrown a sarissa at a friend in a fit of rage. The killing of Black Kleitos had tempered Alexander. He nearly killed himself with grief over it. After that he was more careful to water his wine.

Nabarzanes passed by the torch-lit gate house. Cries of celebration spilled out into the courtyard: high-pitched voices, laughter, the squeals of women. Macedonians were men of vulgar morals. A Persian would die of shame rather than expose his woman to debauchery. He thought their behavior disgraceful. The first time he heard them address their king by his name “Alexander”, as familiarly as a common foot-soldier to his drinking mate, he was mortified. He had been raised in the court at Susa, sent there when he was five years old, the only son of a wealthy Median nobleman, cousin of the old Shah Ochus. He had been raised with royal children, educated in court affairs, poetry and the sciences, and taught to honour the Good Religion. By right of birth he chose to join the distinguished hazarapats, the Immortal Ten Thousand Bodyguards who carry golden pomegranates on their spear butts, and march beside the Shah in battle. He learned to humble himself before the Shah, and would have died for him. When Darius’s troops were routed and ran from the Macedonians like honey bees fleeing before smoke, he had shared the shame of Persia, but always remained true to the Shah.

Think correct and true: Speak correct and true: Do correct and true.
The Shah must be revered, for the Shah is the God’s spokesman on Earth.

It had been he who led the Macedonians to Darius who had been bloodied by the assassin’s knives and left to die in his war chariot begging for a drink of water. Alexander had rewarded him for his loyalty. Now he would honour Alexander by pledging loyalty to his infant son. Whether the Successors accepted the child or not, he knew this was to be his life’s role.

BABYLON

TRAVEL THRU HISTORY

Trekking in Morocco

This post is to announce the official launching of my new travel website,
TRAVEL THRU HISTORY.

Check it out at www.travelthruhistory.com

It's a new site for new writers and aside from a couple of my stories, the others are written by people who have taken my travel writing classes. It has been difficult for freelancers lately, with the larger newspapers not accepting much freelance travel, and a lot of the smaller publications on such tight budgets they aren't able to pay much if anything. Most of the travel zines on-line are free. They want you to give them stories (for their own profit) and I was getting tired of submitting in this way. In fact, last summer I was getting mighty discouraged about the whole business of travel journalism and considered quitting it. But I can't. I teach travel writing so how could I quit? And I was becoming aware that my discouragement was affecting students in my classes. What to do? Well, this is it. A leap of faith to be sure and a bit of an 'investment' on my part, as well as some blatant self-promotion. But it's mainly a chance to see that some of the talented writers I know have another place to submit where they'll get paid a small honorarium for their efforts. This way people can qualify to join the travel writing association and have a reference for other publishers. And hopefully, if enough people click the google ads, it will start to generate a little bit of pay-back for me as well.

I am pleased and excited over the site. My friend Paul, the web master, has done a really excellent job of setting it up for me and I'm very grateful. It's opened up some new doors, possibilities for me and I'm excited about that too. And I love being an 'editor' too!

Caerphilly Castle, Caerphilly Wales

So take a look, and tell me what you think. And watch for new stories to appear soon.
I'm accepting contributions and have requested some particular stories from some writers I know on subjects that aren't frequently written about. By having a focus on historical/archaeological; culture; art/literary trips; exotic adventures and travel memoirs I think the site will be well received and make some interesting reading.

Vaulted Street, Naxos Greece

PROGRESS REPORT #26: SOME LEISURE MOMENTS

I've been working very hard the last week or so getting my travel website set up, so by Sunday I needed some leisure time and decided to go for a long walk on the seawall from the Downtown East Side to the Convention Centre. The day was sunny and bright but crispy cold. A good day for a long stroll with the camera. Above is a view of the skyline from the seawall at Crab Tree Park walking west toward downtown.

The Canada Place Convention centre was built to resemble the Sydney Australia opera house. It's like a giant ship. There's a luxury hotel in front and the cruise ships all dock here so there's also a heli-port. That day there was a new B.C. Ferry in the dock and I wanted to go on board but there was over an hour wait. As I've seen dozens of ferries (non can compare with those new super-fast ferries in Greece) I didn't bother waiting, but continued along on my lovely Sunday afternoon stroll.

The mountains were glorious, clear and crowned with new snow. All week we've been blessed with this frosty winter weather, clear skies and at night a huge full moon shining down on us.

Besides all the work on my travel web site (which is almost ready to be officially launched!) I also attended another travel media dinner, this time for Turkey. It's as if a new door has opened for me and I'm schmoozing like crazy, making all kinds of new contacts. Hopefully the new web site will bring some new opportunities for me too. At best, it's a great way to do some blatant self-promotion! (Although I don't want it to be a 'vanity' site as I want to give new travel writers a chance to have their work published.) Last night I went to a Chile promo do for Patagonia. And guess what? I won the door prize - a 4 day all inclusive stay for two at a luxury spa near Punta Arenas in Patagonia, Chile. I was delighted and immediately worked out in my head the plans for my travel pal Patrick and I to fly down there from Santiago when we go to Chile again next November. Well, my delight was short-lived. The offer expires September 2008. I was quite frankly a bit miffed about this. You don't go to Chile in summer (their winter) and Patagonia in September would be like going up to the northern territories in March. So unless you went now, or later (the time I'm planning to go) it wouldn't be practical to visit the spa.

So I gave it to a man who is leaving this weekend and he said he'd send me a nice gift from there. I suggested he could send me a penguin!
I'm going to another travel/media event tomorrow. This one is mainly for schmoozing, collecting my next supply of free pens and do-dads, and having a little free food and drink. Ah, the life of a travel journalist! And, my night school classes start tonight. Prompting the Muse. And Travel Writing tomorrow. So I am finally going to be bringing in a bit of cash again which will be most welcome as the coffers are pretty bare these days.

I've only had a bit of time this week so far to work on Shadow, my novel. But I've become totally hooked on the HBO series ROME. My friend loaned me the DVDs of the whole first season and I watch it most nights before bed-time...dream of Marc Antony...get lots of inspiration and ideas for my novel from the excellent script and the attention to details they have used in the movie. I wish they had made the Alexander movie into a series like this one, but maybe one day they'll make Shadow of the Lion into just such a series. (It lends itself perfectly to this idea.) I felt sad to hear that Heath Ledger so tragically died. He's the one I thought should have played Alexander in the movie instead of Colin, though Colin did a reasonable job. I find when I'm writing Shadow I 'see' it as a movie and even when I read it in my writer's critique group, people (one guy in particular who is a real movie buff) 'cast' the roles for me. In watching ROME, I see a strong resemblence between Atia and her son Octavian like the relationship between Olympias and Alexander was and now, Olympias and her grandson little Alexander (Iskander). Interesting and inspiring. I'll be posting more snippets soon.

PROGRESS REPORT #25: TIME TO REFLECT

Reflections in a pond

I wasn't able to do too much work on the novel this week. It turned out to be a week focused on travel writing instead.

Mid-week it was the AGM of the travel writer's association, for which I'm secretary. I managed to win another door-prize that night: a trip for two to a nice lodge on Vancouver Island.

The next day (yesterday) was a dinner hosted by the Maui Tourism people, held at a brand new downtown hotel. They always put on an excellent event and
this one was strictly for the travel media so it was a good chance to schmooze with other travel writers, some quite notable folk.

Both events also gave me a chance to tout the new travel website that I have been planning, with the help of my friend, to launch. The response was so positive, I decided I better get right on it. My web-master guy and I had already met earlier in the week and discussed the format etc. Last night we secured the site. So today I spent most of the day working out the text for the home page and submission guidelines. As soon as it is officially up and running I'll post a notice here so you can take a peek.

The purpose of this site is to give some new writers a chance for publication and also to put up a few of my own stories rather than 'give' them away to other places like seems to be the way it is these days. Of course any of my new pieces I will try to market elsewhere first. But I got so tired of just posting my previously published stuff up for free, that I figured I may as well have it on my own site.
This also provides a venue for the new writers I find in my travel writing classes who have a hard time these days getting their names in print. The free-lance travel writing business is certainly not like it used to be.

I also spent a lot of time earlier this week sorting out the handouts for my night school classes. That done, I'm now looking forward to the Winter classes which begin in two weeks. I decided not to teach novel writing this term, instead plan an in-home workshop which has proved successful in the past. And yesterday I started the Memoir writing again downtown which looks like it's going to be another dynamic group.

So, although I haven't spent too much time on Shadow this week, I have accomplished quite a lot.

Besides that, last weekend I attended an amazing performance of Eurypides'
"Hecuba". It was so stunning and inspirational, I'm going again tonight.
More to reflect on. And I'm sure by this weekend I'll plunge right back into work on the novel again!

Autumn Leaves

PROGRESS REPORT 24: A LITTLE BIT OF DIVERSION

DIONYSOS

I've been spending most of my time since the holidays at home, indoors out of the rain and cold, slowly reorganizing myself, clearing out the old and making way for the new year. And I have been spending time writing, as well as prepping for my winter classes which will begin in two weeks. After all the holiday fun it's been good to just stay in by the fire and contemplate my next moves. Same goes for Shadow of the Lion. I just finished writing a whole chapter of violence and revenge so I needed to slow down the pace somewhat before the next chapter which will be one of the violent anti-climaxes to the novel. I have been puzzling over these next chapter segments, wondering if they would actually end on the cutting-room floor once the novel is completed, but decided to go ahead with them anyway. Both the segment I'll include here and the one following it I had written long ago and now I'm sorting through these bits and pieces to see if they fit in the tapestry or need to be scrapped. However, after a discussion with my good friend Susan yesterday I realized that yes, they could be strengthened to forward the plot, so perhaps they aren't excess baggage after all!

Then, last night I went to see a remarkable production of Euripides' "Hecuba"
and I was totally inspired. Hecuba's monologues, as well as the monologues of the lead chorus character, and the dramatic way the play was presented were the big injection of inspiration I needed to really build up this last part of my novel. Because in many ways, Hecuba was similar to Olympias in that she wanted revenge for the death of her children, just like Olympias wanted revenge for the death of her son. And the destruction of Troy was in some respects parallel to the violent ending of Alexander's dynasty. So I got a lot out of watching the play, and feel much more inspired now, clearer in my mind on where I need to go next. It's the strength of the women in the story now, not the men as it was in the beginning. Just as in the story of Troy, it was the strength of the women that was so remarkable, faced with disaster, destruction of their city, the deaths of their husbands and children, enslaved by their invaders. And throughout Shadow I have made references to the story of Troy. (Olympias' bloodline came from that of Andromache and Achilles' son Neoptolemus.)

Just as I needed a bit of diversion from my writing (which has helped me forward the plot), so my characters needed a small diversion from the dilemma that they have been plunged into.

In this scene, Olympias has invited Roxana to attend the Dionysian Mysteries. This is the first time she's really shown an acceptance of Alexander's Soghdian widow by including her in these secret rites.

The autumn harvest was ready for reaping, the olives ripened and hung dark on the boughs, the grapes picked and trodden. It was time to honor Dionysus when the women answered the shrill Bacchant’s cry and ran wild through the forest . Olympias was a priestess of the cult, and held Dionysus in as much esteem as she did her god-gifted son.

“It is time you were initiated into the mysteries,” she told Roxana.

Except for her visit to Samothraki, Roxana had never participated in any of the rituals associated with the Greek pantheon of gods but had held fast to her own beliefs, worshiping Ahura Mazdah, the Wise Lord and the ancient gods of her Soghdian tribal people. She felt somewhat puzzled that Alexander’s mother insisted that she become part of the annual orgia of rituals and sacrifices honoring the god of wine and pleasure.

Just before sunset, a few women dressed, like herself, in the red robes of initiates waited with their unlit torches near the palace gate. The tall dark of the pinewood loomed beyond. In the shadows she caught a glint from the eyes of a small animal. From behind her she heard a sistrum tremble giving off soft jangles.

Olympias arrived, dressed in a gown of saffron gauze pinned at the shoulder with clusters of golden grapes. She wore an ivy wreath of hammered gold on her head and carried a thyrsos twined with a little jeweled serpent. One of her servants carried Wadjet, coiled in his reed basket. She never attended a rite without her sacred snake. Other women followed her, maenads dressed in fawn skins and dappled robes carrying wreaths of ivy and reed thyrsos with pine-cone tops. Olympias took Roxana in her arms and embraced her, then told her and the other women to wait while she and the maenads entered the grove alone, skirting the oleanders and tamarisks until they disappeared into the darkness of the forest.

The priest of Dionysos and his acolyte came to lead the others into the sacred grove. Roxana trod carefully on the stony path, following the priest and other initiates until they came to a little glade in the midst of the forest. A goat with gilded horns and a wreath of vine leave hanging round its neck, was tethered in the shadows, its face like a wicked mask, its topaz eyes glinting.

In the clearing the women formed a circle A torch bearer came round lighting their torches from her flame. When all were lit, the women stuck them into the ring of sconces that had been speared into the ground. In the center of the circle of flame was a garlanded altar and a small trestle table set up with wine cups and a mixing bowl. On a plinth, standing above the altar, an idol of Dionysos looked down on them with a beckoning smile. He was life-sized and youthful with the trim muscular body of a dancer. The sheen of the polished marble made his bronze skin seem real. He wore ornate gem-studded boots and a leopard skin, draped over one shoulder. In his right hand he held a thyrsos and in his left, a gilt wine cup raised in a gesture of greeting.

Roxana recalled when Alexander once had dressed himself as Dionysos for one of the feast days at Babylon. Had he not come to her in her mountain home in the East and enchanted her, just as the god Dionysos had come from Hellas? Now she comprehended, understood Olympias’ passionate zeal, why she gave herself so freely to the god. Were not Alexander and Dionysos one?

The women stood in a ring, hands joined, and sang the invocation. Roxana watched in quiet fascination as the goat was brought up for the sacrifice. It did not balk, nor make a single sound except one plaintive bleating wail as the knife sliced its throat. She winced and looked away as the blood was caught in a shallow dish and mixed with the wine, an offering for the god. After the sacrifice, the priest and his acolyte poured the wine and passed the cups around the circle.

Roxana’s hands trembled as she took the cup. She looked across at Olympias. The fine wreath of gold in the old queen’s hair sparked and trembled in the torchlight. She appeared to be already in a trance, her eyes half-closed, moaning softly as she swayed to the soft sounds of the sistra and flute. When the
priest handed her a wine cup she lifted it to her lips and sipped it, then glanced over the rim at Roxana, her brows drawn into a frown. Following Olympias’ silent command, Roxana drank the strong, unmixed wine quickly, catching her breath at it’s sharp acrid flavor, tinged with the sweetness of the goat’s blood.
As priestess of the cult, Olympias began to sing the sacred hymn, the dithyrambos telling of Dionysos, son of the mortal Semele, fathered by Zeus. The song told of his birth, how he had been hidden in Naxos with the nymphs who saved him from the jealous wrath of Hera, how old Silenos had taught him wisdom and how he had found power in the purple juice of the grape. The song had many verses, telling adventurous tales of the wild young god who roamed through the country and across the Hellespont far, far away to the East. The maenads raised the chorus and after each verse, the cymbals clashed and the sistra rattled.

The tempo of the music increased, the women’s finger-drums throbbed, and the sistra rattled in time to the beat. A double flute wailed the mystical tune, and the women began to sway, arms linked behind waists, their feet beating the ground. Roxana closed her eyes and let herself move to the rhythm. The music had a twirling lilt and was as intoxicating as the wine. The maenad’s movements became more suggestive, bodies arching, bending, feet beating the ground. Roxana, hypnotized into a kind of frenzied madness, began to dance with the maenads and the other initiates, her mind carried far away to the mountains in India where the god had found refuge and wild creatures like lions and tigers came meekly to him.

Invoking the god, the maenads snatched at the blood-drenched chunks of the goat that the priest had butchered on the altar, devouring raw the pieces of kidney, tongue, and legs of the sacrificed animal, an orgiastic feast in honor of the god.

As they lept and danced, their faces smeared with wine lees and blood, they cried aloud and tore at their clothing, calling on the god, crying “Euoi, Bakcheia! Euoi! Euoi!”
treading over the place of sacrifice until their feet and pelts were stained red with blood and wine. The whirling torches, the skirling of the music, carried them to heights of ecstasy, as they surrendered themselves unconditionally to the god.

When finally the orgy ended, Roxana fell exhausted to the ground and lay face down on the sweet-scented pine needles, panting, her head swirling from the dance and the wine and the pulsating beat of the music.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and tried to raise herself up but everything still spun and her stomach heaved. Olympias bent over her and gently helped her to her feet. She seemed oddly calm. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, almost glowing, and in the torchlight she seemed to shimmer as if she was aflame.

“My dear, you have met the god,” she said. “Now you are one of us. You have been initiated into the Mysteries. It is a secret rite, so you must never speak of it to anyone else. ”

The flames had burned low in the sconces and the music had ended. Arm in arm, the women were slipping away together into the pinewood. Was that men’s voices she heard calling out in the inky depths of the forest?

Olympias picked up the basket with her snake, and beckoned to Roxana to follow her.
“Come now. You must get some rest. Ordinarily, we would go with them,” she said, with an enigmatic smile, “But this time, we won’t. We have many things to discuss, you and I, about your son’s future.”

As the walked back down the path and entered the palace grounds, the first light of dawn streaked the eastern sky with rose. Roxana could not help but feel a stir of destiny, a change in her fortune. By including her in the Dionysian mysteries, Olympias had accepted her, making it clear that now she was indeed part of the Macedonian royal household.

Vase painting of a woman dressing

for the Dionysian Mysteries

SEVEN THINGS ABOUT A CHARACTER: a meme

Philip Arridaios

Gabriel challenged me to this meme so I decided to write seven things about one of the most pathetic characters in my novel, "Shadow of the Lion", Philip Arridaios, a half-brother of Alexander the Great who became a victim of the Wars of Alexander's Successors.

PHILIP ARRIDAIOS

1. Arridaios was the illegitimate son of the Macedonian king Philip II and a Thessalian woman named Philinna -- one of Philip's many 'conquests'. Arridaios was probably a year or two old when Philip's lawful wife, Olympias, gave birth to Alexander. To make certain that her son would be recognized as the crown prince, heir to Philip's throne, it is alleged that Olympias had the little boy, Arridaios, poisoned. The poisoning didn't kill Arridaios, but it stunted his mental development so that he did not advance past his childhood age, although he grew physically in the likeness of his esteemed father. It also caused him to have epilepsy.

2. Philip was always protective of Arridaios and provided him with a keeper who attended to him for all of his lifetime. Once Philip proposed to engage Arridaios to the daughter of the satrap of Karia. This was purely a political motive, but Alexander saw it as his father's attempt to reject him. Alexander and his Companions intervened and the 'engagement' was annulled. But Philip was furious and threatened to expel Alexander and his friends and execute the famous actor, Thetallos, who Alexander had sent as an envoy to stop the engagement. It turned out the girl was only a child, and fortunately Alexander and his friends were spared punishment by his irate father.

3. After Philip's assassination in 336 BC, for which Olympias was also implicated, Alexander , who had then inherited his father's throne, engaged Arridaios by proxy to one of Philip's granddaughters, Adeia, who was the daughter of Philip's nephew who was executed for treason after Philip's death, and Philip's daughter Kynna by his Illyrian war-bride Audata. This engagement was later annulled by the Regent, Antipater. When Alexander left on his conquests against Persia, he took Arridaios with him for safe-keeping.

4. When Alexander died under mysterious circumstances in 323 BC in Babylon, he left no heir. Under normal circumstances, because the generals of Alexander had to choose a new king, the most likely candidate was Arridaios. However he was illegitimate and mentally unfit to rule. At the same time, Alexander's Soghdian wife, Roxana, was about to give birth. If she had a son, he would be the legitimate heir to the throne. This created dissension among the Successors, some of whom supported Arridaios because he was of pure Macedonian blood. When Roxana gave birth to a son (Alexander IV) the generals decided to name both Arridiaos and the newborn as titular kings. Arridiaos then assumed the royal title of Philip III.

5. Now that Philip Arridaios was officially the "king" it meant that General Perdikkas, who had assumed the role of commander-in-chief of the Macedonian army, was able to issue his own orders under the king's name. Meanwhile, Adeia and her mother, disguised as men, were en route to Sardis where Perdikkas and his army were camped, with the intention of her marrying Arridiaos. (This was a ploy for her to regain control of the throne and avenge the execution of her father.) Perdikkas sent men to stop them. The royal women were ambushed and Adeia's mother, Kynna, was killed. But when the Macedonian soldiers discovered who they were, they rescued Adeia and took her to the Macedonian camp insisting she should be allowed to marry Arridaios. After the marriage, Adeia assumed the royal name "Eurydike" and proceeded to use her idiot husband and control his affairs, in an attempt to rule in his stead.

6. A year later, when Perdikkas was murdered by his own officers, the royal family King Philip Arridaios, the baby Alexander and Roxana, were placed under the guardianship of the regency of Antipater. Adeia-Eurydike continued to use her husband as a pawn in the game of kingship, but was prohibited by Antipater. A year later, Antipater succumbed to old age and Adeia Eurydike again took control of her husband's affairs, siding with Kassandros who had been rejected for the regency by his father, in an attempt to oust Polyperchon the new Regent, and get rid of Roxana and her child.

7. Philip Arridiaos was still under Polyperchon's guardianship however, and was used to pass royal edicts, until finally in 317, Polyperchon persuaded Olympias and her Epirote troops to invade Macedon to drive out the usurper, Adeia-Euryidike, who had attempted a coup to oust him and the young Alexander IV. This impetuous move by Adeia-Eurydike resulted in the beginning of a civil war that would bring tragic results to the royal family and the entire country. Arridaios was imprisoned and cruelly treated by Olympias. Eventually Adeia-Eurydike, who had fled in hopes of amassing more troops, was also arrested. Both she and Arridaios were killed on Olympias' orders making the way clear for her only grandson, Alexander IV, to be the sole legal heir to Alexander's throne.

I would like to tag SCOTT, MEGUMI, MARIE, ADRIAN, EILEEN, SAM and DEBRA
This was actually kind of fun and a good way to get into your character's background quite thoroughly if you haven't already done so.

PROGRESS REPORT 23: WEAVING THE TAPESTRY

Persian tapestry: the battle

I look at the construction of my novel "Shadow of the Lion" much as if I am weaving a tapestry. Each thread (like each word) must be placed carefully, in order to form the pattern until the picture unfolds (just as a story develops). I see each character in the story as a coloured thread woven throughout this vivid tapestry. For instance, the 'shadow' and spirit of ALEXANDER is the golden thread that weaves through the entire tapestry. His young son, Alexander IV, (ISKANDER) the titular child king who inherits his throne, is a silver thread. His Soghdian wife, ROXANA is magenta , while his mother OLYMPIAS is purple murex. PTOLEMY, who established Alexandria and the first Ptolemaic dynasty, is royal blue. KASSANDROS, Alexander's rival and eventual nemesis, is a black thread. Each of the other main characters (some who are fictional) are also 'colour coded' : NABARZANES, the Court Advisor is peacock blue, while the MAGUS is ivory. The differences between the opulent, aristocratic Persians and the rough highland warriors of Macedon prove a colorful contrast in the warp and weft of the prose. I must stand back once in awhile and look at this creation to make sure that the pattern is clear, the colours balanced, no threads are left unwoven leaving gaps in the picture. When it is finally finished, I hope it will be a masterpiece.

Tapestry reproduction of a winged bull taken from Nebuchadnezzar's palace, Babylon

You could also look at the story as a mosaic made of carefully placed tiles or, as Macedonian mosaics were, made from various colored river pebbles. Either way, the story and the words and characters that fill the story, compose a panoramic picture.

I have managed to complete another chapter and start a new one even though the Christmas season was busy and distracting. Now it is 2008 and the novel is almost done so I must stay 'at the loom', so to speak, weaving away until the last thread is tied in place.
Or, as in a mosaic, the last pebble or tile is laid.

Mosaic of Alexander battling King Darius.

FAMILY CHRISTMASES

This is the way my family celebrated Christmas. My son Stevie is playing with his toy gun, front left.
Cousin Gracie is holding my 1 year old daughter Alex in back left, next to her cousin Lynette, Auntie Grace, my friend Sylvia, Mom holding Gracie's baby, cousin Merilyn, my Dad standing right front. At the table playing checkers, Uncle Frank and my husband Mike. Watching are Gracie's husband Gordon and cousin Adele.
We celebrated every Christmas in this way with games and entertainment after our turkey dinner. Lots of good cheer as we drank gingerale and ate Christmas cookies around the Christmas tree.

This was a different kind of Christmas.

CHRISTMAS WITH THE IN-LAWS.

Christmas for me has always been a family affair. From the time I was a small child, it meant visits from the relatives, everyone gathered around the tree on Christmas eve drinking ginger ale, eating the delicious Christmas goodies Mom had baked while we played games like monopoly and crokinole or snakes and ladders. The men would tell funny stories. My Uncle Frank always recited “’Erbert Burped” and Dad’s famous singing of “When Father Papered the Parlour” never failed to send us into rollicking laughter. Mostly Christmas meant remembering the true meaning of the Season with carol singing and stories of the birth of the Baby Jesus.

The children (me, my sister and various cousins) would be tucked into bed with the proverbial visions of sugar-plums dancing in our heads, convinced Santa could be heard stomping on the roof, and going off to slumber-land with happy dreams of the surprises we’d find Christmas morning under the tree and in our stockings.

Christmas dinner was a festive event. Turkey and all the trimmings, Christmas pudding with money hidden inside, and everyone gathered around the table with bowed heads while Dad or Grandpa or Uncle Frank said the blessing.

This is the way my Christmases always were in my family. And I thought it that way for all everyone.
What a surprise I got when I got married and was introduced to Christmas at the Ukrainian in-laws. The first time my husband took me home to spend Christmas with his family I was shocked and amazed. It was my first introduction to a hard-drinking, hearty-eating Ukrainian way of celebrating the holidays.

There I was, the new bride, sitting in the midst of a party of elderly folks, a bottle or two of rye whiskey plonked on the coffee table and water glasses filled to the brim -- neat! It was the first time I’d tasted rye straight and it made me gag. I guess I was too polite to say ’no’, so when nobody was looking I passed the glass down to my husband who eagerly downed it, matching glass for glass with the old folks. As the afternoon wore on, the merriment grew more boisterous and argumentative. It was a wonder to me how those elderly folks could drink so much.

I’ll never forget one of the Christmases we were invited for dinner. We’d already had my family’s Christmas dinner but we also had to go to the in-law’s house or they would be offended. Lena, my father-in-law’s common-law wife, was a great cook. She made the best cabbage rolls and perogis. This Christmas she had prepared a very large turkey to feed all the friends who were to drop in. By the time the bird was cooked and ready to come out of the over, she was so drunk that as she removed the turkey from the oven she teetered over and the bird slid off the pan and dropped on the floor. Without missing a beat she picked it up and plonked it on the platter. I was an eye-witness. The others were probably too drunk to notice. Anyway, it was a delicious dinner and as usual, she was constantly filling your plate. “Eat! Eat!” or your glass “Drink! Drink!” It didn’t occur to me, the naive youngster from the tee-totalling family, that all that booze was eventually going to be my husband’s downfall.

Oh yes, those Ukrainian Christmases were memorable. Especially the one when my father-in-law almost cut off his hand when he was demonstrating the new chain saw he’d got for a present. He was drunk, of course, and hardly felt any pain. But he bore the scars forever after and in fact caused serious nerve damage so his hand was never the same. Did that deter the constant partying? Never!

They were good-hearted folk though, and I know their intentions were well-meaning.
My mother-in-law, on the other hand, was a different story. My husband’s parents had been separated for many years and it was easy to see why there was no communication between them. She was a Seventh Day Adventist, strict and totally lacking the joviality and good nature of Lena and Harry. In fact, I was sure she had the ability to put the evil eye on me and quite frankly I was a bit scared of her. She had weird eyes and would sit scowling at me when I arrived with my husband and baby. She had her own ideas of how I should be handling my new baby boy and I know she didn’t approve of me one bit.

She’d cook us dinner once in awhile, never Christmas dinner, because she didn’t celebrate Christmas the way the rest of us did. In fact, my husband’s younger brother, still a teen-ager, lived with her, and at Christmas he was not given any gifts because she said it wasn’t Lennie’s birthday. It was Jesus’s birthday. I always felt sorry for Lennie so we’d invite him to our place and made sure he had lots of presents, and of course he’d drop by his father’s for the Christmas meals too. Maybe the way he was brought up warped him because he grew into the most avaricious nasty man, a bank-manager who had total control over both his parent’s finances and wills and made sure when they died neither of my children got a cent -- it all went to him, his Ukrainian wife, and their two kids.

Those Ukrainian Christmases were memorable, mainly for the vast amounts of food and booze that were consumed and the chaos that reigned as a result. Invariably it would somehow end up with a fight breaking out. I didn’t realize it then, but my father-in-law was not the jolly guy he seemed to be and poor Lena was often the brunt of his drunken temper.

It was an experience worth remembering, but to this day I prefer the old fashioned Christmases of my childhood.
Instead of spending Christmas with a massive hangover I’d rather enjoy what it is really meant to be, a time of good cheer spent with relatives and friends, presents stacked under the tree, stockings hung by the chimney with care and children nestled in their beds waiting for Santa to arrive. (He didn’t get a glass of whiskey at our place, just some ginger ale and home-made Christmas cookies. There weren’t any fights, Mom never ever dropped the turkey on the floor, and nobody ever cut their hand off with a chain saw!)

* * *

CHRISTMAS AT GRANDPA'S

Grandpa's house in Stratford Ontario.

Christmas in the ‘40’s was a time when all the relatives came to celebrate at Grandpa’s house. We would troop down to the train station and stand waiting on the wooden platform, our breaths puffing like the steam from the locomotive engine, the frosty winter air nipping our cheeks into roses. The train chugged into the station, the coach doors opened and travelers spilled out onto the platform. Happy greetings filled the air as merry as caroler's songs, families embraced and made their way down the snowy streets.

When my uncle, aunt and cousins arrived, we all went back to Grandpa’s house. How my grandparents found room for everyone, I can’t imagine. All the Aunts, Uncles and Cousins crowded into the small living room around the Christmas tree to chat, the crackling of the flames in the hearth sounding like pop-corn. After a few games of monopoly and Chinese checkers, my Uncle Frank would performed a comical rendition of “Herbert Burped”, tongue-in-cheek, about a little boy who gets swallowed by a lion. Then all of us children were tucked snugly into beds, often three in a bed, the middle one squished between the other two, warm in our flannel nighties, while the grownups sat up late eating Christmas cake and drinking ginger ale.

One particular Christmas stands out in my memory. That was the year I bought the best Christmas presents I’d ever bought before. Certainly, the most memorable!

I was nine years old, and I felt very grown up as I went off to town to do my own Christmas shopping. I headed straight for the Woolworths Five and Dime store where you could always get the best bargains. I looked over all the trinkets, trying to decide what would be the finest gifts. It was difficult to decide. I wanted something unforgettable. Something everyone would love.

Then I saw it. A little Chinese clay dragon on a bamboo stick. The head of the dragon was made of painted clay, and it had a red felt tongue that looked like fire shooting from its gaping mouth. The body was accordion-pleated tissue paper. When you waved the stick, the body expanded and the head shot out, tongue flickering, like a real fire-breathing dragon. The Chinese dragons would make the perfect Christmas gifts!

I bought one for each of my relatives and excitedly headed for home, proud of myself for making such an extraordinary purchase. But when I showed them to my Mom, she was not impressed. In fact, she
was upset with me for ‘wasting’ my money on such foolish toys as these instead of buying something more ‘practical’. I felt crushed, disappointed. However, it was too late to return the dragons to the store, so I wrapped them up and put them under the Christmas tree with the other gifts.

On Christmas morning I waited nervously for everyone to open their presents. I felt embarrassed thinking that my relatives would think the presents I’d bought were foolish and useless.

Instead, when the gifts were unwrapped, everyone was amused and delighted. especially my Uncle Frank. He played with his dragon all day. Of course, Uncle Frank always was the life of the party!

My little sister Jeanie and me.

PROGRESS REPORT #22: BRIDGING THE GAPS

ALEXANDER AND OLYMPIAS

"Each story will dictate its own rhythms." Jonathan Penner

Here it is three days from the winter solstice, the end of Autumn, and I haven't totally finished my novel, which had been my goal. I am, however, much, much closer to the end and will carry on forging ahead with the hope that it WILL be done in a very short time.

The problem at the moment is 'bridging the gaps' That is...those pesky transitional parts. I have a lot of the story written that I'm threading together and right now I'm puzzling over what to add and what to leave out. I had a lot of ideas written down from long ago but now I'm wondering if it's just too much baggage. Shall I write it in anyway and then edit it out later. Or? I'm trying not to let the internal editor take over because every word is important and I think I'll do what I've done all along...write what seems to want to be written and worry about editing later. It's not that I'm about to go off on any tangents or anything, just that I've been through some heavy scenes and the tension is high at the moment. I don't want to risk losing the tension by adding things that are going to take the story off track. What to do? Hmmm...well, I know it will certainly be figured out very shortly.

It's kind of like being at the cross-roads. Where to go next? Well, here we are at the end of another year and New Years is always a time for new directions. Mine, I hope, will be in the direction of and editor/publisher.

"There's nothing which faintly resembles glamour about the work I do. I spend all of my working hours alone, facing a blank sheet of paper, and myself. For I have to dredge through my soul and my memories every day of my life. Writing novels is the hardest work I've ever done, the salt mines, really. I sit long hours at my desk -- til my neck and shoulders seize up. I make tremendous social and personal sacrifices for my writing, but after all, I chose to be a novelist. Nobody held a gun to my head. So why do I go on? The answer is easy. I can't NOT do it."
Barbara Taylor Bradford

***author's quotes from "The Writer's Handbook."

for a couple of little Christmas Away memoirs, check out my travel blog at:
http://travelthroughhistory.blogspot.com

HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYONE!

PROGRESS REPORT#21: WHEN THE MUSE SPEAKS

"Muse of the round sky, daughter of Zeus,
I sing my poems loud and clear to you."
Alkman


I spent most of yesterday trying to sort out some small errors I'd made in my novel, the sequence of some events that didn't seem right. I'd intended to do a lot of writing but mostly puttered away the day, managing only about an hour of work taken from the notes I'd made the night before.

The day was cold and wet, very bleak. I only went outdoors once and that was just to mail some Christmas cards overseas and pick up a few groceries. I played on the computer, watched some TV, cleaned out the drawers sorting my winter stuff and packing away my summer. The whole day went by and really, I didn't accomplish much as far as my novel writing was concerned.

It was very late when I tucked into bed and whereas I usually fall asleep quickly, this night I tossed and turned and could not get to sleep at all. Then, She spoke to me. The Muse. At first it was just a line or two which I knew I had to get up and write down. Then, when I was settling back into bed again, there was another line...a whole paragraph...and I realized that She was telling me what I'd been trying to figure out all day. So I got up and started writing. I wrote about four pages and then I went back to bed and fell right asleep.

Today I got up really in the writing mood. No more procrastinating. Thanks to the Muse, I had a good start on the day. I managed to solve some of the strategy problems I was having, things became a lot clearer to me, and the notes I'd made during the night had actually brought me right up to a crucial anti-climax of the novel. With a few added scenes in between I should be able to sail quickly through this next part and then I'll be on the homeward stretch, with the end very clearly in view.

It's exciting when that happens and it's been awhile since the Muse spoke so strongly to me. I recall when I used to live in the shepherd's cottage in Lala, Euboeia, that often She would speak to me in the night. I had no electricity there, so I'd have to get up and light the lamps and sit by candlelight to write the words, knowing that if I didn't, I'd have forgotten them by morning.

As far as the progress of Shadow of the Lion, I may not meet my goal of finishing by the last day of Autumn, but I'll be very nearly done by the end of December. I'm already visualizing the 'wrap' party I have planned at a Greek taverna in my neighborhood.
Yesterday I consulted Cecilia Holland in regards to whether or not I should find myself a mentor before I start doing the final draft which will entail a good deal of cutting. I feel I need someone who understands the history as well as the techniques of writing. She suggested that I might find someone at the university, but to make sure it's someone I trust or it might not work out. So I'm still thinking about this. Perhaps I will get just as thorough a reader's critic from my Athens friend, Dinaz, who has requested I send her the MSS when it's done. What do you other writers think of this idea? Have any of you had a mentor to advise you on your final drafts?

MIDNIGHT MUSE
written while living in a shepherd's cottage, Lala, Evvia, Greece

My Muse comes after midnight
Nudges me awake,
Whispers urgently:
"Get up! Write!"
I curse her, stumble across the dark room,
Search for matches, light the candle wick.
Where has she been in the daylight?
How many hours did I want for her
Listening for her voice?
"Where were you?" I ask.
"Was it your voice I heard
While I daydreamed in the sun.
Or was it only the sound
Of sheep bells on the mountain,"
"Write!" she demands. "Write!"
If I wait til morning
The words she whispers to me
Will be extinguished
Like this candle flame
As I snuff it out.

THE PLAY'S THE THING!

As Shakespeare said "The play's the thing..." (Hamlet) and recently I've attended several wonderful theatre events.

Last month I went to see a play about Tennessee Williams, my favorite playwright, "His Greatness", which was about a period of time Williams spent here in Vancouver while one of his least successful plays was being reproduced. (It bombed!). Williams (1911 - 1983) was a prolific playwright and author and when I wrote my play "The Street" I was very influenced by his work. Of course one of his most memorable lines was from "A Streetcar Named Desire", spoken by Blanche " Whoever you are -- I have always depended on the kindness of strangers." Just after "His Greatness" was performed here, there was a production of "The Glass Menagerie" which I unfortunately missed.

The next play I went to see was Eugene O'Neill's "A Moon for the Misbegotten". This may be the first O'Neill play I've seen and I was totally captivated. It's said that this play was an attempt to understand a brother he had once idolised then watched fall into the seedier side of life. O'Neill was born in a Broadway Hotel room. (His father was an actor who toured in "The Count of Monte Cristo") His family life was unhappy and he used his own experiences as themes for his plays. He was the first playwright to write a play with a major role for a black actor,
"The Emperor Jones".

Then I went to see a play by a Canadian playwright, George Ryga, a prairie boy from a poor Ukranian family who left school after grade six and worked at a variety of jobs, then won a scholarship to the Banff School of Fine Arts. His first play "Indian" was perfomed on TV in 1961. He received national acclaim for his next play "The Ecstasy of Rita Joe" which was first performed here in Vancouver in 1967. This is the play I finally was able to see, with a cast that was mainly First Nations people. I always thought Ryga himself was part First Nations but he wasn't, which makes this play and it's subject, all the more remarkable -- the deep insights he had into the plight of Indian people who come to the city from their reserves and so often fall into such tragedy. This play, by Ryga is considered by many to be the most important English language play by a Canadian playwright.

This weekend I went to see my most favorite of Shakespeare's plays "Richard III". It's the first Shakespeare play I ever saw, when I was 13 years old, and it resonated so much and influenced me so much that I've never forgotten it. Perhaps that's what propelled me to write tragedy. I was riveted by the acting (especially the actor who played Richard); the costumes, set and makeup all added to the eerie sense of evil and darkness. Who can ever forget those famous opening lines: "Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious suumer by this sun of York." I remember that the first time I visited London, in the mid '70's, I had to go to the Tower to see where the young prince's were murdered. Seeing the play brought back so many memories.

One sad memory of my own...the day I came home from the theatre, a young impressionable kid just bubbling with enthusiasm for what I'd seen and heard, I was met at the door by my Mom who sadly told me our very dear pet Spaniel Duchess had been killed by a car that day.
Talk about being immersed in tragedy! I have never forgotten that day, or the play.

I needed some inspiration for the next part of my novel and just being there, listening to Shakespeare's words being spoken by the dastardly Richard, and the various dramatic roles of the women in the play, gave me lots of ideas. So it's back to work on Shadow of the Lion. And I'm getting closer to the end!