Chapter 9
Names Are Important
Once I would have scoffed at the tales of the Unravelled, dismissing them as mere superstition and myth. After all, even the darkest of sorcerous powers ended with death. But having seen the reality of the undead strega, I knew that the stories were more than metaphor or allegory. Still, it would have been the height of foolishness to accept the myth as truth--who knew how many stories had been told and retold, distorted in each telling. Even the immortal words of the Prophets are steeped in so much symbol and metaphor that it requires years of education to unravel their truth. How much more so are the fables informed by the illiterate superstitions of Lombardi women?
I could not trust entirely to what others told me--who knew what memories or thoughts had been altered by this woman. Who knew how far her sorcerous hand reached? Even now, I realize that my words must seem like the paranoid delusions of a madman--as some of my Inquisition brothers and sisters have become--but you must understand my perspective. Sorcery, you see, allows men to do things outside the scope of the limitations Theus dictated. But it is not magic in the same way as the djinn of Near Eastern fairy tales. It is not limitless, it does not grant wishes, it has specific, well documented, effects. And yet my own experience illustrated that this woman could do things with sorcery hitherto unseen. Reader, by this point you must know me. You know that I am no fanatic that believes if our Mother Church has not declared it be so then it must be false or some Adversary inspired trickery. But the thought of a new sorcery is truly terrifying. Not because a new sorcery would be evil--it would be subject to the same limitations as any still in existence. No, a new sorcery would be horrible because it would mean that someone managed to strike a Bargain. And that is a prospect too terrible to imagine.
At the time, I could not have known where the true danger lurked.
I knew that I needed to know more about the unravelled, not the legends and myths, but the truth. But without one to study (a prospect either too dangerous or too laced with deceit to contemplate) I would have to settle for their source. Living strega.
Now, before you get the wrong idea, it is not in me to mistreat any woman, let alone ones who are bound as near slaves by social convention. No ladies of Castilliano would stand for such treatment, such casual cruelty as these women accept and consider kindness. Nor do I view them as some sort of monstrous larval stage for the eventual emergence of unravelled creatures. No, I merely spoke to them about the manifestation of their powers.
And reached an epiphany.
Sorte, you see, is the only living sorcery that connects living beings. [the author goes on to describe other sorceries] But only Sorte directly affects other people.
And it does so by use of a your name.
Of all of the sorceries, Sorte is the most nebulous. Did the blessing (or curse) really affect the target? Or was it all merely chance? There must be more to it than mere chance, because what woman would choose to be a Strega if she had any other choice? So how does the sorceress affect the other person?
Strega speak of strands, relationships between a person and their fate. But also between other people. The strega say that they can see strands, but cannot alter them without their rituals. The kiss and the naming. I postulate that those rituals are unnecessary. That they are merely a rote tool for establishing a relationship with the person in question. Of attaching a strand of sorcery between the strega and the recipient through which she can alter his fate. And it begins with the name.
The name is the first intimacy, the most basic, and the most important. Without names there is no true relationship, no true intimacy, no trust.
I needed to find out her name.
It was a more difficult prospect than I imagined. The oral tradition of women never mention her name. She is "the woman clad all in mourning black" or "the mysterious Strega" or "the walker of Fate's road" (an alias that I only found in one tale in which she was doomed to wander Thea forever until she changed her own fate). I was rather more successful searching for her name in texts, though even there, it was as if someone had systematically searched for her name and made it illegible through acts of chance (water damage, blotted ink, frayed pages). It seemed as if someone was attempting to erase her name from history.
[he goes on to describe the details of his search, bits and pieces of the name found here and there]
Finally, armed with the truth, I said her name.
Chapter 10
Truth and Consequences
Reality and expectation are frequently only tangentially related. The Church, for example, teaches that sorcerers are the servants of the Adversary, the bane of reality. And yet most born with the taint of sorcery are simply people, living fragile lives as best they can, valued by others, not for who they are but what they can do. There is the Inquisition itself, an organization seemingly dedicated to the violent and fiery eradication of sorcery. But true Inquisitors are among the most learned and discerning of the Church's servants, dedicating their lives, not to violence but to study. And my own life has certainly not followed the path of my expectations. I expected to be no more than a monk--perhaps not quite so humble as I ought to habe been, but I was content--and yet that is not the path the Prophets have laid out for me.
When one calls upon the name of a powerful undead sorceress, one rather expects a dramatic entrance. A crash of thunder, a flash of lightning, something to indicate that one is invoking powers both dark and terrible.
The reality was far more mundane. There was a polite knock on my door.
Of course, I extended polite pleasantries--small talk, wine, a seat by the fire. After all, simply because she was a creature more daemonic than mortal, there was no reason to be impolite. Besides, I had every advantage.
You see I had deduced the reason that she had hidden her name.
The power over fate comes with a price. Whether it is in curses bound to their names or fate lashes tied to their sorcery, Destiny objects strenuously to being tampered with, and it is the Strega who pays. That the men of Lombardi would force their wives and daughters to face such suffering for their own self aggrandizement is as gross a miscarriage of justice as I have ever seen. And yet, I was about to use that injustice in order to force this woman to do my will. Did that hypocrisy make me worse than those Lombardi men? Perhaps. I do not know. I only knew that I had the means at my disposal and that my ends justified my choices. Or perhaps I am merely rationalizing excuses for my own hypocrisy.
"You will not live to regret this, Bernardo," she told me. At the time, I thought it a threat, and scoffed at her fear mongering. I knew her weakness, and if I was conflicted regarding the ethical implications of exploiting that weakness, still, I would not hesitate to do so.
"You think that Fate is so easily changed, that Destiny is so brazenly thwarted?" she demanded, "allow me to educate you."
And dear reader, what I saw was terrible. I saw the fall of the Church of the Prophets, bereft of a Heirophant, torn apart, divided, broken. I witnessed the rise of a sorcerer king, driven by madness and ambition. (he goes on to describe other events, some of which have taken place)
"You will not live to see all of these events come to pass," she warned, "but make no mistake, the touch of your hand is in all of them."
Chapter 11
Thwarting Destiny
Everyone knows--or at least anyone with an education and a portion of their wits--that prophecies are self-fulfilling. Legends and myths are rife with examples of me who attempted to cheat fate and, in doing so, merely ensured their own demise. Consider Laius, who attempted to cheat death by leaving his infant son, Oedipus, to die upon a mountainside. Then consider Oedipus himself, who sought to avoid the prophecy by leaving the home of his adoptive parents. It was by attempting to avoid their destiny that each man set himself on an invariable course, guaranteeing that the prophecy would come to pass. Had Laius never cast Oedipus off, he would never have been slain by his son. Had Oedipus never fled his home, he never would have murdered his father and married his mother. [He goes on to detail others who had been doomed by their attempts to undo the prophecies that detailed their doom] Only by attempting to thwart the will of Destiny did these men ensure that their Doom would come to pass.
If men such as those could not change the doom that Fate had decreed what chance did I stand? I was no Oedipus with the cleverness to challenge the sphinx, no Ulysses to challenge the Adversary. How could I hope to fight against the future that had been shown to me? What if that was precisely the choice that would bring those events to fruition? As a student of the lessons of legend and myth, I knew the pitfalls of attempting to thwart prophecy. If it were written in the book of Destiny, then it would come to pass no matter how hard I fought against it. In fact, given what I knew about Strega in general (and this Strega in particular), I had no doubt at all that the doom I had seen was real.
I was trapped.
Except.
Do you recall, dear reader, the tale of John Goldenmouth? The Hierophant did not seek to escape the prophecy, nor did John Chrysostom attempt to avoid the gas laid upon him. Both sought to fulfill the Fate decreed by the Woman in Mourning Black (who I now have every reason to suspect is T******). In doing so, however, they did not achieve their goals. Rather the opposite. By driving John forward, the Hierophant cultivated the weakness and uncertainty that led him to flee. By accepting the blessings which allowed him to be successful, John Chrystostom crafted his own crisis of confidence.
The solution to my dilemma was not to run from the visions the Unravelled had shown me, but to embrace them.
Chapter 12
History and Memory
No one can truly explain what it is like to live two lifetimes, to recall two entirely separate chains of events as if they were both real and true. And in some ways, they both were. Please do not misunderstand me, I did not relive my life a second time with foreknowledge of events to come, able to avoid the pitfalls of youth. The world was simply and suddenly different, and yet familiar, as if it had always been this way. I could look back on memories, see and understand all the events that had led me to this altered moment and it was natural, as if I had always been this person.
I recalled my rise through the church ranks. I remember the day the King offered up my name to the council of Ciudad Rodrigo, nominating me as Bishop. And the day that I was initiated into the secrets of the Ordo Malleus. I can still see the sunshine on the pennants on the day the Hierophant created me a cardinal priest. And the light of the candles as I delved into the secrets buried within the hidden tomes of the Church. (he goes on to detail the various events in his life)
As I sit here writing this, I wonder if reality is truly changed or if this is some trick of memory and madness. Perhaps I have always been the person who is now the Archbishop of Toledo and my memories of being an Inquisitor are entirely false. Certainly, I can find no record of such a feat being possible in any text at my disposal. Is it not more likely that my memories have been altered rather than history? Am I mad? Is my mind playing me for a fool? But what is reality but what we can remember, and I remember both chains of events with equal clarity. Fading, as memories do, in equal measure.
And then, of course, there is the box. A puzzle box of enormous complexity--a dozen of my colleagues have attempted to open it to no avail. I see it and I know that some part of what I remember is a lie, a lie so complete that it is the truth.
Chapter 13
Truth and Consequences
Z... These are the names of the sorceries granted to the Old Remian Senators. I write of them now, though they are secrets held in trust by the Inquisition--secrets that I have no right to know. I have not been initiated, have not passed the tests--though my own memories tell me that I have. If any of those who would have been my brother and sister Inquisitors discovered this text, they would destroy it as heresy--and rightly so. No being should have the power to alter history--and it is history that has changed, or I have already descended into madness--and no man should have the knowledge of how to call upon such power, as I have described in this book.
And yet I would not return things to the way they were. I can see the puzzle box in my minds eye as clearly as if it were before me. I could undo what the unravelled has done. The box, she said, will unmake her weaving and restore history to what it was. But to do so...to condemn those who live even now to death by fire. I cannot. I know now that it was my own arrogance that drove me to attempt to cheat death--not for myself, but for the blameless others who suffered in my wake. Fate was kind in this altered history, and I am loath to compound my own sin by believing that I know what is best--that further sorcery will set right what I have done so poorly. No, I will not go back. The source of my error was hubris in thinking that altering the past could set right what had gone wrong. I am done with the past. It is time to move forward, to struggle with the knowledge of my guilt as best I can.
I could be rid of it. The box is the only binding that keeps the memories from my past, my true past, intact. But in truth, I fear to do so. I do not know what effect it will have on others--what fresh temptations she might be able to offer to the unsuspecting. And perhaps this is my punishment, my purgatory, for my sins. Living on the edge of madness for the remainder of my days seems a fitting punishment for my arrogance.
Chapter 14
Coming Full Circle
On the morrow I am to be named Grand Inquisitor for the Church of the Prophets. It is an appointment made by the Hierophant himself, granted, not to an Inquisitor either current or former, but to one of the uninitiated. If this seems contrary to good sense, dear reader, I assure you that it is not. The position of Grand Inquisitor is one of power and influence, yes, but also one of judgement.
It is the Grand Inquisitor who directs Inquisitors on in their investigations, who evaluates the evidence and testimony provided, who sits in judgement over trials and executions. In short, who decides who among the many who are brought before him who lives and dies. Consider, then, the effect it would have if a true inquisitorial zealot were to take the post of Grand Inquisitor. To have someone such as that in a position of power over life and death would be intolerable. It is a necessary safeguard to have as the Grand Inquisitor a man without the prejudice of preconceived notions, a sacred trust that I believe in whole heartedly, and one that I cannot betray.
I must, therefore, relinquish my ill-gotten memories and the box along with them. I must admit, it is somewhat of a relief to know that soon I will not be teetering on the edge of madness. But I cannot entirely give up being the man that I was. I cannot let the creature who set all this in motion remain free without attempting to aid some more fortunate soul in destroying her. I have promised the box and this book to an order of monks in Lombardi. It is my hope that they will solve the puzzle of the Unravelled and do what I could not: remove the threat that she poses to the very fabric of reality.
May Theus have mercy upon my soul.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Sunday, February 16, 2014
[Memoir] The Unknown Life of Teo{water damage} (chapters 6-8)
Chapter 6
What Everyone Knows
Religion in Lombardi is a study in contradition. It is the birth place of our Mother Church and in no other place -- excepting, of course, my native Castille -- is there such a concentration of the faithful. If ever the continent had a natural bastion for the word of the Prophets, it would be Lombardi. Except. Lombardi is also the heart of Old Remus, the origin of the arrangements with the dark powers of the Adversary. The source of sorcery. And in no other place -- excepting, perhaps, Versailles -- is the power and cost of sorcery so lightly regarded and so openly practiced.
There is no other place, real or imagined, where men are so faithful to their mistresses and so faithless to their wives -- and where such an arrangement is considered so natural that the practice of monogamy is what is remarked upon rather than the reverse. And in no other nation are women so universally degraded and feared in equal measure.
To live in Lombardi is to live in two worlds, neither of which have more than a tangental connection to reality.
But I digress.
I came to Lombardi to find the truth of the nature of the Strega. The power to influence a man's future is curious, but ultimately unremarkable. Men and women do so everyday, with their words and their actions. Who can say what will finally change the course of a man's destiny. But the power to change the past, to alter what has already been written in stone and turn back the hands of time, that would be a power that people would trade their souls to possess. The question was: Had they?
[He goes on to relate his difficulties searching out legends regarding Strega of note and researching the circumstances of their powers, specifically stories that relate documented expressions of Sorte that can't otherwise be passed off as bad luck.]
My questions, however, were not answered to my satisfaction. Nobody had ever questioned these legends before, and the answers always seemed to be "That's how everyone tells it." or "That's just the way it is." But the difficulty with extracting truth from legends paled in comparison to the trouble that came of asking about the Unravelled.
Chapter 7
Under the Surface
Ask anyone in Lombardi about the Unravelled and they will tell you that they know someone who knows someone who has a cousin who saw one. To the collective unconscious of Lombardi, they are nothing more than an allegory, a fable warning of the dangers of becoming too secure in one's power. The stories say that they are Strega who tampered too heavily with Fate, that were slain by the use of their own power. As if the fate that they suffer at the hands of their countrymen simply for being born with a power that others covet were not sufficient punishment. It is said that they are mindless beasts, bent by Legion into destroying what they love in order to be free of the torment that (of course, the stories claim) they brought upon themselves.
Obviously, I thought at the time, there must be more to these stories than a simplistic metaphor. Life is not so easy that connections to others fade upon our deaths, nor are the bonds of emotion so weak that they cease to influence our behavior even years later. Thus, I find it difficult to imagine that a creature bound to this world by emotional ties (for what else are the strands that the Strega claim to manipulate) would seek to break those bonds by violence in death when they were crafted by all manner of behavior in life.
I was partially correct.
After much searching, I found a person, a Strega, who claimed to have seen the Unravelled. Claimed, in fact, to have banished them by weakening their strands rather than through violence. While her use of sorcery disturbed me, I could not see how its use--if she did what she claimed--in any way served Legion.
When we found the creature, and it was a creature, was no longer human. A tangled mess of bone and sinew, it made squelching noises as it approached. As I watched, muscle and flesh were restored, pale skin returned, and it was once again a weeping woman. The woman (for having seen her living form, I could no longer think of her as some wretched undead creature) wailed and sobbed for her lost love, dead at her own hands, along with their child. Revenge, she said, for his perfidious ways. And then the words that would haunt me until my death:
"Change their fate, you can, you know, you can bring them back."
But the dead woman refused, something about deserving death...and then she was dust.
On our way back, she explained it to me. {the book goes on to explain that the legends of the Unravelled are true, but incomplete. They are only mindless beasts because they choose to be so. They are masters of Sorte, they could strengthen their strands, and thus their connection to the world instead of degenerating into undead monsters. But doing so means clinging to memories that ultimately cause emotional pain and most people aren't strong enough to torture themselves for power.}
Before she left, my guide said that if I ever needed anything I should not hesitate to call upon her. And that I knew her name.
Chapter 8
Ghost Stories
Lares, Larvae, Lemures, and Manes are, according to the writings of the theologian, Augustine, Bishop of Hippo, restless spirits of Old Reman mythology. Before the First Prophet, the Old Reman's made sacrifices to the dead. The dead, honored for their good works in life were granted small household shrines, and granted occasional offerings for protection and good fortune. The dead who were feared for their evil deeds, however, were given frequent sacrifices and an annual festival in order to appease their wrath and turn aside their mischief. Bishop Augustine considered the whole practice to be illogical and foolish, in addition to an act of blasphemy against Theus and the Prophet. What value, he argued, was there in performing good deeds, in acting in the public interest, in caring for others, when the wicked were rewarded, both in life and death, more so than the righteous? Why should the evil repent of their foul deeds when the afterlife held feasting and festivals in their honor for all eternity? The Bishop made many other arguments regarding the illogic of the Remans and the superiority of the Church of the Prophets--superiority of values, superiority of truths, and superiority of reason. But this one argument seems to apply conversely to sorcerers. The Church condemns them as agents and tools of the Adversary simply for being born different. Are we not, by doing so, encouraging them to turn away from the Theus, since the Church has made it clear that there is no place for them at the Prophet's table?
I have no answers, and if I did, I am not certain that I would remember them after all is said and done. My life, my history, my very soul will change. Who can say if who I will be will respond in the same way? How much of who we are now is shaped by the choices and events of the past? I am not the same man that I was a decade ago, and, even if Te****a has played me false, I will not be the same man in a decade. Is the man that I was then dead? Perhaps, perhaps not. So I may hold onto hope that the man I am now, will not die once the cloth of my past is rewoven.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
At the time, I did not have complete knowledge of who or what she was. I knew only that her claims to have seen and banished the Unraveled had been confirmed before my eyes. Still, I doubted her good will. I was, after all, a member of an organization that had sworn to put her and those like her to the flame. She had no reason to help or trust me--and good reason to wish me harm. It would have been the height of foolishness to trust entirely to her good will without determining whether or not I could trust her. And when I discovered that the person who had directed me to her in the first place did not know of whom I spoke, I knew that there was a problem.
[The book goes on to detail Bernardo's research into legends of Strega, particularly ones reputed to be capable of altering memories.]
They say that forewarned is forearmed, but even with all that I had discovered, I did not feel prepared to face a being who may or may not have been already dead.
What Everyone Knows
Religion in Lombardi is a study in contradition. It is the birth place of our Mother Church and in no other place -- excepting, of course, my native Castille -- is there such a concentration of the faithful. If ever the continent had a natural bastion for the word of the Prophets, it would be Lombardi. Except. Lombardi is also the heart of Old Remus, the origin of the arrangements with the dark powers of the Adversary. The source of sorcery. And in no other place -- excepting, perhaps, Versailles -- is the power and cost of sorcery so lightly regarded and so openly practiced.
There is no other place, real or imagined, where men are so faithful to their mistresses and so faithless to their wives -- and where such an arrangement is considered so natural that the practice of monogamy is what is remarked upon rather than the reverse. And in no other nation are women so universally degraded and feared in equal measure.
To live in Lombardi is to live in two worlds, neither of which have more than a tangental connection to reality.
But I digress.
I came to Lombardi to find the truth of the nature of the Strega. The power to influence a man's future is curious, but ultimately unremarkable. Men and women do so everyday, with their words and their actions. Who can say what will finally change the course of a man's destiny. But the power to change the past, to alter what has already been written in stone and turn back the hands of time, that would be a power that people would trade their souls to possess. The question was: Had they?
[He goes on to relate his difficulties searching out legends regarding Strega of note and researching the circumstances of their powers, specifically stories that relate documented expressions of Sorte that can't otherwise be passed off as bad luck.]
My questions, however, were not answered to my satisfaction. Nobody had ever questioned these legends before, and the answers always seemed to be "That's how everyone tells it." or "That's just the way it is." But the difficulty with extracting truth from legends paled in comparison to the trouble that came of asking about the Unravelled.
Chapter 7
Under the Surface
Ask anyone in Lombardi about the Unravelled and they will tell you that they know someone who knows someone who has a cousin who saw one. To the collective unconscious of Lombardi, they are nothing more than an allegory, a fable warning of the dangers of becoming too secure in one's power. The stories say that they are Strega who tampered too heavily with Fate, that were slain by the use of their own power. As if the fate that they suffer at the hands of their countrymen simply for being born with a power that others covet were not sufficient punishment. It is said that they are mindless beasts, bent by Legion into destroying what they love in order to be free of the torment that (of course, the stories claim) they brought upon themselves.
Obviously, I thought at the time, there must be more to these stories than a simplistic metaphor. Life is not so easy that connections to others fade upon our deaths, nor are the bonds of emotion so weak that they cease to influence our behavior even years later. Thus, I find it difficult to imagine that a creature bound to this world by emotional ties (for what else are the strands that the Strega claim to manipulate) would seek to break those bonds by violence in death when they were crafted by all manner of behavior in life.
I was partially correct.
After much searching, I found a person, a Strega, who claimed to have seen the Unravelled. Claimed, in fact, to have banished them by weakening their strands rather than through violence. While her use of sorcery disturbed me, I could not see how its use--if she did what she claimed--in any way served Legion.
When we found the creature, and it was a creature, was no longer human. A tangled mess of bone and sinew, it made squelching noises as it approached. As I watched, muscle and flesh were restored, pale skin returned, and it was once again a weeping woman. The woman (for having seen her living form, I could no longer think of her as some wretched undead creature) wailed and sobbed for her lost love, dead at her own hands, along with their child. Revenge, she said, for his perfidious ways. And then the words that would haunt me until my death:
"Change their fate, you can, you know, you can bring them back."
But the dead woman refused, something about deserving death...and then she was dust.
On our way back, she explained it to me. {the book goes on to explain that the legends of the Unravelled are true, but incomplete. They are only mindless beasts because they choose to be so. They are masters of Sorte, they could strengthen their strands, and thus their connection to the world instead of degenerating into undead monsters. But doing so means clinging to memories that ultimately cause emotional pain and most people aren't strong enough to torture themselves for power.}
Before she left, my guide said that if I ever needed anything I should not hesitate to call upon her. And that I knew her name.
Chapter 8
Ghost Stories
Lares, Larvae, Lemures, and Manes are, according to the writings of the theologian, Augustine, Bishop of Hippo, restless spirits of Old Reman mythology. Before the First Prophet, the Old Reman's made sacrifices to the dead. The dead, honored for their good works in life were granted small household shrines, and granted occasional offerings for protection and good fortune. The dead who were feared for their evil deeds, however, were given frequent sacrifices and an annual festival in order to appease their wrath and turn aside their mischief. Bishop Augustine considered the whole practice to be illogical and foolish, in addition to an act of blasphemy against Theus and the Prophet. What value, he argued, was there in performing good deeds, in acting in the public interest, in caring for others, when the wicked were rewarded, both in life and death, more so than the righteous? Why should the evil repent of their foul deeds when the afterlife held feasting and festivals in their honor for all eternity? The Bishop made many other arguments regarding the illogic of the Remans and the superiority of the Church of the Prophets--superiority of values, superiority of truths, and superiority of reason. But this one argument seems to apply conversely to sorcerers. The Church condemns them as agents and tools of the Adversary simply for being born different. Are we not, by doing so, encouraging them to turn away from the Theus, since the Church has made it clear that there is no place for them at the Prophet's table?
I have no answers, and if I did, I am not certain that I would remember them after all is said and done. My life, my history, my very soul will change. Who can say if who I will be will respond in the same way? How much of who we are now is shaped by the choices and events of the past? I am not the same man that I was a decade ago, and, even if Te****a has played me false, I will not be the same man in a decade. Is the man that I was then dead? Perhaps, perhaps not. So I may hold onto hope that the man I am now, will not die once the cloth of my past is rewoven.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
At the time, I did not have complete knowledge of who or what she was. I knew only that her claims to have seen and banished the Unraveled had been confirmed before my eyes. Still, I doubted her good will. I was, after all, a member of an organization that had sworn to put her and those like her to the flame. She had no reason to help or trust me--and good reason to wish me harm. It would have been the height of foolishness to trust entirely to her good will without determining whether or not I could trust her. And when I discovered that the person who had directed me to her in the first place did not know of whom I spoke, I knew that there was a problem.
[The book goes on to detail Bernardo's research into legends of Strega, particularly ones reputed to be capable of altering memories.]
They say that forewarned is forearmed, but even with all that I had discovered, I did not feel prepared to face a being who may or may not have been already dead.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
[Memoir] The Unknown Life of Teo{water damage} (cont.)
Chapter 3
Seeing the Obvious
On the surface, the idea of a person, or even a creature, that can make a lie out of the entirety of your experience seems ludicrous. The product of metaphorical fiction rather than historical fact. And so, it seemed, was the woman in the legends and fables. I believed—still believe, despite evidence to the contrary—that she was not a literal woman, but a metaphor for the endless possibilities in our lives for good or ill; an opportunity, despite our sins, to follow the path of the Prophets. But the question remained: why a woman clad in black?
If you happen to be of Lombardi, then the answer must seem obvious to you, so obvious that the question need not have been asked in the first place. But I? I am Castilliano, and for us, sorcery is not a part of our daily lives, does not exist as part and parcel of our normal experience. Do you wonder that I speak of sorcery but do not condemn it? And I, a true servant of the Theus and the Prophets?
Some might call sorcery the great temptation of the Adversary, and sorcerers its spawn, but they are wrong to do so. The source of sorcery might be dark bargains with the Adversary, but the sorcerers of today had no part in that. The power in their blood makes them no more evil than any man. That they might use their power is a temptation unique to them, but all men face temptation. That a sorcerer is tempted to wield the powers of the Adversary does not make them evil any more than a swordsman who is tempted to murder is evil. It is only in the act that we might fall from temptation into sin.
But I digress.
The idea that the women in the stories could be sorcerers did not occur to me until my travels took me to Lombardi. And it was in Lombardi that I first saw the Strega, what others call Fate Witches, a line of them, headed to mass. It was like a scene from one of the tales that I had collected and I knew then that I needed to know more.
{the book goes on to detail his studies into the lives and powers of the strega, only what is commonly known in Lombardi, but common knowledge in one place is often esoterica in another}
I had an answer, of sorts. The metaphorical woman of the myths, could have been a reference to strega. Not a single entity, of course, but the sorceresses as a whole. It was a curious thing though, all of the tales that I had collected, all of the legends that I had heard, were from other places. If they had been from Lombardi, the presence of a strega would be understandable—they are part and parcel of the fabric of Lombardi life. But they were not, not a single one. Oh, there were tales of strega in Lombardi, but all of them seemed to be traceable to specific, historical figures, or their power was specifically reference (and matched the reality that could be seen on a daily basis). But the stories were not from Lombardi, and the women seemed to be something wholly different. At least, that is what I thought.
Chapter 4
The Road to Hell
Does it seem strange to you that a man such as myself, with such convictions regarding the innocence of sorcerers, should join the Inquisition? As well it should! I wish I could say that my motives were pure and that I sought to reform the Inquisition from within. That would have been a noble and worthy goal. But the truth was that I had no illusions that I could influence an organization so steeped in blood and fire to change its ways. No, in all honesty it was my study of the Strega that prompted me to enlist in the Inquisition. It was not that I wished any harm to the sorceresses of Lombardi--rather the opposite--but I needed to know more about their talent than what was commonly known, and for a man of the cloth, only the Inquisition could offer that knowledge. Because the existence of Strega implied some glimmering of truth to the legends that I had been collecting as a mere academic exercise. The idea that one's history could be changed, that time itself could be rewritten was too tempting to disregard.
They say that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, and my motives were the best. Pure and unselfish, or so I thought. But that is a later part of this tale.
I cannot write of the greater part of the Mysteries of the Inquisition, for those are secrets and rituals regarding which I have sworn secrecy. Sufficed to say that there are secrets that the Inquisition holds that are the stuff of nightmares, if nightmares could exist in reality. However, some portion of their knowledge is not secret, merely esoteric, such as what I found in the Libraries.
(He goes on to discuss some of the various lost sorceries)
Seeing the Obvious
On the surface, the idea of a person, or even a creature, that can make a lie out of the entirety of your experience seems ludicrous. The product of metaphorical fiction rather than historical fact. And so, it seemed, was the woman in the legends and fables. I believed—still believe, despite evidence to the contrary—that she was not a literal woman, but a metaphor for the endless possibilities in our lives for good or ill; an opportunity, despite our sins, to follow the path of the Prophets. But the question remained: why a woman clad in black?
If you happen to be of Lombardi, then the answer must seem obvious to you, so obvious that the question need not have been asked in the first place. But I? I am Castilliano, and for us, sorcery is not a part of our daily lives, does not exist as part and parcel of our normal experience. Do you wonder that I speak of sorcery but do not condemn it? And I, a true servant of the Theus and the Prophets?
Some might call sorcery the great temptation of the Adversary, and sorcerers its spawn, but they are wrong to do so. The source of sorcery might be dark bargains with the Adversary, but the sorcerers of today had no part in that. The power in their blood makes them no more evil than any man. That they might use their power is a temptation unique to them, but all men face temptation. That a sorcerer is tempted to wield the powers of the Adversary does not make them evil any more than a swordsman who is tempted to murder is evil. It is only in the act that we might fall from temptation into sin.
But I digress.
The idea that the women in the stories could be sorcerers did not occur to me until my travels took me to Lombardi. And it was in Lombardi that I first saw the Strega, what others call Fate Witches, a line of them, headed to mass. It was like a scene from one of the tales that I had collected and I knew then that I needed to know more.
{the book goes on to detail his studies into the lives and powers of the strega, only what is commonly known in Lombardi, but common knowledge in one place is often esoterica in another}
I had an answer, of sorts. The metaphorical woman of the myths, could have been a reference to strega. Not a single entity, of course, but the sorceresses as a whole. It was a curious thing though, all of the tales that I had collected, all of the legends that I had heard, were from other places. If they had been from Lombardi, the presence of a strega would be understandable—they are part and parcel of the fabric of Lombardi life. But they were not, not a single one. Oh, there were tales of strega in Lombardi, but all of them seemed to be traceable to specific, historical figures, or their power was specifically reference (and matched the reality that could be seen on a daily basis). But the stories were not from Lombardi, and the women seemed to be something wholly different. At least, that is what I thought.
Chapter 4
The Road to Hell
Does it seem strange to you that a man such as myself, with such convictions regarding the innocence of sorcerers, should join the Inquisition? As well it should! I wish I could say that my motives were pure and that I sought to reform the Inquisition from within. That would have been a noble and worthy goal. But the truth was that I had no illusions that I could influence an organization so steeped in blood and fire to change its ways. No, in all honesty it was my study of the Strega that prompted me to enlist in the Inquisition. It was not that I wished any harm to the sorceresses of Lombardi--rather the opposite--but I needed to know more about their talent than what was commonly known, and for a man of the cloth, only the Inquisition could offer that knowledge. Because the existence of Strega implied some glimmering of truth to the legends that I had been collecting as a mere academic exercise. The idea that one's history could be changed, that time itself could be rewritten was too tempting to disregard.
They say that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, and my motives were the best. Pure and unselfish, or so I thought. But that is a later part of this tale.
I cannot write of the greater part of the Mysteries of the Inquisition, for those are secrets and rituals regarding which I have sworn secrecy. Sufficed to say that there are secrets that the Inquisition holds that are the stuff of nightmares, if nightmares could exist in reality. However, some portion of their knowledge is not secret, merely esoteric, such as what I found in the Libraries.
(He goes on to discuss some of the various lost sorceries)
But there was only so much I could learn from dry, dusty tomes. To find what I truly searched for, I would need to go to Vodacce.]
Chapter 5
In Plain Sight
One might wonder where the monster in the tale has gone and why I have yet to speak of it, considering that this is her story and not my own. And to that I would say that she is here, hidden among the pages, if one knows how to see. I found her lurking, hidden among the pages of the Inquisition’s secret texts, the ones that speak of the dark power of sorcery. I have argued that sorcerers are not to be condemned for the power that is lurking within their blood, but sorcery itself is a pernicious evil. The more so because it lurks, hidden, within the innocent.
It is the Inquisition’s shame that they have not fully revealed the true cost of sorcery, and I shall not be forsworn to do so either. But the cost of revealing it would be the death of countless innocents—sorcerers and non-sorcerers alike, because people destroy what they fear, and the revelation would plunge all of the continent into a new dark age of fear and destruction.
But none of that was what concerned me at the time, for I had discovered something wondrous. Or so I believed.
When one thinks of the Inquisition, they think of the Swords of Solomon or those priests who bring the fire. I will not argue that these elements are true representations of the Church’s mighty hammer, but they are only the smallest, most visible portion. Most of what the Inquisition does is invisible: research, interviews, preparations. It is good that it is so, because I am entirely unsuited to delivering fire and death.
I was, as you can imagine, relegated to the study and catalogue of sacred and iniquitous tomes that the Inquisition had collected. (He goes on to discuss some of the texts that were in the Inquisition libraries, including: Queen Marietta Lorenzo - the Last True Lombardi Royal and Murder by Magic - a collection of cautionary tales regarding Strega)
Among those dusty volumes, however, I found mention of a creature, a being known as the Unraveled. At first, I believed that this was merely a reference to the Unbound—those males in Lombardi for whom the strands of fate could not be altered by sorcery—but the more that I investigated, the more that I realized that the Unraveled were something different: Strega who had suffered the ultimate price for the power that lurked in their blood. The texts spoke of them as if they were creatures to be pitied and destroyed, malevolent beings doomed by their own power, full of hatred for the living. But these were tomes written by the Church, authors with a distinct and definitive bias. What if, instead, they were Strega who had found a way to escape the consequences of their sorcery? The Church would not like such tales bandied about, it would mean that everything they had ever said about sorcerers was false, and it would spark a search for these creatures, perhaps even inspire their worship. No, the Church would brook no rivals. But I, foolishly enough, saw hope. Strega who could bend fate to their will without fear of its consequences? It was a dream, a fantasy, to be free from this purgatory of guilt that I suffered from. With renewed vigor, I applied myself to my studies, planning all the while for a visit to Lombardi.
Chapter 5
In Plain Sight
One might wonder where the monster in the tale has gone and why I have yet to speak of it, considering that this is her story and not my own. And to that I would say that she is here, hidden among the pages, if one knows how to see. I found her lurking, hidden among the pages of the Inquisition’s secret texts, the ones that speak of the dark power of sorcery. I have argued that sorcerers are not to be condemned for the power that is lurking within their blood, but sorcery itself is a pernicious evil. The more so because it lurks, hidden, within the innocent.
It is the Inquisition’s shame that they have not fully revealed the true cost of sorcery, and I shall not be forsworn to do so either. But the cost of revealing it would be the death of countless innocents—sorcerers and non-sorcerers alike, because people destroy what they fear, and the revelation would plunge all of the continent into a new dark age of fear and destruction.
But none of that was what concerned me at the time, for I had discovered something wondrous. Or so I believed.
When one thinks of the Inquisition, they think of the Swords of Solomon or those priests who bring the fire. I will not argue that these elements are true representations of the Church’s mighty hammer, but they are only the smallest, most visible portion. Most of what the Inquisition does is invisible: research, interviews, preparations. It is good that it is so, because I am entirely unsuited to delivering fire and death.
I was, as you can imagine, relegated to the study and catalogue of sacred and iniquitous tomes that the Inquisition had collected. (He goes on to discuss some of the texts that were in the Inquisition libraries, including: Queen Marietta Lorenzo - the Last True Lombardi Royal and Murder by Magic - a collection of cautionary tales regarding Strega)
Among those dusty volumes, however, I found mention of a creature, a being known as the Unraveled. At first, I believed that this was merely a reference to the Unbound—those males in Lombardi for whom the strands of fate could not be altered by sorcery—but the more that I investigated, the more that I realized that the Unraveled were something different: Strega who had suffered the ultimate price for the power that lurked in their blood. The texts spoke of them as if they were creatures to be pitied and destroyed, malevolent beings doomed by their own power, full of hatred for the living. But these were tomes written by the Church, authors with a distinct and definitive bias. What if, instead, they were Strega who had found a way to escape the consequences of their sorcery? The Church would not like such tales bandied about, it would mean that everything they had ever said about sorcerers was false, and it would spark a search for these creatures, perhaps even inspire their worship. No, the Church would brook no rivals. But I, foolishly enough, saw hope. Strega who could bend fate to their will without fear of its consequences? It was a dream, a fantasy, to be free from this purgatory of guilt that I suffered from. With renewed vigor, I applied myself to my studies, planning all the while for a visit to Lombardi.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Well, I wrote it, but I'm not sure what it's good for...[Memoir] The Unknown Life of Teo{water damage}
A few weeks ago, I wrote about world building, what it is, and how it works. But I didn't really explain what I was doing in particular. Which, given that this is a blog about writing and actually putting what I write out there, seems counter productive. So a little background: most of what I've been writing has been set in a Regency(ish) Not-Europe (think Jane Austin with magic and women with sharp pointy things). Of course, instead of doing the easy thing--which would have been to thoughtfully add a few details here and there to clue the reader in--I wrote a collection of essays and vignettes that turned into something like a fictional memoir. That would be fine, except now that I look at it, it's really intended to be part of a larger tale. A text to be read by the characters rather than by actual readers (or at least not by readers who aren't reading the main story).
So, now the question is: what do I do with it? Certainly, it establishes the setting as an alternate history with some basis in actual history (barring, of course, the magic and the prevalence sword wielding women). But, the problem is, I have no story for it to fit into. So I post it here, because I don't know what else to do with it. Maybe someone else will know.
Forward
If you are reading this, it means that I have failed and the creature who calls herself the Unravelled still exists. I do not say live, because she is not alive, though nor is she dead. She has found some way to untangle herself from the threads of fate, yet still work her evil upon the world. By now, I am, of course long dead--or perhaps never existed. The ways of Fate are, even after all this time, still a mystery to me, but let this be my legacy. The final blow that ends the reign of terror that Te(the ink is too faded to read) has unleashed. I am Bernardo de Sandoval y Rojas and this is my end.
Chapter 1
Beginnings are Important
This is not my story. This is the story of a monster touched by the power of the Adversary, the power of sorcery. But to understand her story, you must know something about my life. And if you are to know that, I must be the one to tell you, for certainly my name will have, by this point, be lost to the annals of history.
{The book goes on to discuss certain details of his life, his family, and major life events. Oddly, not all of the events coincide with the information recorded in known history. After his ordination, Bernardo reports that he became the Priest for the Abby of Saint Winnefred in Torres, but became a pilgriming monk after the Abby burned down in 1437. (He blamed himself for its loss, having wished for a more prestigious appointment by which he might win greater reknown like his more successful relatives.) There is no mention that he was ever elected Bishop in 1436.}
And with the loss of Saint Winnefred and her Abby, I began my pilgrimage of repentance, little knowing the spawn of Legion which Theus had placed in my path.
Chapter 2
Legends Hide Truths
Every story has, at its heart, a grain of truth. Sometimes that truth is hidden in a riddle, disguised as an enigma, masquerading as a metaphor. And sometimes the truth is too fantastical to be believed.
I first heard of the creature known as Teo**** from an old nun, recounting a dark, uncanny version of the life of Saint John Chrysostom, better known to the masses as “John GoldenMouth.”
The strange story goes that there was once in Remus a Hierophant who heard the wailing lamentations of an undead soul. “I am a miserable soul,” the spirit cried mournfully, taking the shape of a woman in mourning black, her face veiled and hidden, “suffering in the flames of the Adversary.”
"There is in Remus a certain woman who has conceived by him a child that is to be a blessed man and he will become a priest. Now if that priest will say seventeen masses on my behalf, I shall be released from the clutches of the Adversary.”
The Hierophant returned to the City and inquired after the pious couple. When she was found, he begged from her the opportunity to adopt her child. He had the infant carried to his court, where he named it John and took it into his protection, caring for it as if it were his son.
John, at the age of seven, was sent to school, but was conspicuously poor in his studies. The other boys began to make mock of him and he was ashamed. So when he went to church every morning he prayed to Theus that he should be successful in his work. One day, when he came in for his prayers, there was a noble woman, dressed in mourning black, weeping in the pews.
“How can I help you?” John asked, though he was eager to be about his business.
“You cannot help me now,” was the reply, “but accept my blessings, and someday you will be able to undo the chains that bind me.”
“What must I do?” he asked.
“Kiss my mouth and you shall be filled with knowledge and become master of all arts. You shall become more learned than any man on earth.”
Though he was sore afraid, the temptation of it was too much for him to bear. So he closed his eyes and drew back the lady’s veil, and pressed his trembling mouth to the lips of the lady, all unseeing of her countenance, and by that kiss drew into himself wisdom and miraculous knowledge of the arts.
John returned to the school, and he settled down to listen and learn. But it transpired that he knew more than all the others together and no longer required to be taught. There was a golden circlet around his mouth, and it shone like a star. His companions were astonished. “How does it happen that you now know everything?” they demanded. “Only yesterday, not even a flogging could teach you!” He described to them a miracle by which a statue had come to life and given him his golden sign (for who would believe the truth?), and they called him GoldenMouth. “You deserve this title,” they said, “for the words from your mouth are as gold.” And there after it was John GoldenMouth who did all the teaching at the school.
The Hierophant entertained a great love for John GoldenMouth and, since he was impatient to release the suffering soul from the Adversary, had the boy ordained as soon as possible. John celebrated his first mass at the age of sixteen. But while he was at the altar a disquieting thought occurred to him: “I am as yet too young, and only here due to the blessings of that poor lady. To become a priest and commune with Theus before being really prepared must be contrary to the Prophet’s will. I am going to rue this day forever.” He continued saying the mass, but a resolution was taking shape in his mind. “Temporal possessions are bad for the soul; I will therefore pledge myself to be poor, for the sake of Theus. When the banquet in honor of my first mass is over, I shall withdraw to the wilderness and remain there as a hermit as long as I live,” he thought.
The Hierophant, full of joy, held a banquet for John GoldenMouth and everybody rejoiced at the early ordination, but the young priest remained firm in his resolve. When the company had dispersed, he stole away, clad in poor clothes and carrying scarcely a loaf of bread.
When the Hierophant learned of this event he was greatly troubled, and searched everywhere for his vanished prodigy. But John had built himself a hut of bark and leaves in a hidden fastness of the wilderness, beside a spring and at the edge of a cliff. The hermitage was not discovered. Subsisting on roots and herbs, he remained there and served Theus day and night. He prayed, he fasted, and he kept himself continually awake, steadfast in his devotion.
Now, not far from the forest in which John had built his hermitage there lived the Imperator in his castle, and one day the daughter of this Imperator went with the maidens of her suite to gather flowers. A sudden gale arose, swept the country, and was so terribly strong that all of the frightened maidens scattered looking for shelter. When they gathered again, they discovered that the princess was no longer among them, nor could they imagine in what direction in what direction she might have run. When they returned to the Imperator, they told a fantastic story about how the wind had lifted them high into the air and stolen the royal princess. The Imperator, of course, was distracted when he was told, and searched diligently and extensively. But the beautiful royal maid could not be found.
Actually, she was an adventurous sort, and had taken the opportunity to explore the forest where John’s hermitage was to be found. But soon she was lost and bewildered, but quite unhurt. Seeing the little hut—and John within it, who was kneeling at his prayers—she felt reassured and called out. Hearing the clear voice, the saintly youth turned his head, and when he perceived her, was alarmed. The apparition—for so he thought the vision of loveliness that appeared before him must be—implored him not to leave her to die of hunger or fall prey to the animals of the forest, and at last he was persuaded to admit her to the cell; for he considered that he would be guilty before Theus if he permitted her to die.
John took his staff, however, and drawing a line across the floor of the cell, divided it in two. One side he assigned to the girl. And he commanded her not to cross the line but to lead, in her part of the cell, such a life as should befit a proper recluse. They continued for a while, side by side in this way, praying, fasting, and serving Theus, but the Adversary envied them their life in sanctity. He succeeded one night in provoking John to cross the line and take the girl in his arms, whereupon they fell into sin. And after that they were smitten with remorse.
John was afraid that if the girl should remain with him he would fall again, so he conducted her to the edge of the cliff and pushed her over. But the moment he had done this, he understood that he had sinned even worse than before. “Oh wretched, accursed creature that I am!” he cried. “Now I have murdered this innocent girl. She would never have thought of sin had I not seduced her. And I have deprived her now of her life. Theus certainly will avenge this terrible sin on me forever.”
John quit his hermitage in despair and left the wilderness. “Theus, my God,” he lamented, “Thou has forsaken me.” After a little time he felt a little hope. “I shall confess,” he decided; and so he proceeded to the Hierophant, confessed his sin, and professed repentance, but his godfather, who did not recognize him, turned him away in a storm of indignation. “Depart from my sight, you have dealt bestially with this innocent girl,” said the Hierophant, “and the sin is on your head.”
“I shall not doubt God,” John thought; and he returned, deeply afflicted, to his hut, where he knelt and made this solemn prayer and vow: “May Theus, whose mercy is greater than y sin, accept graciously the penance I am about to impose upon myself. I vow to walk on all fours, like a beast, until I shall have earned Theus’s grace. Theus, in His mercy, will let me know when I have atoned.”
But no sooner had he gone down on his hands and knees, then his benefactor, the lady in black appeared.
“John GoldenMouth, you are a wretched man,” she declared, “a liar and a murderer besides. But the Theus inscribed your fate in his Book at the beginning of time, and no fool such as yourself is to thwart it. Turn, and behold what Theus’s mercy has wrought.”
And by a great miracle, there was the princess in the hut, as beautiful there as she had ever been, clothed in her royal garments as if their time together had not occurred. And so John returned to the world to great acclaim for the return of the princess who had been lost these many months. The Hierophant in due time made John a bishop, and he filled the office with humility, serving Theus with the utmost devotion. His sermons were like the chaplets of gold, and he was called again “John GoldenMouth.”
At the time, I had no notion of where these tales would lead me, but I knew, as to all true students of the Prophet, that there is a grain of truth to all tales. So I began my search in earnest for more stories of this woman who could so drastically change a man’s fate, little knowing that the spawn of Legion was there, hiding in among the stories that I uncovered…
{The chapter goes on to relate several other stories, each involving a lady veiled and clad in mourning black}
There are several other chapters to be posted, but they all need a bit of editing, so I'll be posting them as I fix them.
So, now the question is: what do I do with it? Certainly, it establishes the setting as an alternate history with some basis in actual history (barring, of course, the magic and the prevalence sword wielding women). But, the problem is, I have no story for it to fit into. So I post it here, because I don't know what else to do with it. Maybe someone else will know.
Forward
If you are reading this, it means that I have failed and the creature who calls herself the Unravelled still exists. I do not say live, because she is not alive, though nor is she dead. She has found some way to untangle herself from the threads of fate, yet still work her evil upon the world. By now, I am, of course long dead--or perhaps never existed. The ways of Fate are, even after all this time, still a mystery to me, but let this be my legacy. The final blow that ends the reign of terror that Te(the ink is too faded to read) has unleashed. I am Bernardo de Sandoval y Rojas and this is my end.
Chapter 1
Beginnings are Important
This is not my story. This is the story of a monster touched by the power of the Adversary, the power of sorcery. But to understand her story, you must know something about my life. And if you are to know that, I must be the one to tell you, for certainly my name will have, by this point, be lost to the annals of history.
{The book goes on to discuss certain details of his life, his family, and major life events. Oddly, not all of the events coincide with the information recorded in known history. After his ordination, Bernardo reports that he became the Priest for the Abby of Saint Winnefred in Torres, but became a pilgriming monk after the Abby burned down in 1437. (He blamed himself for its loss, having wished for a more prestigious appointment by which he might win greater reknown like his more successful relatives.) There is no mention that he was ever elected Bishop in 1436.}
And with the loss of Saint Winnefred and her Abby, I began my pilgrimage of repentance, little knowing the spawn of Legion which Theus had placed in my path.
Chapter 2
Legends Hide Truths
Every story has, at its heart, a grain of truth. Sometimes that truth is hidden in a riddle, disguised as an enigma, masquerading as a metaphor. And sometimes the truth is too fantastical to be believed.
I first heard of the creature known as Teo**** from an old nun, recounting a dark, uncanny version of the life of Saint John Chrysostom, better known to the masses as “John GoldenMouth.”
The strange story goes that there was once in Remus a Hierophant who heard the wailing lamentations of an undead soul. “I am a miserable soul,” the spirit cried mournfully, taking the shape of a woman in mourning black, her face veiled and hidden, “suffering in the flames of the Adversary.”
"There is in Remus a certain woman who has conceived by him a child that is to be a blessed man and he will become a priest. Now if that priest will say seventeen masses on my behalf, I shall be released from the clutches of the Adversary.”
The Hierophant returned to the City and inquired after the pious couple. When she was found, he begged from her the opportunity to adopt her child. He had the infant carried to his court, where he named it John and took it into his protection, caring for it as if it were his son.
John, at the age of seven, was sent to school, but was conspicuously poor in his studies. The other boys began to make mock of him and he was ashamed. So when he went to church every morning he prayed to Theus that he should be successful in his work. One day, when he came in for his prayers, there was a noble woman, dressed in mourning black, weeping in the pews.
“How can I help you?” John asked, though he was eager to be about his business.
“You cannot help me now,” was the reply, “but accept my blessings, and someday you will be able to undo the chains that bind me.”
“What must I do?” he asked.
“Kiss my mouth and you shall be filled with knowledge and become master of all arts. You shall become more learned than any man on earth.”
Though he was sore afraid, the temptation of it was too much for him to bear. So he closed his eyes and drew back the lady’s veil, and pressed his trembling mouth to the lips of the lady, all unseeing of her countenance, and by that kiss drew into himself wisdom and miraculous knowledge of the arts.
John returned to the school, and he settled down to listen and learn. But it transpired that he knew more than all the others together and no longer required to be taught. There was a golden circlet around his mouth, and it shone like a star. His companions were astonished. “How does it happen that you now know everything?” they demanded. “Only yesterday, not even a flogging could teach you!” He described to them a miracle by which a statue had come to life and given him his golden sign (for who would believe the truth?), and they called him GoldenMouth. “You deserve this title,” they said, “for the words from your mouth are as gold.” And there after it was John GoldenMouth who did all the teaching at the school.
The Hierophant entertained a great love for John GoldenMouth and, since he was impatient to release the suffering soul from the Adversary, had the boy ordained as soon as possible. John celebrated his first mass at the age of sixteen. But while he was at the altar a disquieting thought occurred to him: “I am as yet too young, and only here due to the blessings of that poor lady. To become a priest and commune with Theus before being really prepared must be contrary to the Prophet’s will. I am going to rue this day forever.” He continued saying the mass, but a resolution was taking shape in his mind. “Temporal possessions are bad for the soul; I will therefore pledge myself to be poor, for the sake of Theus. When the banquet in honor of my first mass is over, I shall withdraw to the wilderness and remain there as a hermit as long as I live,” he thought.
The Hierophant, full of joy, held a banquet for John GoldenMouth and everybody rejoiced at the early ordination, but the young priest remained firm in his resolve. When the company had dispersed, he stole away, clad in poor clothes and carrying scarcely a loaf of bread.
When the Hierophant learned of this event he was greatly troubled, and searched everywhere for his vanished prodigy. But John had built himself a hut of bark and leaves in a hidden fastness of the wilderness, beside a spring and at the edge of a cliff. The hermitage was not discovered. Subsisting on roots and herbs, he remained there and served Theus day and night. He prayed, he fasted, and he kept himself continually awake, steadfast in his devotion.
Now, not far from the forest in which John had built his hermitage there lived the Imperator in his castle, and one day the daughter of this Imperator went with the maidens of her suite to gather flowers. A sudden gale arose, swept the country, and was so terribly strong that all of the frightened maidens scattered looking for shelter. When they gathered again, they discovered that the princess was no longer among them, nor could they imagine in what direction in what direction she might have run. When they returned to the Imperator, they told a fantastic story about how the wind had lifted them high into the air and stolen the royal princess. The Imperator, of course, was distracted when he was told, and searched diligently and extensively. But the beautiful royal maid could not be found.
Actually, she was an adventurous sort, and had taken the opportunity to explore the forest where John’s hermitage was to be found. But soon she was lost and bewildered, but quite unhurt. Seeing the little hut—and John within it, who was kneeling at his prayers—she felt reassured and called out. Hearing the clear voice, the saintly youth turned his head, and when he perceived her, was alarmed. The apparition—for so he thought the vision of loveliness that appeared before him must be—implored him not to leave her to die of hunger or fall prey to the animals of the forest, and at last he was persuaded to admit her to the cell; for he considered that he would be guilty before Theus if he permitted her to die.
John took his staff, however, and drawing a line across the floor of the cell, divided it in two. One side he assigned to the girl. And he commanded her not to cross the line but to lead, in her part of the cell, such a life as should befit a proper recluse. They continued for a while, side by side in this way, praying, fasting, and serving Theus, but the Adversary envied them their life in sanctity. He succeeded one night in provoking John to cross the line and take the girl in his arms, whereupon they fell into sin. And after that they were smitten with remorse.
John was afraid that if the girl should remain with him he would fall again, so he conducted her to the edge of the cliff and pushed her over. But the moment he had done this, he understood that he had sinned even worse than before. “Oh wretched, accursed creature that I am!” he cried. “Now I have murdered this innocent girl. She would never have thought of sin had I not seduced her. And I have deprived her now of her life. Theus certainly will avenge this terrible sin on me forever.”
John quit his hermitage in despair and left the wilderness. “Theus, my God,” he lamented, “Thou has forsaken me.” After a little time he felt a little hope. “I shall confess,” he decided; and so he proceeded to the Hierophant, confessed his sin, and professed repentance, but his godfather, who did not recognize him, turned him away in a storm of indignation. “Depart from my sight, you have dealt bestially with this innocent girl,” said the Hierophant, “and the sin is on your head.”
“I shall not doubt God,” John thought; and he returned, deeply afflicted, to his hut, where he knelt and made this solemn prayer and vow: “May Theus, whose mercy is greater than y sin, accept graciously the penance I am about to impose upon myself. I vow to walk on all fours, like a beast, until I shall have earned Theus’s grace. Theus, in His mercy, will let me know when I have atoned.”
But no sooner had he gone down on his hands and knees, then his benefactor, the lady in black appeared.
“John GoldenMouth, you are a wretched man,” she declared, “a liar and a murderer besides. But the Theus inscribed your fate in his Book at the beginning of time, and no fool such as yourself is to thwart it. Turn, and behold what Theus’s mercy has wrought.”
And by a great miracle, there was the princess in the hut, as beautiful there as she had ever been, clothed in her royal garments as if their time together had not occurred. And so John returned to the world to great acclaim for the return of the princess who had been lost these many months. The Hierophant in due time made John a bishop, and he filled the office with humility, serving Theus with the utmost devotion. His sermons were like the chaplets of gold, and he was called again “John GoldenMouth.”
At the time, I had no notion of where these tales would lead me, but I knew, as to all true students of the Prophet, that there is a grain of truth to all tales. So I began my search in earnest for more stories of this woman who could so drastically change a man’s fate, little knowing that the spawn of Legion was there, hiding in among the stories that I uncovered…
{The chapter goes on to relate several other stories, each involving a lady veiled and clad in mourning black}
There are several other chapters to be posted, but they all need a bit of editing, so I'll be posting them as I fix them.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
[Epistolary] An Excerpt from the Correspondence of Clever Silk and Ardent Rose
My Dearest Clever Silk,
Though it pains me to admit it, perhaps you are correct and I have been somewhat over dramatic regarding the Pilgrimage to Lombardi. Though if anyone asks, I will most certainly categorically deny any such thing. Before you claim the whole of the credit for my change of heart, however, I must admit that Mother played no small part in it. I know you would tell me that Mother is an unlikely source of Sound Advice, and truly it is not that I have taken to agreeing with her. But she has been remarkably tight lipped for the duration of our Journey--and not just less outspoken like that time we took that tour of Avignon, but nearly silent. When have you ever known Mother to fail to share her opinion on anything? Yet since our departure she has developed the worrisome habit of wringing her hands in silence or pouring over some bit of correspondence. I have attempted to extract the information from by means both direct and subtle, but Mother refuses to answer or simply changes the subject and no one else aboard seems to know our purpose. I can only assume that the letter is the catalyst for our hurried leave taking, but I cannot imagine what would precipitate such drastic action as a journey to Lombardi. Perhaps the answer will be forthcoming on the morrow when we call upon Cousin Isabella. Though I suppose rightly she is no longer our cousin, as she is no longer the widow of Cousin David, but remarried to a Lombardi gentleman--by the name of Niccolo, I believe. I expect when I do discover the true purpose of our presence here, I shall have pages and pages to write to you.
As for Lombardi itself, how I wish you were here to appreciate it with me. In all honesty, I believe that you would appreciate it far more than I. There are few carriages and even fewer cobbled roads, as everyone here travels by gondola and sandolo. I know you say that you get terribly seasick, but allow me to remind you that I have seen you ride. If you can stay astride a horse with your reckless ways, you will enjoy the canals of Lombardi--though perhaps they are too sedate for your tastes.
On the other hand, as much as I expect that you will appreciate water craft as a stimulating mode of transportation, you may find its effect on the architecture rather disconcerting--I know that I most certainly do. You see, dear cousin, many of the buildings are four or five stories tall and few levels share the same aesthetic, even within the same building--towering and strange, I know you will say, but nothing to be overly concerned about. What caught my attention, however, was not the height or the terribly mismatched tastes, but that each floor had a door into empty air. This, of course, piqued my copious curiosity, so I made inquiries of one of the local bargemen. Well, I am well cured of my curiosity for the duration of our stay. Impossible, you shall exclaim, but I tell you that it is true. And you will understand when I relate what was told to me. You see, the man informed me that the buildings had been constructed in that manner because Lombardi is slowly sinking into the ocean as I write! Sinking! He said, rather gleefully I must say, that as each building descends to its watery grave, the next floor then becomes the ground level, and new floor is constructed upon the remains of the old. Panic must have shown on Mother's face because the man hurriedly informed her that the city had not sunken a single inch for decades. Something about a curse or a blessing placed on the city by a sorceress. A prophecy of some sort that the locals believe will never come to pass--or at least not within their lifetimes.
All the same, I believe that I will insist on residing on the highest floor that can be arranged. I, for one, have no intention of sinking into the sea along with the rest of Lombardi.
Affectionately yours,
Clever Silk
Though it pains me to admit it, perhaps you are correct and I have been somewhat over dramatic regarding the Pilgrimage to Lombardi. Though if anyone asks, I will most certainly categorically deny any such thing. Before you claim the whole of the credit for my change of heart, however, I must admit that Mother played no small part in it. I know you would tell me that Mother is an unlikely source of Sound Advice, and truly it is not that I have taken to agreeing with her. But she has been remarkably tight lipped for the duration of our Journey--and not just less outspoken like that time we took that tour of Avignon, but nearly silent. When have you ever known Mother to fail to share her opinion on anything? Yet since our departure she has developed the worrisome habit of wringing her hands in silence or pouring over some bit of correspondence. I have attempted to extract the information from by means both direct and subtle, but Mother refuses to answer or simply changes the subject and no one else aboard seems to know our purpose. I can only assume that the letter is the catalyst for our hurried leave taking, but I cannot imagine what would precipitate such drastic action as a journey to Lombardi. Perhaps the answer will be forthcoming on the morrow when we call upon Cousin Isabella. Though I suppose rightly she is no longer our cousin, as she is no longer the widow of Cousin David, but remarried to a Lombardi gentleman--by the name of Niccolo, I believe. I expect when I do discover the true purpose of our presence here, I shall have pages and pages to write to you.
As for Lombardi itself, how I wish you were here to appreciate it with me. In all honesty, I believe that you would appreciate it far more than I. There are few carriages and even fewer cobbled roads, as everyone here travels by gondola and sandolo. I know you say that you get terribly seasick, but allow me to remind you that I have seen you ride. If you can stay astride a horse with your reckless ways, you will enjoy the canals of Lombardi--though perhaps they are too sedate for your tastes.
On the other hand, as much as I expect that you will appreciate water craft as a stimulating mode of transportation, you may find its effect on the architecture rather disconcerting--I know that I most certainly do. You see, dear cousin, many of the buildings are four or five stories tall and few levels share the same aesthetic, even within the same building--towering and strange, I know you will say, but nothing to be overly concerned about. What caught my attention, however, was not the height or the terribly mismatched tastes, but that each floor had a door into empty air. This, of course, piqued my copious curiosity, so I made inquiries of one of the local bargemen. Well, I am well cured of my curiosity for the duration of our stay. Impossible, you shall exclaim, but I tell you that it is true. And you will understand when I relate what was told to me. You see, the man informed me that the buildings had been constructed in that manner because Lombardi is slowly sinking into the ocean as I write! Sinking! He said, rather gleefully I must say, that as each building descends to its watery grave, the next floor then becomes the ground level, and new floor is constructed upon the remains of the old. Panic must have shown on Mother's face because the man hurriedly informed her that the city had not sunken a single inch for decades. Something about a curse or a blessing placed on the city by a sorceress. A prophecy of some sort that the locals believe will never come to pass--or at least not within their lifetimes.
All the same, I believe that I will insist on residing on the highest floor that can be arranged. I, for one, have no intention of sinking into the sea along with the rest of Lombardi.
Affectionately yours,
Clever Silk
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Chekhov's Gun or "Why I'm Not Writing Elves" (Worldbuilding Part 2)
"If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it's not going to be fired, it shouldn't be hanging there."
- Anton Chekhov
Sometimes called the Law of Conservation of Detail, the rule of Chekhov's Gun in writing makes a lot of sense. If you're going to write about something, write about something that actually matters to the story. Otherwise, why include that detail at all?
I could write a whole lot more about Chekov's Gun, but what I really want to write about is how it applies to world building--specifically in the use of sentient non-humans. Don't get me wrong, I love stories with elves, aliens, dwarves, robots, etc. (just look at my bookshelves). I'm just not inspired to write a story that has the human/other race conflict as one of the central themes of the story.
"But you could write a story with non-human characters and make some other conflict the central theme!"
Actually, I couldn't. Because of Chekhov's Gun. Remember, the principle of Chekhov's Gun is if you include something in your story, it should be important. And a whole other species of sentient beings is a lot bigger than a rifle hanging on the wall. Humans are easy. We're all human, and human interaction is our default setting. But non-humans are different, for precisely that reason. They aren't human. If you're just writing humans with pointy ears and calling them elves (or Vulcans), why do you need the pointy ears? There has to be something different enough about them to justify creating a whole other species--otherwise you might as well just write other humans. Once you've figured that out, you have to show how they are different than humans, and how they're the same. And if you've invested that much time and effort into explaining how your species is different from humans, those differences should be important to your story.
"But there are lots of stories with non-humans where the human/non-human interface isn't critical to the story!"
Possibly, but I can't think of very many, whereas I can think of any number of prominent sources that do:
Lord of the Rings: the differences between Men and Elves (namely immortality) is the entire motivating force behind the creation of the nine rings of Men. It's why the Elves managed to keep their rings of power. Oh, and it's the central premise behind the Aragorn/Arwen love story.
Dragonlance: Tanis Half-elven, the primary hero of the original trilogy, has--as his primary internal conflict--an inability to balance the human and elven sides of his lineage.
Discworld: this is an exception to the rule, sort of. While all of the Discworld novels have multiple species, not all of them feature inter-species relationships as a central theme--but a lot of them do.
X-Men: human/mutant relations is the central theme of well, everyone.
I could go on, but you get the idea.
- Anton Chekhov
Sometimes called the Law of Conservation of Detail, the rule of Chekhov's Gun in writing makes a lot of sense. If you're going to write about something, write about something that actually matters to the story. Otherwise, why include that detail at all?
I could write a whole lot more about Chekov's Gun, but what I really want to write about is how it applies to world building--specifically in the use of sentient non-humans. Don't get me wrong, I love stories with elves, aliens, dwarves, robots, etc. (just look at my bookshelves). I'm just not inspired to write a story that has the human/other race conflict as one of the central themes of the story.
"But you could write a story with non-human characters and make some other conflict the central theme!"
Actually, I couldn't. Because of Chekhov's Gun. Remember, the principle of Chekhov's Gun is if you include something in your story, it should be important. And a whole other species of sentient beings is a lot bigger than a rifle hanging on the wall. Humans are easy. We're all human, and human interaction is our default setting. But non-humans are different, for precisely that reason. They aren't human. If you're just writing humans with pointy ears and calling them elves (or Vulcans), why do you need the pointy ears? There has to be something different enough about them to justify creating a whole other species--otherwise you might as well just write other humans. Once you've figured that out, you have to show how they are different than humans, and how they're the same. And if you've invested that much time and effort into explaining how your species is different from humans, those differences should be important to your story.
"But there are lots of stories with non-humans where the human/non-human interface isn't critical to the story!"
Possibly, but I can't think of very many, whereas I can think of any number of prominent sources that do:
Lord of the Rings: the differences between Men and Elves (namely immortality) is the entire motivating force behind the creation of the nine rings of Men. It's why the Elves managed to keep their rings of power. Oh, and it's the central premise behind the Aragorn/Arwen love story.
Dragonlance: Tanis Half-elven, the primary hero of the original trilogy, has--as his primary internal conflict--an inability to balance the human and elven sides of his lineage.
Discworld: this is an exception to the rule, sort of. While all of the Discworld novels have multiple species, not all of them feature inter-species relationships as a central theme--but a lot of them do.
X-Men: human/mutant relations is the central theme of well, everyone.
I could go on, but you get the idea.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
World Building, Part 1
I have no new story, so I suppose it must be confession time. Well, sort of. I have been writing, I just haven't finished anything. I'm still working on the next bit for Violetta. I made some major revisions to the Fairy Tale (actually, I'm in the process of expanding the whole opening scene. But it's already longer than all of the original non-story bits put together, and I haven't even gotten to the fairy tale itself).
Really, though, most of what I've been working on is world building.
When most people think of world building, they're thinking of establishing the setting for a speculative fiction world (also known as science fiction or fantasy, but I like the term speculative fiction better, for reasons that I'll save for some other post). But actually, every writer engages in some degree of world building--even if they're writing about the real world. After all, if you're writing a story set in New York City, you have to describe the setting at least a little bit, or assume that your entire audience is as familiar with NYC as you are (and the closest I've ever been to NYC is watching the ball drop on New Year's Eve, so I don't have the slightest idea what it's like living there on a daily basis). So world building is important for everyone.
But there are real published authors whose work I admire that have written much better posts on world building than me, so instead of attempting to duplicate their work I'll just send you to one of their blogs:
Actually, Patricia Wrede's blog is a far better writing resource than mine, so you should just go there.
To this point, all of the story bits that I've posted have been set in the same Victorian Era fantasy Europe. Why? In part, because I like fantasy but I'm attempting to avoid the stereotypical medieval fantasy tropes--armored knights, woodsy elves, dwarven smiths, etc. Not because I don't like the medieval fantasy setting, but because it is (in my opinion) better suited for adventure stories that I'm not writing. Stories like the Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis, Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien, or Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling, which are about how the characters affect the world around them. In those stories, the setting is a living, breathing character all its own. Narnia, Middle Earth, and Hogwarts are characters whose history and destiny we care about as much as (or more than) we care about Jane or Faramir or Ginny. Consider the town of Meryton in Pride and Prejudice, the setting for nearly the entire novel, yet we know nearly nothing about it, save that it is in Hertforshire and near London. Contrast that with the tower of Orthanc, which appears only a few times in the Lord of the Rings, and has nearly a page of text devoted to its description, to say nothing of the history of its construction, the battles fought around it, or its various occupants and owners. Don't get me wrong, I love to read those kinds of stories. But they aren't the stories that I'm inspired to write.
As I've said before, I like stodgy old books from the 18th and 19th century--whether it's Jane Austen or Wilkie Collins or Rafael Sabatini--and I enjoy writing stories set in that time period. In those stories, the setting is mostly flavor. But more than that, that setting is full of strong female characters. And I like writing strong female characters--whether they're snarky, like Elizabeth Bennet, practical mistresses of their fate, like Jane Eyre, or passionate and liberated, like Marianne Dashwood. But I also want to write stories where women can be the witty, sword wielding protagonists, where the damsel can rescue herself, and where the heroine doesn't have to marry the first rich, arrogant aristocrat that comes along.
I could do that in a medieval fantasy setting, but that's not the world I've built.
Saturday, November 30, 2013
[Draft] the Perks of Being a Courtesan, pt. 2
Durante Androsciani was irritated. He hated attending events hosted by Emilio Mazini. The man was an insufferable prig who only invited Adrosciani when he wanted to brag over his latest acquisition--whether it was a new horse, or a rare piece of fine artwork, or a fresh faced courtesan. And now he was wandering Mazini's overdone halls looking for Theus knew what. At least when Androsciani invited people over to show off, always put his newest toy out in the open for everyone to see. None of this scavenger hunt bullshit.
He didn't even know what he was looking for. A statue, a painting, a woman, it could even be a book for all he knew. Though it probably wasn't a book, he wasn't sure Mazini knew how to read, let alone know the value of old texts (Androsciani didn't either, but he had people working for him who did). And it wasn't a woman. Mazini had a new one, gorgeous, sensual, sultry. Lust personified, wrapped up in an obscene amount of red. But she wasn't for sharing--Mazini had made that quite clear by the way that he kept her close and watched her like a hawk whenever she was anymore than three steps away. He was probably enjoying her right now, the bastard. He'd probably set up this whole wild goose chase just to get his guests out of the way.
Androsciani ducked into Mazini's study. It was, he reasoned, one of the last places anyone would think to look. Who would think that Mazini would display anything in this place, full of dry, dusty books no one read, and chairs that no one sat in, in a room that hardly anyone...
He stopped at the door of the study, his search forgotten. Because there she was. Mazini's vision of desire. She was facing away from the door, examining the books. He watched her fingers run lightly along the rows of books, and he couldn't help but imagine those nimble fingers running along his skin. He could see bare flesh, from the nape of her neck where her dress tied in back, all the way down to just above the curve of her buttocks, where the train of her gown cascaded nearly to the floor. If he closed his eyes, he could see the clinging, shimering confection of lace and silk concealing her body from her neck, over the swell of her breasts, descending from her hips to her feet. It was covering enough to be modest and yet suggestive enough for him to imagine the fabric sliding silently to the floor.
She was looking him, he realized. Watching him over her shoulder, that damned teasing smile on her face.
"I think I came to the wrong room," he ground out through clenched teeth. He wanted to go over there and wipe that smirk off her face. To show her what a real man, not that poseur Mazini, was like.
"I think you know you didn't," she smiled, turning around and stretching her arms above her head. Androsciani swallowed as he watched her back arch, pressing her ripe curves against the taut fabric of the dress. And then she was sauntering towards him, with that mesmerizing sway of her hips--each step revealing a silky smooth length of leg, from her ankle to her calf, up her thigh...
"...what?" He asked, taking a step back. She was saying something and he had missed it. Reluctantly, he dragged his eyes away from the bare flesh of her leg, up across the expanse of taut fabric clinging to her skin, up to those perfect lips. They were upturned, smiling wickedly, with just a hint of smug condescension. He swallowed, feeling the solid oak of the wall against his back. He wondered if she looked at Mazini with that same smile when she let him have her--the man certainly wasn't forceful enough to take a woman like this.
"Well, I was asking if you liked my dress," she purred, running the tip of her tongue along her lips as if in anticipation while her eyes traced his body, "but I can see that you do."
He coughed, a blush rising to his cheecks. This is silly, he thought. Here he was, pinned up against a wall by a woman half his size while she made him blush like a girl with her first crush. He bet Mazini put her up to this, looking for a way to embarrass him. Well, I'll show him, he sneered mentally as he groped for the door, I'm nobody's fool.
Still, he was unable to tear his eyes away from her sensuously approaching form.
"Emilio didn't want me to wear this tonight," she pouted, so close now that he could reach out and touch her--almost did reach out and touch her, "something about being too much for his guests to handle. I'm not too much for you, am I?"
"N-no," he stammered, as she reached out a finger and ran it along his jawline. If this wasn't part of Mazini's plan, then he was in big trouble. The man might be an ass, but he could have Androsciani killed without too much trouble. There! He'd found the door knob! Still the thought of tasting this bit of forbidden fruit sent a thrill down his spine.
"Hmmm, then why are you reaching for the door?" she breathed, so close that he could smell the heady scent of her perfume. He tugged once at the door, but it didn't move.
He glanced down and discovered that perfect leg, left bare by the slit along the side of the dress, ending is a delicate slipper holding the door shut.
"You didn't answer my question," she said as her hand left his face and traveled down his arm, "why are you reaching for the door," she asked, taking his hand and guiding it to her bare flesh, "instead of for me?"
Androsciani swallowed, trying to think of what would happen if Mazini ever found out...but it was impossible with her pressed up against him, her silky soft skin under his hand...
She leaned her head in closer. Part of him tried to shy away, but there was no more room to retreat. He thought she was going to kiss him, but instead she moved her lips to his ear, and ever so softly whispered, "This will be our little secret..."
It was too much. Androsciani growled, sliding his hand up her leg to pull her tight against him. His free hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head to one side as he buried his face in her neck. Her body shuddered as he held her and she let out a quiet moan. "Hmmmm, where have you been?" she sighed excitedly.
He was about to turn, to pin her against the wall, like he'd been pinned, trapped by his own desire. But the sound of someone just on the otherside of the wall, yelling, "Eureka! I found it!" made him freeze for just a second.
And far faster than she had entered into his embrace, she broke free of Androsciani's grasp and leapt clear of his fumbling grasp.
"Time's up, " she chirped, though he thought he could detect a lingering trace of huskiness.
"I think not," he growled, unwilling to let this little tease get away without showing her exactly what she had awakened.
"Oh, I think it is," she laughed, skipping back further out of reach. Androsciani lunged for her, but came up short. Looking back, he saw that his doublet had been pinned to the wall by an exquisite hairpin.
"Perhaps you will be better prepared next time," she laughed as she slipped out a side door in a swirl of red silk and pale skin.
With a grunt of effort Androsciani, freed himself. Next time, he swore, she wouldn't get off so easily.
Friday, November 22, 2013
[Draft] The Perks of Being a Courtesan
"What in the unholy name of Legion were you
thinking?!" Francesco Belini shouted as he burst into Violetta's
bedchamber, surprising her and the footman, Sergio, to full wakefulness. Sergio, clearly not used to such antics first
thing in the morning, stuttered an apology to his employer as he gathered up
his scattered clothes and shuffled out the door while Violetta looked on in
disgust. Well, at least he had a good
reason to be spineless.
Violetta Silvestri, illegitimate child and courtesan of the Belini,
on the other hand, was used to angry men bursting into her
bedchambers. It was why she had several
sets of hairpins scattered on every available flat surface--not just because
she couldn't be bothered to pick up after the men who tore them out of her hair
in the throes of passion. Still, she
supposed it would be bad form to pin the man who had adopted her and paid for
her education to the wall of his own home.
But it was a close thing.
"Here dear, let me speak to her," Giulia Belini
said, placing a calming hand on her husband's shoulder, “you should go have a
drink to calm your nerves."
Still sputtering, Francesco followed his wife's advice and
left before Violetta threw any hairpins at him.
The danger gone, Allegra flopped back onto the bed, fully intending to
go back to sleep. She'd been getting a
little tired of Sergio anyway. Perhaps
that nice valet Luigi would be interested, now that his messenger lady was getting
married. Or there was the new maid
Vanessa, she'd definitely had a look in her eye.
"...but really dear, what were you thinking?"
Oh, Giulia was still there.
And still talking. Violetta
sighed as she opened her eyes and sat up.
There wasn't really any point in trying to sleep. Giulia wasn't quite as excitable as Francesco,
but she was implacable.
"You mean with Sergio?" Violetta asked, swinging
her legs out of bed, "he was just a bit of fun."
Maybe Giulia would help her with her hair. Not that Violetta needed any help, but
Giulia's updos were always just a little bit crisper--and she managed to fit in
two or three more hairpins than Violetta could manage by herself.
"You know what I mean," Giulia said as Violetta
flounced over to her closet, "I know it runs in the family, but you're too
concerned about fun.
Do you know how difficult it was getting an invitation to Durante
Androsciani's showing without giving away that it was our family that arranged
it?"
"No, but you didn't ask me either," Violetta
sighed, flipping through the gowns in her closet. Not that one, too full, she wanted something
she could move in. Or that one, too
skimpy, she didn't want to look desperate.
"I would have told you not to bother."
"Not that one dear, it makes you look like a
cucumber," Giulia commented before returning to the subject at hand, "would
you care to explain why you just decided to throw away months of work just to
go to yet another party? And not even
one that Androsciani is going to be attending?"
"Because it doesn't matter how well you think you've
covered your tracks," Violetta explained.
Not that one, the lace made her itch in unfortunate places. "There will always be someone who
remembers something he shouldn't. You
taught me that. My way can't be traced
back to you because there's nothing to trace.
How about this one?"
"Not that one, you can't get out of it without looking
awkward," Giulia answered, "and what, pray tell, is your way? Mazini doesn't belong to the Borsato. He and Androsciani don't even like each
other. Oh, not that one either, it still
hasn't been mended since that wedding where you got frisky with the
groomsman."
"It was him or the bride," Violetta shrugged,
"and I didn't want cousin Arturo mad at me because his new spouse tried to
corner me in changing rooms."
Actually, it had been the groomsman and the
bride--Marienne had caught Violetta exiting the changing rooms, and it was her day. Why shouldn't the bride be allowed
to have a little harmless fun too?
Besides, what Giulia didn't know, wouldn't get Violetta in trouble.
"They may not like each other, but they're always
inviting the other over to show off their latest acquisition," Violetta
explained. No, not that one either, it
needed accessories and she didn't want to be carrying anything except for her
hairpins. "They're rivals. That's the point. Durante Androsciani didn't become governor by
being stupid. He knows that any woman
offered to him must be working for somebody."
"But if he takes someone from his rival, then she is a
conquest," Giulia said admiringly. Violetta
knew she'd get the point while Francesco was still sputtering over their
overturned plans.
"Whyyyyyy do I have nothing to wear!"
Friday, November 8, 2013
Revisions and Moving On
I've discovered that I don't like doing revisions. I'm not talking about editing as I'm writing--those changes to the text that come to you when you're in the writing groove. I like those, to me it's a sign that I'm doing something right. No, I'm talking about going back and fixing all the things that didn't work in the first draft or the second draft or even the third draft.
It's not that I think that every word that I write is golden (actually, I'd say that most of what I write should never be seen by anyone else). It's that sometimes I don't even know where to go with what I need to change. That's actually the problem with all the snippets that I've posted on this blog so far. I know, for example, that the Claire Epistolary needs a lot of work to make it more readable (though some of that is the character's style, so I'm not entirely certain how much will actually change). Also, the Fairy Tale is a complete mess--it needs a longer introduction and somewhere in the middle it bogs down into incoherency. To be honest, there's so much work that needs to be done on it, I don't even know where to begin.
That being said, sometimes you have to move on. I know that the vignette I posted last week wasn't perfect, but sometimes you have to accept that something is as good as it's going to get so that you can move on to the next project.
Hopefully, the next time I post, I'll have a revision or maybe just a new bit of writing.
It's not that I think that every word that I write is golden (actually, I'd say that most of what I write should never be seen by anyone else). It's that sometimes I don't even know where to go with what I need to change. That's actually the problem with all the snippets that I've posted on this blog so far. I know, for example, that the Claire Epistolary needs a lot of work to make it more readable (though some of that is the character's style, so I'm not entirely certain how much will actually change). Also, the Fairy Tale is a complete mess--it needs a longer introduction and somewhere in the middle it bogs down into incoherency. To be honest, there's so much work that needs to be done on it, I don't even know where to begin.
That being said, sometimes you have to move on. I know that the vignette I posted last week wasn't perfect, but sometimes you have to accept that something is as good as it's going to get so that you can move on to the next project.
Hopefully, the next time I post, I'll have a revision or maybe just a new bit of writing.
Saturday, November 2, 2013
National Novel Writing Month! and [Draft] Untitled
In honor of National Novel Writing Month I'm restarting my blog! I have been writing, but I haven't actually finished very many things. So my new resolution, in honor of NaNoWriMo, is to try to post at least once per week.
Also, here's a little vignette that I actually managed to finish. ^_^
She sits and stares at the paper. It is empty, blank, devoid of feeling. Like her, the man who claims her as his wife would say. He is wrong. She knows this, or thinks she knows this. But sometimes she wonders if he is not. The quill is in her hand, poised, as if prepared to write. But she does not know how. She does not know what she would say even if she did--perhaps he is right (That is a lie, her heart is so full of things to say that she does not know where to begin.).
Her world is this: this one room, with its uncomfortable chairs, overdone tables, and shelves and shelves of books that she cannot read. The man whose wife she is says that she is mistaken. That she has rooms of riches and servants and dresses. That everything that is his is hers. But it is not true. Nothing here is truly hers. Not the endless rows of black dresses. Not the rooms in which she sleeps and he comes to break her in slow degrees (that is not how he sees the imposition of his conjugal rights, but it is the truth). Even this room is not, though it is more hers than anything else (because she had been here before. She wonders if he remembers. Either one.).
She used to wonder if this is like other rooms with books that she (they, her heart demands, but there are some things that cannot be said, even in her thoughts, without weeping and she dares not start because she does not know if she could stop) had explored--with books filled with blank pages, empty spaces where the words should be--but the man who says that he is her husband is too pretentious to accept hollow imitations of books that he does not have the native intelligence to comprehend. She is unsure if this is a virtue that she should admire or simply another indication of his lack of understanding.
She has stared too long and the ink drips from her quill like blood from a blade. She turns away from that thought. (She remembers the blood, the sword, the hand that holds it.) She avoids memories when she can. Not because they are painful or frightening (though sometimes they are), but because they lead, inevitably, to this moment when she is hurting and alone. She is always hurting and alone, but sometimes she fails to notice. It is like bathing in too cold water. Eventually, you stop feeling anything at all.
She crumples the ink-stained sheet and casts it aside as she begins to weep. She did not know what she was thinking, pretending that she could write. Believing that she would know what to say, even if she did. It is ruined now, marked, worthless. Like her.
The servants enter, their faces carefully blank. She is never quite sure, in moments like these, whether they pity her or are relieved that it is not them. Perhaps it is a little of both. She had thought that she had given orders that she was not to be disturbed, but the servants do not always hear her orders (it is a matter of survival. She understands, though it is difficult not to resent them). She remembers that there is to be a party, and the servants are there to clean the rooms for the guests.
One of the servants reaches for the crumpled wad of ruined paper and she cries out, snatching it from the ground before he can touch it. She sits there on the floor for a while, a small sobbing puddle of black silk and lace, clutching the paper as if it is all that remains of her hopes and dreams. The servants shuffle out, closing the door behind them, leaving her alone to compose herself (they will pay for forgetting to clean the room or she will pay for their oversight or both, but for now she only feels gratitude that they are gone).
Slowly, carefully, she stands and smooths the crumpled sheet of paper out as best she can. Ruined, damaged, useless for its original purpose, she will not just see it cast aside. So instead she folds it and slides it into her sleeve. It is a reminder that not all things that are ruined should be thrown away.
Also, here's a little vignette that I actually managed to finish. ^_^
She sits and stares at the paper. It is empty, blank, devoid of feeling. Like her, the man who claims her as his wife would say. He is wrong. She knows this, or thinks she knows this. But sometimes she wonders if he is not. The quill is in her hand, poised, as if prepared to write. But she does not know how. She does not know what she would say even if she did--perhaps he is right (That is a lie, her heart is so full of things to say that she does not know where to begin.).
Her world is this: this one room, with its uncomfortable chairs, overdone tables, and shelves and shelves of books that she cannot read. The man whose wife she is says that she is mistaken. That she has rooms of riches and servants and dresses. That everything that is his is hers. But it is not true. Nothing here is truly hers. Not the endless rows of black dresses. Not the rooms in which she sleeps and he comes to break her in slow degrees (that is not how he sees the imposition of his conjugal rights, but it is the truth). Even this room is not, though it is more hers than anything else (because she had been here before. She wonders if he remembers. Either one.).
She used to wonder if this is like other rooms with books that she (they, her heart demands, but there are some things that cannot be said, even in her thoughts, without weeping and she dares not start because she does not know if she could stop) had explored--with books filled with blank pages, empty spaces where the words should be--but the man who says that he is her husband is too pretentious to accept hollow imitations of books that he does not have the native intelligence to comprehend. She is unsure if this is a virtue that she should admire or simply another indication of his lack of understanding.
She has stared too long and the ink drips from her quill like blood from a blade. She turns away from that thought. (She remembers the blood, the sword, the hand that holds it.) She avoids memories when she can. Not because they are painful or frightening (though sometimes they are), but because they lead, inevitably, to this moment when she is hurting and alone. She is always hurting and alone, but sometimes she fails to notice. It is like bathing in too cold water. Eventually, you stop feeling anything at all.
She crumples the ink-stained sheet and casts it aside as she begins to weep. She did not know what she was thinking, pretending that she could write. Believing that she would know what to say, even if she did. It is ruined now, marked, worthless. Like her.
The servants enter, their faces carefully blank. She is never quite sure, in moments like these, whether they pity her or are relieved that it is not them. Perhaps it is a little of both. She had thought that she had given orders that she was not to be disturbed, but the servants do not always hear her orders (it is a matter of survival. She understands, though it is difficult not to resent them). She remembers that there is to be a party, and the servants are there to clean the rooms for the guests.
One of the servants reaches for the crumpled wad of ruined paper and she cries out, snatching it from the ground before he can touch it. She sits there on the floor for a while, a small sobbing puddle of black silk and lace, clutching the paper as if it is all that remains of her hopes and dreams. The servants shuffle out, closing the door behind them, leaving her alone to compose herself (they will pay for forgetting to clean the room or she will pay for their oversight or both, but for now she only feels gratitude that they are gone).
Slowly, carefully, she stands and smooths the crumpled sheet of paper out as best she can. Ruined, damaged, useless for its original purpose, she will not just see it cast aside. So instead she folds it and slides it into her sleeve. It is a reminder that not all things that are ruined should be thrown away.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Finding the Medium for your Muse
Sometimes you look at the blank screen and it just stays blank. There's nothing. No inspiration. No ideas. No words. You know you're supposed to be writing something, anything, and nothing is coming. You've turned off the television, turned down the music, and walked away from all of the distractions, but there's nothing to fill the void.
Sometimes I despair and turn on the television, because if I'm not going to write anyway, I might as well be entertained while doing nothing. But sometimes there is another option. Sometimes there is a way to tease the muse out of the recesses of my unconscious. Sometimes I pull out a cheap composition book, turn to a page I've started writing something on, and...write.
What? What happened to not being able to write anything? What happened to that writer's block? Sometimes the blank screen is too big, too overwhelming, too...blank to write anything. It's just too much emptiness to fill. But an inexpensive notebook? I feel more free to make mistakes and the words flow more easily. This is probably because it takes few of them to fill a line and fewer of them to fill a page, so I feel like I'm making more progress (even though it's just an illusion of font size).
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm totally a type to the screen kind of person. Sometimes I type faster than I talk. When I'm in the writing groove, my fingers fly, and the words flow like water through a sieve. And when I'm stuck, I'm really stuck, and putting the words down is a torturous exercise in futility. But something about putting pen (or pencil) to paper is different. I really do feel more free to make mistakes and cross them out and then go back to them again (something that you can't really do with the delete key on your computer). Sometimes, when nothing is appearing on the screen, it's just easier to write it down the old fashioned way. And once the creative juices get flowing, transferring it from paper to screen is a simple enough task and continuing from wherever I left off on the page seems effortless.
Now, of course, you should use whatever medium inspires you. If you like to type to screen (like me), turn on your computer, warm up your fingers, and get to typing. If you like putting pen to paper, buy a bunch of pens and some notebooks and get to writing. If you like to write using a typewriter, get out your typewriter and some paper and get to typing. Heck, if you like to write with your thumbs on your mobile device, do that! But when you get stuck with whatever you're writing, consider switching mediums to see if that helps you approach the problem differently.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
"Why Epistolaries?"
A friend of mine recently asked: "why epistolaries? they remind me of stodgy old books from the 1700's." He wasn't criticizing my choice of story telling devices because he's mean or dismissive, epistolary stories just aren't what he prefers to read (he likes grand, sweeping, world changing epics which tend to be told in the third person point of view). I, on the other hand, like "stodgy old books" though I prefer the ones from the 1800's and I also really enjoy epistolary novels, so the idea of writing an epistolary set in an imagined version of the 1800's appeals to me.
To be fair to my friend, most books aren't written in the epistolary style, probably because most stories don't lend themselves to being told that way. I mean, you could tell the story in The Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan or Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin as a series of letters and journal entries, but they would be much longer and significantly more cumbersome--and any story that's already more than 1000 pages before it's half way done doesn't need to be any longer or more cumbersome. Also, consider the stories in the Dragonriders of Pern books by Anne McCaffery which simply could not have been told in an epistolary style without completely changing the stories into something entirely different. Given that the entire culture of Pern relies on oral histories and literacy is rare rather than universal, to change those underlying facts would alter the setting in unpredictable ways.
In contrast, there are stories that simply could not be told in any other way. Well, I suppose The Gurnsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows could have been told in a non-epistolary style, but it would have lost a certain degree of intimacy and charm that made it engaging. Of course, there's also Sorcery and Cecelia or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot by Patricia C. Wrede and Carolyn Stevermer, which wasn't originally a novel so much as a game between friends. That book really could not have been written in any way besides the epistolary style.
None of which actually explains why I'm writing in the epistolary style. To be honest, when I first considered telling this story it had very little resemblance to what it is now. Originally, it was set in the modern day, Claire and Adele didn't exist, and the whole thing was just a bit of a side character's background that may or may not have ever come up. At first, I thought that it would be sufficient that I knew the character's story and if it came up in conversation or flash back as part of someone else's story then that would be enough. The more I thought about it though, the more I felt like this character's story really needed to be told. But the more I tried to write it, the more that I felt like it didn't quite feel right. So I put it aside for a while and let it stew in the back of my consciousness. Which is probably where it would have stayed until the end of my days, except that a friend of mine got me involved in an epistolary game set in an alternate fantasy Europe and something clicked in my head. It involved an entire revision of what I had previously considered to be firmly established conditions and the creation of new characters who could serve as a supporting cast. Thinking about it now, while I could tell the story in some other style, I don't think it would be as effective.
Besides, then I would have to give up Adele and Claire, and I've grown sort of attached to them too.
To be fair to my friend, most books aren't written in the epistolary style, probably because most stories don't lend themselves to being told that way. I mean, you could tell the story in The Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan or Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin as a series of letters and journal entries, but they would be much longer and significantly more cumbersome--and any story that's already more than 1000 pages before it's half way done doesn't need to be any longer or more cumbersome. Also, consider the stories in the Dragonriders of Pern books by Anne McCaffery which simply could not have been told in an epistolary style without completely changing the stories into something entirely different. Given that the entire culture of Pern relies on oral histories and literacy is rare rather than universal, to change those underlying facts would alter the setting in unpredictable ways.
In contrast, there are stories that simply could not be told in any other way. Well, I suppose The Gurnsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows could have been told in a non-epistolary style, but it would have lost a certain degree of intimacy and charm that made it engaging. Of course, there's also Sorcery and Cecelia or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot by Patricia C. Wrede and Carolyn Stevermer, which wasn't originally a novel so much as a game between friends. That book really could not have been written in any way besides the epistolary style.
None of which actually explains why I'm writing in the epistolary style. To be honest, when I first considered telling this story it had very little resemblance to what it is now. Originally, it was set in the modern day, Claire and Adele didn't exist, and the whole thing was just a bit of a side character's background that may or may not have ever come up. At first, I thought that it would be sufficient that I knew the character's story and if it came up in conversation or flash back as part of someone else's story then that would be enough. The more I thought about it though, the more I felt like this character's story really needed to be told. But the more I tried to write it, the more that I felt like it didn't quite feel right. So I put it aside for a while and let it stew in the back of my consciousness. Which is probably where it would have stayed until the end of my days, except that a friend of mine got me involved in an epistolary game set in an alternate fantasy Europe and something clicked in my head. It involved an entire revision of what I had previously considered to be firmly established conditions and the creation of new characters who could serve as a supporting cast. Thinking about it now, while I could tell the story in some other style, I don't think it would be as effective.
Besides, then I would have to give up Adele and Claire, and I've grown sort of attached to them too.
Friday, May 10, 2013
Strike While the Iron is Hot but Stay In the Moment
Have you ever come up with a well crafted sentence, clever wording, or even just the grain of an idea, and said, "I've got to write that down later!" Then, when later comes, you sit down in front of a blank screen and...nothing. You can't even remember the shape of what you wanted to write? That happens to me all the time! And I really wish it wouldn't. I cannot tell you the number of times that I've thought to myself, "How did I say that before? It sounded really awesome in my head!" but been unable to remember the exact wording or even what the topic was.
So what is the solution? Obviously the answer is to write it down. Carry a notebook with you, install a notepad on your mobile device, jot it down on your hand, so that when you craft an interesting turn of phrase in your head you can record it before it gets lost in the ether of the daily grind. Okay, well that's not too hard. Of course, there will be times when you really can't just stop and write down what you've come up with. Maybe you're at the grocery store and there's ice cream in your cart, or you sit down and realize that your baby desperately needs changing, or you're in the middle of a long drive to SoCal. Obviously, those are times when you can't just put everything aside for a few minutes to jot something down. Which brings me to my next point...
Stay in the moment. Ironically (since this is a blog about writing) I don't actually mean the moment that you're in the writing groove. I mean all of the other times when you're at the grocery store or taking care of your baby or driving on the freeway. If you really can't stop and write something down, don't think about the things you're going to write about. Trust that the inspiration will be there when you do have a moment and focus on what you're doing. Because otherwise, if inspiration comes at an inopportune time, you're going to be kicking yourself later and asking, "Why didn't I write that down when I thought of it?" To be honest, that's the wrong question. The real question should be: "Why was I thinking about writing when I knew I wouldn't be able to follow the inspiration?" Sometimes inspiration just finds us, but most of the time we find it because we're looking for it (or at least that's how it works for me). So it seems somewhat foolish to go looking for inspiration when you can't follow where it leads.
So what is the solution? Obviously the answer is to write it down. Carry a notebook with you, install a notepad on your mobile device, jot it down on your hand, so that when you craft an interesting turn of phrase in your head you can record it before it gets lost in the ether of the daily grind. Okay, well that's not too hard. Of course, there will be times when you really can't just stop and write down what you've come up with. Maybe you're at the grocery store and there's ice cream in your cart, or you sit down and realize that your baby desperately needs changing, or you're in the middle of a long drive to SoCal. Obviously, those are times when you can't just put everything aside for a few minutes to jot something down. Which brings me to my next point...
Stay in the moment. Ironically (since this is a blog about writing) I don't actually mean the moment that you're in the writing groove. I mean all of the other times when you're at the grocery store or taking care of your baby or driving on the freeway. If you really can't stop and write something down, don't think about the things you're going to write about. Trust that the inspiration will be there when you do have a moment and focus on what you're doing. Because otherwise, if inspiration comes at an inopportune time, you're going to be kicking yourself later and asking, "Why didn't I write that down when I thought of it?" To be honest, that's the wrong question. The real question should be: "Why was I thinking about writing when I knew I wouldn't be able to follow the inspiration?" Sometimes inspiration just finds us, but most of the time we find it because we're looking for it (or at least that's how it works for me). So it seems somewhat foolish to go looking for inspiration when you can't follow where it leads.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
[Epistolary] A Letter from Adele Rosette de la Reines to Claire Satine du Paroisse
My Dearest Cousin Claire,
Whatever were you thinking? Ardent Rose? Clever Silk? Whatever inspired you to invent such dramatic pseudonyms? Now, you know that I enjoy a sapphic adventure as much as the next woman, but I do believe that our respective mothers might find such an exchange of affections between we two rather objectionable. Frankly, given the degree to which your stature overshadows my own, it is doubtful that anyone would believe that our affections are anything more than familial, but you know how our mothers are. Also, in the future, if you intend to use aliases to protect the guilty, might I suggest that you provide everyone with one? Armand, I suspect, would be quite put out that you would give me a nom de guerre and not extend him the same courtesy, seeing as how I was not involved and he managed to get impaled through the arm as a result of this particular misadventure.
Speaking of Armand, he is not nearly as upset with you as one might imagine. Though, of course, that might just be the hashish speaking. We will see how he feels once his recovery is far enough along for him to return to the public eye. Considering grandpapa's problem with the milk of the poppy, I must say I am relieved that his vices trend in a different direction. Though why he believes his hashish is any better, I cannot say. Given, however, that he is your brother, you are more likely far more familiar with his predispositions and the reasons for them than I. As for Chauvelin, that pompous, self-righteous ass, you should have told him to go back to his pamphlets and leave the satire to those with the wit to appreciate it. Considering the number of impressionable married young women my brother has attempted to debauch just in the last month, I doubt that he would know a binding promise if it challenged him to a duel before the palace gates--which seems more and more likely every day.
And now that the necessary familial reports are complete, it is my sad duty, as your self-appointed manager of dramatics, to inform you that your assessment of your journey to Lombardi as exile is needlessly melodramatic. Uncle Frederic merely wishes someone to accompany Aunt Nicolette while he is occupied with the current court session. Moreover, how can you begrudge your mother a little bit of company on her travels...no, do not answer that, I perfectly comprehend your feelings. How could I not, when Aunt Nicolette is so very...her. But perhaps, while you are with her, you will uncover the truth regarding this sudden desire to visit to Lombardi and the mysterious...what was that name again? Isabella? Was that not the name of Cousin David's bride? Though perhaps my supposition is wrong, after all, she did remarry shortly after his unfortunate demise. Not to speak ill of the dead, but he always was too quick to take offense over inconsequential matters. Regardless, you will most certainly be back here in time to attend Mme. Renette's musicale (for which I am eternally grateful, as your presence may be the only entertaining piece of the entire evening) so do not fall too deeply into despair, my dear cousin, for we will be reunited soon.
Yours,
Adele
Whatever were you thinking? Ardent Rose? Clever Silk? Whatever inspired you to invent such dramatic pseudonyms? Now, you know that I enjoy a sapphic adventure as much as the next woman, but I do believe that our respective mothers might find such an exchange of affections between we two rather objectionable. Frankly, given the degree to which your stature overshadows my own, it is doubtful that anyone would believe that our affections are anything more than familial, but you know how our mothers are. Also, in the future, if you intend to use aliases to protect the guilty, might I suggest that you provide everyone with one? Armand, I suspect, would be quite put out that you would give me a nom de guerre and not extend him the same courtesy, seeing as how I was not involved and he managed to get impaled through the arm as a result of this particular misadventure.
Speaking of Armand, he is not nearly as upset with you as one might imagine. Though, of course, that might just be the hashish speaking. We will see how he feels once his recovery is far enough along for him to return to the public eye. Considering grandpapa's problem with the milk of the poppy, I must say I am relieved that his vices trend in a different direction. Though why he believes his hashish is any better, I cannot say. Given, however, that he is your brother, you are more likely far more familiar with his predispositions and the reasons for them than I. As for Chauvelin, that pompous, self-righteous ass, you should have told him to go back to his pamphlets and leave the satire to those with the wit to appreciate it. Considering the number of impressionable married young women my brother has attempted to debauch just in the last month, I doubt that he would know a binding promise if it challenged him to a duel before the palace gates--which seems more and more likely every day.
And now that the necessary familial reports are complete, it is my sad duty, as your self-appointed manager of dramatics, to inform you that your assessment of your journey to Lombardi as exile is needlessly melodramatic. Uncle Frederic merely wishes someone to accompany Aunt Nicolette while he is occupied with the current court session. Moreover, how can you begrudge your mother a little bit of company on her travels...no, do not answer that, I perfectly comprehend your feelings. How could I not, when Aunt Nicolette is so very...her. But perhaps, while you are with her, you will uncover the truth regarding this sudden desire to visit to Lombardi and the mysterious...what was that name again? Isabella? Was that not the name of Cousin David's bride? Though perhaps my supposition is wrong, after all, she did remarry shortly after his unfortunate demise. Not to speak ill of the dead, but he always was too quick to take offense over inconsequential matters. Regardless, you will most certainly be back here in time to attend Mme. Renette's musicale (for which I am eternally grateful, as your presence may be the only entertaining piece of the entire evening) so do not fall too deeply into despair, my dear cousin, for we will be reunited soon.
Yours,
Adele
Friday, May 3, 2013
Follow The Inspiration, But Don't Get Distracted
So four days and not very much writing (or at least not very much writing that didn't make me frustrated, but more on that further on) later, I've learned two things: 1) follow the inspiration, 2) don't get distracted.
Okay, so Follow The Inspiration. That's simple enough, write what you're inspired to write. If you've got to work on something that you can't seem to get started, work on something else. Hopefully, something that you're inspired to write. That actually worked really well for me, because once I got on a writing roll, I was able to seamlessly transition from what I started writing to what I needed to write. So that's the good news. The bad news is that it took me four days. Why did it take me four days instead of one? That brings me to:
Don't Get Distracted. Now, when I say, "don't get distracted," I don't mean by the television or youtube or whatever (though that's pretty distracting, I covered that one in The Sound of Silence). I mean by writing. What? How can you get distracted by writing when you're writing? Isn't that an oxymoron? Yes, and like an oxymoron, it works. Okay, so a little bit of background: I read news online. Sometimes I read about politics online. That's a mistake. Don't read about politics online, it'll just make you mad. And, occasionally, when I'm mad, I read the comments. That's also a mistake. Never read the comments. They'll just make you furious. On the plus side, when I'm furious, I'm inspired to write. On the down side, I'm inspired to write comments on political news articles (yes, I become one of those people). And that doesn't help me to write anything else. In fact, it does the opposite. It inspires me to continue writing comments and I have trouble calming down enough to write other stuff. It doesn't help that the people who I'm commenting to are equally furious and respond back to whatever point I've made, which I feel obliged to respond to, and so on. It really is a vicious circle. And four days later, you stop checking your inbox for responses and finally get around to writing what you should have been writing four days ago before you got distracted by political news articles.
So really, you can't always follow your inspiration. Because sometimes it just takes you in a furious circle, like a dog chasing it's tail. The important part is knowing when your inspiration is going to take you in a horrible mobius strip of rage and when it's going to lead you to where you want to go.
Okay, so Follow The Inspiration. That's simple enough, write what you're inspired to write. If you've got to work on something that you can't seem to get started, work on something else. Hopefully, something that you're inspired to write. That actually worked really well for me, because once I got on a writing roll, I was able to seamlessly transition from what I started writing to what I needed to write. So that's the good news. The bad news is that it took me four days. Why did it take me four days instead of one? That brings me to:
Don't Get Distracted. Now, when I say, "don't get distracted," I don't mean by the television or youtube or whatever (though that's pretty distracting, I covered that one in The Sound of Silence). I mean by writing. What? How can you get distracted by writing when you're writing? Isn't that an oxymoron? Yes, and like an oxymoron, it works. Okay, so a little bit of background: I read news online. Sometimes I read about politics online. That's a mistake. Don't read about politics online, it'll just make you mad. And, occasionally, when I'm mad, I read the comments. That's also a mistake. Never read the comments. They'll just make you furious. On the plus side, when I'm furious, I'm inspired to write. On the down side, I'm inspired to write comments on political news articles (yes, I become one of those people). And that doesn't help me to write anything else. In fact, it does the opposite. It inspires me to continue writing comments and I have trouble calming down enough to write other stuff. It doesn't help that the people who I'm commenting to are equally furious and respond back to whatever point I've made, which I feel obliged to respond to, and so on. It really is a vicious circle. And four days later, you stop checking your inbox for responses and finally get around to writing what you should have been writing four days ago before you got distracted by political news articles.
So really, you can't always follow your inspiration. Because sometimes it just takes you in a furious circle, like a dog chasing it's tail. The important part is knowing when your inspiration is going to take you in a horrible mobius strip of rage and when it's going to lead you to where you want to go.
Monday, April 29, 2013
The Value of Distraction
Okay, so after posting yesterday about how the television and music and other aural/visual distractions have to go off, what did I do today? I watched a lot of Doctor Who (I'm not going to say how much, but it was not an insignificant number of hours) and scrolled through Pinterest looking at hairstyles and evening gowns instead of writing. Why did I do that? Was I stuck? Did I not have anything to write about? Was I having trouble getting started? Well, I wish I could lie and say yes, but really the answer is no. I'm not stuck, I've got plenty to write about, and I've already started. So what was the problem?
The problem was that I never sat down and resolved to write anything. I procrastinated and said, "After this one episode." and "Ooh, look at this, _______ would totally wear this." and "Well, I might as well finish..." The end result being that nothing got written. So now I'm writing this blog post instead of what I had intended to write.
All right, that was my confession, but what did I learn from this (aside from what I already knew, which was that I cannot be trusted to write and watch Doctor Who at the same time)? Quite a bit actually, though I probably could have learned it without quite so much procrastination.
Characters don't live in a vacuum.
It is not enough to say that a character is a female Scarlet Pimpernel or a courtesan on the run from her past. Every character's actions is informed by her past, and that past informs her present actions. Knowing the character's present isn't enough if you intend to write her believably for an extended period of time. You have to know her past, maybe not every detail, but enough to know why she reacts in particular ways, what parts of her past impact her present. Of course, that seems like a no-brainer if you think about it, but sometimes you can get too caught up with writing the present to consider the character's past. Conversely, you shouldn't be afraid to allow your character to change as circumstances demand. A character who has a history of feeling inadequate can still grow to be emotionally fulfilled, it will simply take time and careful plotting.
Thus the lessons of Doctor Who as applied to writing. Which could lead me into a whole discussion about the Doctors and his various companions and how...never mind. This is a blog about writing and I'm only on my third entry, so I'll save the Doctor Who fandom for some other time.
Clothing tells you a lot about a person. Well duh. That's true in real life, why wouldn't it be true in fiction as well? But between plotting the next major event, crafting dialogue, and introducing characters, sometimes fashion gets left by the wayside. Which is a shame, because what a character wears is part of what makes them who they are. For example, wearing elbow length opera gloves to the ball isn't something worth remarking upon, but when the same character wears those same gloves down to breakfast and to the beach, then the reader knows there is something else going on. But, it only works if you included those gloves in your original description at the ball.
Which brings us to Pinterest, that endless library of evening gowns and up-dos. Just casually scrolling through my boards netted me a dozen hairstyles and outfits for nearly half a dozen characters. Never will my characters be forced to wear the same dress twice because I'm simply not creative enough to come up with a new gown (if the plot demands it, then that's a different story).
Of course, that brings me back to the procrastination. Could I have learned those lessons, found those images, and still gotten my writing done by spending a fraction of the time actually concentrating on what I was doing? Yes. So that's my resolution. To stop procrastinating and disguising it as multitasking and actually get things written.
Tomorrow.
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