Read. Write. Love.

[I'm going to post the essay I wrote for my independent study, at the request of Lisa. It's rather long, so bear with me.]

Read. Write. Love.

I’ve often heard it said, “The more you read the better you write.” Generally, I try to avoid clichés—because they’ve been said before, over and over and over again. This particular cliché really struck home this summer. At the beginning of the summer I read a lot, and that was mostly because I was giving the directive: “Pick an author you would like to emulate.” My mind froze up. I thought: I don’t want to “emulate” anyone because I want to be original. The journey to choosing and author was nearly as beneficial as the choice itself. (I could throw in a cliché about life being about the journey, not the ending, but I think one cliché is enough for a paper, don’t you?)

There were a lot of authors leading up to my choice of James A. Owen. I read Kristin Cashore’s “Graceling” and “Fire.” While I thoroughly enjoyed the books, it wasn’t something I wanted to necessarily settle on. All I could learn from her is how to really develop the landscape of the story—and I did take some notes. I read some Allison Crogan (“The Riddle” and some of “The Crow”), and while I loved the epic scale of her story it was long, and dense—good. As I read I learned about the way characters can interact with spiritual beings, something that was beneficial to my writing. She uses a lot of magic in her writing, something I’m not terribly interested in, but it did allow me to expand my thoughts on what magic could be. I read a Star Wars novel, “Betrayal” by Aaron Allston. (He was never in the running for “author of the summer,” Star Wars novelists are too prolific.) This book was a break from the YA lit I was surrounding myself with. I allowed myself to take a break and just read. Even then, I was picking up on his strong themes of loyalty; good versus evil; and what happens when the lines are blurred to grey. He developed strong battle sequences—and even in the midst of my Science Fiction secret pleasure, I learned something for myself.

They were all fantasy writers of the young adult genre (except for the Star Wars novel). At first this annoyed me—why couldn’t I find anything in the adult fantasy world? See, this stemmed from my issue with YA lit. I generally find the genre to be weak—underdeveloped and unchallenging to young readers. You could say that I’m an advocate for the classics. This coming from the girl that spent a good chunk of Middle School reading every Star Wars novel she could get her hands on. The girl that read “The Hobbit” in fourth grade, and “The Lord of the Rings” in fifth grade. Those were challenges though. Even some of the science in the Star Wars books was difficult. The whole time I was reading this summer, before I chose Owen, I felt my heart calling to me, “Tolkien is the writer you love. The writer you respect the most.” I couldn’t choose Tolkien though—I had read the bulk of his work recently. While he is the “Father of Fantasy” I couldn’t choose him. Though my heart will always know that he is my inspiration for so many things, I needed to find someone else that I could learn from this summer.

My grandparents gave me the book “Here, There be Dragons” when it was first published. They gave it to me in hardcover. I didn’t read it. It sat on my shelf with good intentions wrapped around it, but the hardcover deterred me from every picking it up. I sold it last summer when I bought a paperback of the same book. Still, I did not read it. I was staring at my bookshelf this summer after reading all those other books—still unsure of whom my author would be—when I saw it, staring at me. (Literally, the spine of the book has a dragon’s head on it.) I picked it up, read a few pages, and decided that James A. Owen would be my author. In less than a chapter I had decided that he would be my author and I would read all of his books. What could have possibly caused me to be so rash? Why didn’t I read the entirety of the first book before deciding he was the one? I had read at least one full book of the other authors before deciding that they were not the ones for me.

Admittedly, one of the factors that drew me in was that Tolkien, or John, was the protagonist along with Lewis, or Jack, and Charles Williams (a lesser known writer more well known as an editor for the Oxford Press). You don’t actually find out for sure that it is Tolkien and Lewis until the end of the book when they sign their names.

The other factor—the more important one—is that what Owen was doing in his books was tying together all different kinds of mythology and fantasy. He created the Archipelago of Dreams, a physical place tied to the Summerland (our version of reality), that the Caretakers of the Imaginarium Geographic (a book of maps of the Archipelago). These Caretakers are the great writers of fantasy and science fiction—H.G. Wells, Jules Verne, William Shakespeare, Chaucer, Alexandre Dumas, Jacob Grimm, Hans Christian Andersen, and the list goes on. The most recent Caretakers are the ones we follow in these books, Tolkien, Lewis, and Williams.

The scope of what Owen has done is incredible. He has taken on the role of understanding all of these old stories—sometimes multiple versions of the same story—and splicing them together so the reader can see how they all connect. Really, what he’s done is taken every fantasy and mushed it together, which sounds incredibly unoriginal. The premise of his story is, “How did Tolkien and Lewis come to create their stories?” and he created a fictional version of how that came to pass. All throughout the books I see shadows of Aragorn, Edmund, Eowyn, Aslan, Frodo, Mr. Beaver, and the Great Ring. He has taken all of the things that I love in these stories and broken them down to their base elements. In the Author’s note at the end of “The Search for the Red Dragon” he wrote, “It was a passion of J.R.R. Tolkien’s to try to find the oldest versions of the world’s stories. So using that conceit as a template, I was able to write early versions of “Hansel and Gretel” and even wink at “Snow White” with Medea’s mirror.” (pg. 370)

Any fantasy lover should read these books. I think what ultimately drove me to choose him was that he didn’t just write a fantasy—he wrote about all fantasies. I got a little bit of everything. I didn’t have to choose my favorite work of the genre because he had already compiled it together for me. The stories that created his world may not have been original, but the way he constructed them is profoundly unique. As I was reading his books I kept thinking to myself, “This is the ultimate fanfiction.” In a way it is, but it’s also much more.

Something I appreciated is that he made allusions to King Arthur essentially being the inspiration for Tolkien’s Aragorn without coming right and saying: “Aragorn’s story is a version of King Arthur.” All of the old stories, myths, reminded me of so many things from “The Lord of the Rings” and “The Chronicles of Narnia” and even “Star Wars.” It took me a long time to come to the realization that sometimes it’s not about creating a perfectly original story—because you can’t—and that it’s sometimes better if you pull from old mythologies—because they resonate with the readers. We take comfort in the familiar, in the known worlds. I’m not saying I want to start over and copycat all other writers. I’m saying that I don’t need to be worried about certain characters having King Arthur complexes. (Not that any of mine directly have that problem.) I found a quote by C.S. Lewis recently that said, “Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it.” I used to worry about “Morning Star” because it started out as being a copycat of “The Lord of the Rings” and “Star Wars.” It’s grown though, and while I can still see elements of Tolkien in my writing, it’s not Tolkien.

Owen certainly had some “power quotes” that caused me think deeper about the elements of story writing. (That’s what I look for when I’m reading, lines that strike me in a profound way.) Often times, these quotes come from older characters.

“Power is a thing earned, not something that may be passed along with the possession of objects like thrones…or rings, for that matter. Power, true power, comes from the belief in true things, and the willingness to stand behind that belief, even if the universe itself conspires to thwart your plans. Chaos may settle; flames may die; worlds may rise and fall. But true things will remain so, and will never fail to guide you to your goals.”

                                                                    (“Here, There be Dragons,” 105)

This came from the dragon Samaranth. It made me pause and think, where are my characters getting their power? Morning Star, is she powerful because she is going to be queen, because she will have the throne of Starian? It was a possibility. But as I thought about it more, I realized that that wasn’t true at all. Tonraeth believes power comes from land, that’s why he is trying to take over Starian and the other Elven realms. He believes that power comes from possession, something that the protagonists are not in agreement with. They realize that power comes from something deeper—spiritual. They understand that no matter what happens to their world, though they will die defending it, that Allamar is still in control, not Tonraeth.

“You understand that all that happens is not mere cause and effect, but that there are causes underlying causes, and it is those that truly shape the events of history.”

                                                                (“The Search for the Red Dragon,” 80)

This quote comes from one of the Morgaine (straight from Avalon) and it offered up an interesting idea about history, and how history is developed. So as I started fleshing out what happened to Tonraeth and why he is so power hungry I realized it couldn’t just be something as simple as wanting his own country, there had to be something more. Why wasn’t he going to be given his own piece of land? In the same way, why is Morning Star so determined to save the family of an Elve that she just met? What is it that pushes her over the edge and causes her to leave her mother? I’m developing the answers to these questions, and others like them, but in the spirit of story telling I am not going to lay them out here.

“All things grow. All things change. And eventually, all things must pass. It is the way of life. To stay young is to remove oneself from the motion of the world. But to grow up is to take hold of that motion, and use it, and shape the world for those who come after. It is not a choice. It is a responsibility.”

                                                      (“The Search for the Red Dragon,” 313-314)

This quote comes from Peter Pan, and it made me think of Katra and her situation. She had a hard childhood, and she faced a lot of persecution as she grew up. But she didn’t let that make her less of a person. She took hold of the way her world was moving by becoming a slave driver, and she did everything in her power to make that world better for those that would follow by subtly protecting her fellow slaves. She didn’t see it as just a choice, but also as a responsibility. I’m looking into how I can have other characters use the same view. Perhaps this is also evident in Morning Star—perhaps this is one of her underlying causes.

This next quote is one that I just found to be interesting. H.G. Wells (also known as Bert in these books) makes the comment about John (Tolkien), “He’s not built to write straight accounts…No, John’s an inventor, pure and simple…John has within himself entire realities that he’s going to create and share with the world. And to be honest, I think his legacy is going to eclipse us all.” (“The Search for the Red Dragon,” 357) This couldn’t be a more accurate statement. Tolkien may have used the old legends and myths to fuel his stories, but he ultimately created something that has yet to be surpassed in the fantasy world (in my opinion, some would argue that Harry Potter is greater). As a writer, I want to have “entire realities” inside of me that are just waiting to be told. I want that kind of passion for my writing, that kind of drive.

“Language gives us the ability to make metaphors, but really, that’s all myths are, whether or not they were created around real happenings.”

                                                                              (“The Indigo King,” 23-24)

 

Hugo Dyson is the “character” to have said this. Myths are metaphors. While my story may not be a myth because it is not the foundation of an actual religion on culture, it is a mythology in that it tells a story about a group of people and how they came to be. If my story is a myth, then it is also a metaphor. That raises the question: What is it a metaphor of? I’ve drawn in elements of Christianity, and other influences. I need to work on developing this idea more deeply.

“A thimble might be a kiss, a flower might be a name, and a dragon might be a ship. Sometimes things are simply what we need them to be. And sometimes things are not what we expect.”

                                                                               (“The Indigo King,” 297)

This speaks the idea of metaphor. As I write “Morning Star” I have been trying to find ways to create metaphors within the greater metaphor. For instance, Katra’s necklace that she inadvertently stole. What is that a metaphor for? I know it is something, but cannot put my finger on what it is. Perhaps that’s the beauty of story telling though, I don’t always know what will happen, but it does happen. I need the necklace to be something, but I imagine it will be something I do not expect.

“And it seems that one man, in the right place, an’ at th’ right time, can do an awful lot.”

                                                                                   (“The Indigo King,” 300)

 The idea of heroes is one that runs deep in any kind of mythology. We like to say that one person can make a difference, but when we look at ourselves we don’t think that we can do anything without the help of a group. There is something to be said here. How can my characters make an impact on one another—on their world? We’re going to see how the death of one child can change an entire group of people—the way they think, the way they act, the way they perceive each other. The voice that speaks to Morning Star said, “You did what you could with what you had at the time.” (paraphrase) She has a host of people supporting her, but this voice is telling her over and over again that she doesn’t need them; she wants them. Nobody wants to be alone. So yes, one man can make a difference, but maybe he’s more likely to act if he has support of others.

“The authority does not now and never has lain with those of royal blood. Rather, it lies within those of noble worth. And having one does not necessarily guarantee the other.”

                                                                              (“The Indigo King,” 322)

This comes from Samaranth again, a younger version of him. This is perhaps an idea that will come through more clearly in “Evening Star.” I do want to draw attention to the nobility of Morning Star and Evean (and the others) not coming from their royal blood, but rather from something else within themselves. There is more to them than just a royal lineage. This is something that will become more evident in Katra as well, as the story progresses. On the other hand, we also see Tonraeth, of high blood, not having much in way of noble worth. There is much that could come from this “simple” idea.

I could go on and on about this kind of thing—mostly because it all reminds me of linguistics, and that fascinates me. I didn’t think I would ever like the notion of emulating another writer. As I read Owen I saw many things that I loved—his character development, his world as a geographical place, his rules for time travel and magic. Mostly, I loved the way he got me thinking. There are two other books of his that, given more time and space, I would have also written about. They too had some inspiring “power lines.” 

While the journey to discover an author was also beneficial, reaching the choice was far more rewarding. In this circumstance, the end of the journey far outweighed the journey itself. (Breaking clichés one at a time.)

Heartache to heartache, we stand...

Writing. Again. Yeah, I know, it's the tune of my summer. But my summer is almost over, and I feel like I need a post of cap it all off--not that the process ever ends.

Mostly, I want to talk about the phone calls, skype dates, and house visits with Lisa (and Heidi).

I've written a fair amount about the way a writer speaks to another writer. There's more though. So much more.

As I've worked throughout the summer on this huge project, I've realized that up until this point I've just kind of been wingin' it and hoping it would come out alright. Yes, I had some people read parts of it, but none of them really helped me develop ideas, nor did they give me much feedback. This was fine at the time, because I wasn't ready to hear much about improvement. (If you have read any of "Morning Star" you should feel privileged because I have hold this story near and dear for a long time.)

When I was on the phone with Lisa earlier this week she started out by telling me how she cried while she read a certain scene--and it wasn't the death scene, like I expected, it was the proposal scene I mentioned in an earlier post. Something that had been thrown in kind of last minute before emailing it to her. Good tears. Tears because it moved her--the giving up of part of ones identity that goes along with giving one's life to another. In everything, there is a give and take--I pray there is more giving than taking.

Then, as we worked through the other parts of the chapters I sent her, we came to the conclusion that "There are a lot of characters in this story." It's true, there are. They're not all crucial--though some are becoming more important than I originally thought they would be. Sometimes a book with a lot of characters can be daunting--and at times it is--but there are many characters in my personal story, and in yours. So why should it be that my main character only has one friend? She has many friends, and they have families, and that is okay. I just need to work on giving them faces, so to speak.

I am looking through a kaleidoscope, and through it I view this mythology as it comes to life. As I turn and twist it I see new colors, learn new names, discover new hurts.

My mother is painting out front door red today. There is significance here that is going unnoticed--it is a significance in my own heart. She is painting over something that has been in want of paint for eight years now. I have been finessing a story that has been in want of completion for nearly eight years now. She paints with red, I paint with words. But the end result is the same--notice me. Know that I am what I am. "I am a door." and "I am a book." "I am a way into a home." and "I am a way into a story."

I told Mom I would paint the door green. And if I thought I could get away with it, it would be round. Because my journey as a writer began with a green door and a brass nob right in the middle. All I need is a wizard to knock on our red door, and I'll be set. But maybe I am the wizard of this story? Maybe I am knocking on the heart of the reader and I am saying, "Follow me, I have a story to tell you."

"It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yell brass knob in the exact middle." [The Hobbit]

I don't want your sympathy or pity...

It's time to talk about this thing that I've been carrying around for a while. A thing that I have not addressed because it hurt. And no matter how many times I sang, Blessed be Your name when I'm found in the desert place... I still felt the sting.

A day I will never forget. I even wrote a letter for the box I will one day give to my husband explaining what had happened. And I try not to litter that space with nonsensical things. (Though it's hard not to some days.)

November 1, 2010. I have mentioned this briefly before. It was a Monday night and I had only been on campus for about 24 hours after getting back from a weekend at home. I was working on Greek when I got the phone call from what my caller id said was Mom. Not knowing what she could have wanted after only spending an entire weekend with me, I answered a little annoyed at the disturbance. But it wasn't Mom, it was Josef. And I never heard his voice sound so soft on the phone before.

"Anna boo?"

"Yeah, what's up? Why are you on Mom's phone?"

"Mine's dead." Pause. "Mr. Cushing passed away today."

Pause. He has to be kidding. There's no way. "What?"

"Mom wants to talk to you."

I don't remember what she said. I don't remember much of anything as far as words go.

I remember disregarding my Greek flash cards. I remember laying on the floor; broken. I remember being thankful my roommate was at class. I remember finally crawling into bed and crying more.

When LeAnn returned I had to explain what was wrong. My words did not convey why I was so upset. I didn't know then why I was so upset. I'm still not entirely sure.

The emails I sent to my professors and boss were short. I wouldn't be in class on Tuesday due to the loss of a mentor.

A mentor.


He was a mentor, a man I respected as a teacher, as a scientist. I wrote him a letter explaining how thankful I was to have him as my middle school science teacher. How I couldn't think of anyone that could have made the seventh grade sex-talk less awkward. How his genuine concern that his students were actually learning deeply impacted my view on educators. How much I appreciated him using acid to unstick my glued fingertips. How he would have made an excellent school administrator. How I remember that he shared not only my dad's first name but also his middle name.

It's strange, the memories we hang on to.

I went home on Tuesday to vote, and also to be alone. The hour drive was rough. Voting was harder--it was at a school and one of the administrators was talking about, "the death of that teacher at that rural school." His name was Mr. David Lee Cushing, and he was one of the best teachers I ever had.


Really, I wanted to talk to people that knew who he was. (As much as I love and appreciate my roommate, she didn't know who I was talking about. And she doesn't know what to do with crying, she told me so. I love you, LeAnn.)  But we didn't talk about it. Not really. Mom said she thought it was a heart attack and Dad couldn't remember "what's-his-face's" name. So I went back to school after dinner not feeling any better.

I went back to classes on Wednesday. I think Blanco would have given me another day if I had asked. He made sure I was okay after class, offered some good words of encouragement and extra Greek help. Thursday was when all of my profs asked how I was doing. Numb.


When Friday rolled around I got dressed up after class and went back to Grand Island. It was the day of the visitation. I went into the church hoping, praying, for some closure once I saw the body. But there was no body. It was an unexpected death (and I think that's why I was shocked to tears) and an early burial. He was only 40.

While I was standing there alone, trying not to cry, I heard his dad speaking. They sound the same, and when I turned to see who it was I knew immediately it was his father. He was talking to someone about the cause of death--I had heard it was a heart attack (he was overweight). It turns out that he had some kind of disease that causes liquid to fill the lungs, I can't recall what it's called now. They thought he was having a hard time breathing, and so laid down on the floor to try to clear his airway. It was too late when he realized that his lungs were filling with fluid. He couldn't get up. He essentially drowned.

I almost lost it. He drowned. What a painful way to die. I had to leave. I went out to my car and tried to call Claire. I tried to call LeAnn. I knew they were all busy. Finally, I called Cole. He was playing a game with his family, but he took the time to listen to me cry for a good five minutes.

I called Dad, told him I was done at the visitation. I drove an hour just to stand in a room for ten minutes and not even see the body. We went out to eat together. We didn't talk about it over dinner. It wasn't until we were out on the sidewalk and I was getting ready to go back to Seward that we finally talked about it.

He put his arm around me and asked me how it went. I told him the whole story. Sometimes what a girl needs is to just cry into her daddy's shoulder when the world doesn't make sense. When I finally got myself under control (it took a visit to the art gallery where Mom shows her work) I was able to drive back to Seward.

Why is this coming up now? A friend's dad died this last month (July). And she seemed to be handling the death of her father much better than I handled the death of my teacher. The difference is that she had weeks of preparing for that loss and I was blindsided.

Life is a funny thing.