I love to escape into strange worlds, rich with language, culture, music, and tales both strange and familiar. My feeble attempt to create such a world continues. I am following the advice of writers I most admire and writing what I wish to read. This is easier said than done. I've always been more reader than writer, more critic than artist. Alas, I have found myself in quite a drought, thirsty for no story save the untold one festering inside me.
So I put the sudoku puzzles aside and set, once again, to work. All posts today on all three of my blogs, DailyProsetry, FaerieWolf, and Sunsets and Sandspurs relate directly to my Fantasy series, FaerieWolf. I will continue in this vein for as long as I can, here relating my fears, successes, and setbacks, on Prosetry, sharing some of my world's folksongs and prayers, and, of course, on FaerieWolf, sparing my children the arduous task of completing my life's work posthumously, one paragraph at a time.
Cheers, and Happy Reading!
Dana LaLonde
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
A Children's Book. Know any good illustrators? When Jacob Saw His Future
When Jacob Saw His Future
When Jacob saw his future, he'd been sledding up Grant's Hill.
His brothers sat up the night before in their room, calculating the speed, weight, and friction necessary to get down their hill and up to their neighbor's. They waited until their parents left for work and headed outside with their caps and mittens, and a trashcan lid. They found the spot that had the fewest trees to get in the way. They heaved and hoed and sent Jacob careening down hill and back up again.
When Jacob saw his future, it happened so fast, he almost missed it. First he saw the scarf, red, rich, wool. Then he saw the hand, rough, strong, soft. Then he saw the smile. In an instant Jacob knew he didn't want to slide back down the hill, go inside and drink hot chocolate and watch Wheel of Fortune. So he reached out. Mesmerized by time and fate, both Jacobs grabbed the other's hand. The scarf fell onto Jacob's face, fuzzy and scratchy as his future helped him up. When he was standing (and could see), he realized he wasn't on Grant's hill, or anywhere near his neighborhood. For a second, he wondered if he was in heaven. The sun was so shiny, bouncing off of every surface, and the streets and buildings were lined with palm trees.
When Jacob saw his future, he thought he must be dreaming. He woke up in a red sports car that matched the red scarf. He looked around at the car full of people that looked like his family and wondered if these were the California cousins, as his dad liked to call his mom's sister's family. He was sitting between two kids in the back, listening to music with their earphones, and playing with gray square toys Jacob had never seen before.
When Jacob saw his future, he was disappointed. The day was gorgeous, but he could barely pay attention with all the bickering in the back seat. The lunch they ate at a restaurant was delicious, but everyone complained anyway. The clothes the man and woman bought their children were fancy and expensive, but the girl complained that she wanted something else, and the boy barely grumbled when his mom held up a shirt for him to look at.
When Jacob saw his future, he started to rethink his present. How many times did he or his brothers fight about what show to watch on television or what kind of ice cream to buy? How many times did they grumble about their chores or fail to say thank you when their mom made dinner?
When Jacob saw his future, he made a decision. He felt bad for the man and woman. By the end of the day, their kind smiles looked tired, their fine clothes seemed worn, and their fancy car that purred that morning started groaning for more gas.
When Jacob saw his future, he made a promise. He vowed to look for the beautiful in every day. He promised to let his brothers take a turn more often. He made a commitment to whine less and help more.
When Jacob saw his future, he hoped it would make a difference. He started to see that the boy he was would make the man he would become. He wanted to make those kids in the backseat know how to be nice. He knew it was up to him to show them how.
When Jacob saw his future, he changed his present. When he got back to the bottom of the hill, he was wearing that red scarf. He confidently stomped through the crunchy snow, dragging that rusty, bent, waste of a tin trash lid solidly in his grip. He breathed in the hard sunshine, relished in the icy pain in his fingers, and couldn't wait for his future to begin.
When Jacob saw his future, he'd been sledding up Grant's Hill.
His brothers sat up the night before in their room, calculating the speed, weight, and friction necessary to get down their hill and up to their neighbor's. They waited until their parents left for work and headed outside with their caps and mittens, and a trashcan lid. They found the spot that had the fewest trees to get in the way. They heaved and hoed and sent Jacob careening down hill and back up again.
When Jacob saw his future, it happened so fast, he almost missed it. First he saw the scarf, red, rich, wool. Then he saw the hand, rough, strong, soft. Then he saw the smile. In an instant Jacob knew he didn't want to slide back down the hill, go inside and drink hot chocolate and watch Wheel of Fortune. So he reached out. Mesmerized by time and fate, both Jacobs grabbed the other's hand. The scarf fell onto Jacob's face, fuzzy and scratchy as his future helped him up. When he was standing (and could see), he realized he wasn't on Grant's hill, or anywhere near his neighborhood. For a second, he wondered if he was in heaven. The sun was so shiny, bouncing off of every surface, and the streets and buildings were lined with palm trees.
When Jacob saw his future, he thought he must be dreaming. He woke up in a red sports car that matched the red scarf. He looked around at the car full of people that looked like his family and wondered if these were the California cousins, as his dad liked to call his mom's sister's family. He was sitting between two kids in the back, listening to music with their earphones, and playing with gray square toys Jacob had never seen before.
When Jacob saw his future, he was disappointed. The day was gorgeous, but he could barely pay attention with all the bickering in the back seat. The lunch they ate at a restaurant was delicious, but everyone complained anyway. The clothes the man and woman bought their children were fancy and expensive, but the girl complained that she wanted something else, and the boy barely grumbled when his mom held up a shirt for him to look at.
When Jacob saw his future, he started to rethink his present. How many times did he or his brothers fight about what show to watch on television or what kind of ice cream to buy? How many times did they grumble about their chores or fail to say thank you when their mom made dinner?
When Jacob saw his future, he made a decision. He felt bad for the man and woman. By the end of the day, their kind smiles looked tired, their fine clothes seemed worn, and their fancy car that purred that morning started groaning for more gas.
When Jacob saw his future, he made a promise. He vowed to look for the beautiful in every day. He promised to let his brothers take a turn more often. He made a commitment to whine less and help more.
When Jacob saw his future, he hoped it would make a difference. He started to see that the boy he was would make the man he would become. He wanted to make those kids in the backseat know how to be nice. He knew it was up to him to show them how.
When Jacob saw his future, he changed his present. When he got back to the bottom of the hill, he was wearing that red scarf. He confidently stomped through the crunchy snow, dragging that rusty, bent, waste of a tin trash lid solidly in his grip. He breathed in the hard sunshine, relished in the icy pain in his fingers, and couldn't wait for his future to begin.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
To Archetype or Not To Archetype...
I have always been entranced with the idea of writing that challenges what writing is supposed to do. I love when art rebels against itself. I love how, when writing a poem and finding the language and space that poem occupies, that the urge to tear down the continuity of what I'd just created tears through me to the page.
Included in my To-Do list are: write a story that tells the hero's journey backward, write one in which the typical steps are followed but out of cadence, write one that defies the pattern of storytelling we are so familiar with.
I wrote a children's book that feels alien, foreign to me. The tone feels off, it's too preachy, it feels like a 1950s coca-cola ad. Maybe that's the point. I dreamed this book.
Writing it was like recreating a dream we can barely recall from the early morning haze and fluff we often ignore. I am afraid that revising this story so that it makes sense might unravel the very thread I liked about it in the first place.
I talked about it with some friends and it seemed to make little sense. The questions they raised were great and necessary. When I got home and re-read what I'd actually written, I realized that there wasn't so much inconsistency in the plot, but that didn't make me like it any more.
To say that I hate the book would be dishonest. Clearly, when the idea of scrapping certain details rattles me to my core. No, I love the book. It must be written. Yet, I don't like the way I wrote it. I did not write a book that I would like to read.
Or did I?
I read all of Laura Ingall's Little House books when I was little. I love grainy old westerns. I still watch Lassie and Andy Griffith. Part of me is nostalgic for the simplicity with which the "good old days" were presented. Where children and adults alike speak in such sensible tones. The dialogue in those shows (Dobie Gillis) were never realistic. Did people ever really speak like they did on TV?
Now, of course, we expect that dialogue seem realistic. That characterization is plausible. But don't any of you still yearn for the kind of dishonesty in dialogue that betrays the writer's wish for society? Ought we not show the best ideas of our characters? After all, are we watching art to find ourselves reflected as we are, or as we wish to be?
Included in my To-Do list are: write a story that tells the hero's journey backward, write one in which the typical steps are followed but out of cadence, write one that defies the pattern of storytelling we are so familiar with.
I wrote a children's book that feels alien, foreign to me. The tone feels off, it's too preachy, it feels like a 1950s coca-cola ad. Maybe that's the point. I dreamed this book.
Writing it was like recreating a dream we can barely recall from the early morning haze and fluff we often ignore. I am afraid that revising this story so that it makes sense might unravel the very thread I liked about it in the first place.
I talked about it with some friends and it seemed to make little sense. The questions they raised were great and necessary. When I got home and re-read what I'd actually written, I realized that there wasn't so much inconsistency in the plot, but that didn't make me like it any more.
To say that I hate the book would be dishonest. Clearly, when the idea of scrapping certain details rattles me to my core. No, I love the book. It must be written. Yet, I don't like the way I wrote it. I did not write a book that I would like to read.
Or did I?
I read all of Laura Ingall's Little House books when I was little. I love grainy old westerns. I still watch Lassie and Andy Griffith. Part of me is nostalgic for the simplicity with which the "good old days" were presented. Where children and adults alike speak in such sensible tones. The dialogue in those shows (Dobie Gillis) were never realistic. Did people ever really speak like they did on TV?
Now, of course, we expect that dialogue seem realistic. That characterization is plausible. But don't any of you still yearn for the kind of dishonesty in dialogue that betrays the writer's wish for society? Ought we not show the best ideas of our characters? After all, are we watching art to find ourselves reflected as we are, or as we wish to be?
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