You call me across time
And touch my heart anew
You fill my soul with rhyme
And show me what is true
The sun bleeds golden beams
that pierce my eye with you
While time stretches in dreams
And I am blinded, too
You call me across time
I hear your voice it seems
It echoes like a chime
And reaches through my dreams
‘til all is filled with you
And you are all that’s true
.
.
The persona for this poem is Grace, addressing Ben.
I was visiting a friend today and she pulled out a bag and suggested I cast runes. I had never heard of such a thing, but I figured it’d do no harm. A new experience.
Apparently I am at a time of change, oportunities need to be evaluated, and great success is coming. Pretty cool. A young man was also there. His runes showed that he was in frustration giving up possessions, he’d be in turmoil and then he’d face new life. Since he had his whole life in a U-haul and was heading off on a 4000 km move, that was pretty freaky.
I went on-line afterwards to see what I could learn about runes. All I knew was that in Harry Potter Hermione had studied Ancient Runes at Hogwarts, and was able to read The Tales of Beadle the Bard in their original runic…
On the internet I learned that runes are ancient letters, and that divination with runes is simply about exploring the current situation by pondering it in the various angles brought by the tiles. The author of the site I visited suggested it’s about allowing the sub-conscious to lend its voice to decision making.
Interesting.
Some people don’t make a move without prayer, others without reading their horoscopes, others without consulting the Q’ran or the Bible. The internet is handy for researching every angle of an issue. There is always the very useful Magic Eight ball. 😉 Every consultation comes through the filter of our own consciousness and understanding. We can never know our future, because the future is mutable. We can only do the best we can and hope for the best.
…the difference between fiction based on reality and fantasy is simply a matter of range. The former is a handgun. It hits the target almost close enough to touch, and even the willfully ignorant can’t deny that it’s effective. Fantasy is a sixteen-inch naval rifle. It fires with a tremendous bang, and it appears to have done nothing and to be shooting a nothing.
Note the qualifier “appears.” The real difference is that with fantasy—and by that I mean fantasy which can simultaneously tap into a cosmopolitan commonality at the same time as it springs from an individual and unique perspective. In this sort of fantasy, a mythic resonance lingers on—a harmonious vibration that builds in potency the longer one considers it, rather than fading away when the final page is read and the book is put away. Characters discovered in such writing are pulled from our own inner landscapes…and then set out upon the stories’ various stages so that as we learn to understand them a little better, both the monsters and the angels, we come to understand ourselves a little better as well. (Charles de Lint. Memory and Dreams. p. 323)
I wish de Lint’s words were my own, because they’re so profound. Consider: “harmonious vibration that builds in potency.” Oh how I hope that Grace Awakening offers the reader such a lingering mythic resonancy! How I hope that as they grow to understand my characters, they understand themselves better, just as I have grown from the process.
When someone asks why on Earth I chose to write a novel with a fantasy twist, I want to be answer as eloquently as this! I am reminded of Bella’s comment in New Moon, “Could a world really exist where ancient legends went wandering around the borders of tiny, insignificant towns, facing down mythical monsters? Did this mean every impossible fairy tale was grounded somewhere in absolute ghost truth? Was there anything sane or normal at all, or was everything just magic and stories?” (p. 293) When it became clear that the story I had to tell required me to embrace myth, it was an epiphany. Once the mythology began to weave between the lines, my words flew beyond me. They started unfurling so much more than the germ I’d started with. Mythology reveals great truth, and I learned a lot from Grace and Ben, Jim and Bright, and the others in their world. I suspect there is much more to learn.
I’m really looking forward to hearing what sorts of things the rest of you learn from Grace et al. If you’ve read Grace Awakening, I’d love to hear what harmonious vibration is resonating with you.
Names…had potency. They pulled their owners in their wakes, the way that dreams can, the way you can wake up from sleep and believe that what you dreamed actually occurred. And even later, even when you realized the mistake, it was difficult to re-adjust your thinking.
But if dreams were potent, names were more so, especially the ones people chose for themselves. They might grow into the ones that were given to them, through the familiarity of use, if nothing else, but the ones they chose defined who they were like an immediate descriptive shorthand. (Charles de Lint. Memories and Dreams. p. 298)
Dreams touch us in diverse ways. Dreams of the bizarre, the hoped for, the feared all make appearances in our sub-conscious while we sleep. Usually they remain hidden, but if we come close to waking, to touching reality, then the conscience learns of their existence. When dreams touch awareness, then we touch the mystery and must sleuth out meaning or embrace the mystery. While the fears that wake us screaming in the night can paralyze us, we can also allow our subconscious to use dreams challenge us, inspire us or help us break through to a brilliant neural network of solutions
I often go to bed with a problem on my mind and awake to the solution fully formed. I have gone to bed thinking about right hand melody and left hand accompaniment patterns that would not go together. The next morning I’ve sat down at the harp and played the previously impossible on the first try. The subconscious is amazingly useful when we harness the power. The dream does actually occur in these cases, contrary to De Lint’s suggestion, because the dreams create reality.
Just like dreams, names are powerful. We gift our children with names that we hope they will live up to. My daughter’s name means “strong and womanly.” I think she has definitely grown into her name. My son’s name means “victory of the people” and I like the notion that his successes will help others. My name, a derivative of John, means “God’s gracious gift.” I was raised as a precious arrival, and definitely felt blessed and appreciated. Shawn is also, of course, more commonly a male name. Aside from the incorrectly addressed mail and being assigned to the all male dorm at college youth weekend, it hasn’t proven too problematic, at least since getting over the angst of youth. Perhaps I’m more inclined to celebrate the feminine with jewelery and shoes to counter the masculinity of the name. I think male Shawns are quite different from female Shawns, and that’s an interesting concept! As De Lint says, the name I chose is perhaps more potent because it is a huge choice to join individual identity in the union of marriage.
The names of the characters in Grace Awakening are carefully chosen. The names reflect the characters’ roles and personalities, or are small salutes to special people. I spent hours and hours on name sites getting the perfect name for each one. The names frame the personalities. Click on the Grace Awakening site and scroll to the sub-pages at the bottom to see articles about this.
How does your name define who you are? Have you changed your name? Would you change your name? Why? Why not?
In the May 20th blog entry, “Why I Love My Job” I told you that in grade 5 I switched my career goal from writing to teaching. I didn’t tell you why.
In grade 3 and 4, I was a writing star. I shared stories with my grade 3 class during show and tell, and I know I kept them on the edge of their seats with my brilliant prose. In grade 4 I won a Mother’s Day contest with a poem I’d written. My star was on fire. I had nothing but confidence in my skills as a writer.
In grade 5, I shared a poem I’d written with my school librarian, Mrs. Alex Harbottle , and she suggested I send it in to a magazine. She recommended a children’s poetry journal called Jabberwocky. I sent off my poem. In due course, I received a letter back from them. Heart thudding with joyful anticipation I opened the envelope, and pulled out my first rejection letter.
Oh, it was a kind and thoughtful letter. My poem, the editor said, was too mature for their journal. It was a lovely poem, and I should send it on to an adult poetry magazine or a religious magazine. They thanked me for my submission and hoped I would send them something else another time.
I was shocked. I was 10 years old. Why would my poem be of interest to adults or the audience of a religious magazine? I couldn’t deal with their suggestion, and so I shut that door.
Don’t get me wrong, I was still writing poetry. Just ask the boys who captured my interest and received beautiful hand calligraphied books dedicated to them! I also wrote articles and a library column for the school newspaper. That was just the end of looking for public approval until college when I discovered my fiance (who was NOT a writer) was going to enter a piece into the writing award. I couldn’t have that! It was only 2 or 3 hours to deadline, but I borrowed a typewriter, invented a story on the spot (typing very poorly!) and managed to win the prize. It paid for his wedding ring. That could have been enough to inspire me to start sending out my words again, but it wasn’t. I used them up on babies and students instead. Two decades playing with the words of others at home and in a classroom.
Then I wrote a novel. And another.
So now, after many years, I’m sending my words out for others to assess and to determine if those words can make them money and generate an audience for their company. I’m sending off queries and talking to publishers. The rejection letters are due.
I think I can handle it. I did all right after 6 months of discussion with an agent led to the first rejection e-mail. I wasn’t crushed. I simply thought, “We’re just not the right fit.” (though I regret not letting her know I had a publisher indicate interest in the manuscript!) I was simply astonished when another query was returned with a “we have too many things on the pile at the moment, can you re-submit this later?” note. (Note to self- possible area of career demand-literary agent). No devastation. No urges to commit suicide by letter opener as a result of another crushing blow. So far so good.
I’m trying to re-frame the name. They’re not so much ‘rejection letters’ as new opportunities to explore, right? They’re not about me and my words, necessarily, they can be about what fits with the company and their needs. Publishers a’re businesses, after all. They have to find product that matches with their vision. It’s not personal. It’s just business. But those words I’ve sent out there are my babies, and I want them to be well-liked and find friends who will help them become all they can be.
I’m trying to feel brave as I send my words out. I hope they’ll be received well.
Last year, in response to a joyful email note I’d sent upon initial interest by an agent in Grace Awakening, an old, dear friend (who was beneficiary of a few of those calligraphied poetry books once upon a time) wrote, “You’re a writer. You’ve always been one.” It makes me weepy whenever I consider his simple assertion of this identity for me. One rejection letter in my youth made me doubt that this was my calling, but I’m claiming it again.
I am returning to the childhood quest, Mrs. Harbottle, because I am a writer.
Words.
We fill our days with them. We speak them. We read them. They shout at us from billboards. They whisper at us from between the notes of a song.
We celebrate upon a baby’s first words. We’re empowered when we first read words. We grieve when a stroke steals words. We hover around a bedside to hear last words.
This weekend is a celebration of words. I will be attending the Shuswap Writers’ Festival. I had just finished Grace Awakening last year when I attended my first writing conference here in the Shuswap. I thought meeting some professional writers and mingling with the writing community was bound to be a good experience. It was all new. I wasn’t sure what a blue pencil was, and why I’d want to participate in it. It was enlightening. Every workshop offered gems. I hung on the edge of my seat listening to Andrea Spalding share her experiences and work. Words filled the weekend and led to more words. On the basis of my experience I was encouraged to be brave and travel to attend the huge Surrey International Writers’ Festival 5 months later. That conference was also phenomenally inspiring and led to some new writing friends and connections.
Now I will be hanging on the edge of my seat again. What words will be shared this weekend? Will a book sell? Will a career launch? Who will I meet? What will I learn? I am eager to meet the professionals and soak up as many of their words as I can. I’m hoping to hear some encouraging words.
Words are waiting to change my world again. Whose words willl they be?
Are there reluctant muses? How many muses are embarrassed or dissatisfied with their role as someone else’s creative inspiration? Whatever the real nature of the relationship between the people involved, the creative one takes the facts of the other and covers individual identity with musical notes, pieces of paper, or splashes of paint. Reality becomes illusion.
A muse is a creation of aspiration on the journey to inspiration. That they may walk, talk, breathe, sing, dance or act is extraneous to the process. The muse simply exists as a precipice from which the imagination can leap. If the muse is worthy, the leap is not downward, toward the heavy reality of life, but upward, into the dreamlike world of possibility. Once gliding on the currents of the muse, the creator may stay in the air for years or even decades on the flow of ideas, images, and imaginings
While the real life person ages, decays, and even dies, the muse lives on in perpetual youth. The ephemeral something that creates the muse is extemporal. This is why Petrarch was able to write over three hundred sonnets to Laure, even after her death. Reports suggest that the two had never actually even met, and yet the dream of her fueled Petrarch’s writing for decades after his first glimpse of her. I understand his obsession. My own muse is a memory wrapped in a dream and tied with a reverie. There’s no accounting for the flashes that make a moment into a poem, a nuance into a novel or a suggestion into a song.
From delusion
to illusion,
with the inspiration
comes the aspiration
for imagination
to become creation.
Biographies bore me. I don’t care how insightful a biographer is, no one knows what’s going on inside someone else’s head. Autobiographies bore me, too, because we lie to ourselves even more than a biographer does. Here’s what I think the bottom line is: if you’re looking for truth, try fiction…. I’ve always believed that the lies we use to make our fictions reveal the truth with far more honesty than any history or herstory or life story. (Charles de Lint, Memory and Dreams, p. 186)
I love this book and over time here in the blog I’ll visit some of the many quotations I recorded. This Canadian fantasy writer has some brilliant observations.
When I was at a writing workshop with Gail Anderson-Dargatz last fall, she commented on how sometimes truth is too strange to make into a book. Think about that. She meant that truth really is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to be plausible. A reader will suspend belief just so far, and if an author pushes them too far past that, they dismiss it. Is this the ‘creative’ part of creative non-fiction? The population really can’t handle the truth. (This is too much cliché, isn’t it?)
Like de Lint intimates, fiction reveals truth. I know it. My novel is fiction. Mostly. It started as a true story, but then Grace shoved me out of the way and had her own story to tell. Grace’s biography isn’t my autobiography, but we do have a lot in common. There are lots of people who have read the manuscript and were able to recognize some of my secrets lurking between the pages. Some of the most bizarre moments on the pages are the truest, but you won’t believe it, so it’ll be okay.
It was drawn to my attention by an alert member of the Grace Awakening Facebook group that it is illegal to kill a Sasquatch in the province of British Columbia. It makes sense. Obviously, when one considers how difficult it is to find Sasquatches in the woods, and how many crypto-zoologists are out looking for them, they have to be an endangered species. No one wants people with guns out shooting at endangered creatures.
Still. That law suggests severe ramifications for Grace. If she were discovered by the authorities to have killed a Sasquatch on that logging road above Bastion Mountain, would it matter that it was in self-defence? Endangered species have such special protections that I suspect self-defence is not a mitigating factor and she would still be liable for prosecution.
On the other hand, who is likely to find out about it? Josh isn’t going to talk, and Bright should be a safe confidante. If a tree falls in the forest…
How about Cyclopes? They haven’t been seen in a few thousand years. I don’t believe there is a law making them a protected species in B.C. No one is out looking for them, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t out there. Their increased forge activity could explain the increase of forest fires in British Columbia, couldn’t it? How about that eruption of Eyjafjallajokull volcano in Iceland? Angry Cyclopes is my bet. They are pretty good at making trouble for people, and they are really irritated with Zeus. Zeus is responsible for air travel. Uh huh. Making the connection? Disrupted air travellers have no clue about the real source of the problem, but now you know the truth.
Now the question is what did Grace kill on Bastion Mountain?
What is your guess?
——————————————————————————————-
To those of you south of the Canadian border: a Sasquatch is also known as Bigfoot.
Shawn L. Bird 
Messages (#1) June 12, 2010
Tags: common denominator, Grace Awakening, I Am the Messenger, Markus Zusak, Me to we, self, The Book Thief, truth
The narrator of I Am the Messenger has a mother who is unhappy with her life because she married and stayed in the small town where she’d grown up. She wants a bigger life. Her son hits upon a significant truth when he gives her this message. He is addressing the idea that, “Wherever you go, there you are.” What a profound truth that is.
You need to be the best you on the planet, because you are the only you on the planet! If you find that everywhere you go, trouble follows, you need to think about the leader. If you consistently end up hanging out with jerks, why do you keep finding them? If your boyfriends are always nasty, why are you constantly dating nasty guys?
In Grace Awakening, Grace is told, “You are the common denominator in all your life experiences.” Think about that. You are the one single consistent factor in your life. You can’t blame anyone else for your problems, because your response to the events around you is what is important. Action is power. You are the only one who can change your life.
Markus Zusak, whose The Book Thief has become a huge international success, has crafted a completely different book in I Am the Messenger. This much lighter novel is about helping those who need some small intervention for their lives to be improved.
Each of us has a responsibility to make a difference. We don’t have to help everyone on the planet, but we can help someone. We can visit a shut in, write a note to someone who needs some encouragement, drop off groceries to those in need, cover tuition for someone who otherwise could not better her life through education. We can share a smile and a positive attitude.
It’s Me to We in action. What will you do today to care for those in need?
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