Much Thinkery About Something – insanabile cacoethes scribendi

Ch-ch-ch-Changes!

Both Fair and Foul. Listen on…

And here’s the transcription:

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-changes…

Yes, David Bowie was a hero of mine in my teens, and as the song says… turn and face the strange. I’ve been doing just that for a while now, and thought it was time to catch all of you, the lovely readers of the Wode in particular, up to speed with those changes. Some are fair and some are foul; the last several months have been interesting, to say the least, and more changes are coming. The thing is, these coming ones are certainly more fair than foul! So please forgive the lengthiness of this update, if you would. The Patreon peeps have already seen some of this (You did know I have a Patreon, right?), but there is other important info as well, so stay with me!

Of course, if you’re used to reading my books, you’re used to length, right? 😉

PART THE FIRST:
The not-so-fun bits.

As a few of you might already know, this past November I was diagnosed with breast cancer. A whirlwind of appointments and like disruption followed, including surgery. The good news: they got it all. I’m on the final weeks of radiation treatments which, unfortunately, are seriously messing with my energy and productivity.

Still, I’m one of the lucky ones; I have decent insurance (Of course, being self-employed, it’s out of the question to afford my own; Amazing Spouse has a more ‘normal’ occupation and the sheer luck of working with a company who actually gives a damn about the health of their employees. So because I could keep up with regular mammograms, they caught the tumour very early. It could have been much worse.

Now, here’s the part where I’d like to be able to come out and say that I’m an example of the necessity of having regular mammograms, and thusly encourage people to do likewise.

However.

The reality is, for most of my life I haven’t had the resources to afford mammograms, or to be so proactive in seeing to my health. The reality is, if it wasn’t for my husband’s employer, I’d likely be another statistic to my birth-country’s lack of concern for debilitating illness and, in particular, women’s health. We need a system of health care that doesn’t put a price on people’s lives and doesn’t hike up treatment and drug prices so that a few filthy sods can turn a buck. Moreover, we need to support places (like Planned Parenthood) where all women can go and make informed choices about their health. Considering the present idiots in charge, and the knee jerk reactions of the few who want to stay on top and continue to openly wave their bigotry and lack of empathy like a banner? Well. We need to stay angry, my friends. This genie ain’t going back into the bottle.

And THAT is the end of that rant, I promise.

Unfortunately, surgery and radiation, have meant low energy and lower productivity. My brain, she is mush. The end is in sight, at least. But it means my winter deadlines are as turned to mush as my grey matter… and most especially Wyldingwode, which I know many of you are waiting for. I’m bulling my way through best as I can. I also refuse to put out a substandard work. Still, there’s hope I’ll have the final Wode book out by the end of 2019.

How, you might ask, can I possibly do that?

Well, that’s where the other changes come in.

(cue David Bowie)

PART THE SECOND

So, just before the Diagnosis happened, I was contemplating a very big change: that of publishers. The Dreamspinner Press team, well, they’re excellent with category romance—which, unfortunately, I don’t write—so when I agreed to join in at the beginning of the DSP Publications imprint, it was with the hopes of getting in on the ground floor of a new, queer-focused, SF/Fantasy imprint. That didn’t happen the way I’d hoped. Now, the DsP team have told me more than once they love my books. I think they’re some of the nicer people I’ve met in publishing. But love isn’t enough when the marketing/branding is not working out the way I feel it should. We’ve agreed to an amicable parting of ways, and I wish them all the best.
But wait! you ask, How will Wyldingwode release without a publisher? What about the rest of the books?

It’s all good. By spring my reversion of rights will be complete, which means a new and different world of options for the Wode Books—and for many future projects. I’m working on those options as we speak, and promise to have more details for you next month. So stay tuned, join the newsletter, do whatever you need to stay in touch. Some fun things are coming down the pipe. Particularly when I’m done with the bloody radiation and can focus better)

With all that said, I’d like to share a few wee hints of what’s coming:

*This summer, there will be brand new releases of The Wode Books, complete with:
+Re-editing and formatting (nothing over-the-top, just some corrections and tightening)
+A re-vamped cover for Shirewode
(and Bob’s covers are STAYING, no worries there! I can’t wait for all of you to see what she’s done for Wyldingwode.)
+Special editions in several formats

*MORE AUDIO – Did you know there’s an audio version of Winterwode being serialised on Patreon right now? (You did know I’ve a Patreon, right? 😉 ) There’s a level of support that will snag you two episodes a month, as well as your own copy of the completed audio when it releases to major audiobook distributors. Check it out!

*More Retro Recs—for those of you who don’t know (and hey, it’s been a while) this is where I take older books that meant a lot to me, give them another spin, and share them with you. Thinking about this as a podcast-y sort of thing.

So, rounding up this bit is a question for YOU. What would you like to see?
And before you say it: YES, finishing Wyldingwode is most definitely at the very top of this list!

PART THE THIRD

Keeping up on the latest, as in I want you to know what’s up, and hope you feel the same. So, let’s talk social media for just a few.

Because honestly? Social media is hard for me on several levels. I don’t visit very often, because it flat wears me out. I will never be on social media every day. Just letting you know that up front.

However.

I do have a new Instagram account, where I hope to share some pictures from my own archives as well as some from Pinterest. I’m a visual sort. I am on Twitter, which I find a bit less abrasive than the barrage that is Facebook… maybe because it’s shorter and easier to scan past? Facebook is… well, its verrrry hard. I used to friend everyone who friended me… big mistake. Lots of spamming. So now I only friend those I’ve met. If it wasn’t for those friends, and those of you I’ve corresponded with, I’d be saying buh-bye to Facebook. Having a page is a joke these days, because they no longer get any play on the timeline. What to expect froma free service that wants nothing but to mine your info so they can sell you something? *sigh* At least groups are still viable. If you join and follow a group, and sign up for notifications, you get them. And all of you who haven’t yet?—you’re welcome to join The Wode Books group. It would be great to see more interaction and discussion there… and I do try to visit it as I can.

And there are also a few ways to contact me other than social media.

FIRST: The JTH Newsletter, available for sign up on my website at www.jtulloshennig.net. This will also sign you up for the Musings blog, which goes out through RSS via the newsletter aggregator.

Just FYI, one of my resolutions for the new year is to be a bit less of a writer-hermit, and do more reaching out in 2019 and onward—but neither will you see me hanging out in your mailbox overmuch. No more than once or twice a month; less during a writing jag. Of course, releases might be a leetle more expressionistic… 😉

SECOND: Patreon at www.patreon.com/jtulloshennig . Join our community for the price of a good hot cup of chai per month (less or more, as you choose), and in exchange you get monthly goodies, along with the added benefit of endorsing art you love. You can indeed help support the experience you’ve come expect from me: immersive fiction, told with craft and care.

THIRD: Email me! It takes me time to respond, but I will respond best I can.

I have so much respect and gratitude for all of you. I appreciate your presence, and please accept my since thanks for supporting and sharing this writing journey.

Regards,
Jeanine

Category: Books, Much Thinkery About Something | 2 Comments

October 17

It’s International Robin Hood Day…

And I was pondering how best to honour a Favoured Outlaw. Some time ago I wrote Some Musings about a few of the reasons Robin Hood always lurks in the collective unconscious, and I could certainly ponder further upon that, but…

Well, it seemed that to list some creative retellings of Robin’s many faces would be a far more fitting tribute. I certainly cannot list them all — nor would I choose to, in some cases 😉 — but here are some of the prose examples that have, over the years, lain very close to my heart.

Sherwood

&
Robin and The King
both by Parke Godwin

Top of my list now, but at first I was hesitant to read them. Not because of the quality of writing (duh, it’s Parke Godwin), but due to the unexpected time frame. Robin Hood circa 1066 ACE? But I was young and foolish. Because why not? and yes!–Godwin took the Saxon/Norman conflict and put it where it truly belonged, with an amazing surround and strong, well-rounded characterisations… which meant, of course, they break your heart in all the right places.

Last of the Greenwood by Sharon Whitby
This one has all but disappeared, which is a shame. (Even the verrry dated cover that really doesn’t do the story justice is my old battered copy scanned in–couldn’t find it online.) I discovered Last of the Greenwood years ago whilst first researching the rest of the then-trilogy begun in Greenwode… and the dark mysticism in it was familiar, compelling… and reassuring, particularly to a young writer trying her own wierd new take on a warhorse of a legend.

The Sheriff of Nottingham by Richard Kluger
Told from the titular P.o.V., this was a refreshing take. An anti-hero, certainly, but not a shallow villain with no story of his own.

Mythago Wood by Robert Holdstock
Robin is, in this book, a minor–and nicely ambiguous–character, but the Wood is the true wonder; a character in its own right, dark and magical and not-quite-friendly.

—————————
In all these examples, the prose runs from brilliant to sublime. Beautiful and evocative writing.

Of course, I also must mention the ones that lie closest to my heart.
If I didn’t care about my own characters, didn’t love and hate and suffer with them… believe in them… even more than I cherish these other examples? There would be little point to living, loving, and suffering with Robyn Hode and his covenant of the Shire Wode.

So to the spirit of Robin and his band, in all their many incarnations — I salute you!

#RobinHood #RobinHoodDay

Category: Books, Much Thinkery About Something, Retro Recs, Travelling Through Time | LEAVE A COMMENT

October 10

Podcast Interview Now Live

WodeLogo LAST WEEK I spent some time talking to the delightful, extraordinarily nice people of the WROTE podcast about the new release of Winterwode, writing life, subtext and research and many thought-y things. Hey, they didn’t even threaten me with duct tape!

As I said, Vance, Angel and Baz were very nice folks… and very patient interviewers. 😉 Check it out! WROTE podcast with J Tullos Hennig

Category: Appearances, Books, Midnight Confession, Much Thinkery About Something | LEAVE A COMMENT

April 24

Retro Recs – THUNDERHEAD

HERE’S THE PLAN: to pull out a book from my tight-packed bookshelves and share it. Qualifications? It has to be one I’ve read over and over again, one that has inspired my own writing, and one that gave me a lasting experience of some sort. There are so many older books that are just too damned good to be buried in the mosh pit of publishing fashions and frenzies. So I’m going to pull them out and have another dance with them. And hopefully encourage others to do the same.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Since it’s only seems right to have these first Retro Recs posts feature authors who have one way or another deeply influenced both my reading and writing, then Mary O’Hara makes up the third, but certainly not the least, of my Three Hail Marys. O’Hara is perhaps best known for the novel My Friend Flicka–which has spawned several movies, few of which do justice to the rich and powerful layer cake of characterisation that is O’Hara’s work. My Friend Flicka is perhaps the first of her books I read as a youth, and another absolute favourite of mine. But not as many people seem to know that Flicka was the first of a trilogy; a coming of age tale concerning a boy named Ken McLaughlin, his family, their ranch in Wyoming and the horses that taught him the many truths of living. The titles are, in order:
My Friend Flicka
Thunderhead
Green Grass of Wyoming

These books are marketed as ‘children’s books’, true; but when they were published, there wasn’t the same nigh-rabid need to classify everything into a plethora of overly simplistic categories. Whether we as readers (I refuse to use the word consumers–like books are cereal! Hardly!) have learned over-entitlement through such rabid labelling is a topic for another time. Suffice it to say, when growing up I thankfully didn’t have those stifling categories trying to indoctrinate what was ‘proper’ to read; books were separated by reading levels and topics and really, that was about it. A prodigious reader from the age of four (that’s what my parents told me, anyway), I read books. From every shelf in the library.

And these three books, like almost every ‘children’s book’ of that era–contained something for every age of reader. Naturally there were things in the text that as a child I didn’t comprehend and glossed over… but that was–and is–the delight. So many little gems are in these paragraphs and this story; layers upon layers of sheer characterisation and storytelling brilliance. The whole trilogy is the kind of book that you want to keep on your shelves, and reread–for each time you do, you glean something more.

So, after a hard choice from three examples of mind-blowing and amazing craft, it was Thunderhead that came to the fore. Granted, I do tend toward the middle of many trilogies; perhaps because that’s where the emotional stakes ramp up the most, and things spin out of control. In Thunderhead were all the pivotal points of any good bildungsroman: insubordination, a family crisis amidst the hardships of ranch life, thwarted hopes and a focus upon which to fasten one’s love and pain and hopes.

The latter in particular is an ugly white colt named Thunderhead, called the Goblin and as much an outsider as his abstracted young master, Ken. Ken has, in the colt’s birth, set his heart upon raising a race horse that will bring his parent’s ranch out of overweening debt. Both colt and boy come into their proper destiny in ways neither can foretell. But the story isn’t just about Ken. His mother and father, his elder brother, the ranch hands, even the brilliantly-described countryside itself… all are living, breathing individuals. None are perfect–and you care about every single one of them.

And the horses. Oh, the horses!

O’Hara had a way with them that was sublime. They weren’t cutesy, overly anthropomorphic cartoons, their thought processes were just understandable enough, yet alien, too. Horses are not humans–no animal is human–and that very difference should be given honour. O’Hara does this as can only someone who has spent their life around horses and beneath the wild skies of a barely-tamed land:

When Goblin caught the unmistakable strong scent of the stallion he trotted out from the herd to find him. He saw him up there on a hill–just where Banner would have been–and with a joyful nicker, started toward him.

The Albino came down to meet him.

Goblin, a creature of fire and magnetism himself, felt the oncoming stallion in terms of voltage, and it was almost too much to be borne. Goblin came to a stop. It occurred to him that he was going in the wrong direction. But he held his ground.

He watched. He had never seen or felt anything like that before. The stallion was so contained, his power was so gathered and held within him that he was all curves. His great neck was arched, his chin drawn in and under, the crest of his head was high and rounded with long ears cocked like spear-points. His face was terrifying–that ferocious expression! Those fiery eyes! And his huge, heavily-muscled legs curving high, flung forward so that the great body floated through the air–then the massive hoofs striking and bounding up from the earth with sledge-hammer blows that made the hills tremble and echoed like thunder in the valley!

The Goblin held his ground. The Albino slowed his pace, came closer–stopped. Their noses were about two feet apart.

For as long as a minute they faced and eyed each other.

They were the same. Trunk and branch of the same tree. And from that confusing identity–each seeing himself as in a distorted mirror–there flamed terror and fury.

No self-respecting stallion would deign to attack a mere yearling, or even to take him seriously enough to administer heavy punishment. But suddenly the Albino raised his right hoof and gave one terrible pawing stroke accompanied by a short grunting screech of unearthly fury. And in doing so, he both acknowledged and attempted to destroy his heir.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From these books and this author I learned that words could give animal the souls I knew they possessed. From animals–and lifetime of being around them–I embarked upon the never-ending process of acquiring that all-important skill set of speculative and historical fiction: writing Other. More importantly, I gained empathy and the stark, important realisation: that Other isn’t separate from an undeniable semblance of Self, yet it still possesses–and must maintain–its own rights and presence.

Not so bad a legacy from a ‘children’s book’, methinks.

A mere thank you is not near enough, Mary O’Hara.

Category: Much Thinkery About Something, Retro Recs | 2 Comments

March 27

Retro Recs — THE KING MUST DIE

My choice for today, out of many excellent novels, had to be The King Must Die. This cover image is from my bookshelves and the mass market edition circa 1979, but the original date is 1958, and my first read was from the public library. TheKingMustDie The King Must Die was my introduction to Ms Renault’s works–I think I read it when I was eleven or twelve. (We didn’t have or read ‘YA’ when I was of that age–we read books!) Already more comfortable with mythological and speculative worlds than any contemporary reality, I’d not yet realised how fascinating history was–no doubt in consequence of the dry dates and statistics to which public school curriculum rendered it.

This book began to change all that for me. A retelling of the myth of Theseus, it had an undeniable and firm grasp upon the historical personalities and realities that birth legends. It was that seemingly effortless mix that truly comes only with serious application of craft. Gritty and sometimes unpleasant, yet nonetheless magical in every sense, the novel makes an impassioned appeal for both the fantastic and the historic–together. It was bildungsroman (woot!) at its finest, warts and all, with an oft-unreliable narrator as hero, displaying both the arrogance and virtues of a deeply-inculturated young man. Not much is shied away from or glossed into comfortable platitudes. You root for Theseus, as well as long to give him a good spanking. 😉

It takes little guesswork to hazard that The King Must Die is responsible for my plunge into a lifelong fascination with Sacrifice and Sacred Kingships from all cultures. It also made it difficult for me to be satisfied with a lot of first person narrative. It’s a form that not many can achieve with the same effortless grace as Mary Renault. (Or my inaugural Retro Rec author, Mary Stewart, for that matter.)

Recently, I heard a writer at a convention recommend Mary Renault–with the caveat, however, that ‘she is old-fashioned’. I was rather appalled at anyone attempting excuses for someone who had more talent in one nib finger than most writers possess in their entire repertoire… but, after all, we all say a lot of silly things when we’re baby writers. Though I truly don’t think I had the brass to assume myself able to take a mammoth with a BB gun. 😉 Not with prose that glides like this:

The Great Court was empty under the moon. Tier upon tier rose the pillared balconies, dimly glowing. Lamps flickered behind curtains of Eastern stuff. The pots of lilies and of flowering lemon trees shed a sweet heavy scent. A cat slipped from shadow to shadow, and a Cretan who looked as if his errand were the same. Then all was silent. The great horns upon the roof-coping reared up as if they would gore the stars.
I stretched out my hands palm downward and held them over the earth. “Father Poseidon, Horse Father, Lord of Bulls, I am in your hand, whenever you call me. That is agreed between us. But as you have owned me, give me this one things first. Make me a bull-leaper.”

————-
No question in my heart, I would encourage everyone to read The King Must Die. Or any of Mary Renault’s books. And come on, I read it at the age of eleven; surely it isn’t that insurmountable an experience. If it is, indeed, ‘old-fashioned’, then bloody DAMN but we need more ‘old fashioned’ in this world.

Pax~
J

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March 12

Retro Recs–First Up: THE IVY TREE

HERE’S the plan: to pull out a book from my tight-packed bookshelves and share it. Qualifications? It has to be one I’ve read over and over again, one that has inspired my own writing, and one that gave me a lasting experience of some sort. There are so many older books that are just too damned good to be buried in the mosh pit of publishing fashions and frenzies. So I’m going to pull them out and have another dance with them. And hopefully encourage others to do the same.
——–
To choose Mary Stewart was a no brainer, actually, though it was difficult to pick between what I call ‘my rosary of three Marys’ (Stewart, Mary Renault, and Mary O’Hara). But once I decided which Mary, it was a little easier to pick the book. I’m sure others will come into play at a later date, but this time, it had to be The Ivy Tree.
——– TheIvyTree
From those aforementioned bookshelves, (c)1961, this is the first US printing in 1963. Isn’t this cover just deliciously (and a bit painfully) ’60s gothic? From the sweeping cape and hair to the Barnabas Collins coat and the uphill, defiant pose? From the back cover: If Mary Grey looked so much like the missing heiress, why should she not be the heiress? To the lonely young woman–living in a dreary furnished room–the impersonation offered intriguing possibilities… So plain Mary Grey became the glamourous Annabel Winslow. Only someone wanted Annabel Winslow missing… permanently.

I love old gothics. I miss them. Brain candy, of course, but a specific type of tweak and treat for those doomed with a brain that stubbornly refuses to totally check out. Gothics have their own formula, tiresome as any when cranked out with little skill or craft… but the good ones were complex, character driven, and subtle after their own fashion, with the formula in service to the craft, not the other way ’round. The Ivy Tree was a very, very good gothic.

Mary Grey is, like most of Stewart’s heroines, a real person: independent and capable, conflicted… and with a secret that could be the death of her, if she’s not careful. Inheritance of a small estate, a dying, over-controlling grandfather, and a few sociopaths scattered into the mix, turn a chance meeting on Hadrian’s Wall into a madness of plot and counterplot… did I mention I love gothics? A good one has as many twists as a North Country back road. And the language Stewart uses!

If you stood on the low piece of crumbling wall that enclosed the trunk, you could just reach your hand into the hole. I held on to the writhen stems of the ivy with one hand and felt above my head into the hollow left by some long-decayed and fallen bough. I put my hand in slowly, nervously, almost as I might have done had I known Julie’s owl and seven mythical young were inside, and ready to defend it, or as I might have invaded a private drawer in someone’s desk. The secret tryst; Ninus’ tomb; the lovers’ tree; what right had a ghost there, prying?

What right indeed? Well, you’ll have to read the book and let me know what you think. You won’t be sorry; it’s a thumping good afternoon’s read.

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January 28

The Eternal Return of Legends

Celebrating Re-releases, the Collective Unconscious, and the Eternal Return of Legends

It’s in the water, right? Must be.

But it’s not always that simple. In fact it’s staggering–and humbling, really—how creativity channels itself. Not only in our hearts and minds, but in that undeniable cogency oft known as the ‘collective unconscious’. Things really do bide in the ether, surface for breath in the waters of the subconscious. And as of late, a certain Notorious Outlaw is making the rounds again.

Thankfully, that Notorious Outlaw makes those rounds on a regular basis. You can peer back through history and see nice, fat clusters of storytelling. It’s brilliant, in every sense of the word. Because those of us who are fascinated by something, who study it and obsess over it, love, live, and breathe it, are always willing for more. People who crave a well-told story will visit—and revisit—that story again and again. Each incarnation gives us new cause for either shattering insight or groans of utter dismay, brings new adventures and causes… all with which we can ponder the outlaw Robin Hood.

And there is so much to ponder. So much to explore and discover. He’s in the water, all right: a water horse, a kelpie who’ll cozen you to back him then throw you in to drown. Or even better, a pwca, a trickster who’ll give you that wild ride but perhaps relent, share some advice and goodwill to see you back home on wobbly legs.

You see, it was about thirty years ago when I wrote and nearly published my own first invocation and incarnation of Robin (or Robyn, even as the books have always been called Greenwode and Shirewode). England’s greatest archer was popping his wolfish head above the water then, too. Some amazing novels came from that particular surge—Parke Godwin’s retelling being amongst my all-time favourites of any genre. There were also movies: one so-so, one not-so. A man who was to become my friend was, unknown to me and across the pond, working on a very magical Robin Hood at nearly the same time as I was working on mine. Both of these were (and are) akin in their mix of historical tradition, high romance, and old magic. His went on to be an award-winning (and breathtaking) television series; mine was not so fortunate, though it did nearly go to contract twice before ending up in a file drawer as the cycle waned.

Such are the hazards of publishing. Yet bad luck can hold its own share of fortune. Those books that almost were thirty years ago now are. I’m a better writer than I was, and the Wode books are better than they were. (Now with DSP Publications, a third in the series is slated to release Autumn of 2015.) Even more gratifying, when I dusted off an old manuscript several years ago and decided upon a total rewrite and restructure, it seems Robin was also dusting off the old longbow and taking aim back into the collective mainstream. There’s even talk of a new movie—definite cause for hope and dread and even perhaps a gnash of one’s teeth. 😉 It’s happening again: new tales and retellings, little wildfires popping up here and there… quite apropos to a firebrand archer.

I’m sure the signs have been there for a while, but admittedly I’ve been spending more time larking my own ‘swete greenwode’. Amidst my larking I’ve shaped a story which is garnering some loyal readers and critical acclaim; a satisfying debut for a world that has been poking at my back brain for… well, for much of my life, really. A strange thought, perhaps, to spend so much time in creation when our modern existence extols “hurry, put it out there, now!” But I don’t find it strange, not at all, and it is my sincere hope many others will find my books, sit back… breathe… and enjoy the ride as much as I have.

Robin Hood (aka Robyn Hode), more than perhaps any other figure from myth or history, is discontent to merely bide in the depths of history. In a very real sense he challenges it, both flaunts and mirrors those changes history and society would choose to reveal. How fitting that a figure often connected with the Green Man would be so wrapped up in the spiral of the Eternal Return, both mythic and prosaic. For someone whose historical existence is ever in doubt, Robin has the ultimate extant power: he sparks stories in those of us who are compelled to tell them.

He’s a pwca, all right.

Purchase SHIREWODE through DSP Publications
And GREENWODE is now on sale–a limited time for .99c

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October 9

Midnight Confession–The Dreaded Synopsis

I hate doing synopses. (I’ve done two in the past month. Gah.) But I will confess a sincere and particular aversion to them before writing the novel. Breaking down a story afterwards can be satisfying, in its fashion; deconstruction is not only useful, but a way of life for anyone serious about writing.

(Of course, my habit of writing a synopsis after I’d written the story did not win me any points in school…)

But when I get a synopsis down on paper, it always sounds so… two dimensional. Ideas are only that–ideas–and not all of them work when it comes to the work. Shallow, pat, clinical, all those words that make me cringe. And when I have to do a synopsis before the fact?

I do get it, I mean, I really do comprehend that a synopsis is a Necessary Evil; but the Eee-vul of that cliché likes to make shrieking noises at me.

How appropriate. Seeing it’s October, and all.

(Sometimes I think I will never ever get Robyn’s voice out of my head. Effing ear-worm dialect that I love/hate/love…)

But. Synopsis. A synopsis rendered (and yes, in the throes it does feel like slaughterhouse mechanics) before the creative drafting is done is flat scary. It’s not just a journey into the unknown, but trying to define… no, hoping you can define the unknown… despite it being in a raw, oft-incomprehensible state. It’s particularly brutal for someone unsure of what the journey will bring, who dives into rapids just hoping to get brained by submerged rocks of inspiration. My own working structure builds and layers atop itself; at first stepping on air, then mists, then a wobbling and quaking hint of something with a fall or two into the Abyss of Incoherence. But the more determined the steps, the more the structure spans itself into powerful solidity.

So, if someone puts forth the seemingly innocent phrase of “That sounds interesting, shoot me a synopsis” and wonders why I’m mute and wide eyed with my gob hanging half-open? This is what I’m thinking, assuming I can think just then: OMFG, what if I don’t know what they’re going to tell me, because they’re like that, you know, they grab me by the hair and drag me along, will-me, nill-me and yes, while sometimes I know very well where I’ll end up, it’s just as true that I usually have no effing CLUE how I’m going to get there…

(Some writers are frustrated Directors, some are discouraged Set Designers, some want to Design Cool Props, some want to be Producers, some are Grumpy Extras scribbling in the background… I am that vilified/sanctified/oft-annoying wierdo known as the thwarted Method Actor.)

So I regain control of my expression, mumble “Erm, sure, do my best”. But really?–there’s this internal backing away slowly happening, fearing the faery dust cupped in my palms will prove to be grave ash when winnowed down to dry bones without the muscles and ligaments and flesh… the soul and spark… that makes magical Story from clunky Structure. Reptile Brain knows first drafting so much better than Frontal Lobe. Frontal Lobe has a work ethic like damn, but Reptile Brain is of serpent kind and, therefore, more clued in. The archetype of dualities, knowledge, all that. Reptile Brain is instinct and feeling and being, and curls up in all that warm faery dust like Smaug in his pile of dwarvish gold. Frontal Lobe has no business even being around faery dust. Frontal Lobe would think the skull needs a good sweeping. Frontal Lobe is a bossy, conniving bastard who is hard core about distance maintenance and stiff self-edits and ‘you said that 10 bloody times already’ and ‘this ain’t working, chuck it NOW’.

Frontal Lobe is very useful, don’t get me wrong. But FL isn’t afraid of much, which says how smart FL is. Reptile Brain fears much, for it is wise, but it’s kind of a crap editor. Being entirely too purple sometimes, and all that…

Hmm. Perhaps I shouldn’t say I hate synopses. But I do fear them. And I can only hope that’s wise.

Because I still have to bloody well do them.

Category: Midnight Confession, Much Thinkery About Something | LEAVE A COMMENT

September 9

It’s In The Water…

It’s humbling–staggering, actually–the way creativity channels itself; not only in our hearts and minds and consciousness, but in that undeniable cogency oft known as the ‘collective unconscious’. Things really do bide in the ether, and surface in the water.

And right now, a certain Notorious Outlaw is making the rounds again.

Thankfully, that Notorious Outlaw makes those rounds on a regular basis. You can peer back through history and see nice, fat clusters of storytelling. It’s brilliant, in every sense of the word. Because those of us who are fascinated by something, who study it and obsess over it, love, live, and breathe it, are always willing for more. People who crave a well-told story will visit–and revisit–that story again and again. Each incarnation gives us new cause for either shattering insight or groans of utter dismay, brings new adventures and causes… all with which we can ponder the outlaw Robin Hood.

And there is so much to ponder. So much to explore and discover. He’s in the water, all right: a water horse, a kelpie who’ll cozen you to back him then throw you in to drown. Or, even better a pwca, a trickster who’ll give you that wild ride but perhaps relent, share some advice and goodwill to see you back home on wobbly legs.

You see, it was nearly thirty years ago when I wrote and nearly published my own first invocation and incarnation of Robin (or Robyn, even as the first book has always been called Greenwode). England’s greatest archer was popping his wolfish head above the water then, too. Some amazing novels came from that particular surge–Parke Godwin’s retelling being amongst my all-time favourites of any genre. There were also movies: one so-so, one not-so. A man who was to become my friend was, unknown to me and across the pond, working on a very magical Robin Hood at nearly the same time as I was working on mine. Both of these were (and are) akin in their mix of historical tradition, high romance, and old magic. His went on to be an award-winning (and breathtaking) television series; mine was not so fortunate, though it did nearly go to contract twice before ending up in a file drawer as the cycle waned.

Such are the hazards of publishing. Of course, it was terribly disappointing at the time. Yet bad luck can hold its own share of fortune. Those books that almost were, now are–and all the better for it. Even more, several years ago when I dusted off an old manuscript and decided to totally rewrite and structure it, it seems Robin was also dusting off the old longbow and taking aim back into the collective mainstream. For now, nearly a year after Greenwode released (and just in time for today’s release of Shirewode), it’s happening again: new tales and retellings, little wildfires popping up here and there… quite apropos to a firebrand archer. I’m sure the signs have been there for a while, but admittedly I’ve been spending more time larking my own ‘swete greenwode’. Amidst my larking I’ve shaped a story which is beginning to garner some critical acclaim; a satisfying debut for a story that has been poking at my back brain for… well, for much of my life, really. A strange thought, perhaps, to spend so much time in creation when our modern existence extols “hurry, put it out there, now!” But I don’t find it strange, not at all, and it is my sincere hope many others will find my books, sit back… breathe… and enjoy the ride as much as I have.

Robin Hood–aka Robyn Hode–more than perhaps any other figure from myth or history, is discontent to merely bide in the depths of history. In a very real sense he challenges it, both flaunts and mirrors what changes history and society would choose to reveal. How fitting that a figure often connected with the Green Man would be so wrapped up in the spiral of the Eternal Return, both mythic and prosaic. For someone whose historical existence is ever in doubt, Robin has the ultimate extant power: he sparks stories in those of us who are compelled to tell them.

He’s a pwca, all right.

—————————————————————–

Yes, SHIREWODE is now available!!
Both in e-book and trade paper!
*throws confetti*

LINKS:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

AMAZON
POWELL’S BOOKS
OMNILIT

And of course, through my verra own author page at Dreamspinner Press:
JTH at DsP

Category: Books, Much Thinkery About Something | 2 Comments

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