Brief Respite

I shall not be around the blogosphere for a few days. See all of you when I return--hopefully in a better frame of mind, with something more substantial to say than I have had of late, and with good news regarding the progress on the novel.

* * *

Those Times Between

Thank You, God, for mild spring
and autumn,
those times between when we can catch our breath
and stand
unhindered by extremes of cold or heat,
and recall
there is a rest waiting
for us
if we will but let go those things we clutch
so tightly
their spring colors transform to autumn hue.
Life is
only truly lived free.

c. March 25, 2007
K. Brand

Customer Service?

For those of you who must work with the public, here's a sign a friend gave me for Christmas this past year:

Suppose We Refund Your Money,
Send You Another One Without Charge,
Close The Store And Have
The Manager Shot...
WOULD THAT BE
SATISFACTORY?

CUSTOMER SERVICE

Makes you want to quit the day job and hibernate with your occupation of choice, doesn't it? I'd rather be writing about jer--uhm, difficult people--than having to work with any.

Favorites

Here's a plug for some of my favorite authors. I may have listed some of these books in the past, but I've been on a reading binge, and have been revisiting old friends while adding new ones to the bookshelves. If you're looking for something good to read, try some of these.

For those who like history with their mystery (pardon the rhyme), check out these excellent series:

Inspector Ian Rutledge, Scotland Yard detective immediately after WW I, by Charles Todd.

Barker & Llewellyn, private enquiry agents, in late 19th century London, by Will Thomas.

Hawkenlye Abbey, set in late 12th century England, by Alys Clare.

Jane Austen as a sleuth, in a series by Stephanie Barron.

* * *

For the science fiction, thriller, or fantasy crowd, check out these books:

Strong-Arm Tactics by Jody Lynn Nye (a bit of fun and unexpectedness in outer space).

The Reckoning by James Byron Huggins (conspiracies, commandos, and stuff).

The Return of the Sword, an anthology of short sword-and-sorcery tales, featuring one by Jeff Draper of Scriptorius Rex blog.

The Last Light of the Sun by Guy Gavriel Kay (a "fantasy historical" novel set during the time of the Vikings).

The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova (an interesting, intelligent, creepy "history" of the "real" Dracula).

The Briar King (and the entire Kingdoms of Thorn and Bone series) by Greg Keyes.

* * *

Miscellaneous genres:

Rora by James Byron Huggins (probably Huggins' best work, a true story of a fight for religious freedom during the time of the Spanish Inquisition).

Redeeming Love by Francine Rivers (a book I didn't expect to read or like; a retelling of the Book of Hosea set during the California Gold Rush; good for romance readers).

Eagle in the Snow by Wallace Breem (excellent historical novel set at Hadrian's Wall during the last days of the Roman Empire).

Silence and Shadows by James Long (archeology and a former rock star--what's not to like?).

The Darkness and the Dawn by Thomas B. Costain (set during the last days of Attila the Hun).

Possession by A.S. Byatt (scholarly sleuthing by two modern academics concerning the lives of two poets who lived 100 years earlier).

* * *

I've also been revisiting movies and television series on DVD. Currently, I'm watching the Western series "Lonesome Dove: The Outlaw Years" from 1995.

Paper Mountains

Today marks the Greek Orthodox Easter--check out Lavinia Ladyslipper's blog.

* * *

This may seem out of place for a Sunday post, but the following essay entitled "Paper Mountains" was written a couple years ago, in the middle of an angst-ridden rant that I finally committed to paper. Maybe it'll mean something to someone else; maybe it'll just read like a temper tantrum (a good spleen-venting sometimes helps, though). For what it's worth, here it is:

I believe many things, but what I am seeing clearer each year is this: life is too short to be blunted by the notion that what is difficult should not be done; that only what is easy should be attempted; that even noble ends, if they cannot be achieved instantly or with minimal discomfort, must be set aside and replaced by what requires little sweat, little patience, little sacrifice of any kind.

I am a writer. My publishing accomplishments are few: essays, articles, short stories, poems. However, I want to be a novelist, and to that end I put one word at a time on paper until I have a sentence, a paragraph, a page, a chapter, a manuscript. Some of my fellow writers tell me I am creating stories no one wants to read. I am doing what cannot be done.

But how does anyone know what the end will be? I am still climbing the mountain, and have not yet seen the view from the top. If others cannot see the mountain, is the mountain no longer there? Because others are weary, must I be content to sit beside them? If they seek another way, must I go with them? Must I convince myself – as some have – that half a journey is the entire trip?

Life so rarely happens as we would wish it. My teachers and friends were convinced that I would publish my first novel by age sixteen. That might have made me a novelty – no pun intended – but it might also have made a shallow book.

Now more than twice sixteen, I still have moments of doubt, of youthful uncertainty that anything I write is worth reading. Greater than my insecurity, however, is the knowledge that what makes me a writer is not measured by how I compare to others or how much money I make or how many people know my name, but by the fiery words that blister my brain and boil my dreams until the only way to cool my burning fingertips is to write. I am a writer because not writing is not an option.

Artists draw simulations of life. Photographers capture time. Sculptors push clay into action. Writers create movies for the mind.

The characters that people my thoughts are alive and very real, but they will remain in my imagination – unseen, unheard, unread – until I do the hard work and mold imagination into words on a page.

So the journey will pass – one word at a time, one page at a time – until the day I stand on top of the mountain and see that it is made of paper: reams and reams of it covered with words; wads of it tossed in to wastebaskets; some of it retrieved and smoothed out again and found to be not so bad after all.

This I believe: my greatest challenge is my greatest joy, and I would not have it otherwise.

More Views From the Back Yard

This shot looks a bit like the screen saver on my Mac.

The following photo is of a bird that I tracked through the neighbor's fence. I took several shots of it, but deleted all but three. The darn critter wouldn't sit still for his portrait. (Or her portrait, as the case may be; I'm not an orthinologist.)

Sir Gallivant and the Dragon

I told Tex that I would uncover my two or three story poems, and post the most recent one.

A bit of backstory first.

The following poem is stilted and old fashioned, the endpiece to a book of fairy tales written in 2005 by kids where I work. They illustrated their stories, wrote poems about themselves, and short biographies, and I took their photos and put everything together in a chapbook format. (A thick chapbook!)

Since there were stories of dragons, knights, and assorted creatures--there were also a few more modern tales, or ones including unexpected combinations of characters--I decided to write a different take on the typical dragonslayer tale. So, if you can look past the contrived rhyming, here's the result:

Sir Gallivant and the Dragon

In ancient time when dragons roamed,
there lived a knight without a home.
He rode a horse bold, black and fleet,
and dragons slew for silver fee.
One day into a vale he rode
to find a dragon said so bold
it neither hid nor made its home
in mountains high and made of stone
nor caverns deep and dark and cold,
but on a hill ‘mid trees of gold.

He came upon a village small
and asked the people, one and all,
to show to him the dragon’s lair,
and thus help him their lives to spare.
They turned their heads and closed their doors,
and to the knight they spake no more.
Puzzled, Sir Gallivant set forth
with dented shield and gleaming sword,
and ventured to the golden wood.
Under its leafy shade there stood

a warning courteous and strong:
“No peddlers, please, or lookers-on.
“Passers, take heed: Beware the dog.”
Leaving the horse, a path he trod
‘neath pleasant trees, through ribboned mist,
and the cavern he almost missed,
for grass grew green up to its mouth.
Sir Gallivant began to doubt
a dragon roved the quiet dell—
no bones nor smoke nor bitter smell

gave proof it was the creature’s lair,
but then before his eyes appeared
a dragon wond’rous to behold
with scales of blue and claws of gold.
Hidden, crouched low, in vain he sought
the creature’s subtle, fatal flaw.
A passing merchant’s cart o’erturned;
the dragon gathered all the urns
and set the cart aright again,
and sent the merchant on his way.

Sir Gallivant saw people come
and pay the beast for favors done:
for metal pierced, for meals cooked through,
for boulders moved and trees down-hewn.
Now understood the gallant knight
why in the valley people might
refuse to help him find the place
where dwelt one of the dragon race
who was so peaceful, kind, and rare
that folk approached without a care.

His gleaming sword he set aside,
his dented shield the knight let lie,
and to the dragon did he go,
and there Sir Gallivant bowed low.
“I never knew goodness could be
within a creature such as thee.”
The dragon smiled and did forgive
the humble knight and bade him live
in the cavern and help sustain
all lowly folk who sought his aid.

He found at last a place to dwell,
within a secret gilded vale,
and there he lived to great old age,
he and the dragon, Cera Mage.
Even the horse—bold, black, and fleet—
some people say can still be seen
bearing Sir Gallivant’s pale shade
to help the weak and render aid
to anyone who yet may dream
of magic, myth, and make-believe.

c. Keanan Brand, May 2005

Stolen Words

Don't be too harsh to these poems until they're typed. I always think typescript lends some sort of certainty: at least, if the things are bad then, they appear to be bad with conviction. ~Dylan Thomas, letter to Vernon Watkins, March 1938

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you. ~Ray Bradbury

Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia. ~E.L. Doctorow

Substitute "damn" every time you're inclined to write "very;" your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be. ~Mark Twain

I try to leave out the parts that people skip. ~Elmore Leonard