Tag Archives: Fairy tales

Fairy Tale Friday: The Flower Queen’s Daughter

The Flower Queen's Daughter

 

Today’s fairy tale (from Andrew Lang’s Yellow Fairy Book) is a weird mashup of a traditional eastern European story with a dash of Greek myth (Persephone and Demeter) thrown in for good measure. The main motif is a young man who must tend a witch’s mare and foal despite her evil and tricksy attempts to thwart him. He accomplishes this task with the help of the animal kingdom, and is rewarded with the hand of a beautiful princess (natch)—the Flower Queen’s daughter. My favorite part is when the Flower Queen causes an impenetrable forest of flowers as high as the sky to grow up around her castle.

There’s a longer, stranger version of it here, which makes up for being WAY too long by employing such satisfying imagery as: a man who keeps two lions tied to his beard, magical fruit trees grown from the stolen seed of a woman who died after the theft, and an evil magician who rides around in a carriage drawn by owls.

Welcome to Friday, everyone. We made it. Let’s celebrate our good fortune with…

THE FLOWER QUEEN’S DAUGHTER

A young Prince was riding one day through a meadow that stretched for miles in front of him, when he came to a deep open ditch. He was turning aside to avoid it, when he heard the sound of someone crying in the ditch. He dismounted from his horse, and stepped along in the direction the sound came from. To his astonishment he found an old woman, who begged him to help her out of the ditch. The Prince bent down and lifted her out of her living grave, asking her at the same time how she had managed to get there.

‘My son,’ answered the old woman, ‘I am a very poor woman, and soon after midnight I set out for the neighbouring town in order to sell my eggs in the market on the following morning; but I lost my way in the dark, and fell into this deep ditch, where I might have remained for ever but for your kindness.’

Then the Prince said to her, ‘You can hardly walk; I will put you on my horse and lead you home. Where do you live?’

‘Over there, at the edge of the forest in the little hut you see in the distance,’ replied the old woman.

The Prince lifted her on to his horse, and soon they reached the hut, where the old woman got down, and turning to the Prince said, ‘Just wait a moment, and I will give you something.’ And she disappeared into her hut, but returned very soon and said, ‘You are a mighty Prince, but at the same time you have a kind heart, which deserves to be rewarded. Would you like to have the most beautiful woman in the world for your wife?’

‘Most certainly I would,’ replied the Prince.

So the old woman continued, ‘The most beautiful woman in the whole world is the daughter of the Queen of the Flowers, who has been captured by a dragon. If you wish to marry her, you must first set her free, and this I will help you to do. I will give you this little bell: if you ring it once, the King of the Eagles will appear; if you ring it twice, the King of the Foxes will come to you; and if you ring it three times, you will see the King of the Fishes by your side. These will help you if you are in any difficulty. Now farewell, and heaven prosper your undertaking.’ She handed him the little bell, and there disappeared hut and all, as though the earth had swallowed her up.

Then it dawned on the Prince that he had been speaking to a good fairy, and putting the little bell carefully in his pocket, he rode home and told his father that he meant to set the daughter of the Flower Queen free, and intended setting out on the following day into the wide world in search of the maid.

So the next morning the Prince mounted his fine horse and left his home. He had roamed round the world for a whole year, and his horse had died of exhaustion, while he himself had suffered much from want and misery, but still he had come on no trace of her he was in search of. At last one day he came to a hut, in front of which sat a very old man. The Prince asked him, ‘Do you not know where the Dragon lives who keeps the daughter of the Flower Queen prisoner?’

‘No, I do not,’ answered the old man. ‘But if you go straight along this road for a year, you will reach a hut where my father lives, and possibly he may be able to tell you.’

The Prince thanked him for his information, and continued his journey for a whole year along the same road, and at the end of it came to the little hut, where he found a very old man. He asked him the same question, and the old man answered, ‘No, I do not know where the Dragon lives. But go straight along this road for another year, and you will come to a hut in which my father lives. I know he can tell you.’

And so the Prince wandered on for another year, always on the same road, and at last reached the hut where he found the third old man. He put the same question to him as he had put to his son and grandson; but this time the old man answered, ‘The Dragon lives up there on the mountain, and he has just begun his year of sleep. For one whole year he is always awake, and the next he sleeps. But if you wish to see the Flower Queen’s daughter go up the second mountain: the Dragon’s old mother lives there, and she has a ball every night, to which the Flower Queen’s daughter goes regularly.’

So the Prince went up the second mountain, where he found a castle all made of gold with diamond windows. He opened the big gate leading into the courtyard, and was just going to walk in, when seven dragons rushed on him and asked him what he wanted?

The Prince replied, ‘I have heard so much of the beauty and kindness of the Dragon’s Mother, and would like to enter her service.’

This flattering speech pleased the dragons, and the eldest of them said, ‘Well, you may come with me, and I will take you to the Mother Dragon.’

They entered the castle and walked through twelve splendid halls, all made of gold and diamonds. In the twelfth room they found the Mother Dragon seated on a diamond throne. She was the ugliest woman under the sun, and, added to it all, she had three heads. Her appearance was a great shock to the Prince, and so was her voice, which was like the croaking of many ravens. She asked him, ‘Why have you come here?’

The Prince answered at once, ‘I have heard so much of your beauty and kindness, that I would very much like to enter your service.’

What happens after she hires him?

Roald Dahl’s “The Witches”

“The most important thing you should know about witches is that they dress in ordinary clothes. They look like ordinary women. They live in ordinary houses and they work in ordinary jobs….Witches spend their time plotting to kill children, stalking the wretched child like a hunter stalks a bird in the forest…. Real witches are quite bald, although of course they wear wigs. You can distinguish a witch from an ordinary woman by the purple tint to her eyes. Real witches have no toes. Their feet have square ends, revolting stumps where their toes should be, so they never wear pointed or pretty shoes—just plain, sensible shoes.”

Thus begins the spectacularly scary children’s movie The Witches, based on the book by Roald Dahl, and starring Anjelica Huston. Since witches feature so prominently in fairy tales, and since we are in the darkest, grimmest time of the year, today seems like a good day to learn everything there is to know about witches. Just in case.

 

Go on, watch part 2 (and 3 and 4…) if you dare.

James Altucher’s 33 Unusual Tips for Being a Better Writer

There are millions of tips out there for being a better writer, but James Altucher’s list is one of my favorites. In fact, James Altucher is one of my all-time favorite bloggers. You could do worse than to follow him in your reader.

James Altucher’s 33 Unusual Tips for Being a Better Writer

Back in college, Sanket and I would hang out in bars and try to talk to women but I was horrible at it. Nobody would talk to me for more than thirty seconds and every woman would laugh at all his jokes for what seemed like hours. Even decades later I think they are still laughing at his jokes. One time he turned to me, “the girls are getting bored when you talk. Your stories go on too long. From now on, you need to leave out every other sentence when you tell a story.”  We were both undergrads in Computer Science. I haven’t seen him since but that’s the most important writing (and communicating) advice I ever got.

33 other tips to be a better writer.

–          Write whatever you want. Then take out the first paragraph and last paragraph. Here’s the funny thing about this rule. It’s sort of like knowing the future. You still can’t change it. In other words, even if you know this rule and write the article, the article will still be better if you take out the first paragraph and the last paragraph.

–          Take a huge bowel movement every day. And you won’t see that on any other list on how to be a better writer. If your body doesn’t flow then your brain won’t flow. Eat more fruit if you have to.

–          Bleed in the first line. We’re all human. A computer can win Jeopardy but still not write a novel. You want people to relate to you, then you have to be human. Penelope Trunk started a post a few weeks ago: “I smashed a lamp over my head. There was blood everywhere. And glass. And I took a picture.” That’s real bleeding. My wife recently put up a post where the first line was so painful she had to take it down. Too many people were crying.

–          Don’t ask for permission. In other words, never say “in my opinion” (or worse “IMHO”). We know it’s your opinion. You’re writing it.

–          Write a lot. I spent the entire 90s writing bad fiction. 5 bad novels. Dozens of bad stories. But I learned to handle massive rejection. And how to put two words together. In my head, I won the Pulitzer prize. But in my hand, over 100 rejection letters.

–          Read a lot. You can’t write without first reading. A lot. When I was writing five bad novels in a row I would read all day long whenever I wasn’t writing (I had a job as a programmer, which I would do for about five minutes a day because my programs all worked and I just had to “maintain” them). I read everything I could get my hands on.

–          Read before you write. Before I write every day I spend 30-60 minutes reading high quality short stories poetry, or essays.  Books by Denis Johnson, Miranda July, David Foster Wallace, Ariel Leve, William Vollmann, Raymond Carver, etc. All of the writers are in the top 1/1000 of 1% of writers. It has to be at that level or else it won’t lift up your writing at all.

–          Coffee. I go through three cups at least before I even begin to write. No coffee, no creativity.

–          Break the laws of physics. There’s no time in text. Nothing has to go in order. Don’t make it nonsense. But don’t be beholden to the laws of physics. Advice I Want to Tell My Daughters is an example.

–          Be Honest. Tell people the stuff they all think but nobody ever says. Some people will be angry you let out the secret. But most people will be grateful. Else you aren’t delivering value. Be the little boy in the “Emperor’s New Clothes.” If you can’t do this, don’t write.

–          Don’t Hurt Anyone. This goes against the above rule. But I never like to hurt people. And I don’t respect people who get pageviews by breaking this rule. Don’t be a bad guy.  Was Buddha a Bad Father? addresses this.

–          Don’t be afraid of what people think. For each single person you worry about, deduct 1% in quality from your writing. Everyone has deductions. I have to deduct about 10% right off the top. Maybe there’s 10 people I’m worried about. Some of them are evil people. Some of them are people I just don’t want to offend. So my writing is only about 90% of what it could be. But I think most people write at about 20% of what it could be. Believe it or not, clients, customers, friends, family, will love you more if you are honest with them.  So we all have our boundaries. But try this: for the next ten things you write, tell people something that nobody knows about you.

Read the rest of the list…

Fairy Tale Friday: The History of Jack the Giant-Killer

Woodcut illustration from a version of the story published in 1840

Jack's just getting started.

Since we had a Jack-and-Giant story last week, I thought it would be fun to follow up with another. Jack is clever in this one, not stupid, and he’s also a stone-cold killer. There is so much murder in this story! I’m not spoiling anything when I say that most of this story is, in fact, about Jack slaughtering a bunch of giants.

I debated even showcasing it, honestly, because it doesn’t follow the traditional hero’s journey. There’s not a single crisis that alters the protagonist’s character, there’s no point at which the hero fails and must find the resources to overcome his failure. There are loads of magical objects, but no information about where he got them or anything. BUT. There is so much gruesome murder of giants in so many imaginative ways that I totally had the giggles by the end of the story.

So I apologize if you find the story arc unsatisfying. I hope the extravagant punishment of the giants is some consolation. (From Andrew Lang’s Blue Fairy Book.)

THE HISTORY OF JACK THE GIANT-KILLER

IN the reign of the famous King Arthur there lived in Cornwall a lad named Jack, who was a boy of a bold temper, and took delight in hearing or reading of conjurers, giants, and fairies; and used to listen eagerly to the deeds of the knights of King Arthur’s Round Table.

In those days there lived on St. Michael’s Mount, off Cornwall, a huge giant, eighteen feet high and nine feet round; his fierce and savage looks were the terror of all who beheld him.

He dwelt in a gloomy cavern on the top of the mountain, and used to wade over to the mainland in search of prey; when he would throw half a dozen oxen upon his back, and tie three times as many sheep and hogs round his waist, and march back to his own abode.

The giant had done this for many years when Jack resolved to destroy him.

Jack took a horn, a shovel, a pickaxe, his armor, and a dark lantern, and one winter’s evening he went to the mount. There he dug a pit twenty-two feet deep and twenty broad. He covered the top over so as to make it look like solid ground. He then blew his horn so loudly that the giant awoke and came out of his den crying out: “You saucy villain! you shall pay for this I’ll broil you for my breakfast!”

He had just finished, when, taking one step further, he tumbled headlong into the pit, and Jack struck him a blow on the head with his pickaxe which killed him. Jack then returned home to cheer his friends with the news.

Another giant, called Blunderbore, vowed to be revenged on Jack if ever he should have him in his power. This giant kept an enchanted castle in the midst of a lonely wood; and some time after the death of Cormoran Jack was passing through a wood, and being weary, sat down and went to sleep.

The giant, passing by and seeing Jack, carried him to his castle, where he locked him up in a large room, the floor of which was covered with the bodies, skulls and bones of men and women.

Soon after the giant went to fetch his brother who was likewise a giant, to take a meal off his flesh; and Jack saw with terror through the bars of his prison the two giants approaching.

You KNOW those giants are gonna get it. But how?

Learn About Creativity and Productivity from Tom Ford

Oprah is running a series on OWN (her network) called Visionaries, in which she features brilliant, creative people and shows them off to us, the hoi polloi. Tom Ford is the star of this particular episode, and I’m posting it because Tom Ford is a fucking genius. After climbing to the top (and I mean the TOP) of the fashion world, he took a sabbatical to write, produce, and direct a little movie (his first) that went on to be nominated for an OSCAR. And then he went back to fashion.

He’s a personal hero of mine. I hope you find him as inspiring as I do. His passion is multi-disciplinary and omnivorous, and he reminds me to follow my curiosity and my fascinations no matter whether you can draw a straight line between them. In this video he talks intelligently about culture, materialism, age, the creative process, the nature of self, the meaning of life, and a lot of other smart things you wouldn’t expect to hear from a fashion director famous for (ahem) bringing sexy back.

I apologize for the Vimeo format – I couldn’t find it on YouTube. Also, it’s about 40 minutes long. Just so you know.

Fairy Tale Friday: The Three Treasures of the Giants

This gem is from Andrew Lang’s Orange Fairy Book, and is a variation of the Stupid Jack stories (“…& the Beanstalk” being the most famous). One of my favorite things about it is that it makes lofty attempts at morality, while totally ignoring the fact that the main character perpetuates several mean-spirited, downright dishonorable acts of trickery smack-dab in the middle (look for the part where old men start giving him magical objects).

Without further ado, I present to you:

The Three Treasures of the Giants

Long, long ago, there lived an old man and his wife who had three sons; the eldest was called Martin, the second Michael, while the third was named Jack.

One evening they were all seated round the table, eating their supper of bread and milk.

‘Martin,’ said the old man suddenly, ‘I feel that I cannot live much longer. You, as the eldest, will inherit this hut; but, if you value my blessing, be good to your mother and brothers.’

‘Certainly, father; how can you suppose I should do them wrong?’ replied Martin indignantly, helping himself to all the best bits in the dish as he spoke. The old man saw nothing, but Michael looked on in surprise, and Jack was so astonished that he quite forgot to eat his own supper.

A little while after, the father fell ill, and sent for his sons, who were out hunting, to bid him farewell. After giving good advice to the two eldest, he turned to Jack.

‘My boy,’ he said, ‘you have not got quite as much sense as other people, but if Heaven has deprived you of some of your wits, it was given you a kind heart. Always listen to what it says, and take heed to the words of your mother and brothers, as well as you are able!’ So saying the old man sank back on his pillows and died.

The cries of grief uttered by Martin and Michael sounded through the house, but Jack remained by the bedside of his father, still and silent, as if he were dead also. At length he got up, and going into the garden, hid himself in some trees, and wept like a child, while his two brothers made ready for the funeral.

No sooner was the old man buried than Martin and Michael agreed that they would go into the world together to seek their fortunes, while Jack stayed at home with their mother. Jack would have liked nothing better than to sit and dream by the fire, but the mother, who was very old herself, declared that there was no work for him to do, and that he must seek it with his brothers.

So, one fine morning, all three set out; Martin and Michael carried two great bags full of food, but Jack carried nothing. This made his brothers very angry, for the day was hot and the bags were heavy, and about noon they sat down under a tree and began to eat. Jack was as hungry as they were, but he knew that it was no use asking for anything; and he threw himself under another tree, and wept bitterly.

‘Another time perhaps you won’t be so lazy, and will bring food for yourself,’ said Martin, but to his surprise Jack answered:

‘You are a nice pair! You talk of seeking your fortunes so as not to be a burden on our mother, and you begin by carrying off all the food she has in the house!’

This reply was so unexpected that for some moments neither of the brothers made any answer. Then they offered their brother some of their food, and when he had finished eating they went their way once more.

Towards evening they reached a small hut, and knocking at the door, asked if they might spend the night there. The man, who was a wood-cutter, invited them him, and begged them to sit down to supper. Martin thanked him, but being very proud, explained that it was only shelter they wanted, as they had plenty of food with them; and he and Michael at once opened their bags and began to eat, while Jack hid himself in a corner. The wife, on seeing this, took pity on him, and called him to come and share their supper, which he gladly did, and very good he found it. At this, Martin regretted deeply that he had been so foolish as to refuse, for his bits of bread and cheese seemed very hard when he smelt the savoury soup his brother was enjoying.

‘He shan’t have such a chance again,’ thought he; and the next morning he insisted on plunging into a thick forest where they were likely to meet nobody.

For a long time they wandered hither and thither, for they had no path to guide them; but at last they came upon a wide clearing, in the midst of which stood a castle. Jack shouted with delight, but Martin, who was in a bad temper, said sharply:

‘We must have taken a wrong turning! Let us go back.’

‘Idiot!’ replied Michael, who was hungry too, and, like many people when they are hungry, very cross also. ‘We set out to travel through the world, and what does it matter if we go to the right or to the left?’ And, without another word, took the path to the castle, closely followed by Jack, and after a moment by Martin likewise.

The door of the castle stood open, and they entered a great hall, and looked about them. Not a creature was to be seen, and suddenly Martin–he did not know why–felt a little frightened. He would have left the castle at once, but stopped when Jack boldly walked up to a door in the wall and opened it.

What did they find inside?

Fairy Tale Friday: The Boy Who Could Keep a Secret

Punched! In the Nose!

She shouldn't have asked him about his secret.

Kids, when I first read today’s fairy tale, there were parts that actually shocked me. SHOCKED. Which is not all that easy to do at my cynical age. It’s a Magyar tale (according to Andrew Lang’s Crimson Fairy Book), and one of its core plot devices is the ongoing hostilities between the Turks and the Hungarians. That all by itself is fascinating. But the other one of its core devices is even more fascinating: punching ladies in the nose when they ask you to tell them the secret you’ve been smugly lording over them.

Seriously. A lot of ladies get punched in the nose in this story. It’s no model for women’s rights, and I edited those parts heavily when I read this tale to my favorite 6-year-old girl. But despite that, or maybe because of it, I love this story.

Bonus features: a sword and scabbard that grow along with the hero, clever trickery galore, and an apology from the hero to his mother for leaving her after she beat the snot out of him.

Magyars. They don’t play.

The Boy Who Could Keep a Secret

Once upon a time there lived a poor widow who had one little boy. At first sight you would not have thought that he was different from a thousand other little boys; but then you noticed that by his side hung the scabbard of a sword, and as the boy grew bigger the scabbard grew bigger too. The sword which belonged to the scabbard was found by the little boy sticking out of the ground in the garden, and every day he pulled it up to see if it would go into the scabbard. But though it was plainly becoming longer and longer, it was some time before the two would fit.

However, there came a day at last when it slipped in quite easily. The child was so delighted that he could hardly believe his eyes, so he tried it seven times, and each time it slipped in more easily than before. But pleased though the boy was, he determined not to tell anyone about it, particularly not his mother, who never could keep anything from her neighbours.

Still, in spite of his resolutions, he could not hide altogether that something had happened, and when he went in to breakfast his mother asked him what was the matter.

‘Oh, mother, I had such a nice dream last night,’ said he; ‘but I can’t tell it to anybody.’

‘You can tell it to me,’ she answered. ‘It must have been a nice dream, or you wouldn’t look so happy.’

‘No, mother; I can’t tell it to anybody,’ returned the boy, ’till it comes true.’

‘I want to know what it was, and know it I will,’ cried she, ‘and I will beat you till you tell me.’

But it was no use, neither words nor blows would get the secret out of the boy; and when her arm was quite tired and she had to leave off, the child, sore and aching, ran into the garden and knelt weeping beside his little sword. It was working round and round in its hole all by itself, and if anyone except the boy had tried to catch hold of it, he would have been badly cut. But the moment he stretched out his hand it stopped and slid quietly into the scabbard.

For a long time the child sat sobbing, and the noise was heard by the king as he was driving by. ‘Go and see who it is that is crying so,’ said he to one of his servants, and the man went. In a few minutes he returned saying: ‘Your Majesty, it is a little boy who is kneeling there sobbing because his mother has beaten him.’

‘Bring him to me at once,’ commanded the monarch, ‘and tell him that it is the king who sends for him, and that he has never cried in all his life and cannot bear anyone else to do so.’ On receiving this message the boy dried his tears and went with the servant to the royal carriage. ‘Will you be my son?’ asked the king.

‘Yes, if my mother will let me,’ answered the boy. And the king bade the servant go back to the mother and say that if she would give her boy to him, he should live in the palace and marry his prettiest daughter as soon as he was a man.

The widow’s anger now turned into joy, and she came running to the splendid coach and kissed the king’s hand. ‘I hope you will be more obedient to his Majesty than you were to me,’ she said; and the boy shrank away half-frightened. But when she had gone back to her cottage, he asked the king if he might fetch something that he had left in the garden, and when he was given permission, he pulled up his little sword, which he slid into the scabbard.

Then he climbed into the coach and was driven away.

After they had gone some distance the king said: ‘Why were you crying so bitterly in the garden just now?’

‘Because my mother had been beating me,’ replied the boy.

‘And what did she do that for?’ asked the king again.

‘Because I would not tell her my dream.’

‘And why wouldn’t you tell it to her?’

‘Because I will never tell it to anyone till it comes true,’ answered the boy.

‘And won’t you tell it to me either?’ asked the king in surprise.

‘No, not even to you, your Majesty,’ replied he.

‘Oh, I am sure you will when we get home,’ said the king smiling, and he talked to him about other things till they came to the palace.

It’s all fun and games until people start getting punched in the nose…

Bonus Post: Book Review! Triple Ripple by Brigid Lowry

Not a bad book, really

Triple Ripple: the first book I've reviewed on this blog

 

I don’t normally review books on this blog, but then again, people don’t normally send me advance reader’s copies of their books to review. So here we are, and here we go.

Triple Ripple is a sweet little YA (young adult) book that’s actually three stories in one, like one of those dresses that you can wear three different ways. Well, not exactly. It’s not exactly like that. I’ll start again. Triple Ripple is actually three stories in one: (1) a fantasy tale about a girl named Glory who falls victim to an ancient curse and has to find her way to salvation with the help of her friends, (2) a modern tale about the girl who’s reading the story about Glory, and that girl’s attendant lessons in compassion and maturity, and (3) a first-person, present-tense story about the writer who’s writing both the aforementioned stories. It’s very meta. It’s also billed as a fairy tale, which is why the author’s publicist mailed it to me to review. (SPOILER: It’s not really a fairy tale.)

The main story, the story about Glory, is sweet and engaging. It’s as close to a fairy tale as you’re going to get in this book. It’s not as clever or complex as stories by Diana Wynne Jones or other luminaries in the genre, but it is sweet. The red-headed, impulsive, lovable heroine is a pleasure to know, and the supporting characters are engaging, too. The pre-industrial, monarch-centric world is believable, the magic is handled with a light touch (as are the class issues). I’d like to see what Lowry could do if she stopped faffing about with her meta-stories and really stretched out into the main narrative.

The second story is less sweet, but also engaging. The sullen young heroine has real-world problems, but not so real that it makes for an angsty, unhappy read. The dialogue is convincing, the relationships believable. Her hero’s journey has her confronting a bully at school, only to eventually develop compassion for said bully, and grow into a stronger sense of self and etc. She reads the first story to escape from her troubles. But the two stories (while sort of parallel) are only loosely intertwined. Reading one doesn’t necessarily add depth or dimension to the other. Again, it would make a strong story as a stand-alone, if the author would only reach into it more deeply.

Finally, there is an interstitial narrative that feels tremendously self indulgent to me. It’s the writer’s narrative. She mostly complains about having writer’s block, or wrestles aloud with the challenges of her main story. As a writer, I enjoyed the flourishes and descriptions of the writing life, as well as the view into another writer’s technique. But it didn’t serve a deeper purpose for the book as a whole, and while I laud her for trying something ambitious and unusual, I would have been happier had she given me more straight narrative with emotional meat to sink my teeth into.

But who knows? In her next book, she might hit her stride and pull off both a challenging narrative structure and and emotionally satisfying one.

In summation: Triple Ripple by Brigid Lowry is fairly well written, and worth a read if you’re looking for a sweet, slightly precious YA book with a mild fantasy flavor—and if you don’t mind jumping back and forth between stories, shepherded by an author who’s experimenting with the fourth wall.

The end.

Buy it on Amazon, follow it on Facebook, and see what other people are saying about it on Goodreads.

 

Advice for Writers: From Philip Pullman

Are you one of the intrepid souls riding the rapids of NaNoWriMo this year? If so, I commend you! It’s hard work to show up to the page day after day, slogging through a morass of your own making. You’re like a god shoving settings and personalities and destinies around, like a heroic, metaphysical terraformer. “No, no,” you say, “this chasm is in the wrong place! Jerry, I’ll need about 10,000 tons of fill dirt over here. No, I don’t know where you’re supposed to get it, just get it.”

You’re at the quarter-mile mark today, so hopefully you’re still feeling somewhat fresh and motivated. But just in case, I thought it would be nice to pull up a pep talk from the NaNoWriMo pep talk archives to give you a little lift. You remember Philip Pullman, don’t you? He wrote a little series called His Dark Materials that a few people sort of enjoyed a while back. Anyway, he’s excited that you’re writing a novel this month, and he wanted to let you know. Here’s an excerpt from his letter to you:

You know which page of a novel is the most difficult to write? It’s page 70. The first page is easy: it’s exciting, it’s new, a whole world lies in front of you. The last page is easy: you’ve got there at last, you know what’s going to happen, all you have to do is find a resonant closing sentence. But page 70 is where the misery strikes. All the initial excitement has drained away; you’ve begun to see all the hideous problems you’ve set yourself; you are horribly aware of the minute size of your own talent compared to the colossal proportions of the task you’ve undertaken; that’s when you really want to give up. When I hit page 70 with my very first novel, I thought: I’m never going to finish this. I’ll never make it. But then stubbornness set in…

Check out the rest of it.

One of his miserable experiments turned into this:

So you keep going, too. You never know what might happen.

 
Psst! If you’d like more creative inspiration, you might enjoy strolling through the FTF archives.

NaNoWriMo: Advice for Writers from Incredible Authors

Ready, set, WRITE!

When it comes to creative expression, one of your worst enemies can be your inner editor, that judge-y, mean-spirited, hyper-critical jerk who starts harshing on you as soon as you sit down to create. You know the one. It’s a toxic blend of lofty expectations and distorted perceptions, and left unchecked it can perpetuate creative infanticide on all your baby ideas.

That’s why NaNoWriMo is such a great event. If you don’t know about it, NaNoWriMo is short for National Novel Writing Month. The goal is to write 1,000 words a day, every day, for 30 days. At the end, you’ll have a 30,000-word novel! How amazing is that? And there’s a tremendous community around your effort. Libraries invite you in to write. Independent bookstores do, too. You can meet other sweaty scribblers just like yourself in forums and support groups all over the world.

And, as if that’s not enough, amazing writers will write you pep talks! People like Jonathan Lethem and Audrey Niffenegger have already signed up to tell you how great you are for doing this, and how much everyone appreciates the fact that you’re showing up and putting in the effort.

You can even roam through the pep talk archives when you’re feeling frustrated and in need of inspiration. People like Lynda Barry (LYNDA BARRY!) and Lemony Snicket (one of my favorite bits about writing, ever, for all time) and Neil Gaiman and Dave Eggers and Peter Fucking Carey – all these people, these talented, accomplished people, will be cheering you on.

So what are you waiting for? Inspiration? Bah. The right time? Double bah! For the swelling to go down? BAH! The swelling may never go down. You may never have the right idea. And you will certainly never have the time. So why not just start?

As my sainted father always says, “There ain’t nothing to it but to do it.”

It starts in eight hours. Ready, set, WRITE!