Suzy McKee Charnas’ novel The Vampire Tapestry was a formative influence on The Night Inside, though I could certainly never equal the cool, elegant, and fine-honed prose she brought to bear on this brilliant depiction of the vampire as alien creature making its way among humans that were both its prey and an irresistible source of fascination.
I was incredibly honoured when Charnas agreed to write the introduction to the ebook editions of The Night Inside and Blood & Chrysanthemums and thrilled when Centipede Press asked me to return the favour for their limited-edition hardcover reprint. My copy just arrived and it’s gorgeous. It features not only the novel but an additional short story and Charnas’ entertaining tale of trying to turn the book into a play.
Centipede Press produces collectors editions of genre classics, many of them hard to find now, and their books routinely sell out. So if you love vampire novels and beautiful books, get yours while they last.
Continuing the variations on a theme exercises I did from Wonderbook. I’m sparing you the “dialogue only” version, which did not really work, and the combined “description only/dialogue only” version, which was not much better. Today’s version is third person and ended up being past tense vs. present. I think I might need to make Roussilon a more major character than I’d originally intended.
SPEAK, DON’T SPEAK Exercise PartIV
She was out of practice at this, Roussilon thought, as another sharp-edged gust of wind threatened to snatch her hat from her hand and send it cartwheeling down the beach. Her skirts were too long, her coat too thin, her hat nothing more than a useless encumbrance, and she had left her gloves in her tent. If Antonia had been there, the gloves would not have been forgotten.
She had been too long in the city and now she could not be trusted to remember her gloves without a maid to remind her.
The path of loose grit and pebbles that zigzagged up the cliff effectively prevented a discreet return to the tent to collect them. She had no choice but to hold her hat in one hand and tuck the other into the sleeve of her somber burgundy coat, alternating which was which went the exposed skin grew too cold. There was an ache in her joints that she misliked, just as she tried to avoid looking that the knobs her knuckles were becoming. An inheritance from her mother she had hoped to avoid and that magic could only ease but not prevent.
At least she had possessed the foresight to tie her hair back into a tight braid, so she was spared the indignity of having to spend her time keeping it from her face.
Erzabet, whether deliberately or not, had not bothered. Her hair was a dark banner in the wind but if she noticed it, as she crouched by the sea’s edge, she gave no sign of it, just has she gave no sign of discomfort at the occasional wave that rushed up and round her, for all the water that lifted her skirts must have been bone-chilling. She had been there, almost motionless, for long enough for Roussilon to begin to worry. The sight of the black-clad figure against the grey stony beach, the heave and break of the grey waves, and the lowered grey clouds did not inspire confidence.
Montreson, she decided, had been worrying all along, if his relentless pacing were any indication. He had been forced to hold his hat as well, revealing iron-grey hair that matched his coat. And the beach, and the waves, and the sky, Roussilon thought. As if this all were a matter of sympathetic magic.
“Are you certain she can do it, Montreson?” she asked. “Even diPreti would have found such a spell a challenge at her age.”
He shrugged, a faint motion, as he turned and began his even pacing once again.
“Then perhaps you might stop pacing.” She sounded waspish, which she disliked, because she had not intended it. “You are making me nervous. You are possibly making her nervous – though I am not certain she has anything as human as nerves in her.” They both looked towards the woman on the beach. “If she fails, I trust there is still time for the navy to deal with the matter in the old-fashioned way. Or the army, should their ship reach the shore.”
“Perhaps. “ Montreson, still moving, glanced back up at the escarpment above them, as if expecting to see ranks of soldiers assembled there. “It is by no means certain, though the Admiral has assured me there is a contingency. She is not going to fail, my lady Roussilon.”
Best she not, Roussilon thought, but did not say. Best for all of us. Mercifully, Montreson stopped his motion and they stood in silence, watching Erzabet. Her arms moved, her hands fanning out into the waves and then digging down into the pebbles tumbled by the retreating water. Roussilon heard something, though whether it was a cry or a bird or the wind she could not tell.
At the water’s edge, Erzabet rose and turned to pick her way across the beach towards them. Her face, veiled and unveiled by the wind-blown hair, was unreadable. Well? Roussilon thought but Montreson stepped forward before she could speak.
“Is it done?”
Erzabet only smiled and moved past them without another look, heading for the slanting path up the cliff. Her wet skirts dragged lines of her passage into the loose, gritty sand. She lifted them for a moment as she starts to climb, then dropped them. Roussilon watched her go, her head high, her dark seaweed hair swirling around her, and shivered.
After a moment, Montreson held out his arm, a gesture of automatic courtliness. It reminded her of who she was. “We must take it from that smile that it is,” she said, accepting it. “Now, Comte, perhaps we can find a warm tent and nice glass of brandy.”
He smiled and she wondered if he believed her, if he too could no more see below the glossy surface of her cultured accent and perfected charm than she had been able to see what lay behind Erzabet’s smile.
I’ve been less productive than hoped since Christmas (work, events, general laziness to blame) but I did revisit some of the exercises I did from Wonderbook by jeff Vandermeer. The last one was quite challenging, as it involved rewriting a scene multiple times (some of which I admit to having skipped from lack of interest). Because I generally have very little to post here, I thought – aha! – I’ll post the exercise.
The first step was to write a scene between two characters with no dialogue and with only description to convey what is happening between them. I cheated a bit by having them observing a third character but she never speaks. This version automatically assumed the present tense and I quite liked parts of it. I’ll be the first to confess that it did bog down in the unheard dialogue section. What did I learn? Well, I already knew that I have a ridiculous love of writing descriptions of weather and nature. My favorite words reappear. But I learned some things about the woman with the hat that I had known before and that was very useful.
The photo here is actually Lake Minnewanka, near Banff. It was taken by my husband on his iphone in colour and has no filters. This is really what it looked like. It’s not exactly the landscape for the scene that follows but it seemed appropriate.
SPEAK, DON’T SPEAK Exercise Part I
The shore is grey. There is no sand on the wide beach, only stones. The cliffs beyond it rise fifty feet high, grey shale and winter-whitened lichen. Here and there, a weathered tree clings to a split in the stone, but they too are grey with salt and struggle. A path winds its way in switchbacks down the side of the cliff. There are footprints in the loose grit and gouges were a foot has slipped.
The dark, rolling waves of the sea mirror the slate-coloured clouds that billow and belly above them. They break on half-hidden rocks and hit the pebbled beach with a rush and a hiss. Somewhere beyond the clouds, the sun is sloping downwards, southward in the sky, but no hint of light breaks through.
From the sea, if one rode those waves, the beach would look like a stage, set for some grim northern tragedy. There is only one spot of colour in all that grey; the somber burgundy of the long coat worn by the woman standing at the base of the wall of shale. She had worn a hat of matching hue but the wind threatened to send it cartwheeling down the beach so now she holds it in her hands. If there were a setting sun to touch it, her hair would shine auburn. Beneath the lowered sky, it looks merely dark, pulled tightly back from her face. The face itself is smooth, like the sea-tumbled rocks, but it is not a young woman’s face. Her hands, ungloved, are not a young woman’s hands. There is a beginning of thickening in the bones of the knuckles and when she tightens her grip on the hat, the fine bones move beneath skin the texture of crepe.
Her gaze is seaward, towards the young woman who crouches near the water’s edge. Her clothes are dark, her unbound hair a flag in the wind from the water. Her bare hands rest on the stones and once in while her fingers dig into the mass of them, turning and tumbling them. When the waves are strong, the water rushes up and around her, turning her long skirts darker as they lift away from her ankles. It must be bone-chilling, that water, but she gives no sign of it. Her eyes are closed, her face lifted and tilted, as if she is listening to something very faint and far away. Her lips move, once in a while, on words that are not clear.
Beside the woman in burgundy, a man paces, measured steps back and forth across the rocks. Like his companion, he carries his broad-brimmed black hat, revealing iron-grey hair tossed by the wind. His coat is the same hue, though there is the flash of white from the lace at his wrists when he lifts his hand to brush away a tangle of hair from his eyes. His face is narrow and sharp, from high forehead to neatly trimmed beard. He watches the woman on the shore, though once in a while he glances up towards the cliff-top, as if expecting to see something there.
The woman touches the sharp line of her hair where it meets her forehead. She looks at the man as he begins another turn and speaks. His brows lift a little and his shoulders shift in the faintest of shrugs as he replies.
As she speaks again, he pauses in his motion, and they both look towards the woman on the beach. Words die for a moment; a frown folds her smooth forehead. There is something tentative in her voice then.
His answer is short and he resumes his pacing, staring down at his boots for a moment before glancing back up at the escarpment above him. Whatever he expects to see is not visible, for he looks away again. He glances at his companion and says something, the equivocal shrug returning.
On the beach, the young woman bends her head and the wind winds her hair like a veil over her face. Her hands are in the numbing water, fanned out as she can grasp the waves and hold them there. As she watches, the woman in burgundy pulls her coat tighter and shifts her weight. The man in black stops pacing.
A sound comes from the figure at the water’s edge but it caught by the wind before the observers can tell if it is a cry of triumph or despair. She rises in a column of black and turns to pick hers way back across the jumbled beach towards them. Her hair flows and flashes across her face but she does to try to push it back.
As she nears the waiting pair, the man steps forward and speaks. She nods and smiles and walks past them without another look, to begin the walk up the slanting path. Her wet skirts drag the lines of her passing the loose grit. She lifts them up for a moment then lets them drop, her head high, her hair swirling around her head like seaweed.
After a moment, the man sighs and holds out his arm. The older woman accepts it and then takes a breath visible in the lift of her shoulders. She says something softly and he tilts his head to hear her then shakes his head with another sigh. They climb the path, following the lines in the sand.
The hardest character to find a decent picture for has been Leontine. After hunting around for a while, I finally decided to go back to my first inspiration, which was a little girl in Fillippo Lippi’s “The Coronation of the Virgin”. And lo and behold, Signor Lippi had a few other lovely paintings, one of which yielded the image above. It’s not quite perfect but it’s not a bad image for a woman who excels at math, becomes an alchemist and the Royal Magician, and then … but that would be telling.
Below is the original instruction, which comes from one of the most gorgeous paintings I’ve ever seen.
Being the second in my series of inspiration pictures for the WIP.
I found the first of these images on my Beautiful Bizarre Magazine instagram feed, which is a constant source of incredible art that could serve as inspiration for dozens of stories (were I the sort of person who could have that many ideas). It’s actually from a photo shoot for Vogue magazine, done by an Icelandic photographer named Anna Osk Erlingsdottir. This picture led me to her site, which is full of equally lovely things.
Both of these are reference photos for Erzabet, one of the triumvarite of women who drive the new book. In the course of the story she’s a child in a small fishing village, an accused witch, a Royal Magician, and …. well, you know how the next bit goes. That would be telling.
I first heard Dessa (aka Dessa Darling, aka Margaret Wander) listening to one of Welcome to Nightvale’s live podcasts. She and Paper Tiger performed “Call off Your Ghost” and I thought, well, that’s pretty cool, I should find out more. So I did, and discovered that Dessa is a singer, composer, songwriter, rapper, and spoken word artist from Minneapolis. I listened to a few songs online and then acquired both of her albums. I listened to them over and over on my ipod on the way to work and back. I listened to them while I did yoga in the basement. I don’t think I listened to anything else for a month. I still go through Dessa phases.
Why do I love her work so much?
It’s not just the music, though I love the melodies and the interesting sounds she finds and uses. It’s not just the confidence that comes through in so many of her songs, though we live in a culture that’s not used to woman being assertive about their art and ambition. The rap influence is probably at play here (she has a song called “The Bullpen” explicitly about being a woman in that world) but her expression of it is unique. I think that’s why these songs made me uncomfortable, because I’m not nearly as confident as the woman in songs like “Fighting Fish”, in which she states: “I wanna try, I wanna take risks/I don’t wanna walk, rather swing and miss/I’m not above apologies but I don’t ask permission/I got a lot of imperfections but I don’t count my ambition in them”. This seems to me like a profoundly female statement of ambition: she’ll aim high, but she’ll apologize if she needs to, because who needs another jerk on the stage. She has no interest in being bound by conventions of genre. She’s rapped, sung, arranged music for a choir, and collaborated on classical compositions.
I love her because she loves words, which I suppose is what you’d expect from an artist who started as a poet and has a degree in philosopy. She loves wordplay, literary allusion, consonance, alliteration, upending cliches, and all the other tricks that writers use. Most of all, she seems to love story (it’s no surprise that she writes both fiction and non-fiction prose). Most of her songs contain a strong thread of narrative that drags my own imagination into the words and summons up histories and futures for her characters. She sings about a difficult musical genius (“The Chaconne“), about watching a lover descend into mental illness (“Annabelle“), about admitting to the betrayals that destroyed a friendship (“Dear Marie“), and about offering advice to a relative caught up in something criminal (“Alibi“). Even her love songs are richer and darker than the run-of-the-mill romantic fodder in popular music.
Best of all, for me many of her songs have an edge of the fantastic. I have no idea how intentional any of it is, but all my fantasy-honed buttons get pushed by songs like “Skeleton Key” (I come from over the horizon, every dozen years/go home, tell of my arrival, Skeleton Key’s here/….I’ve found work and welcome everywhere I’ve been/cause everyone’s got someplace they want to be let in) and the apocalyptic dreamscape of “The Beekeeper“(In the shadow of the mountain/we work when work abounds/and we wear out all our prayers/when the work runs out).
If those songs are fantasy, then “The Lamb” contains an undercurrent of horror. It’s a song about caring for an aging relative (father? brother? uncle?) guilty of an unspecified childhood abuse towards the narrator. The lyrics move between acceptance of the call of blood (but blood is blood/and what’s done is done/yeah, blood is blood/and it’s burden is a beast) and the desire for vengeance, or at least power (you’ve got a way with words/you got a way with murder/now our roles reverse/and your table’s turning). Gets me every time.
I finished off Nanowrimo at just over 4,000 words so it was reasonably productive. However, I’ve now started a three-day a week work contract so the next few months may be a bit slow.
One lovely way to pretend to be working is to look for visual references to help ground your words in something tangible. I’ve been looking for character and landscape references, so I’ll share those as they finalize for me. While poking around on Google image searches for French actresses (to tie into my current “let’s just pretend it’s 17th century France” worldbuilding default), I came across the movie poster above, for the grim but excellent film by Agnes Varda. The actress is Sandrine Bonnaire and this image evokes Vedette, who grows up in a city slum, steals the wrong purse, and then …. but that would be telling.
No, I did not expect to write a novel during November. However, I did use the National Novel Writing Month period to try to get as many words down as possible while I was working on Cold Hillside. I never managed more than about 10,000 – and I’d end up editing at least a third of those out later – but it provided some external discipline around the process. As someone who doesn’t work out unless she’s in a class, I am well aware of my requirement for external motivation.
This year’s attempt has been hampered by my ongoing cold (excuses, excuses) but I am getting a bit done. I hope that I’ll end up somewhere around 4,000 words, which I suppose it not bad considered that a) I really have no plot for this novel worked out yet and b) the dreaded “constriction” of my writing voice has returned. After feeling relatively expansive and confident during my “250 words a day” project in June, I once again feel like I’m shoving words through a tunnel much too small for them and as a consequence write no more than the minimum required to keep the scene moving along. Perhaps given my tendency to write pretty adjectives and compound sentences, this is not entirely a bad thing. One must hope for the best.
How off to stop procrastinating and write something.
We rented a car to drive down Highway 1 from SF to Los Angeles. First stop was the amazing Winchester Mystery House. This place figures in Earthquake Weather by Tim Powers, but I did not have time to reread that before the trip. (And on the trip we were asleep by 10:00 every night so very little reading was done.) Unfortunately they don’t let you take pictures inside but it was surprisingly comfortable, once you got around the stairs that ended in ceilings and doors to nowhere.
We had perfect weather for the drive down the coast, from Pacific Grove to Cayucos. The driver in the party reports that the experience was quite satisfying – and not nearly as nerve-wracking as the unexpected drive over the mountains to Santa Barbara in the dark. Note to self: Doublecheck the real names of the roads before following the Google map. “Highway 154” seems harmless – “San Marco Pass” does not. Also, Santa Barbara does not believe in streetlights. Or pedestrians.
Hearst Castle was a “must-see” for the trip and we spent most of a day there. It’s grand, overstuffed, and weirdly impractical (those small, twisty staircases must have been fun after a glass of wine). I’d happily stay in one of the “cottages”, though. I especially liked that fact that all couples travelling together got two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a sitting room. It was clearly assumed that no one actually slept together.
On to LA. We stayed just south of Wiltshire Boulevard, in an area of 1920s and 1930s homes. It felt very “LA” and actually allowed us to walk to LACMA, the LaBrea Tar Pits, and the Petersen Car Museum. We also went to the Getty and the Broad, to make up for all the art we didn’t see in SF.
Below is a lovely diorama from the LaBrea Tar Pits, because it’s the dream of every fossil-loving child to see a sabre-tooth tiger killing a giant sloth.
We had a great trip – but I don’t think I’d want to live there. It’s perilous enough in Canada.
To the surprise of no one who has been paying attention, I find it very hard to finish books. Hell, I find it hard to start books. And as for the stuff in the middle, well, I’m not terribly good at that either. So when this post showed up in my Facebook feed, I found it amusing and useful.
Some key things I’m trying to remember as I do my usual “drowning not waving” floundering about at the beginning of a book.
The only thing that matters is FORWARD MOTHERFUCKING MOMENTUM.
Kill your fear of failure
Skip the boring parts.
Divest yourself of ideas of quality. Quality matters in the end. Quantity matters in the beginning. Produce. Create. Write. Iterate. As I am fond of saying, that first draft isn’t just a zero draft, it isn’t just a vomit draft — it’s the beachstorming draft. It’s just you trying to land enough boats and enough soldiers on the sand that you can carve out a space to call your own. You’re just trying to advance the thing — one bloody, gory inch at a time. Quality? Fuck quality. Just get up the beach. You will rewrite history later.
This last one is hard to me, because I need to know a lot about a book to feel comfortable writing it, especially with fantasy. In order to know the world, I need to know the characters, because the characters are shaped by the world they inhabit, but I don’t know the characters because I don’t know the world …. and I go around and around in circles, terrified of putting a stake in the ground for fear it’ll be the wrong stake and warp everything.
I also need to know what a book is about. Not what the plot is, not who the characters are, but what it’s about. This doesn’t mean it has a message but there has to be something I want to explore; how you recreate your existence when you’re a vampire, what does fidelity mean if you live forever, what is beauty, what is the intersection of power and responsibility and what price does it demand of the person who has the power – and everyone around them?
I’m not at that stage in the new book yet. I’m still splashing around and putting off diving into the cold water. I try to remind myself that I’ve made considerably more progress than I had at this point in the long slog that was Cold Hillside. Of course, that’s not saying much.
Going forward, I’m going to try to throw some beachstorming into the mix, even if it alternates with dithering in the boats looking for my paddle. Can’t hurt.