A Different Kind of Book Art

Being the week before spring break, today’s Monday to Friday was pretty hairy-scary, as the saying around here goes. People had too much homework and not enough time to do it, I had to theoretically be in three places at once on Thursday night (although I’m glad I was where I was at the end of the night) and everyone’s freaking out about how we’re going to get through the projects due on the flipside of break.

Not a lot of time for the blogging, in other words.

But now it’s Friday morning, I haven’t got to be anywhere for an hour and then all I have to do is finish my essay for Writing essays on my revelation on the nature of life, the universe, or anything and I’ve got two days before I go on retreat at the Monastery here at Saint Ben’s.

Ah, blog, how I have missed you.

I got to participate in two cultural activities this week I’d love to share with you, but I think I’ll save the first one for tomorrow morning. On Monday night I went to the movie theatre and saw Percy Jackson and Olympians: The Lightning Thief with a good friend of mine, and on Wednesday, I ate lunch with Buzz Spector, a reknowned book artist, art critic, and currently the Dean of the College and Graduate School of Art in the Sam Fox School of Design & Visual Arts at Washington University in St. Louis.

Percy needs a whole other post – Buzz I can talk about here.

If you EVER get a chance to see this man’s work or hear him speak at an event, GO. He is one of the most insightful, depth-filled and honestly funny men I think I’ve ever met. And he’s succinct, too. I honor and respect people who can be succinct without trying. He doesn’t look like much when he walks into a room, kind of a mad scientist type with curly gray hair that’s going everywhere and anywhere, but get him talking and it is a thing awesome to behold.

Buzz (I’m friends with him on facebook, I think I can call him Buzz; Mr. Spector sounds a little strange) is, as I mentioned, a book artist. He does things with books. Yes, that could sound dirty, but he also writes about how the rest of us do things with books as well – in his article “Going Over The Books” re-published from the magazine Dialogue in his collection of essays The Bookmaker’s Desire, he talks about how books, unlike any other artwork, are a medium consumed when we are at our most vulnerable –

“The space of reading is intimate; only the beloved’s body comes closer to that
of the reader than the book, held in the hands, resting on the chest, or nestled
in the lap…we dress up and go out to look at art. Undressed, in bed, we read.”

Buzz also addresses the physical presence of the book as an erotic thing – open a book to the middle pages and set it out on a table. Do the spread pages remind us perhaps of spread legs? Do we not say after we have read a book that we “know” it?

I thought it was a beautiful image. The rest of my book arts class was a little wierded out by that one.

In our tour of the gallery exhibition Spreading The Word (which I had to help set up in exchange for good grace to be somewhere else other than the opening on Thursday) Buzz brought up the idea of surplus meaning when we read a book, and in order to explain this, I think we have to expand on the word 'book.'

BOOK in the book arts sense can, I think, be broken down into three elements. First we have Book as Concept, the ideas we get when we think of the word Book. A repository for knowledge, a way to communicate experience. Historically and conceptually, a scroll is a book, just not one we recognize. Book artists explore these ideas when they create books that at the end of their process don’t look like the second concept at all, Book as Object. This category intersects with element One a little bit -- Covers, pages, spine, words maybe, pictures maybe, story maybe, a particular book, paperback, hardback, no back at all. And third, we have Book as Text. Now that Kindle is removing the physicality of covers and paper pages, reading a book is coming back to reading text in a different vehicle. When we ‘discuss the text’ in English class, we don’t care about whether your copy is hardback or paperback – as long as it’s not abridged and you have THE TEXT, we’re fine.

The surplus meaning that Buzz was talking about comes when the book as text and the book as object work together to convey meaning. A less obscure example than the one Buzz gave us is Harry Potter’s textbook in Prisoner of Azkaban, the Monster Book of Monsters, a book about magical creatures that is itself a creature – attempting to pacify the book enough to read it is also to experience in the anger and power of the creatures portrayed in the book.

One of Buzz’s concepts as an artist is altering books – he tears out pages, removes text, adds elements like spindles to the middle of books. He feels bad about this process sometimes, as he grew up in a family of committed bibliophiles and is technically taking apart someone else’s piece of art. “The book came to me a finished product,” he says, “and I have unfinished it, yet when it leaves my hands as an artwork it is once again finished.” (On a side note, this reminded me of the quote from DUNE – “Arrakis practices the attitude of the knife – chopping off that which is incomplete and saying ‘It is complete because it ended here.”)

As I look at Spector’s work online, I can’t help drawing some connections between the art of physically altering the book and the less physical process of fanfiction and the way it alters the way we experience books. Can’t we say that attempting to make two characters love each other in a non-canonical way is the same thing as putting a knife through the text in an attempt to create “space”?

I’m not saying all fanfiction rips out pages and gouges prose. Certainly some of mine does. The Rose re-write, for instance, is akin to taking a tractor-trailer through Tolkien’s original concept and brutally running it down in the middle of the road, a blatant disrespect in some eyes. But some of it is a different type of book art, the kind that gently pries apart the spine of the book and gently attempts to wedge another page, another character, another scene inside, something that expands the experience of the text at the same time it alters it.

Fanfiction is also different from book art in another way – it’s far more accessible on the internet than most galleried art works. But does it loose something as Text when we don’t have the physically comforting prescence of the Book-Object to find it in? Is there a way to incorporate fanfiction as part of a Book-Object-as-Art-Experience?

An interesting thought.

Eine Kleine Schneemuisk -- A Little Bit of Snow Music.

I could write an actual blog post this week about my writing essays paper on relationships, which I am turning in today after what I think was a successful workshop and edit. I could talk about the unwilling and struggling readers we've been discussing in Pedagogy. I could talk about my book arts project and the typographer Eric Gill.

All of these involve work and some semblence of brain function. Instead, I'm going to give you a poem. I wrote it while I was at work the other day staring out the window to our courtyard and watching the drifting snow.


I think, if I stare out this window long enough

out into the whiteness,

out into the drifting snow

I'll see an angel there.

The wind wraps the snow around,

folds it up like origami and makes it slide around curves

that aren't there,

sewing up the seams on this sheet

with a needle made out of the icicles

hanging from the house eaves.

I think they're angel curves

that make the body being wrapped around,

the celestial being getting dressed for the day in another snow-white garment.

So maybe, if I stare long enough out of this window,

I'll catch a glimpse of what has never been before seen by man or woman --

One of God's elect in their underthings,

Another form to be caressed

Another body made cold by wind
and warm by love.

When Worlds Collide

In string theory, the universe is given as being composed on a gigantic membrane, a large flat surface that ripples, flows, and in some cases, runs into other membranes like it, causing the universes (yes, in string theory there are multiple universes) to collide. If you watch Fringe, you know that funky things happen when universes collide, like what happened in last week's episode, Jacksonville.

Yeah, I know, string theory. Something you probably thought would never be mentioned on this blog. But it's interesting stuff, though, really. If you are looking for a book, I recommend The Elegant Universe by Brian Greene. Good stuff.

Back out in the real world, we don't necessarily have worlds colliding on a quantum level, but I at least have my internet life and my real life colliding quite a bit this week over the matter of reviews.

Normally I'm pretty open about the fact that I lead this 'other life' on the internet. I write a blog that I love to tell everyone about. I use Facebook. I Skype. I write a lot of fanfiction. And, perhaps more importantly about the fanfiction, I review other people's stuff. Not as much anymore as I probably should in order to remain an active and participating member of my community, but enough. And I start running into trouble when people from my real life outside the internet tell me they'd like me to read their stories and review them.

Okay, that's not the troubling part. The troubling part is when I read them and I don't like them.

It's one thing to get a review from someone you don't know saying "I didn't like this for reasons A, B, and C listed below" and another thing entirely when you get a review from someone you DO know saying "I don't like your story for reasons A, B, and C listed below." When someone asks you to read something in person you feel obligated to like it and say nice things.

Especially troubling is when the person you're reviewing for is older than you (so theoretically you should be defering to them in matters of style and expierience) and you have more experience in the online community. I've been writing (and publishing, the publishing-and-exposing-for-critique part is important) online for six years -- the person in question has been writing and publishing online, as far as I can tell, for two.

Let me explain for the fanfiction laypeople in the audience-- In the online community, because many participants lack what in the real world might be called credentials to show that they're experinced in the field and because the age of the participants ranges across such a wide continuum, legitimacy is defered to those members of the community who have been participating the longest. I've been writing for six years. I have well over three hundred reviews on those stories, with several of them having a chapter to review ratio of 1 to 20. Chapter to review ratios mean that not only have a lot of people read it, but a lot of people have liked it enough to review. It's one thing to have a hundred chapters and six hundred reviews -- that's six reviews a chapter. Nothing special. It's another thing to have twelve chapters and 150 reviews. That's twelve reviews a chapter, a much more respectable number. The LOTR rewrite is averaging seven or eight reviews a chapter, not surprising given that the fandom is large and the original population has moved on to writing and reviewing other things.

Ergo, six years of writing fanfic and review ratios like that give me...well, I don't know, something like a bachelor's degree, maybe even a master's degree equivalent in fanfiction. At least that's what I like to think of it as.

And so we're at a bit of an impass. I'm supposed to defer to her in real life, but in online life, she should be defering to me. Meaning it's going to be hard for her to take my critique and it's going to be hard for me to give it. I don't want to write a long and disinterested review because for reasons of online etiquette no one gives those disinterested reviews and for reasons of proximity I don't want to tell her flat out that I didn't like it because then she can come up to me in person and say "Why?"

I'm also having the same problem not with fanfiction but with editing and workshopping we're supposed to be doing for my Writing Essays course. This week we turned in copies of our essays to our workshop groups and this afternoon we'll be getting together to discuss revisions. There are three other people in my group.

I had no problem finishing and editing two of the essays.

The third was a disaster. Okay, maybe I'm overstating a little bit. The first two were funny, relatable. The third was...an essay. We had a topic, and Essayist Number Three wrote about his topic. It was neither funny nor engaging nor even very well written. It was words on a page, and they weren't even cleverly placed. And I don't know how I'm going to tell him that in workshop today after I'm in raptures about the other two essays.

Anyway, we'll report back this afternoon and tell you how it went. Meanwhile, I think I'm going to type up my notes to my online/real-life freind and see how rocky that road gets. Maybe worlds colliding won't have to be a diaster after all.

Under a Snow-Tipped Maple tree, the Village Printshop stands...

Say, that title line ain't half bad.

Writing news has been a little thin on the ground lately. I thought I’d maybe post one of the essays I’ve had to write for Writing Essays, but as those are neither indicative of a great breakthrough of any kind nor indeed very good, I felt I’d be shortchanging you. So I guess I’ll talk about my book arts project, which is to illustrate a fable, as some of you already know. I’ve chosen a rather obscure one from the writings of a Jewish author named Berechiah ben Natronai, ha-Nakdan. Task one – find and adapt fable. Done!

A dove saw flax being sown in a field, flew to the rest of the birds and said "Sisters, please come and eat the flax seed with me. If we do not eat it now, the flax will grow tall and the farmer will use it to make nets to trap us in." But the other birds ignored her, saying, "We have already eaten one meal today -- we do not need another."

However, the other doves listened, went to the field, and ate the flax, though they were not numbered enough to eat it all. When the time came after the harvesting, the doves stayed inside while the rest of the birds were snared in the nets the farmer had made from the flax.

Be careful whose counsel you discredit today -- it may be of more use to you tomorrow.

Task two is slightly harder – using the resources at our disposal at the Hill Manuscript Museum and library (HMML or Himmel, as it’s pronounced here on campus), find a 19th or 20th book artist (lithographer, typographer, engraver, fine press printer, etc) and emulate their style to illustrate your fable. I’ve chosen Eric Gill, the guy responsible for Gill Sans:

Perpetua:

And the Golden Cockerel Bible, which is the example I’m choosing to base my fable illustrations on. I actually got to handle one of these bibles, which, according to the Christie’s website, has a going auction value of a little over eight thousand pounds, or sixteen thousand dollars.

And I got to hold one.

I don't get to say this often without sounding like crazy, but I love the HMML.

Beautiful, beautiful stuff. So this is what the mock-up looks like right now, with Gill's characteristic 'inhabited capital' filled with my sower. That's the little guy underneath. I like him a lot. I think his name is Ezra. Or Schmul. Something Hebraic and nifty.

So that's my life at the moment. Lots of books, lots of engravings, lots of bad sketches, lots of printing and typesetting. Hey, a girl's got to do something with a foot and a half of snow on the ground.

Warning, This Content May Not Be Suitable for Young Adults

Yeah, I put that as my title in a joking sort of way, but I'm actually serious. Some of this content may not be appropriate for young adults. I'd hide it behind a cut or something like you can do on LiveJournal, but Blogger has its limitations, and that's one of them.

So I'll write it again in LARGE RED LETTERS.


SOME OF THE ISSUES ADDRESSED IN THIS BLOGPOST MAY NOT QUALIFY FOR A PG13 RATING.


Okay, best I can do. Anyway. It's my job both as an academic and as a member of the fanfiction writing community who takes her appropriative art form kind of seriously (as seriously as you can take fanfic, anyway) to question why my community does the things they do and what that says about its component members. You may remember my post on marginality a few days back.

No sooner had I written about why fanfiction is often used to involve or emphasize overlooked populations when this little gem crossed my LJ flist. (A flist, for those of you not familiar with the term, is a portmanteau of freind-list)

chichuri (chichuri) wrote in oliviaandpeter
Entry tags:fic
Fic: A Minor Adjustment (Olivia/Peter)
Fandom: Fringe
Characters/Pairing: Olivia, Peter, Olivia/Peter, male Olivia/Peter
Word Count: 3105 Rating: R
Summary: Olivia runs afoul of a pathogen that changes her from female
to male.
Warnings: Smut, some swearing.
Spoilers: Through Season 2.
Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe or its characters.
Author's Note: Written for Porn Battle IX.
Prompts used: genderswap, secret.

Given the reactions of the characters involved, this story should either be categorized as crackfic or as evidence that the Fringe team has become way too jaded. About a ton of thanks go to crazylittleelf , muselives , alamo_girl80 , and vagajammer for enabling me; without them this story never would have been finished.

Okay, so now you all know that yes, I follow the TV show FRINGE enough that I'm part of a group on LJ that ships Olivia/Peter (because come on, after last episode we all know even Walter ships O/P) and you also know that let's face it: fanfiction writers write some CRAZY shit. This is otherwise known as crackfic or crack!fic, i.e., writing you would do if you were on crack. Additionally, you also may have figured out that I'm crazy and liberal enough to give this fic half a chance. I only got about half-way through because I am not a slash shipper and as much as I support the gay rights movement, I don't want to hear about gay sex. Sorry. I have issues with heterosexual couples kissing in public, too, though, so I don't know what that says about me.



Anyway. The mere existence of things like this brings to my mind a lot of questions about fanfiction and the crazy people who propagate it. Olivia and Peter as a m/f pairing is something that is a completely and totally viable plot option within the premise of the show. As I've already mentioned, we even have a canon character rooting for the Olivia/ Peter ship to sail. So why go through the trouble of making Olivia turn male for the purposes of a story? Fringe is one fandom where, oddly enough, things like that might actually happen.


The obvious answer is that some teen girls (and some not so teen girls, for that matter) really like guy on guy sex. Don't ask me why, I'm not one of them. The more subtle and slightly less obvious answer is that fanfiction has always been a way to question the standards of heteronormative society (big word that i'm sure my Human Relations prof would be proud of me using) and this is one more way to do it, by physically changing the gender boundaries already placed on the characters to allow a heteronormative pairing (Olivia and Peter) to be made into something that can question the norm (Oliver and Peter.) Catherine Tosenberger in her 2008 article for Children's Literature magazine entitled "Homosexuality at the Online Hogwarts: Harry Potter Slash Fanfiction" brings in the work of several other authors on why slash is prevelent, saying

"It is unsurprising that most fandom scholar-ship presents slash as a potential
site for women to resist the dominant ideologies of patriarchal, heteronormative
culture. [Constance] Penley draws upon the work of Joanna Russ, as well as that of Patricia Frazer Lamb and Diana L. Veith, and discusses slash as a subversive act, wherein women can articulate a fantasy of equality between romantic partners that is difficult to achieve in heterosexual relationships (see "Brownian" 155–57, and
NASA/TREK 127–30)."

Never thought about questioning the heterosexual norm for reasons of equality, but hey, I guess it makes sense. (The rest of this article, by the way, is really interesting, and if you can get to an academic library that can get you an online copy through Project Muse or something, read the rest of it.) Tosenberger goes on to talk in the rest of her article about why Harry Potter fanfiction in particular is a great playground for authors intent on exploring thier identity through fanfiction, gender or otherwise, which is something that I've already explored in other writings.



In the course of my wanderings to make something substantial out of this find I discovered two things. One is the existence a term I'd come across before but never known the meaning of -- acafan. Tosenbeger identified herself at the end of her article as someone who participates in online fandom; like all statements of this nature, I wanted to find out more. A search of her name lead me to 'acafan'. The term can be hyphenated (aca-fan) and appears most significantly in the title of Henry Jenkins' Blog "Confessions of an Aca-Fan." Henry Jenkins, whose work was only some of the source material I used for my fanfiction paper, is an academic at USC currently teaching a course on participatory culture, and the term he uses in his blog title comes from the abbreviated term 'academic fan' an academic who both identifies themself as a member of the online participatory culture community (as either a contributor or observer) and a mainstream academic involved with researching appropriatly mainstream things. (Or teaching about non-mainstream things, as Jenkins' case may be.)



Does this make me an acafan? I consider myself academic, and I consider much of the fanfiction writing I do now to be based in an academically sourced ethos (observe the five books I checked out today on medieval poetry and courtly love for research on where to begin an interesting cultural exercise I'm inserting into the middle of my LOTR fanfic reboot.)



The other discovery (more of a pet peeve, actually) is why my fanfiction, as a perpetuation of the heteronormative discourse, isn't worthy of scholarly articles. Can't I explore my sexuality too and have people write about it? I know that's what I used fanfiction for in middle and high school. It's something I'm revisiting as I revisit this LOTR story that occupied most of my time as a fanfic writer then, too. Two massive (and may I say for the fifteen year old version of me, very racy) sex scenes? Probably not going to be in this version. At least the first one isn't. The second one is going to be toned down on account of a lot of things, not the least of which is me paying more attention to the ROTK timeline.

So that's my two cents worth of research that I'm not getting a grade for. Like so much other research in my life at the moment, unfortunately. But hey, as my pedagogy class is teaching me, the self-motivated learning is the kind you get the most from, so maybe this blog thing might be beneficial after all...

Well, It Ain't Hot, But It's Off a Press...

Friends, I've been to the land of letterpress printing, and I have to say, it's pretty awesome. For once in my life, I am intensely conscious of not only the amount of work that used to go into printing anything but also the feeling of power you get when you run the press over a matrix full of type that you set and inked yourself and pull a sheet of paper out that has your work all over it in nice, sticky black ink.

It is a process full of love, and it's hard. Our first project for Art of the Printed Book wasn't actually a book at all, but rather a poster. A protest poster, to be precise. Here's mine.

Okay, I'm not protesting anything. Problem is, I couldn't find a pithy way to protest something using only a few words. One of the other things that letterpress printing teaches you is how to conserve your words -- you can't print your message if you haven't got enough letters, and wood type, the type I've used for this poster, is very expensive, so we don't have a lot of it. I was originally going to do "Don't Talk To Me About Your Sparkly Vampires" but we didn't have enough type, so I went with an homage to one of my favorite movies instead.



Dead Poets Society for the win! I had to keep explaining the poster to people, but I guess that just means more people need to watch DPS. Anyway, this project is part of ongoing events here at CSB relating to the Catonsville Nine, a group of Catholic activists who in 1968 walked into the draft office of Catonsville, Maryland and, taking draft records out of the office, staged a 'peaceful protest' by burning the draft records with homemade napalm. I guess someone said they wanted a revolution.

As a further development of this project in Book Arts, our professor brought in Amos Paul Kennedy Jr., a man very widely known in the letterpress world and quite a character in his own right. Go visit his website and buy a poster -- I'm a fan of this one. His slogan -- Put the message in the hands of the people. He does that but printing posters of his own like the one above, and he discusses topics from books to blackness and back again. Pretty awesome, in-your-face kind of guy. So as part of our workshop, we set up and printed a poster evoking the character of 60s protests but still relevant today. Here's what we came up with:

Pretty cool, yeah? Anyway, Writing Essays was canceled today, so, having a whole afternoon free, I went to the print studio and worked on another poster of my own. And I took my camera to document a little bit.

Wood type before I cleaned the ink off from the first run.

Our inking area, where I can mix color and apply ink to the brayers (those roller type things in the middle of the picture.)

Letterpress filled with BOLD and lots of furniture (the spacing material we use to make sure the type doesn't shift when we run the press over it.)

Finished product. The text at the bottom is 48 pt. Caslon Bold metal typeface and 62 pt. Caslon bold metal typeface. In case you were, you know, wondering or anything. Total prep, production, and cleaning time? Four hours.

And that's what I came up with. I had to do two runs through the press because that B in Be and Bold? Same B. Limits of letterpress again. And please don't mention the lack of 's' in Catonsville -- I had an s and second-guessed myself after my prof misspelled it on her class handouts. Typo aside, I'm actually kind of proud of it -- incorporates the Catholic social thought involved, draws the situation into the present, might prompt people to do a little more digging into who the Catonsville Nine were. And it's mostly legible from a distance.

My next out-of-class letterpress project? I'm shooting for calling cards.

Authors on Film

Move over, Roland Barthes, the author ain't dead yet. At least, that's what Hollywood would like us to think. No less than four biopics concerning some of our favorite pen-and-ink men and women are slated to come out in the next few years -- Paul Giametti is playing Philip K. Dick, Sandra Bullock is tentatively going to star and co-produce a film about the woman who wrote Peyton Place, Ioan Gruffudd is hopefully playing Kenneth Grahame, the author of Wind in the Willows, and (perhaps the one generating the most buzz) James McAvoy is going to be starring in a film about Ian Fleming, the man who created James Bond. Having read a little about Fleming as well as all of his original novels, I'm super excited for the Fleming flick.

This isn't a drop of the hat change for Hollywood, either. Helena Bonham Carter is playing Enid Blyton, the famous children's book author, in an upcoming BBC project, and at least two films that I know of dealing with authors came out this past year; Bright Star, about poet John Keats, and The Last Station, based on Jay Parini's novel about Leo Tolstoy. Before that we had Miss Austen Regrets and Becoming Jane, both about the venerable JA, Finding Neverland, about J.M. Barrie, The Edge of Love (Dylan Thomas) Iris (Iris Murdoch) The Hours (kind of about Virginia Woolf) Sylvia (Sylvia Plath and her husband, Ted Hughes) Love and War (Hemingway) Quills (Marquis de Sade) Miss Potter (Beatrix Potter) and Infamous as well as Capote, two films that came out almost at the same time dealing with Truman Capote.

So why do these films come out? Over my winter break I watched Love and War and finally understood why Hemingway was the way he was. It doesn't make me like his misogynistic writing any more than I did before I watched the film (even if he was played by Chris O'Donnell) but I got a fuller sense of him as a person that I wouldn't necessarily have been motivated to find in a biography. Over the last week I also watched The Edge of Love, even though I'm not a huge fan of Dylan Thomas, and Becoming Jane, which I had already seen.

The question "Why make an Author Biopic?" could probably be answered by "Why make a biopic at all?" The answer to that, I think, is the result of my Love and War watching -- we'd like to try and figure out what makes those we consider good and great tick. How was Jane able to write these fantastic love stories? She was conflicted herself about love. Why did Dylan Thomas produce all this wonderful poetry? He was a man with a lot of experiences and a lot of intense emotional things in his life. How did Ernest Hemingway come to hate women so much? He had a bad experience in one of the most difficult times in his life and never got over it.

Obviously the biopic is flawed for this reason -- in attempting to bring out these motivations Hollywood, in its true style, overdoes it sometimes. Jane Austen fans were a little miffed over how their beloved JA got turned into Anne Hatheway for Becoming Jane, who, apart from being too pretty and having a terrible accent, seemed to get far too much romantic attention than humble Jane ever got. (Come on, JA fans, were you expecting better? This is what happens to ALL your Austen adaptations.)

I personally liked Becoming Jane, not only because it was a movie filled with actors who are generally regarded as knowing a great deal about what they're doing (Maggie Smith, Julie Walters, James Cromwell, James McAvoy, Laurence Fox) but because the screen writers worked in elements from some of her novels to show a discerning audience "This might have been where Jane got the idea for..." Maggie Smith's Lady Gresham is Lady Catherine to a T, Rev. Austen's pupil Mr. Warren could be a stand in for Mr. Collins any day of the week, Jane's cousin Elizabeth bears hints of Lady Russell and Lucy Lefroy could be any number of Jane's daftly airheaded, only-out-for-the-manhunt filler characters.

If you're in the market for a movie this weekend, consider checking one of the films I've listend above out from your library or local movie rental place. If they're not profoundly insightful then at least they are an attempt to be both entertaining and educational. You might even be motivated to go out and learn more.

New Year, New Look

I had a little bit of time on my hands over the past few days, and I decided the Village Wordsmithy site could use a little love. A little change is good for us, right? It keeps us on our toes, keeps us from stagnating.


So I've made a new banner. Same title, same slogan...little bit of a different look. I added a Word of the Day feature because let's face it, we could all do with a new word. I've toyed around with a few of my comment features, I've made it so you can email posts to your friends (not that any of you need to do that, but maybe I'll use to harass my friends...)

Anyway, I hope you like the new look. If you've got comments (I can't read your banner) or concerns (This blog sucks, it didn't need any changes) feel free to drop me a message. I think they go straight to my gmail...

Playing with Technology

Have any of you other denizens of the blogging culture out there on the internets ever tried playing with the "NEXT BLOG >>" button in the blogger bar on the top of this page?

Let me tell you, it's actually kind of fun. Chances are if you're reading this blog today for the first time it's because I started following your blog or something and you're wondering how I got there. Wonder no longer! It was, dear, sweet, lost readers, the magic of the Next Blog button. I surfed through the next blogs from this site as well as my Galway Rover site and was amazed at how focused the Village Wordsmithy is when it comes to subject matter. How did I reach that conclusion?

Here's how I think the Next Blog works -- using your tags or your content or a mixture of both the Google gurus sift through the millions of other blogs they're currently hosting to pull out works similar to yours. The Next Blogs on this site bring you to more writers, poets, and, perhaps not surprisingly, more educators.

(On a side note, I'm really, really happy that I'm not the only person who thought of putting students' work online for critique. Some people seem to think this suggestion would incite more internet bullying. I think these people need to give it a chance, since I would argue the anonymity of the internet (and some non-obvious psyeudonyms) might actually enable kids to share more. But whatever.)

The Galway Rover lacks more focus -- hit the next button there and the Google gurus bounce you around travel blogs, personal rants about foreign policy, and, again unsurprisingly, food blogs. (Did I really talk about food that much?)

As Jack Aubrey would say, What a terribly modern age we live in.

Writing in the Margins

When we speak of marginality or marginalized people, we're referring to those groups who for whatever reason (race, ethnicity, sexual orientation) aren't given space to express themselves in the political or social spectrum as much as they should be or when they are allowed a chance to speak, participate in political process or vocalize their ideas aren't given legitimacy as participants.

I'm doing a lot of reading for my education seminar on Human Relations relating to how we better involve those students who are in the margins in our classrooms and how we can give them positive stereotypes to grow into and aspire to. Many of these activities involve self-expression of some kind because young adolescents (the technical term for what we might also call Tweens, the middle-school age group) need a lot of self- expressive, self-reflective activity because this is the stage where children start really developing their sense of who they are and where they fit in the world.

And this, of course, has gotten me thinking about my own writing. When I was stalled over break trying to work more on "A Rose in the Briars" I tried many of my usual techniques for jumpstarting a stalled brain. I watched the movies over again. I reread pertinant passages in the books. I tried to do some photocollages and changed my background several times. I tried (very unsuccessfully) to do some research. And I realized why all this reading and movie watching wasn't helping me.

When we write fanfiction, we are "Writing in the Margins," bringing out characters that the author could have written in but didn't. These characters exist in possibility but for reasons of brevity or a lack of appeal to a wide audience don't make it into the narrative. (There's a technical term for this, but I can't recall what it is.) Jasper Fforde, one of my favorite authors, brings characters like these into his books by literally putting them in the margins when they have footnoterphone conversations. Thursday overhears two extras from Anna Karenina discussing AK's affair with Alexei Vronskey on her footnoterphone -- marginalized characters being pulled into the narrative.

I can't find the characters I'm writing by reading the original material because they're not there, and if they are, they're in the background, very faintly. Fanfiction has a long history of trying to include the marginalized populations, particularly when it comes to sexual preference -- anyone who's familiar with the origins of widely recognized fanfiction in the 70s is familiar with the concept of slash coming from the notation Kirk/Spock, a widely practiced pairing in the Star Trek fandom.

In the case of A Rose in the Briars, as it is in most of my work, my marginalized population is women. There aren't many female characters in Lord of the Rings, and there isn't a lot written about the ones that are there. Add to this the additional problem that most of the women who are mentioned can't come into my story for reasons of rationality and geography, and therein lies my dilemma. But I think I've finally gotten over it by realizing this is an opportunity for me to break some new ground in LOTR. For instance, last night I wrote several pages about Rhoswen and her friend Faeldes preparing the body of Faeldes' husband for burial. It's a very emotional passage, but a female-centric one. It's women's work, and it allows Rhoswen space to both face what she might one day have to do, deal with the war-heavy context of Gondor and show off some things Tolkien never really talks about; the daily lives of women, how death is received at home, and what princesses do when they're not gracing high tables at feasts and fighting off Witch Kings.

If only bringing marginalized students in my classroom was this easy.

Safe and Sound At School Again

I had the amazing and somewhat predictable revelation yesterday as I was paying my social calls (yes, I pay social calls, so very 19th century of me) that I am now AN UPPERCLASSMAN. Well, Upperclasswoman, really, but we can argue for inclusive language later. One of my friends is a Residence Assistant (RA) in one of the sophomore dorms and I went to go visit her. On my way, I had to walk through the building I lived in last year, and I realized, as I was walking the same route I usually had to walk to get to my friends' rooms last year, that I was a Junior, and that, theoretically speaking, I did not belong in this building.

It was WILD.

So I'm back at the always beautiful Saint Ben's, getting ready for my first day of classes. I've got a lot of good ones this semester, and hopefully the things I'm studying will contribute a lot to the content of this blog. Today I have Mid-Level Literature and Language Pedagogy, which is a big and complicated name for a class in which they are going to teach me how to teach English (very exciting, very scary at the same time) and Writing Essays, a class where they will...teach me how to write essays. That one kind of explains itself.

Hopefully Pedagogy will supply me with a lot of interesting topics on how english is being taught today and how online literacy is changing the face of reading in our society, a topic which this blog and this blogger are uniquely positioned to describe. And Writing Essays, one hopes, will also help this blog pull itself together in the way of cohesive points and arguments.

Tomorrow I have only one class during the day, the class I am taking to fulfill my art requirement. While this blog pulls me forward further into the electronic age, the age when the demise of newsprint and hard copy seems to be on every publisher's mind, my art class will pull me back. It is called Art of the Printed Book, and I will be setting type, inking presses, researching the history of print and cutting woodblocks to my heart's content all semester long. I'm super excited and I hope that between those three classes, my night class, and my 10 hours a week at the library I'll be able to keep myself occupied.

If not -- well, you'll be seeing a lot more posts on this blog. I've got some good ideas in the days to come, including my theory on why I have writer's block and a review of some biopics about famous writing types!

Make New Friends, and Keep the Old?

The fact that several people I don't know and have no prior connection to have started subscribing to this blog (and the resulting guilt that I haven't actually posted anything here for a while) has made me start thinking a lot about the still-evolving issues of identity and the Internet. Over the past semester, as I've used Skype to talk face à face with my family six time zones away and used a blog to share my day to day ramblings with a lot more people than I expected, I've realized, as I often do, that the Internet is making the world either a much smaller place by bringing people together or a much larger place because the possibilities open to exploration are so much nearer. And this larger or smaller world is filled with lots of people who, for whatever reason, come to this blog and meet what amounts to an electronic version of me.



My literary theory classes have made me face a lot of questions about identity, society and how literature can be used as a tool to enforce or establish identity, but I think that the question of new literacies, like the Internet and its associated tools like blogs and web forums, has never really come up. I would argue that in the age where anyone can say anything anywhere in the world the written word is loosing its power -- because so many people are 'speaking' at the same time, does anyone bother to listen to what anyone else is saying? Obviously I've been using this blog as a force to establish my identity as a writer -- or rather, using this blog as a force to project that I want to be seen as a writer -- and some people are apparently interested in what I have to say.



This boggles my mind, as I seem to lack the authorial legitimacy to be considered a blogger worth listening to. (As one of them is, in fact, a published writer according to his own blog, I think this legitimacy question kind of answers itself.) They are in fact buying into the projection facilitated by the mask of the Internet and assuming I have legitimacy to make statements about how to write or craft characters or even make comments about whether a book is good or not. (I'm sure at least one of the people who chimes in on my comment box from time to time will have a field day with this legitimacy thing, but I think it's true, even if he doesn't.)



I have a running inside joke with the members of one of my online social groups about my age -- for at least one year when I was actually in my final year of middle school and part of my first year of high school I had them all convinced I was in college. It was a great compliment for me and a bit of a joke for them that a fourteen year old middle schooler managed to make several grown men and women think she was four or five years older than she was, but the story brings up a great point about the masking power of the Internet. Behind the veil of webservers, proxies and computer screens, legitimacy actually becomes easier to attain, so much so that a third year college student from a small suburb of Chicago who can't even get up the nerve to submit her poetry to the school literary magazine can wax theoretic (okay, partially theoretic) from her soapbox and actually have people who have published books and written masters theses on this stuff listen. Or read. Or...well, whatever verb you want to use with that, actually.

And I'm wondering if this supposed legitimacy is a good thing. Like the effusion of the written word the Internet has facilitated, can we not also say that this over-application of legitimacy to Internet-based communication is in fact diluting what legitimacy actually means? Take Twitter, for example. Putting the power of the microblog literally in the hands of everyone with a BlackBerry is diluting what it means to make something worthy of reading. Do we need to follow everything Perez Hilton or Ashton Kutcher tweets? Some people might say that Kutcher's 4 million followers bestow on him some kind of legitimacy credentials. What makes their lives worthy of listening to? What makes everyone else's stream of consciousness, 140-characters-or- less Tweets a worthy use of our time and space in my feedreader? (The reason this blogger doesn't have a Twitter is because a) she knows no one would read hers and it is therefore a waster of server space and b) she can't make a coherent point in 140 characters or less.)

I'm not saying that you, wonderful readers, are following my every word with baited breath. I know that this blog is simply not that interesting (or frequently updated) to merit that kind of following. But the fact that I'm on your blog rolls and feedreaders astonishes me. And I'm touched. Really, I am.

So, as we near the last days of an old year and begin a new one, let's raise a glass to old friends we haven't seen in a while, new friends we haven't met and probably never will and the socially fascinating power of the Internet.

James Joyce is a Linguistic Genius and I Want In.

Friends, I have looked in the face of a genius that can only be taken in small doses, and its name is Finnegans Wake by Mister James Joyce. I can't stand any of his other writing, but we read a section of the eighth chapter of the first part, the famous chapter where Joyce works in, by hook or by crook, the name of every major river in the world, and I'm in love. But only in small doses, mind you. FW, I think, is a work best taken by the shot glass and not by the tankard. (I'll take my Tolkien by the tankard and my P'OB by the pint glass, thankyouverymuch.)

When Max Eastman asked James Joyce why he had written Finnegan's wake in such a difficult, flummoxing manner, he replied (and I would here insert the adverbs 'unconcernedly' or 'confidently', as they seem to fit) "To keep the critics busy for three hundred years."

Well, he succeeded. It would probably be impossible on a physical as well as an intellectual scale to create a copy of Finnigans Wake with a complete gloss to this man's created words, mainly becuase you don't know where to stop glossing his words. Do I give him credit for managing to work in the Samoan for "What's new?" here? Does "your rere gait's creakorheuman bitts" translate to 'crake (monster) or human, creak (merely a noise made by your joints) or human, creak or rheum(atic) or creek (reference to ALP being river Liffey) or human? Why does he use the word 'beyant' here; is he trying to work in a reference to bezants or make the poolbeg flasher (who may be a man or a boat, you decide) more animalistic?

My point is, this book's insane, and people spend thier whole lives playing Joyce's ridiculous lingustic game. I jumped in with gusto and my copy of these five pages is marked high to heaven with notes that the glosses left out. And then -- And then! -- I decided we'd play a little bit of this game ourselves here at the Village Wordsmithy. I'm going to give you a sentence, done in Joycian style, and you're going to Guess the Gloss. Have you got your paper ready? Your pencil sharp and your dictionary flipping finger sharper?

Okay, GO!

Deyew kene, my eerie Ann, the thyme when t'bhoys of Gullwaye and Poolbleckt were gonne for schilders?

Are you working?
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Are you still working?

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Okay, now you can see the answers.

deyew -- i.e 'do you' or the dew (ref to foggy dew, irish rebel song) or yew, very poisonous tree that in irish mythology is either a symbol of long life or death, often planted in church yards. Yew is also used for english strongbows -- ref to Strongbow as conqueror of Ireland

kene -- ken, scots, 'to understand or remember' or keen, irish, to mourn

my eerie Ann -- Ireland as Eirann

thyme -- do you remember the thyme (we ate) when this happened or do you remember the time this happened, thyme as an herb used in death rituals in ancient egypt and middle ages "Thyme was also used as incense and placed on coffins during funerals as it was supposed to assure passage into the next life." (wikipedia)

t'bhoys -- i.e 'the boys' or 'the bhoys' (a slang term for a young irish american during the 1850s, specifically one from the Bowery in New York) or the hoys, "a small vessel, usually rigged as a sloop, and employed in carrying passengers and goods, particularly in short distances on the sea-coast." or "a strong but clumsy person"(OED)

Gullwaye -- Galway or the gull-way, the sea

Poolbleckt -- Poolbeg, a river near dublin, or pool-black, the meaning of Dublin, dubh-lin, or Blackpool, city in Lancashire, or poblacht, irish for republic

Gonne -- Maude Gonne, famous for her revolutionary activities during the twenties and being the subject of a series of poems by WB Yeats

schilders --soldiers, or children, or a reference to Robert Erskine Childers, an Irish Anti-Treatyite; 'do you remember when the boys of ireland went to go die for the dream of a free ireland?' or 'do you remember when the boys of ireland went to go fight a war' or 'do you remember when the boys of ireland went to go pursue childish dreams'


See, wasn't that fun? Did anyone come up with anything else?


Now, the fun part about this game is this -- when I wrote that sentence, I had one message in mind: Do you remember, Ireland, the time when the boys of galway and dublin were gone for soldiers? While I was making my gloss and playing around with the way words were spelled I found out that whole buisness about thyme as a symbol of death (it fits, but it wasn't intentional) and the significance of the yew tree (also a symbol of death; appropriate!) I'd forgotten who Childers was, but he worked out, too, and then when I realised I could swap Maude Gonne into the mix, in she went!

The point of this exercise, boys and girls, is merely fun, and also a kind reminder that Joyce could be a genius, or, like me, he could just be one extremely lucky bugger.

For Want of Words -- A few notes on Language and Identity

I know you are the Muskos' regiment:
And I shall lose my life for want of language;
If there be here German, or Dane, low Dutch,
Italian, or French, let him speak to me; I'll
Discover that which shall undo the Florentine.
-Parolles, All’s Well that Ends Well, William Shakespeare

I must be an English major or something – I seem to be seeing patterns of the linguistic variety in more places than I ought. Consider this blog post a musing on language as well as a movie review.

Last weekend was a weekend for entertainments of the cinematic variety, and since the LOTR marathon got culled owing to many primary participants being in Cork at the time, we settled down to watch Quentin Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds. A clever and violent little film, but very good; I recommend it to those of you have a strong constitution when it comes to your history being challenged and your usual dose of movie gore tripled in true Tarantino style.

The film, whilst it is being an inglorious bastard to many of its characters, is also making fun of a number of its own elements, including the genre of American war films in general. (This much most everyone who saw the trailer knew.) Here we have heroes doing unheroic things in an unheroic fashion, the momentum of this coming to a head in Hugo Stiglitz, the mass-murderer roped in by the Basterds who gets a superhero-esque title fly-in when his name is mentioned. The film industry gets another well-timed baseball bat to the knees with the premise of the film within the film, the propagandist Nation’s Pride (which, if you’ve been living where I have for two months, sounds a lot like a company that bakes bread.)


What little we see of the film is full of hammy, overdramatic acting at its finest, and from the reactions of the audience you’d think it was Oscar award-winning material. It is here that we find the angelic, pristinely uniformed, bring-him-home-to-your-mother-for-tea-and-scones hero we’re used to seeing in war films. Beside the Basterds, Private Fredrick Zoller (a very cute Daniel Brühl) is nothing more than a fop. And how we hate him!


The Basterds, headed up by their ridiculously other-end-of-the-war-movie-stereotype leader, Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt in a flash of comic genius) are the absolute parody of the World War two action hero. These guys aren’t fighting for nationalism – they’re just out to, as Raine succinently puts it, “Kill us some Natzis.” The Americans are counterbalanced by a brilliant cast playing the Europeans, and here Tarantino gets out the baseball bat again, this time taking a wack at American identity in the world today.

This is where the bit on language comes in – I told you I’d get there eventually! All the other characters in this film speak at least two languages – Colonel Landa, the German head honcho in France regarding the jewish problem, converses easily in French, German, Italian, and English, and I’m pretty sure if there had been a few Red Guards wandering in and out we would have found he speaks Russian, too. (The actor portraying Landa, Christoph Waltz, apparently had to study really hard to get his English as good as it is in this film. Lemme tell you, he nailed it. This man is AWESOME.) But the Americans only speak one language – English. This, of course, lands them into trouble when their more culturally competent allies (including a deliciously British, upper-crust, toffee-nosed-and-useless army officer/film critic played by Michael Fassbender) all get shot in an underground barroom brawl, leaving only one maimed moviestar (the always gorgeous Diane Kruger) to help carry out their plans.


The point is obvious – If the Americans really want their finger in every pie and their ear at every door like Landa is, they’d better make sure the ears at the doors know what’s being said about them and their average citizens can at least converse in something other than their mother tongue.

Language is always a great way to show intercultural competency (and I use that term only because it seems to be a concept being feted in the academic administrative world at the moment.) In Literature class now, we’ve just finished reading Brien Friel’s Translations, a wonderful little play about the land survey of the 1830s that went around ‘standardizing’ Irish placenames by Anglicizing them. The play is written and performed under the understanding that, while all the characters are delivering their lines in English, some are really speaking in Gaelic. The two British officers sent in to conduct this survey (only one of the many translations of the title) take two opposing roles, one the man willing to learn the language of the place he is in, and the other the consummate imperialist ready to let translators do his job for him even if some of his meaning is lost in the process.

Several of the characters speak in Latin and Greek as well as Gaelic and English, and Friel’s message with these characters is the same as Tarantino’s – the more languages you know, the more perceptive you are to the world around you and the more open you are to change.

Studying as I am now in the Gaeltacht region of Ireland (essentially a linguistic heritage zone) I’m seeing and studying the importance of language as men like Douglas Hyde and Franz Fanon see it – as a tool for revolution and change. The language you use shapes the world you see – more languages, bigger world. Different language, different world, different identity. The gaelic speakers around here order their thoughts differently, becuase thier language is structured in a slightly different way. Hyde, founder of the Gaelic League (a community effort to revive the old pre-English Irish culture) and the first president of Ireland, postulated in his “Necessity for De-Anglicising Ireland” speaks along the same lines regarding language as Fanon does later in Les Damnés de la Terre regarding culture as a whole: “We must teach ourselves to be less sensitive, we must teach ourselves not to be ashamed of ourselves, because the Gaelic people can never produce its best before the world as long as it remains tied to the apron-strings of another race and another island, waiting for it to move before it will venture to take any step itself…I would earnestly appeal to every one, whether Unionist or Nationalist, who wishes to see the Irish nation produce its best … to set his face against this constant running to England for our books, literature, music, games, fashions, and ideas. I appeal to every one whatever his politics -- for this is no political matter -- to do his best to help the Irish race to develop in future upon Irish lines, even at the risk of encouraging national aspirations, because upon Irish lines alone can the Irish race once more become what it was of yore -- one of the most original, artistic, literary, and charming peoples of Europe.”

Language is powerful. Language shapes our thinking, and our identity. In my own writing, I love pulling in language phrases distinct from my own English base, though it’s often said that writers should avoid doing this. I believe the criticism comes from the manga fanfiction community where those fans with Japanese cultural jealousy (for a complete explanation of what that is, see my Galway Rover Blog) throw in their unnecessary token words with wild abandon to somehow prove they are worthy of writing Japanese characters in a Japanese context. There, the usage is to prove inclusion in a group – I use my foreign words to prove difference, because of that removal from the text that they create. If my readers don’t understand it, good. Now they know how it feels talking to my trilingual poet in real life. (I also find linguistics a good way to show off your research skills, but this doesn’t work all the time and sometimes it’s just plain annoying – see Kate Horsely’s Confessions of a Pagan Nun for token words at their translation foot-noted best.)

I shall lose my life for want of language, Parolles laments in All’s Well That Ends Well. I hope that doesn’t happen to me any time soon. Judging from the length of this blog post, I’ll probably lose my life for surfeit of it.

Where There's Smoke

I just finished reading Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South, and like far too many books I read, where there is written word, there are ideas for fanfiction. These are my inspiration photocollages, the first one currently serving time as my desktop background.

Images used include:

Francesco Hayez, Portrait of a Venetian Woman

Sir Henry Raeburn, Francis Horner

Guillaume Caillebotte, Jeune homme à la fenêtre (Young man at the window)

Eva Gonzalès, La Toilette

and other various and sundry ephemera images -- a map of the Manchester workhouse, a bell scheduale for the Lowell Mills, engravings of mill yards and, in photocollage number two, several stills from the BBC adaptation of North and South featuring Richard Armitage and Daniela Denby-Ashe.

In Over My Head

When I said I wanted a doodle, I really, really hope I didn't sound like I was saying "Drop everything and imperil your academic stability to draw me something!" Because that's what I seem to have done, and now I feel really, really awful about it.



Last week I got a chance to go visit my good friend and writing buddy (We could almost say 'partner-in-crime' in place of 'writing buddy') Helen. We had a grand time, doing the things normal university students do when they have free time -- watching movies, discussing boys, baking -- and it was lovely. Quite a change from life in the cottages, and life the previous week with my mom, sightseeing in London. Helen and her roommates were incredibly gracious hosts, but it wasn't until after I left that I realized how much time they had devoted to me when they could have (should have, probably) been working on their own schoolwork.



I was a terribly distracting individual even after I left -- I mentioned that I would love one of Helen's famous sketches and I would tempt her with a North and South fanfic I had been inspired to write, I sent Helen recipes for lemon bars and then she not only baked the bars but also produced not one, but two doodles! And I have no North and South fanfic to praise her efforts with. Well, only the vague shadow of one, a few sketchy scenes and no plot whatsoever, or the very frailest of outlines slightly resembling what I remember of Wives and Daughters, something about one girl always getting the guys and a misunderstanding with her friend about her intentions on one of them. It's very confusing to me.



I'm finding, as I've mentioned before, that this trip is leaving me little time to, well, be me. Sit in a room with no one but myself and write something that has nothing to do with class, or read a book that I don't have to take notes on for discussion. I'm always around other people, and while that's fun (We spent the better part of four hours last night sitting around drinking and talking with some of the guys last night in a series of events that involved us making dinner and them making dinner and everyone eating and then just staying) I find I long for silence. I miss being alone.



So I get up at six in the morning to write my blog and upload pictures and try and shoehorn in some writing that isn't about the Northern Troubles or my understanding of Ireland or anything graded at all. I suppose it doesn't help that my brand of writing is sometimes so terribly academic -- I love to research, to read about what it is I'm writing, and I can't do that here. I have no resources to read and more importantly, I have no time. And I cannot, repeat cannot, produce well-informed, historically based fanfiction without research. It wounds me to the core to even contemplate it -- Books were broken and authors' work disrespected with such carelessly constructed houses. (Recall, reader, the Twilight/Austen crossover abomination. Seriously uninformed, a serious breach of the unspoken trust a writer should form with her Canon.)



After this weekend our excursions end, and I'll have some room to breath again. Or at least, I hope that happens, as we have also been threatened with increased academic rigor given our change in cirumstances. I know I shouldn't say this, but I'm kind of looking forward to being home, and being able to crawl back into my hermitage again. That's who I am. I can't very well change that over three months.



So, Helen, mea culpa. I offer what little I have close to finished on that dreadful story in payment of my debt.



Opening Scene, John and Margret over breakfast, two years married, discussing the contents of the morning's post.

Scene.
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“You shall have to tell me what is in that letter, John,” Margaret Thornton declared across a very full breakfast table, watching her husband’s normally stern face contort into a pleased smile. “The outer wrapping declares it cannot be full of business and that grin of yours betrays it is far too amusing to keep to yourself.”

“Am I allowed nothing to myself?” John Thornton asked mockingly, smiling at his wife over the top of the decidedly feminine stationary, edged in a silvery blue gilt that could only have appealed to a lady. “It is from a cousin of mine, in America. She wishes to visit and begs our hospitality. I laugh because I have not seen her in nearly eight years and yet I can still hear her voice when I read her words,” her husband replied.


“A cousin? I did not know you had any cousins in America. I thought I had been introduced to your family entire,” Margaret remarked, laying aside her napkin to hear what could only be an enlightening piece of what her husband’s life had consisted of before he had met her. Nearly four years ago now, that would have been, and she found she was still uncovering little secrets. It was not that John Thornton was a secretive man, or that he felt he had something to hide, for if Margaret asked a question, he always answered with the strictest honesty. It was rather more that he never thought things worth mentioning.



“Forgive me, she is not a cousin in the strictest sense,” Thornton amended. “Her father, Mr. Grant, was a friend of my father’s, and his father a financier. My father borrowed heavily against the elder Grant’s bank; it was… that family who helped to repay our debts,” the industrialist finished carefully, looking up from his plate to see that his wife’s face was filled with fond sympathy.


Her husband’s words caused Margaret to pause, thinking back to that day, so many days – nay, even years -- ago now, when she had first heard this tale from her father. Bits and pieces returned now, from the depths of her memory and the time when she had not, to her great shame, esteemed the man who would later be her husband as much as she ought to have. Returned to Milton…. went quietly round to each creditor…and all was paid at last… helped on materially by the circumstance of one of the creditors, a crabbed old fellow… taking in Mr. Thornton as a kind of partner. “It must be a trial, then, to think about them. I know you do not often discuss that,” the wife told her husband very gently.



“The Grants were – are -- wonderful people, and I should be very remiss if I did not sometimes remember them and their kindness to me,” John said strongly. “Besides, I cannot refuse cousin Phoebe’s request – she begs to meet you, and I would not deny that to anyone in the world,” he added with a fond smile for his wife, a gesture that made her color even after two years of marriage.


“Is that her name, Phoebe?” Margaret asked, curious to learn more about this cousin who was not a cousin on the other side of the world, a relation that might at any minute descend on her house.


“It is. A Boston name, I think it. At any rate it would not go in Milton, as Mother would say.”

Seamus Heaney Reading

I finished this little project a little while ago, and I just realized I never shared it. It's from the Seamus Heaney Reading we went to in Clifden; I recorded the Nobel Laureate and then subtitled the poem he was reading.

Over the Hills and Far Away (In Ireland)

One of the first things my history professor iterated in his class was that Ireland has been a land for poets since time immemorial, and that the Aes Dana, the learned class of druid-bards who kept the traditions and stories and brehon laws alive, were some of the most important people in Irish society. Poets are still highly valued today, as seen by the tremendous turnout at at Seamus Heaney reading I recently attended.

I've been writing like a fool since I've gotten here, poetry mostly, but I haven't for the most part been working on my fanfiction. Mostly because I have no time, partially because I have no space in which to write and be alone, and partially because I can't bring myself to devote time.

But something's been nagging me since I got into Galway and saw several times the great Anglo-Norman names of the founders of the city, merchants and such who must have come over with Strongbow and set up shop on the River Corrib because it's a fantastic place for boats. One prominent name is D'arcy, and the other is De Burgo, or De Bourgh.

Yes, there is a Pride and Prejudice fanfic lurking in this city, waiting to be written about the Darcy family's Irish cousins. But it fits! It does! It fits so well I'm surprised no one's thought of writing it yet. I can see it now -- Elizabeth and Darcy's quiet, genteel demense in London is tumbled head over heels when Irish relations of Darcy's come to stay for the season. Are they proud of these relations? Of course not, they're Irish, one can hear Lady de Bourgh saying distastefully. They run practically wild in that country, you know. And they were in trade.

Never mind that it was back in the 12th century, Lady de Bourgh. You're titled because you married well, you twit.

What would then be done with these cousins I have yet to determine. But it'll come to me.

A bit of Irish Poetry

As I posted on my Galway Rover blog today, the last few days have been about poetry a lot, and I've been thinking a lot about other people's poetry (WB Yeats and Seamus Heaney in particular) as well as writing my own.

I wrote a rhyming poem over breakfast my first day in Ireland called Recipe for a Perfect Irish Morning which you can read at the Galway Rover, I wrote a song this morning after visiting Thorr Ballylee (Yeats' house/16th century Norman tower), and I wrote another poem tonight after I peeled a pile of potatoes for dinner. It's a cheeky little thing I came up with musing on the relationship between pototoes, vegetable peelers, and life in general, and I think it sounds a bit like Seamus Heaney. I was thinking of Blackberry Picking while I was writing it.

Like an anxious lover

stripping off the clothes of his beloved

or rather like a teenage boy too overexcited for a taste of a girl's white thighs

so my potato peeler sloughs off the dirt-rich clothes of the potatoes,

revealingthe white flesh underneath,

so like a woman's, strong and firm and full of life,

brim-full with nourishment.

Leaves bits of skin behind, it does, the broken straps and bursted seams

of the hurried coupling. I'll clean those up later, l

eaving the flesh white mounds to sit on the counter

whilst the peeler goes on to make love to another potato,

strip off another set of clothes

and lay the same age-old waste.

We'll all go the same way some time,

flesh forgotten, set aside to boil into oblivion,

whiteness forgotten, the virgin days of youth spent,

finally eaten up by death and the Almighty

with a side of onions that were cut with grief-tears

and a pat of butter that could have once been the milk of kindness.

Nose to the Grindstone

Wrong grindstone for this blog, though. I haven't been writing as much as I'd like to be right now (although my latest Harry Potter fanfiction effort did inspire my freind DarkKnight to write a rather puzzled post on his "As Iron Sharpens Iron" blog, which is a strange kind of compliment, I think; you can read the blog post here)

Most of my time at present is consumed with preparations for my trip to Ireland and my little ten day excursion to London. I've been filled with budget concerns, travel time tables, and more emails from my trip director than I'd probably care to ever read, as most of them are giving me an ulcer about this trip.

Oh, and I turned twenty on Tuesday. So there was much cake being eaten. Good for my sweet tooth, bad for the developing ulcer.

So that's what's new. In leiu of a real post today, I'm going to post a poem that I think I have not shared with anyone. I found it on my computer the other day and decided it was good enough to share.

It's called "The Man I Killed."

The man I killed wore tattered blue --
he had a wife and children, too.
The uniform I wear is green --
and it is whole and somewhat clean.

The man I killed had hair of red--
he had a hearth, a home, a bed.
The hair upon my head is brown --
I have no family in my town.

The man I killed had farmer's hands,
streaked with the dirt from distant lands.
My hands are also streaked with toil
but not from dust, and not with soil.

The gun is resting in my hands, its barrel hot and black
His breath has left his body now, he is not coming back.

I don't know why I could not see --
The man I killed was just like me.

Galway Bay, by Mary Pat Kelly

'Tis far away I am today from scenes I roamed a boy, And long ago the hour I know I first saw Illinois; But time nor tide nor waters wide can wean my heart away, For ever true it flies to you, my dear old Galway Bay. -F.A. Fahey, Galway Bay

Too often when I pick up a book at school nowadays, I'm picking it up because if it's fiction I need to read it for class or if it's non-fiction I'm reading it for research. I've advanced into reading non-fiction books for fun, which is probably a bad thing, so it's not often that I read fiction books I don't have to take notes on and annotate copiously.

Over the summer I've had a chance to change that and read a little bit more fiction, probably because the selection of fiction at the three libraries I frequent when I'm at home is a lot better than the selection at school. A friend of my mother's recommended Galway Bay to her when she found out I was soon to be studying there, and like the good bookworm I am, I borrowed the book from Mom before she had a chance to read it.

It was a wonderful read. I plowed through it in three days, which is a testament to both my ability to plow through books (already aptly demonstrated) and M.P. Kelly's ability to tell a story. And what a story! It starts in a very small village in Ireland before the Great Famine, with a young woman named Honora who is thinking about becoming a nun until she meets Michael Kelly, a very charming young man with a gorgeous horse, a knack for telling stories, and dreams that are just as big as Honora's. Kelly then follows her heroine through the famine, five children, and immigrating to Chicago, a place whose history I know and love well.

This book comes highly recommended by me as well as a slew of much more famous voices, including Frank McCourt's, and it's not terribly difficult to follow or keep track of Honora's many family members. Historically interested types may want to take note of this novel as an interesting way to experience family history -- Mary Pat Kelly based the story on her own family's experience as Honora herself told it to her granddaughter, Agnella Kelly. I also loved the stories within the story told by Honora and her grandmother and the way those stories had such a centrality in thier lives.

But this book was interesting to me for another reason; Honora came from Galway and went to Chicago, and here I am, twelve days away from leaving Chicago and going to Galway. She went on foot and by boat, while I'll go by plane and bus and automobile. I'll probably see many towns that were once like Honora Kelly's, and that makes me really happy inside. I feel, in a very small way, that I'm adding to that story even though I'm not Irish and my people never had to flee a country because their crops were rotting and their government wasn't helpful and their landlords wanted them gone.

Who knows? Maybe this will inspire me to find out what the great-grandcesters of Mercury Gray were doing way back in the day in France and Germany and wherever else we came from!

Busy, Busy, Busy Bee

That's me! Since starting my job at the beginning of August I haven't had much time for...well, for anything other than checking people out at the bookstore and explaining our return policy and financial aid stuff. And when the only thing you say all day long is a five minute speech on repeat --

HelloFindeverythingyouwerelookingfortodayOhthat'sgoodweliketohearthat
IsthatcreditordebitCanIhaveyouwaittoswipeyourcardTherethat'sfine
YouhaveuntilSeptember8thtoreturnthatItstillhastobeintheplasticwrapCanIget youabag?Haveagreatday!

Well, let's just say you don't have too many brain cells at the end of the day left for being creative. Despite this, somehow I managed to get the second chapter of the Rose Rewrite posted on FF.net yesterday before I went to work, and then managed to stay at work from ten in the morning till nine at night. Which was bad, because I ride my bike to work. Note to self: Riding bike home in the dark is a BAD IDEA.

I've also been doing some reading (on lunch breaks, mostly, and at home before I get to work) and I've finished the first two books in George Martin's Song of Ice and Fire series, a novel by Guy Gavriel Kay called the Song for Arbonne, and Mary Pat Kelly's Galway Bay as some further study abroad prep. Speaking of study abroad, I have to order my reading books for Doctor D's seminar class. Hooboy.

The Song for Arbonne was really awesome -- Kay's writing style is part historical fiction and part fantasy, which is something I would use if I could get away with it. It was interesting; I picked it up thinking to find something of Song of a Peacebringer in it and I did, traveling troubadour types and songsingers being a key part of the story. Audemande would like it there.

One thing I've also learned -- being employed nearly full time doesn't leave much time for writing. Who knew?

Why Rewrites are Bad News

So, the MaMotR rewrite steamrollers along at close to 50 pages now (and Boromir hasn't even left Gondor yet, which is a good sign for the narrative pace, I think.) I had a discussion with my sister about whether a rewrite was against FF.net rules, and we agreed as long as it gets a new title, I should be okay. I've decided on "A Rose Among the Briars", a twist on a line from the Christina Rossetti poem "The Rose":

The lily has a smooth stalk,

Will never hurt your hand;

But the rose upon her brier

Is lady of the land.

But something about this story is really starting to worry me. I actually had a discussion with myself the other day that went a little something like this:

Muse: You had Rhoswen get a dog for New Year's in the original. You still want to go through with that? I think getting a hawk would be so much cooler.

Me: A hawk would be cool. But the dog would have to be a hunting dog, and I think the original had greyhounds, which I still think would be appropriate.

Muse: But dogs and hawks are symbols of the hunt, and I don't think they're big on the hunting scene in the Tower of Guard. I mean, you've already established that the Pelannor Fields are townlands.

Me: Damn, you're right. They wouldn't have time for stuff like that in Gondor. Hunting is a replacement for fighting, and they fight all the time. Nix on that. Still want Rhoswen to get a hawk, though. Maybe it could just be an elite status symbol, a throwback to a time when they did have the time.

Muse: Now, wait. She's good with small children and gardening. And she sings later. You can't have her be good with animals too!

Me: Damn, hadn't thought of that either. Gonna have to think of something else for a present.

Yes, I had this conversation! I am so afraid New!Rhoswen is turning into a Sue after reading Why Bella is a Mary Sue by whitedog1 on DeviantArt. The MarySue Litmus test gives me a 20, which still isn't very reassuring, but I checked some canon character boxes that only get checked because I took her dad's name from the list of lords that ride into Minas Tirith before the Battle for the Pelannor Fields.

And on top of all that, I guess I'm afraid no one's going to want to read it. All in all, not good prognosis here.