Rating: 4.5/5 Buy

• Release date: December 21, 1968 (Italy).
• Running time: 175 minutes.
• Tagline: There were three men in her life. One to take her… one to love her… and one to kill her.

• Once Upon a Time in the West (1968)

A friend of mine asked recently, “Man, where the hell do you get your ideas from? Like, for your latest novel?”

It’s a good question. One of the usual questions that writers get asked quite a bit. And like most writers, I have a some answers:

1. I dunno, man. It’s weird, they just sort of pop into my head, usually when I’m watching TV, or reading a news article.

2. I dunno, man. It’s sorta like when you were in high school, and just as you exhaled this huge plume of smoke, you just kinda… saw the idea, right there, shining brightly like Jimmy Page’s eyes, circa 1977, while he was loaded.

3. I dunno, man. I really don’t.

Actually, I’m mostly along the lines of number 1. I usually get ideas while reading news, or catching a glimpse of TV news while I sit on the bed in a hotel room, waiting for my wife to get out of the shower. See, we don’t have cable, so don’t watch any TV. The TV becomes an added piece of vacation candy, and I watch it quite a bit. Man, I have to admit: I’m fascinated by HGTV.

However, that aside, I can tell you concretely how I came up with the idea for the first Mark Mallen novel. I had written a short story, called “Needle Priest”, which you can find here, on Cherrybleeds.

That gave me my first glimpse of Mallen. It got put up on CherryB’s, and I of course told all and sundry. A co-worker came to me later on and said, “Wow, you could really do something with that character.” I didn’t think of it at the time, but that statement stayed with me.

A couple months passed. The book I’m shopping at the time, an urban fantasy novel, is going nowhere fast. No one wants to read it, and I realize it’s time for the next book. Now, I’ve been a HUGE noir fan since I first saw Bogie in The Maltese Falcon when I was nine, and I’d always wanted to write a mystery, but I found the genre intimidating, what with all those pesky conventions and expectations. However, I’d been feeling that this might be the time to get my noir on.

I had, in the interim, written a piece of flash fiction, from the POV of a child killer:
The man turned the key and unlocked the door. The excitement was growing, and he wanted to touch himself, but knew it would be better to wait. It was always better to wait as long as possible, until that last, voluptuous moment when a life ended and his began again. He sighed as he passed through the doorway into the darkened room. His eyes, out of habit, went first to the windows. There were scratches in the paint, allowing thin, almost invisible rays of sunlight in. The rays didn’t make the room any lighter,
but he knew they often gave hope to the little visitors. Those scratches would have to be painted over. He hoped he still had the dark green paint down in the basement.
There was a rustling sound, and he looked to the far corner. There she was, nestled in the mound of blankets and old clothes, just like a little kitten warm in her bed. His heart beat faster as he gazed at her. The large, frightened eyes. The rosebud mouth. The little shorts that exposed the tanned legs. He walked across the room, noting he’d have to empty the bucket again. She hadn’t eaten much, and that made him sad. She would need her strength. She huddled away from him as best she could but the ropes and tape made that difficult. He smiled at her efforts. This one had real heart. He pulled the knife from his coat pocket as he undid his zipper. He prayed she would scream, long enough and loud enough.

That piece, along with Needle Priest, I’d pinned to the cork board above my desk. I felt they were the two strongest things I’d done. My wife, an incredibly voluminous reader and vocal critic, also felt that these two pieces were my best, especially the flash fiction. So, there they hung on my cork board as I sat there, trying to figure out what the hell to do next. I was literally looking back and forth from one to the other…

Child killer… junkie… child killer… junkie… child killer… how do I get the junkie to the child killer… how… child killer… junkie…

And Unseen Damage was born. I made Mark Mallen an amateur sleuth who goes after a child killer, and it took off from there. Hopefully successfully, but we’ll have to see about that.

Which brings us to today’s question. Where do you get your ideas? How do they happen?

American Girl is a bimonthly, four-color magazine for girls ages 8 and up.  American Girl readers are girls in the formative years, girls who dream big dreams.  We hope to encourage that dreaming and to reinforce each reader’s self-confidence, curiosity, and self-esteem as she
prepares to navigate adolescence in the years ahead.  Our lead time is approximately six to nine months.

Fiction
We’re looking for contemporary fiction up to 2,300 words. The protagonist should be a girl between 8 and 12 who captures the hopes,  thoughts, and emotions unique to that precarious age between childhood and teenager.  We look for top quality writing and thoughtfully
developed characters and plots.  Stories should engage readers quickly and have a satisfying conclusion.  We are always looking for humor and seasonal stories. We don’t publish science fiction, romance, or horror stories.

Nonfiction
We’re looking for individual girls or groups who are doing something other girls would love to read and learn about.  Find a topic about which girls are passionate.  Past pieces have featured synchronized swimmers, rhythmic gymnasts, ballerinas, and girl bands.  Some of our most successful pieces are sports-related, but that doesn’t mean we won’t consider other contemporary topics or profiles.  Look for new twists on familiar topics.  Please send queries rather than finished manuscripts.

Girls Express
This section offers the most opportunities for freelance writers.  We’re looking for short profiles of girls who are into sports, the arts, interesting hobbies, cultural activities, and other areas. We are also looking for true stories about girls who have had unusual experiences.  The girl must be the “star” and the story must be from her point of view. Be sure to include the age of the girls you’re pitching to us.  Let us know if you have any photo leads.  We also welcome how-to
stories: how to send away for free things, hot ideas for a cold day, or how to write the President and get a response.  Stories should be no more than 150 words. In addition, we’re looking for easy crafts and recipes that can be explained in a few simple steps, ideas for contests, and current products and trends for girls to review.

Craft and Cooking
We welcome original craft and cooking ideas that are new and exciting to our readers. Projects should require limited parental involvement and supplies should be inexpensive and readily available.  Keep in mind the skill level of our readers.  Safety is a priority. Query with a short
explanation of the project and an example, photograph, or sketch.

Brain Waves
We’re looking for visual puzzles, mazes, math puzzles, word games, simple crosswords, cartoons, and other ideas. Seasonal ideas are especially welcome.

Sample Issues
American Girl costs $4.95 per issue at the newsstand and is available in many children’s bookstores. To get a sample copy, send a check for $5.95 made out to American Girl. Please include your mailing address.

Payment: $500 minimum for stories; $300 minimum for articles

Rights:  FNASR (first North American serial rights)

How to Submit
All queries and requests for sample magazines should be addressed to:
Magazine Department Assistant
American Girl
8400 Fairway Place
Middleton, WI  53562-2554

Please Note
American Girl cannot reply or return a manuscript unless you enclose a self-addressed stamped envelope. Please allow 12 weeks for a reply.

For more information go to Writers Guidelines.

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Elizabeth lay sprawled across a couch in the rec room in the basement of her building. It was four in the morning, but thanks to an energy drink around midnight, she was nowhere near tired. Wide awake with too much on her mind, Elizabeth had left her dorm room where her room mate slumbered peacefully and had wandered around her building for a half hour before ending up in the basement. For once it was empty, thank God. The last thing she wanted right now was to be around people, well, one person specifically. Her current crush, neighbor, and resident, Michael, had a tendency to hang out in the rec room playing pool with his friends at odd hours, so Elizabeth was glad he wasn’t here now.

She hated crushes, they always left her feeling mopey and depressed, struck with a case of “the blahs” as her friend put it. Nothing to lower her already low self-esteem like crushing on a guy she knew would never like her. They were on different levels completely, in every sense of the phrase. Thinking about the details just made her feel worse, but the more she tried to put it out of her mind, the more he seemed to pervade her thoughts.

Unable to sit still, Elizabeth got to her feet and headed upstairs to the main lobby. Maybe one of her smoking buddies would be out and she could bum a smoke, they kept strange hours just like she did.

As she turned into the main lobby she let out a despondent sigh. No one. Damn, she could really use the nicotine fix right now. Shoving the front door open with more force than necessary, Elizabeth stomped outside and glanced around her quad. There were three people hanging out in front of the cafe, but it didn’t look like they were smoking, sadly enough. Tapping the pavement with the toe of her Punkrose high-tops, Elizabeth shoved her hands in her pockets and trotted down the stairs and made her way towards the cafe.

The three residents, it turned out, weren’t smoking, and Elizabeth growled inwardly. She should just break down and buy a pack, but it was only once in a while that she really needed a smoke. Having a pack made her smoke like a fiend and she was trying to avoid premature lung cancer or emphysema. As she approached another building in the circle of her quad, she saw someone leaving the building. They paused and she saw the flash of flame.

Yes! She thought to herself. It didn’t guarantee a cigarette, the person could be lighting up a joint, but most stoners she knew smoked cigarettes as well. She smirked when she recognized the boy. His name was Jimmy, he lived in her building, and he did indeed have a cigarette.

He waved, smiling around the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Elizabeth waved back and he paused, taking the cigarette from his mouth.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked, shifting the bottle he held to under his arm.

“Not much, what are you up to so late at night?” Elizabeth cast a knowing glance at the bottle. Jimmy grinned sheepishly and showed her the bottle. Canada Dry Ginger Ale.

“Working on a project, I wouldn’t be partying on a Sunday night.”

“Ah, okay, do you by any chance have a spare cigarette?” Elizabeth pulled her Class-A pity face and Jimmy laughed.

“Yeah, sure, here,” he held out a pack of smokes of a brand Elizabeth didn’t recognize and she took one with a grateful look, “need a light?” Elizabeth nodded. Jimmy pulled out his lighter and lit the cigarette for her; Elizabeth inhaled deeply, relishing at the immediate influx of nicotine.

“Thanks so much, Jimmy, I needed that.” Jimmy smiled knowingly and bid her farewell as he headed back to their building.

“See ya later.”

Elizabeth waved goodbye and headed in the opposite direction. She winced as the smoke burned her throat. Damn, he smoked strong stuff, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Shuffling along the sidewalk, Elizabeth enjoyed her cigarette and tried not to think. Of course thoughts came to her mind unbidden and she quickly found herself in the midst of the blahs again.

I’m such an idiot, Elizabeth chided herself. Michael would never look twice at her, Elizabeth wasn’t the type of girl he liked. As it turned out, Elizabeth wasn’t the type of girl most guys liked.

At 19, she’d had one boyfriend and one psychotic girlfriend. The boyfriend lasted a month and they’d both come to the conclusion that it only happened because they had been in a play together and had been cast as a couple. Spending three to four hours with another person, four days a week while pretending to be a couple made it easy for a real relationship to follow. However, that died quickly after the play had ended and Elizabeth wouldn’t put out for him. It wasn’t that Elizabeth was a prude or was waiting for marriage, but a month didn’t seem like a very long time to be with someone before sleeping with them. Eh, maybe she was a prude, but oh well. That had happened the last month of her senior year.

The girlfriend had lasted from the middle of her sophomore year in high school to about the middle of her junior year in high school. If it hadn’t been so fucked up, Elizabeth would’ve been proud of having been committed to something for so long. The girl had been fine when they started dating, although she didn’t want anyone knowing about it. She had been afraid her twin (who coincidentally had been bisexual, leaning more towards women) finding out and using it against her. At the time, Elizabeth had bought it, though now she couldn’t believe she’d been so naive and stupid. Over the course of their relationship, she had damaged Elizabeth so much psychologically that she was still having problems trusting people. Everyone was held at arm’s length, without ever really noticing that Elizabeth wasn’t being completely open with them. Pity, people really didn’t look beneath the surface of others, or they simply didn’t want to–in case there was something ugly lurking below the facade.

It made Elizabeth become more and more cynical and bitter towards the world. People were assholes, only looking out for themselves. No one was going to give a damn about her, why should she care about anyone else? She wanted that to be her personal motto, but she couldn’t seem to follow it. She continued to care about people, and every time was kicked to the curb when she was no longer useful to them.

She always felt used, abused, but obviously she was stupid because she continued to do the same thing. Perhaps she was insane; someone had once told her insanity was repeating the same thing over and and over, expecting different results. Elizabeth couldn’t recall now who had told her that, but some days she felt that way. She would always think “this time will be different” but it never was.

“I don’t need him anyway, I don’t need anyone,” she murmured to herself, but she knew it was a lie.

Photo by photonooner used under a Creative Commons license.

Carlo Collodi, Pinocchio (NYRB, 2008).
You may think you know the story of Pinocchio, but likely what you know is Walt Disney’s 1940 film adaptation. This is a Geoffrey Brock’s new translation of the original book, with a brief introduction by Umberto Eco and a longer afterword by Rebecca West. As translated by Brock, Collodi’s original is very different from the 1940 Walt Disney film — it is more complex and it lacks the sentimentality, but it races along nicely.  I would say it’s darker than the Disney film, but West’s afterword points out that all but twelve minutes of the film take place at night or in the dark.  Suffice it to say that Collodi’s story is no cartoon.

Google Books lets you take a look. NPR has an excerpt from the first chapter. Here is Wikipedia’s page on Carlo Collodi, the pen name (after the Tuscan town) of Carlo Lorenzini. Wikipedia’s page about the book is worthwhile. Here is Brock’s bio. Tim Parks’ long review in The New York Review of Books is worth reading.  He says Brock conveys Collodi’s zany spirit of Tuscan humor, a Pincchio who swings alarmingly between lies and candor, generosity and cruel mockery, good intentions and zero staying power. You can also listen to an interview with Parks. The NYRB Classics Editor, Edwin Frank, calls it a brilliant evocation of the promise and precariousness of childhood, when the world is both new and immemorial and everything is possible and yet, because one is a child, nothing is. John Powers says the book’s reality reflects the harshness of life in Collodi’s Tuscany, a place driven by hunger, brutality, greed, and social injustice. Chelsea Bauch (Boldtype) says Brock revives Collodi’s sardonic wit and pitch-black humor. Cathleen Medwick (O) calls it a tale of gumption and greed. Elizabeth was disappointed initially, and surprised that that her expectations did not match what she was reading. Jennifer says it’s both an adventure story and a moralistic tale. Bob Rini has some neat links. Here is a 1927 translation (by an unidentified translator) with illustrations by Frederick Richardson. Here is the original trailer for the Disney movie. If you’re in Tuscany, you can visit Parco di Pinocchio di Collodi.

Buy it at Amazon.com.

First of all, the book for the next Slaves of Golconda discussion has been chosen, and it’s going to be Stevie Smith’s Novel on Yellow Paper. The discussion will begin on January 31st, and everyone is welcome to join. All you have to do is read the book and then post about it on your blog, if you have one, and then participate in the discussion. All newcomers are welcome!

It seems about right that after I posted the list of books I’d like to read, I ended up choosing something not on the list at all. For me, lists of books I’d like to read are very much works of the moment. They reflect how I’m feeling on a particular day or in a particular hour, and the world usually looks entirely different only a little while later.

I’ve been feeling like reading something from the 19C, and was considering Wilkie Collins’s Armadale, but then when the moment came to pull a book off the shelf I noticed Charlotte Brontë’s novel Shirley. I’ve had that book sitting around for almost a year. I’m not entirely sure what drew me to it, except that it’s been awhile since I read Charlotte Brontë, but only a few months since I read Collins, and I wanted to read something that felt new and different. So there you go.

I also began reading President Obama’s first book Dreams from My Father, which one of my in-person book groups will be discussing in a couple weeks. I’ve read 60 pages or so in this book, and so far I’m liking it very much. Obama has such an interesting story to tell, and his focus on what it was like to grow up with his complicated racial heritage is fascinating. He comes across as a very smart, very thoughtful person, and so far I very much like the personality that comes through the writing. It’s also fun to read it knowing that he would grow up to be president; I can’t help but wonder what his parents and his grandparents would have thought if they had known what would happen, and what he would have made of it himself, both as a young boy, and as the 33-year-old who wrote the book. I want to tell all the people in the book not to worry, that things are going to turn out just fine, and that “Barry” is going to have a wonderful career. (Although as far as I’m concerned, being President of the United States is surely one of the worst things that could happen to a person.)

And now to Brideshead. Yesterday I met with two friends (including Musings) to discuss the novel, and it turned out to be a very interesting talk. I didn’t lose my feeling that the book is kind of all over the place and lacking in focus, but I did get a better sense of the book as a reflection of Waugh’s ambivalence about Catholicism. None of us thought that the book was proselytizing for Catholicism in any way, and if anything we thought it was more about the ways it can really screw you up. Yes, there is a moment at the end where the main character has a spiritual experience, but it’s unclear where this will lead. Catholicism seems more like a curse than a blessing — a tradition that will shape everything about you and that is impossible to escape, no matter how much you want to.

As important as Catholicism is in the book, though, we all also agreed that many of the problems of the Flyte family come from their own screwed-upness, and religion just happens to be a great weapon to fight family battles with. The novel is at least as much a tale of how impossible it is to escape your family as it is about how impossible it is to escape your religion.

Oh, my, I’m depressing myself. But I like depressing books, so I’ll be sure to read more Waugh. Mostly, we agreed that Brideshead is a book about loss and trying to come to terms with it. The circular structure of the book makes the point that although we can’t leave our past behind, we can sometimes come to see it in a new way. There’s a little consolation at least.

Kim heard the shots, but assumed like almost everybody else in Campbell both awake and in earshot, that they were leftover fireworks from the Queen’s Birthday weekend some time earlier.

Besides, he had better things to do.  He had Café del Mar on the stereo, he had a sheaf of reports that supposedly needed checking, and he had a girlfriend on chat that his wife didn’t know about, having retired to an early bed.

Zoe: And one night, we got drunk together. Lay on the grass by the creek at ANU. Looked up at the stars, and we talked about girl things and life and the future. We always wanted to stay friends.

Kim: And you did.

Zoe: Kimmie, this is important. We made a pact that night. We wanted to be happy forever. So Lee got you. And the twins.

Kim: Wow. And you?

Zoe: I never found any person I wanted so much. I wanted what Lee already had. All this time.

Kim: *hugs* I never knew.

Zoe: I came back. And you wanted me.

Kim: I always did, Zoe. I loved you both. So close, so beautiful, the two of you. Dark hair and red.

And a blonde would have made the set, Kim had thought back then. But there were only the two girlfriends, both lusting after him.

Zoe: You remember how I cried at your house-warming?

Kim: *kisses away tears*

Zoe: Too late, silly! I was so happy for Lee. And sooooo sorry for me.

Zoe: *snuggles into Kimmie’s chest*

Kim: *strokes Zoe’s hair*

Zoe: *loving the stroking*

Zoe: Thanks for chatting, Kimmie. I’ve been wanting to get that off my chest for, well, years.

Kim: Anything else you want to get off your chest? *undoes top button*

Zoe: Kim!

Zoe: *undoes second button*

Kim’s mobile phone trilled at precisely the wrong time. Perhaps five minutes later would have been even more exactly wrong, but from Kim’s point of view, CAS was the last person he wanted to hear from at this moment.

“Kim? I’m hoping you’re at home, sober and dressed. I’ve got a quick job for you.”

“Correct on all points. Just doing a bit of research. Shoot.”

“That’s the problem. We need you to go down to the site, find out why the security team there used their firearms, and sort out the body they’ve reported.”

“How old is this?”

“Minutes. No police as yet. Keep it that way. You’ve got powers under the Act. Use them.”

“On my way.”

Shit.

Kim: Z, work calls. *kisses Zoe goodnight*

Zoe: Now?

Kim: Sorry. It’s ultra-urgent.

Zoe: You’re not going to skip out on our Friday date as well?

Kim: I’ve been dreaming of nothing else!

Zoe: Go work, sweet man. *kisses Kimmie*

Kim: Goodnight! *XXX*

He closed the connection. Chat endearments with Zoe could easily go on for several minutes, with declarations of love, hearts, hugs, and lingering kisses.

Lee rolled over in bed when he came in, but he whispered, “Got to run,” and quickly pulled on outerwear, shoes and socks. He clicked through the combination in the wall safe, extracted a fanny pack containing pistol, ammunition and spare magazine, and wrapped it around his waist under his jacket. There was a holster for formal wear, but not tonight.

He reversed the BMW down the driveway, drove the three blocks down Monash Drive to Constitution Avenue, turned left to the Blamey Crescent intersection, through the red light into the building site gate area and pulled up beside a guard, who checked his identification and opened the gate for him.

Kim parked out of sight behind a demountable office, and hurried back to the gate. The guard was waiting for him. “I’ll just take you to the scene, Sir, brief you on the way.”

Kim nodded. Sweet. It had been a long time since anyone had called him sweet.

“…we responded to the alarm by sending out a patrol. Two officers, armed and equipped. They proceeded to the intrusion site and as they approached they became aware of noises. There was also a light.

“…intruder was digging a hole with a small hand implement and removing items. The senior member of the patrol challenged him and the intruder responded by attacking him with the implement. We’ve recovered and bagged that, Sir.”

Dear, dearest, darling were Lee’s terms, and he suspected that they were automatic now. Kim nodded again.

“…junior member of the patrol then drew his weapon and fired at the intruder. In self-defence, Sir. We’re trained to respond when attacked. Unfortunately the senior member had dropped his torch when responding to the initial attack and the junior member was unable to see his target clearly. He fired two rounds, and we’ll be conducting a thorough search for the cases once we have more light and more manpower.”

“No one else is to enter the site,” Kim responded automatically. “Not until I know exactly what happened. I have powers under the legislation to determine the investigation and to secure the crime scene for up to twenty four hours. I can arrange for security personnel to seal the area. Relieve you and your officers. We’ll have to take statements, see if the police need to be involved.”

“We’ve got a body!”

“Just let me see the scene first. If it all happened as you say, then we’ve got nothing to worry about.”

The “scene” was evident. Two men were walking up and down, heavy-duty torches trained on the ground as they conducted a grid search. Probably stomping any evidence into the dirt, Kim thought, though that could be a good thing. It was a construction site after all, and anything inconvenient could be quickly obliterated with a pass by a grader and dump truck.

“Turn those things off!” he commanded, softly yet firmly. “We don’t want the whole suburb hanging off the fence trying to see what’s going on.”

The lights snapped off, and the site resumed its semi-gloom. Streetlights augmented the city’s glow reflecting from the overcast.

“Right. Where’s the body?”

“Here, Sir.”

Kim had his own discreet torch. Something less like a club than the things the guards were swinging around.

Here was trouble. There was a garden implement, some sort of small shovel, sealed in a plastic bag. An excavation, fresh dirt piled up, stones and other objects visible. And a corpse.

Kim stared down in astonishment at the sad remains.

Shit.

“Right. I hope nobody called an ambulance. We can handle this without the police, fire brigade or any emergency services.”

Nobody laughed.

Sweet man. She’d find out how sweet he really was on Friday.

My best piece ever !  (though opinions may vary.)

I have seen the faces of people who died a thousand years ago, copied again.

      In their bitter-sweet, short lives, people think their thoughts and actions original, whereas in truth they copy that which went before them, as nature copied their face, a thousand times before.

I once saw my mothers face, three thousand years dead, on the head of a fish-wife on the docks in Port Glamara, shouting her wares to the passers-by.  A face so long in forgetting, and so quick to bring a tear.

         Of course, the cast and mien on that face were different to my mothers’, for she was missing different teeth, and the fashions of hair and jewellery pulled that face into the present age.  This fishwife had the look of a faded beauty, cheated from the good marriage.  Her mouth was twisted grim, with her cheeks bony and first frosting of grey in her curly hair.  In contrast, few in my tribe survived long enough for their hair to change, and my mother had never washed in her whole short life

      But the face was the same.  The brow, the eyes and the little cleft in the tip of the nose.  I stopped in my journey, openly staring, forgetting every trick in avoiding attention, and felt a sob clutch from my stomach.  It climbed up my throat and erupted into a little pearl of loneliness, out into the noisy, crowded street.

      Though by then I had survived wars and watched famines, seen religious schism and encountered every infamy and cruelty possible to mankind, the child within was still there, undiminished beneath the callus of so much indifference to suffering and grief.  To be told that everything would be all right.  Despite knowing that, usually, it wouldn’t be.

      By then I had started on my mission, and was so consumed with my obsession that I could allow no weakness and admit no failure.  The face of the fish-wife, calling her wears, brought back to me my fallibility, and the possibility that I could be wrong.

      I avoided Glamara for a century after that, in fear of seeing that face again.

*

Answers on a postcard to the little box at the bottom of the page.

Well, was that professional suicide?  Publishing stuff for free, just to get a bit of attention from one percent of one percent of the the available hits.  Can’t think of any good tags now …

My publishing campaign produced a fantastic first step this week, in the excellent pages of The Legendary, a poem!!!!!  http://www.downdirtyword.com  Many thanks to Katie, for being a truly scrumptious friend. 

*

Well, I have experienced a three week dry bit.  After the NaNofail, I have had plenty of ideas but little will to pursue them.  Its just more of the same stuff.  Done well, maybe, with resultant pride, but that’s about it.  Gonna have to find something better to say … :@

Also have to write two pages of script for a children’s radio play.  I get to give voice to a boy in a dream, clutching a book, being confronted by a princess and a pirate.  yay

Well, that should be enough for now.  Next, Ill publish my epigram, a post colonial view on Brave New World.  Why not, no one is gonna read it otherwise!

Thanks for Kevin W. who gave the following review of “Operation SERF” on Amazon today:

Operation SERF had me hooked from page 1. It’s a page turner you can not put down. I found myself reminiscing between reading sessions and bringing up the topic of the book in daily conversation. I recommended this book to 5 close friends over the past week as I believe this book, although fiction, accurately portrays a potential SHTF scenario.

I found the story line so interesting that after I finished reading this book, I desperately wanted to finish reading the entire trilogy.
My only complaint is parts 2&3 of the trilogy will not be released for some time.

I look forward to reading future books by author Chris Sullins.

Part 2 of the trilogy will be finished by the end of Winter 2010 with an earlier release date than the timing I used for the first book. Proofing and publishing of Book 2 will actually be faster than what it was for Book 1.

The long anticipated 31st edition of the Book Review Blog Carnival is up and running at Linus’s Blanket.

Passengers line up at airports for their Thanksgiving holiday flights.

(Short Story Monday is hosted by John Mutford.) When updating my review directories this weekend, I was inspired to try to read and review some short stories that would ‘fill in the gaps’ so I could have complete alphabets. I have yet to find an ‘X’ author who writes short stories, but other than that, I’ve found one story for each remaining letter. I haven’t been in much of a reading mood the past few days, but it occurred to me that maybe some individual short stories, read on the internet and thus with no obligation to read a whole book, would break me out of my slump. And I believe they have! Three of the stories I read were classics, and fairy stories at that. The other two were modern. Let’s talk about the fairy stories first.

I didn’t intend to read via theme today, but I’m quite happy that it worked out that way. Three different classical authors, from three different countries, all writing short stories sprinkled with fairy dust-I quite enjoyed myself.

“Red Hanrahan” by William Butler Yeats
First, I decided to read a William Butler Yeats story: “Red Hanrahan” (which is available for free at Project Gutenberg). I had read a couple of Yeats’ more famous poems, and I knew that he was a great scholar of fairy lore, but I had no idea that he had written short stories. His love for Ireland really shines through in this one, and it has such a classic set-up. A group of men are in a barn/pub on Samhaim (aka Halloween). Red Hanrahan receives a message that from his sweetheart, that he should come see her as soon as he can, since her mother’s died and she’s worried about keeping her house. But just as he’s about to dash off, an old man in a corner, who no one has ever met before, pulls out a pack of cards and invites the whole pub to play for awhile. To see what else happens, you’ll have to read the story, but I absolutely loved Yeats’ writing style. It follows in the fairy tradition, but it doesn’t just feel recycled, and it positively teems with life. And his descriptions are wonderful, like this of the barn/pub in the beginning:

There was a fire on the old hearth, and there were dip candles stuck in bottles, and there was a black quart bottle upon some boards that had been put across two barrels to make a table. Most of the men were sitting beside the fire, and one of them was singing a long wandering song, about a Munster man and a Connaught man that were quarrelling about their two provinces.

I’ll definitely be reading more of Yeats’ stories in the future!

“The Fairy Amoureuse” by Emile Zola
Next I turned to Zola and his “The Fairy Amoureuse (available for free at Bibliomania-the site has frames, so I can’t link straight to the story, but that’s the directory). I’ve been meaning to read Zola for some time but haven’t actually tried anything of his before. In this story, he uses the stylistic device that an unknown narrator (probably a nurse) is recounting the story to a young girl, who is addressed in second person several times throughout. This is a pretty common device in fairy tale inspired writing, since so many of these stories are thought to have sprung organically from the peasants, and it’s set up in the first paragraph:

Do you hear the rain, Nanon, beating against the windows? And the wind sighing through the long corridor? It’s a horrid night, a night when poor wretches shiver before the gates of the rich, who dance indoors in rooms bright with many gilded chandeliers. Take off those silk slippers of yours, and come sit on my knee before the blazing hearth. Lay aside your gorgeous finery: I’m going to tell you a pretty fairy tale this evening.

Anyway, it’s the story of a pair of young lovers and a fairy (named Amoureuse) who takes them under her wing. I enjoyed this one, and stylistically it worked well, but it lacked the vibrancy of the Yeats’ story. It felt several levels removed, like I was reading Bulfinch’s Mythology, rather than hearing an tale from my old nursemaid. Still, it made me want to try Zola more in the future-has anyone read his novels and know where a good place to start is?

“The Specter Bridegroom” by Washington Irving
My final classical selection was a new-to-me author from my very own country, Washington Irving. The story “The Specter Bridegroom” (available for free at Read Books Online), however, is set in Germany. And the Germany that’s full of thick forests, roving bands of outlaws, and nobility who love nothing more than to host a good feast and tell supernatural stories. In particular, this story is about a Baron who has a single, beautiful daughter, and the events surrounding a feast he throws for her future bridegroom. It’s ghostly and witty and funny all at once. Irving’s style really took me by surprise-he manages to both set a mood and poke a bit of fun at his own stylistic devices. I thought this description of the daughter quite amusing, and it reminded me of Austen and a certain conversation in Pride and Prejudice:

Under their instructions she became a miracle of accomplishments. By the time she was eighteen she could embroider to admiration, and had worked whole histories of the saints in tapestry with such strength of expression in their countenances that they looked like so many souls in purgatory. She could read without great difficulty, and had spelled her way through several Church legends and almost all the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even made considerable proficiency in writing; could sign her own name without missing a letter, and so legibly that her aunts could read it without spectacles. She excelled in making little elegant good-for-nothing, lady-like knicknacks of all kinds, was versed in the most abstruse dancing of the day, played a number of airs on the harp and guitar, and knew all the tender ballads of the Minnelieders by heart.

The story itself is well plotted and really enjoyable as well. The characters are definitely archetypes, in the way of fairy tales, but I think that works for the story. Another author I’ll be looking out for more in the future!

Then there’s two modern pieces. The first story I actually read months ago and forgot to review.

“Z.Z.’s Sleep-Away Camp for Disordered Dreamers” by Karen Russell
I’ve had Russell’s short story collection, St. Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised By Wolves for some time-I read about half of it earlier this year, but I decided I’d enjoy it more if I didn’t read all of the stories at once. I think Russell’s still finding her stride-some of her stories are both quirky and touching while others are simply trying a bit too hard. Fortunately, “Z.Z’s Sleep-Away Camp for Disordered Dreamers” falls into the former category. I’ve never been to a summer camp (and never wanted to go), but I really think they’re the American version of British boarding school stories. Whenever I encounter them in books, it’s always about the kids forming their own societies, with rigid hierarchies, and thwarting or ignoring the distant adult authorities. The story is narrated by a boy, and as with all of Russell’s stories the writing has a definite fable-like feel to it that I enjoyed. Anyway, the boy is (of course) in love with an enigmatic girl he meets at camp. When odd things begin happening all over the camp, they try to figure out who’s at the bottom of it. I liked the mystery woven in with a coming-of-age story woven in with the oddness of the camp itself (where cabins are divided based on sleep disorder). I think it has a wonderful opening sentence:

Emma and I are curled together in the basket of the Thomas Edison Insomnia Balloon, our breath coming in soft, quick bursts.

It’s not available online, but I’d urge you to try out Russell’s writing for yourself if you have the opportunity.

“Luda and Milena” by Lara Vapnyar
Finally, I read another modern short story by Lara Vapnyar: “Luda and Milena” (available for free at The New Yorker). I think after all the fairy tale, classic stories, this one felt like having cold water thrown on my face. I was attracted to it because of the Eastern European flavour, but for me it was just a bit too New Yorker to appeal to me. The writing was exactly what you might expect from an MFA program, as was the meandering plot with its sudden ending. Even the main characters, two septuagenarian Russian women attending an ESL class in Brooklyn, were just what you would expect. And the negative view of love and aging and people in general. I wouldn’t say this was a badly written story, but there was nothing to make it stand out. I doubt I’d read more Napnyar in the future. I’d rather spend my time reading stories that have some magic in them.

Do you enjoy fairy tale inspired stories? Who’s your favourite author?

فديو, فيديو كليب انا بيه ورومانسى من فلم, فيلم البيه الرومانسىافلام لك تحميل من

شاهد فديو, فيديو كليب انا بيه ورومانسى من فلم, فيلم البيه رومانسى – سعد الصغير 2009
تحمل وتنزيل فديو, فيديو كليب سعد الصغير من فلم, فيلم البيه رومانسى انا بيه ورومانسى

لمشاهدة وتحميل الفديو, فيديو كليب …

شاهد فديو, فيديو كليب اغنية سعد الصغير انا بيه ورومانسى من فلم, فيلم البيه رومانسى
يو, فيديو كليب سعد الصغير من فلم, فيلم البية الرومانسى – انا بيه ورومانسى

اضغط هنا لمشاهدة الكليب

|اغانى|فديو, فيديو كليب|مقطع|هدف|مسلسل|اعلان|فلم, فيلم|برنامج|حلقة|شاهد|مشاهدة|اون لاين|سرعة عالية |بدون
تحميل|اغانى|عربى|اجنبى|MP3, mp3, ام بي ثري|البوم|
2009|سينجل|نغمات|تنزيل|نزل|شعبي|راب|حمل|موسيقى|MP3, mp3, ام بي ثري

|افراح|فديو, فيديو كليب|راديو||اون لاين|بدون تحميل|مجانا|بدون اشتراك|2010

فديو, فيديو كليب انا بيه ورومانسى من فلم, فيلم البيه الرومانسىافلام لك تحميل من

شاهد فديو, فيديو كليب انا بيه ورومانسى من فلم, فيلم البيه رومانسى – سعد الصغير 2009
تحمل وتنزيل فديو, فيديو كليب سعد الصغير من فلم, فيلم البيه رومانسى انا بيه ورومانسى

لمشاهدة وتحميل الفديو, فيديو كليب …

شاهد فديو, فيديو كليب اغنية سعد الصغير انا بيه ورومانسى من فلم, فيلم البيه رومانسى
يو, فيديو كليب سعد الصغير من فلم, فيلم البية الرومانسى – انا بيه ورومانسى

اضغط هنا لمشاهدة الكليب

|اغانى|فديو, فيديو كليب|مقطع|هدف|مسلسل|اعلان|فلم, فيلم|برنامج|حلقة|شاهد|مشاهدة|اون لاين|سرعة عالية |بدون
تحميل|اغانى|عربى|اجنبى|MP3, mp3, ام بي ثري|البوم|
2009|سينجل|نغمات|تنزيل|نزل|شعبي|راب|حمل|موسيقى|MP3, mp3, ام بي ثري

|افراح|فديو, فيديو كليب|راديو||اون لاين|بدون تحميل|مجانا|بدون اشتراك|2010

By Douglas Coupland, 2009.

“Now you young twerps want a new name for your generation? Probably not, you just want jobs, right? Well, the media do us all such tremendous favours when they call you Generation X, right? Two clicks from the very end of the alphabet. I hereby declare you Generation A, as much at the beginning of a series of astonishing triumphs and failures as Adam and Eve were so long ago.”

Kurt Vonnegut, Syracuse University commencement address, May8, 1994

Zack, Julien, Samantha, Harj, and Diana are five people from different parts of the world who are stung by bees. This is a big deal because bees are believed to be extinct and the authorities are all over it, but also because video footage related to the stings goes viral on youtube, making them “The Wonka Children”.

Generation A is a very contemporary novel coming from the perspective of digital life that explores the cultures of reading and storytelling that it is supposed to be at odds with. It is lovely to read a novel that engages in a real way with technology and how it changes us instead of portraying it as the end of culture or showing a dystopian future, never mind a novel that manages to be smart, intellectual, funny, serious, and trivial all at once … a mash-up in print!

I love that Douglas Coupland writes about generations after him in a way that is fair and truly engaged (he was born in 1961). He is also an artist, screenwriter, playwright, actor, and New York Times blogger who lives in West Vancouver.

http://www.coupland.com/

    Everyone always advises writers to “write what you know.”  *blinks* Two decades later, and I’m still trying to figure out what that means.  Me, I’m a trivia/research junkie.  Set me loose in a library, and you might never see me again (I literally have to set a time limit on myself when I’m in the library).  I can browse the non-fiction shelves for hours.  Something might jump out at me, and I’ll pull it down and read a little.  If the subject intrigues me, I’ll keep reading.  If not, back it goes.  But I’ve probably still gleaned at least one or two little factoids that might work their way to the surface again, sometime.

 So what do I know?  I’ve pondered the question at length.  I know I don’t know everything there is to know about anything.  I know that even though my opinions are based on facts as much as gut feeling, those opinions are not set in stone, and new evidence or experience can always change them.  How does one write about these things?

The answer is surprisingly easy – you don’t.  This conundrum shows itself in your characters, in how they interact with the world, but you don’t actually WRITE about philosophical ponderings (not unless you want to put your audience to sleep, or you’re writing a deep non-fiction book about philosophy).  Instead, you write about what you LEARN, rather than what you know.  Me, when I have a story idea, I go with it.  I get an idea of what I want to know, and then I go in search of the knowledge I don’t have.  Sometimes, it comes from observing or talking to people.  Sometimes, it comes from places like Discovery Channel or National Geographic.  Sometimes, it comes from hours and hours spent in the library (either my own or public or university libraries), sifting through all the information I can find, and sometimes it comes from extensive, exhaustive online searching.  But I don’t take it for granted that I KNOW the information.  And I don’t stop researching until I get to the point where either the book is finished, or I’ve exhausted every possible avenue I can find. 

Does this mean I always get the information I’m seeking?  No.  Sometimes, after months of exhaustive searching, I have to admit defeat – that there may not be the information, or that I may not be able to get in contact with the people who know it, like I’d want to.  Then, I have to get creative, and try to ascertain the answer from the facts I HAVE learned, using logic.  Sometimes, it works.  Other times, it might not.  But I can always look back at the work and say “I did the absolute best research I could do.”

I awake to find myself cowering in the bathroom. Nestled between the sink and the bath, I am squatted naked and sweating. It is fatalistically dark except for a slither of light breaking underneath the door. I find that I am whispering incoherently to myself. I stop this. My dilated pupils dart about the inky darkness, attempting to snatch some clue as to how I got here. I frantically pick through my last memories. I cooked a small meal, digested it, washed and went to bed. I had no trouble falling under. And now I am here.

I freeze as a shadow falls through the crack of light. Something has stopped just outside the door. The floorboards outside creak, as if it is shifting its weight around. I am frozen with an ancient mammalian fear, something from eras past waking within me, the fear of gleaming yellow jaws. The shadows creak again as it moves out away from the doorway. There is silence. I do not hear the figure descend the stairs and yet nor do I hear it finding its way into the adjoining rooms. I find that I have stopped breathing. I fight against the pressure in my lungs and try as best I can to let the stale air out slowly and quietly. I cannot hear anything in the house save for the drip of the sink. Then there is a flick and the hallway light goes out. The illumination from under the door is instantly sucked into the blackness. My eyes stay rooted to the spot, not wanting to leave where just a moment ago I saw the gap. I try and convince myself that it was the bulb going out, or the fuse giving in. I unsteadily crawl my way onto my feet, every joint clicking an orchestral cacophony. I stand motionless, listening. As slowly as I could manage, I pad my way towards the door. My hand, unsure of the exact position of the doorknob, scrapes at the paint. I open the door. Moonlight is pouring in through the window parallel to me. I look for bestial shadows ready to pounce.

I try the light switch. A warm yellow glow soaks my surroundings. I suddenly feel vulnerable with my nakedness and shy away from the window. I haphazardly look in the rooms around the house knowing that I won’t find anything. I return to my bedroom: inside, my girlfriend is reading by the bedside lamp. She looks at me and smiles, her blonde hair fraying over her dark eyebrows. “Where have you been? Come to bed sweetie.” I watch her pink lips, transfixed. I climb in, turn my back to the wall and stare.

The Editorial Board of “The International Literary Quarterly” is delighted to announce that the review will consider unsolicited submissions with effect from August 2010.

A sweet little story about two werewolves enjoying a bit of pre-wedding fun.

The wind and snow picked up as we left Wolf Point and the rez behind. Maka’s family begged her not to go. “The roads to the cabin will be too dangerous,” they said. “Wait until it gets warmer.” But she smiled, saying only that she wanted to do it this way. She wanted to show her respect. Her grandmother smiled and handed Makawee a small leather pouch with the instruction that she not open it until she reached the cabin. “I will see you when you return for the wedding,” Grandmother whispered to her.

And with that, we loaded the van with food, supplies, blankets, and clothes. Once our good-byes were said, Maka drove while I read the map and kept Maka’s travel mug full of warm coffee from my thermos. Neither of us said very much during the trip.

Finally after several hours of driving, we arrived at the cabin an hour before sunset. We unloaded the van, stocking the food in the cabin’s cupboards and the clothes in the bedroom’s dresser. Once that was done, I started a fire in the sunken living room fireplace. I sat down on the blanket in front of the fireplace and watched the flames crackle. Maka sat down beside me and wrapped her arm around my shoulder. “You’ve been really quiet today, Michael. Having second thoughts?”

I turned my head a bit to kiss her cheek. “Just a bit worried. I know I’m not exactly your parents’ first choice, and this isn’t how they imagined giving their girl away.”

Maka moved her arm down to my waist so her head could rest on my shoulder. “But my family likes you. And they know you love me.” Maka took the pouch out of her pocket and opened it. Inside was a small silver leather strap with two silver and onyx rings dangling from the strap. I took the necklace from her and placed it around her neck. The rings caught flashes of firelight and flashed it across her light bronze skin. “Grandma adores you. And she thinks it’s wonderful that we’re doing this. Truth be told, I think she was a bit disappointed that my parents didn’t do the ceremony.”

I nodded, holding Maka close. “You want to catch a quick nap before nightfall?”

“Sure thing.”

***
Several hours later, I stepped out of the warm cabin, and immediately the crisp winter wind slashed my unshaven face and hands. My bare feet fell into a snow bank by the door. I had given her enough of a head start. As I tore off my clothes, a wolf howled in the distance. I sniffed the air. It’s a male. That means competition.

A whirlpool of wind and wetness wrapped around my body. I dropped to my hands and knees, reveling in the sensation. My hands shrank. My nose flared. Bones broke and mended. Teeth and nails hardened, tearing out of my flesh. I shook roughly, tossing the water off my body. The wolf had taken over.

I sniffed the air. She was downwind. And she stayed there. I would laugh if I could. She wanted to be found. But she wasn’t going to make it easy. Lupine eyes scanned the shadows. Another whiff told me she was moving south. I marked a tree near the cabin and darted into the storm.

The sounds of my panting and my padded paws were muted by the winter storm. And still I ran, stopping only to mark the trail so I could find my way back. The other male howled again, this time much closer. The thought of him being anywhere near Maka ripped a warning growl from my muzzle. My eyes narrowed.

There she was.

Her fur was the most beautiful shade of grey I had ever seen. Her scent was pure and untainted, her eyes full of a primal fire from before the dawn of time. To my surprise, she had managed to keep the leather strap and rings around her neck. My canines rubbed against my muzzle as I watched her from my hiding place in the trees.

A twig breaking caught my attention. She heard it too. We both saw the other male at the same time, his interest and intent obvious.

I leapt out of my hiding place, my fur back and my teeth exposed. Mine! I growled at the intruder.

Your scent is not on her he replied as he bared down for a fight. A small part of my mind balked and panicked. This was NOT how we had planned this to go. I quelled the panicked voice and pounced at the other, diving low at the last second and clipping at his leg with my teeth. He howled as the bite slashed through to the bone. He was young. He was stupid. This would be easy.

I let go and backed away, giving him room to retreat. But he would not be denied. He charged at me, growling, trying to look menacing as he favored his wounded leg. I ran as if to retreat. He darted after me, thinking me frightened. Not wanting to be too far from Maka, I circled around back into the clearing where she waited, watching in excitement, arousal, and fear. I could smell them all radiating from her. I blocked it out. I couldn’t afford the distraction. I darted as fast as I could to a tree stump in the clearing, turning away at the last possible second. The bark scraped against my hide, I had cut it so close. The other was wounded. He could not turn away. He hit the stump with a shattering thump, then fell to the ground, quivering softly as he whimpered and tried to lick his wounds. He was young. He would recover…probably.

I turned to her, wet and panting, a bit of blood still clinging to my mouth. Maka said nothing so I approached her, my ears down, my eyes full of softness. Her kind eyes meet mine and she padded towards me. We sniffed each other as we danced in a tight circle.

It was at that point that I knew wolves could smile. The look she gave me, the musk from her…all I wanted was to drown in it. She ran off at a steady jog, playfully daring me to follow her. I howled and darted off after her.

She led me to a nearby cave, small and dank. With a glance behind her to make sure I was still there, she entered. I followed her. And there she was. On the cool, dirt floor. Surrendering to me. Asking me to surrender to her. We nuzzled and snuggled and soon found a comfortable position. She rose to meet me as I entered her. Our scents marked each other. I knotted her. We fell asleep.

I awoke to the scent of dawn in the air. Maka seemed to sense it as well. She nodded once at me. Then we quickly exited the cave, our noses sniffing the wind. She catches the scent of my marks. We follow them back to the cabin. I stood as close to her as I could as the change took place. We held each other as best we could as our bodies shattered from the inside out, and were reborn.

And Maka stood there beside me, clothed in nothing but the wind and snow. We walked hand in hand into the cabin. She rekindled the fire as I gathered the think blankets we brought with us. We cuddled under the blankets as the fire blazed in front of us. “I love you, Maka,” I whispered to her, kissing the flesh around the rings dangling from her neck.

“I love you, Michael,” she replied. Her arms pulled me towards her as she laid me on my back in front of the fireplace, the wilderness and desire in her eyes. I pulled her on top of me and gave her all the love I had to give.

***
One week after arriving at the cabin, Maka and I drove back to Wolf Point. Once there, the rings served as our wedding bands. At her parents’ insistence, we had a small service at the rez with our friends and family in attendance.

Hey, everyone, It’s me again. Today, I want to talk to you about fiction. More specifically, I want to talk about “Reality” in fiction. Everyone knows that if you write about the mafia in a piece of fiction that you should make it as realistic as possible to make your story believable, but … and here is your first question for today:

What about fantasy?

What about when you are writing a fantasy novel? Can it be real? Can it seem real enough to be relatable or believable? I have had a couple of professors say that since genre fiction (fantasy, sci-fi, etc.) can’t be “real”, can’t have happened, then the only way to make it relatable or believable is to make the characters relatable or believable. Here is your second question for today:

Do you believe that genre fiction can’t be made to seem real except for the characters?

I will tell you now that my answer to that question is: “No way, Jose.” J. R. R. Tolkien wrote The Lord of the Rings because he made this “real” world and decided that there should be a story that happened in this world. He makes the world real when, at times, the characters don’t seem very real. The dialogue is in paragraphical speech format. It’s like the characters are reading a script and are making sure to not interrupt each other. That’s not how people talk and discuss things. But, does his world seem real? Yes, you can picture it almost to the point where you picture yourself there. I hope, after reading this,  all of you, my fellow writers, will try to take the time to look for “reality” in fiction., particularly fantasy.

As always, I hope to read your comments, answers, and questions.

Until next time,

Luke

After a long wait at the library, I so enjoyed The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane.  Katherine Howe is nothing if not meticulous and her passion for 17th Century America was evident in Deliverance Dane; it was essentially a love story to history.

Howe knows her stuff but isn’t afraid to take a leap into the unknown for the sake of good fiction.  I found her twist on the Salem Witch Trials very transformative.  Having taken an American History class in college in Boston, I had heard most of the social theories as to why the Witch Trials took place.  The premise of Deliverance Dane was quite the flip from everything I’d read previously.

Howe’s characters didn’t live up to the breadth of her ideas — at first.  I think initially Connie comes off as a bit pretentious; however, just as her mind and research expand with new and exciting possibilities, she becomes more likeable.  I was confused by the relationship she had with her mother and I think it added an unnecessary dimension of complexity and confusion.

Admittedly, it took me a bit to really get into the book.  The set-up was evident and necessary and I wasn’t bored per-se, but I could sort of feel it all coming at me.  After about a third of the way through, I was hooked.  The plot twists and flashbacks (which I normally have trouble with — often they are unwelcome distractions) were very appropriate and added to the story very much.

My favorite part and the section I most appreciated was the Author’s Note at the end.  I love watching DVDs with the commentary and getting any inside information I can gather.  Howe provided a brief but unique look at her writing process and my positive feelings about the book and her research and knowledge base were cemented even more.

I would be interested to know why the present day was in 1991 — 399 years after the Salem Witch Trials.  I can’t figure out for the life of me the significance, if there even is one.

A River Sutra, by Gita Mehta is a set of stories within stories set around the Narmada river in western India.  The river, which is one of the five sacred rivers of India, draws a varied group of characters to its banks, all seeking solace and healing from troubled lives.

The stories are held together by an unnamed narrator who has retired to a remote government rest house on the banks of the Narmada as a sort of vanaprastha or detachment from the world. He’s not very good at maintaining this detachment: curiosity about those who visit the rest house or cross his path in his forest wanderings is constantly drawing him back to human contact.

Two stories are told to him by the local mullah, and the other three are told by people he meets.  A wealthy Jain renounces his wealth and becomes a sadhu only to find that he cannot give up the capacity to love.  A music teacher in an unhappy marriage finds solace in teaching a blind boy to sing, only to see him killed by a jealous rival.  A young executive from Calcutta is bewitched and sent mad by a spirit woman in the forests of Darjeeling.  An old courtesan searches for her daughter, kidnapped by bandits. And a Hindu aescetic rescues a child from a brothel and teaches her to be a musician.

Ultimately all the stories are about love in all its forms: lust, madness, redemption, sacrifice, care and sorrow. The narrator, a childless widower of an arranged marriage with no children, has little experience of love, and is learning throughout the book what he has missed.

Too much mysticism and sacred wisdom in Indian books can be irritating, but the ‘tale-within-a-tale’ structure of this book tempers this by adding uncertainty and magic to the stories, as one would expect from tall tales told to us by another.  It is a very slow-moving book, but it has its own rhythm, tied to the slow-moving waters of the great Narmada river (one of those wide and powerful rivers that appear placid and unmoving on the surface). The language is lush and sometimes a little too descriptive, and the book is sometimes a little too obvious in linking the stories back to the river and its religious significance. But overall, not a bad book, and I’d recommend it as a good holiday read for a summer afternoon.