Where Some See Ignored #History, #Writers See The Beginnings of New #Fiction.

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An Indian Summer gripped Wisconsin for far too long this September. Mosquitos rejoiced, trees clutched their green leaves. It was even hot enough to go to the beach for my mother’s birthday. But no heat wave would thwart me this year. I would have my fall foliage pictures no matter what Mother Nature said, dammit!

So when Bo suggested getting one more weekend at the family cabin up north, I gave an emphatic “YES!” Trees galore, beautiful lake, a well-timed cold-snap. Awesome, right?

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Just look at that gorgeous blue water. Surrounded by green leaves. Grumble grumble.

But there was no denying the joy of a lakeshore littered by wee rocks. Bo and Blondie worked on skipping stones. Biff and Bash enjoyed their “fireworks”–aka, throwing clumps of sand into the air over the water.

Bo knew I was disappointed. “Did you want take pictures of the fish hatchery for your blog?”

(Insert irritated glare here.) “No.”

The weekend over, we stopped at a nearby town for gas, coffee, and a playground before heading home. We passed something we pass so often when visiting this town, and an idea hit me:

“Can you handle the kids at the park for a little while?”

“I guess. What’s up?”

“I want to take some pictures.”

“Of what?”

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Many immigrants of German descent came to Wisconsin, which is why this state had such a large number of breweries for a while. Unlike the others, however, the Tiger Brewery has never been torn down, even though it’s been out of use since the 1930s.

 

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It’s not for public entry. It’s not a museum. It’s just…a monument? That requires power lines, and blinds in the windows?

I take care with my camera when I near the occupied house next to the brewery. Perhaps they’re the caretakers, or neighbors who loathe snoopers.

But I can’t help but wonder about this place. It’s not falling apart, it’s not technically in use. In this town, it doesn’t seem to be anything. Why leave it alone? Why not enter it, and invite others to do the same? What’s in there people can’t look at? What’s hiding in there? What is this town protecting? Even the apples hang forgotten, rotten, from its trees.

One window board upon the tower flaps open. Bet there’s a stairwell in there to the top, and even to the underground. Deep, deep into the earth, beneath the river running behind this ignored place, deeper still where another forgotten world awaits, where eyes blink in darkness and long nails dig through stone, hunting…

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Perhaps your own town has a similar street, where life hums at sunrise and sunset, but is otherwise left to a breezy quiet. What hides among the normal? What is the price this world pays to ignore its presence? What…where…when…who…why, why, why….These questions fly by us as leaves caught up in the wind.

Give chase, and don’t look back.

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#Writing #Music: Vangelis

 

Blade_Runner_posterAccording to Bo, one of the queer bits of my sci-fi/fantasy upbringing was its lack of Blade Runner. “You watched Dr. Who, Star Trek, Star Wars, Highlander, Dune, but NOT Blade Runner?

I admit, it seems strange Dad wouldn’t have watched it at some point. Maybe the cut available at the time really stunk–last I checked, there’ve been five different versions released. But this isn’t about all the various tellings of one story. A brief Internet search reveals that topic’s been talked to death and beyond. My focus turns to that which begins and ends the story, that which has not been altered: the music.

Vangelis (Evangelos Odysseas Papathanassiou) is a figurehead in the world of electronic music. Sure, everyone loves his song from Chariots of Firebut truly, it’s his work on Blade Runner that proves to the world just how beautiful, captivating, and overwhelmingly powerful synthetic music can be.

So often synthesizers are used as a cheap alternative to an orchestra, but when it comes to Vangelis’ score, I think the massive variety of sounds and sound-textures would dilute the power of his music. There is unity in the synthetic, how all stems from the same source, yet branches out into so many different pitches, rhythms, and tones, that one still experiences an orchestra without the orchestra. And really, what other approach could better fit a movie about replicants hiding as real, living creatures?

You don’t know any of this in the beginning of the film, of course. In the beginning you have but a world: a city-scape that spills over the horizon, rusted and littered with fire-flares and lights more numerous than the stars. The opening zither-like run pulls us over the threshold. Rhythm isn’t as important here; we’re not rushed through the world, but rather allowed to float in awe. Harmonies move slowly as another synthesizer dances about like windchimes. The music does not intimidate, but it does not necessarily welcome, either. Reverence is the unspoken price to pay.

But for all the wonder in the beginning, the ending is where I set the repeat button. There’s no sense of wonder, no eye-opening as we experience with the opening track. No, here we are running, forever running with the rhythms slowly building, a new sound added every time. A timpani-like sound pounds, and the snare drum, a rare bit of “real” instrument in all the synthetic, has a peculiar tap at the end of each arc, almost like it’s clicking in reset to start anew. It’s not a melody of hope, nor of despair. There’s no certainty here. This is survival’s song.

Don’t let your characters gawk at their setting for long, for all is not well beneath the glittering surface. Press them onward, through the grime and fire, to that which all creations desire more than anything: the chance to live.

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Extra versions, in case my chosen links don’t work outside the U.S.:

 

#Writers, Find the #Adventure in No-#Writing Time.

“Didn’t you know school’s cancelled for today?”

My sons’ backpacks sit alone by the door. My car is the only one in the parking lot. Biff and Bash ask yet again where the other kids are, why can’t they say hi to Mrs. L., why can’t they stay…and I’m wondering all these same things inside, but outside I say, “No, I thought, you know, since they had three days off last week, they had school this week.”

“Oh, never for parent-teacher conferences,” Mrs. A., says with a wave of her hand and a doughy grin. She’s the shape of a cupcake, and just as sweet–Bash adores her, which has helped make the shift to a new school all the smoother. But out of two months, the boys have only had three full weeks of school. There’s always been something to cancel pre-school: screenings, conferences, in-service. For all the teachers’ talk about routine and structure, how on earth is a kid supposed to know that structure if his school can’t function for more than a week at a time?

I could go on. I was ready to go on then, but another parent had come for conferences. I had to figure out what the hell to do with two little guys who didn’t want to leave. The playground was still wet from rain earlier that morning, the air chilly. But by the look of them running up and down the halls, locking them indoors was out of the question. So:

Nature walk!

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I take them down the path I visited alone just a few weeks ago. It was a peaceful refuge then.

Now, not so much.

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“Mommy, I can give the forest raspberries!”

Yes, I suppose so, Biff.

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Bash takes a break from his hunt for caterpillars and wooly bears. I try to tell him it was too cold, but he would not be daunted.

Keeping up with these two is nigh impossible, and there isn’t much for color…

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But I remembered my foolish disappointment from cloudy days before. Even in these days, where autumn wraps itself in a mourning shroud, I find life.

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Even in the days we have no control, the days where writing time is all but forgotten, there is life. There is life with the little ones who imagine worlds all their own…

“Mommy, this is where we go up!”

Up where, Bash?

“Up into the trees! We’ll walk into the sky!”

Biff is skeptical.

Yet there it is: a story. We could sit and tell a tale of a boy who walked the trees into the sky, who found his wooly bears and caterpillars, who helped them become the rainbow butterflies of dreams.

We could sit. And talk.

Or we could explore and see what else awaits us round the bend.

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It is such a day as this, filled with raspberries, chilled fingers, and leaf-covered suckers, that remind us the no-writing time is just as important as the writing time.

Never squander it.

Lesson Learned from 2017’s #TheMummy: Don’t Put the Dark Universe Before the Story.

22552559_10159496649920346_2837675341111443380_nThis week I recruited a certain special someone to help cover this particular post. Bo’s been a fan of the Universal Monster films since childhood, so when Universal announced a “Dark Universe” series of monster films, we…weren’t that thrilled.

We first discuss what kind of character would have been a far more fitting choice for introducing an audience to this “new” universe.

Next, we go into the film/book industry’s obsession with investing in a story series instead of standalone stories. It gets us going on a comparison between the beginnings of the 2017 film vs. the 1932 version with Boris Karloff.

I then jump to the ending, and Bo patiently works me through my agony of an Egyptian god being defeated solely by Tom Cruise being Tom Cruise. “The Power of Cruise Compels You!”

So, as writers, what can we learn from this film? Bo reflects on this cautionary tale of a cinematic debacle.

Aaaand my recorder gave out. 🙂 Bo and I manage a little sum-up before it dies again.

Do not make the same errors in your story-world as these Dark Universe creators: don’t let the Power of Cruise compel you to think of the universe’s marketability instead of simply telling a good story.

Thank you all for listening this Halloween weekend. Think I should have Bo come back again?

 

Writer’s Music: Bruno Coulais

51DgTPES9yL._SY344_BO1,204,203,200_I recently finished Katy Towell’s Charlie and the Grandmothers, a spooky story about a boy and his sister sent to visit a grandmother they never knew they had. It’s a tale of children forced to become heroes in the face of losing family to an evil no grown-up ever seems to notice.

Not exactly an original plot line, but for the record, it was the perfect touch of creepy while driving to visit Bo’s grandmother.

 

The story actually put me in the mood for the soundtrack to Coralinea lusciously eerie stop-motion animated film based on Neil Gaiman’s award-winning book. Scored by French composer Bruno Coulais, the music embodies innocence, adventure, malice, terror–all of which comes together to create what I’d like to call “dangerous whimsy.”

The opening music is brilliant for this. I could certainly say the visuals add to the eerie factor, but let’s just focus on the music for now.

Strings play a major role throughout Coulais’ score. They are often light, be it the pluck of the harp strings are the airy-melodies of the violins. There’s an assured delicacy to their movements, like spiders upon their webs. Brass is rarely applied.  Children sing harmonies in major and minor keys using French gibberish, which has got to be one of the most gibbery gibberishes there can be.

Two particular stars shine more in this music than anything else, I think: the harp, and…and that sound…darnit, I wish I knew what it is! It’s like the sound of one’s wet finger moving round and round a glass’ rim: a note, but not quite.

The harp follow Coraline as she explores her new home, moving as her child feet through all the boring rooms of the house and eventually discovering the little door behind the wallpaper.

Coulais made a brilliant choice in keeping the harp and singer separate from the rest of the orchestra: the audience is seeing just how alone Coraline is as she struggles to find what could make this new home worthwhile. There’s also the loving touch of whimsy here as she explores the house, what with the harp’s off-beat touches and major-key melody.

But then we are taken through the door, and we meet the Other-Mother.

Here Coulais uses chimes, piano, and of course, those children singers. This time, though, their key is minor, turning all the harmonies into something…off-putting. That sound of the fingertip on glass hums ever in the background, making the music itself feel just slightly unreal. A xylophone and finger-cymbals keep the feel of the music light and playful, but all the harmonies are now in a minor key. The playfulness is gone, replaced with a sense of wonder, but wonder that one wants to step away from instead of toward.

Such is the joy of dangerous whimsy. Of course whimsy is a bit of the fantastic, a bit of fun. A bit of youth, and a bit of innocence. Dangerous whimsy is the whimsy that hunts the youth and innocence, luring with the fantastic and the fun to…well. The Pied Piper of Hamlin lured children into a mountain. Grandmothers lured Charlie into imagination mines. The Other Mother lured Coraline into her web of wonders to take her eyes. And because this is all whimsy, adults are either blind to it or duped into compliance with it.

Our stories’ heroes deserve a world of wonders in which to both thrive as well as struggle. Whether your hero’s 38, 18, or 8, the villain–or even the setting–must engage the hero. Distract the hero, entice the hero, scare the pants off the hero. Whatever you do, the hero can’t know for sure what’s going on until she’s in too deep to stop. Give your hero a show of whimsical wonders, and she’ll never know the malice that creeps beneath.

Can’t open the music files? Special thanks to @ZoolonHub for finding a link to the soundtrack that will open outside the US.

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A Refuge from Words

For the last two years, Biff and Bash attended a pre-school (3K) two towns away. This meant a hefty commute, bunkering down in a book store to write–basically, lots of getting out of the house.

Now that Biff and Bash attend school in town, I can write in the comfort of my own home every day. Hooray!

Except some days I just want to get out of the damn house.

Yesterday was such a day. I had just finished another chapter of Beauty’s Price, saw the clock, and thought, Screw it. I am going to investigate those trees even if only for ten minutes.

You see, one of the beauties of Wisconsin comes with its trees.

 

20170920_150716They cluster, they watch, they stand steadfast behind the encroaching subdivisions. They erupt amidst the farmland, and farmers never seem to touch them. They hold together like a Roman phalanx, and like Hell will you take them down. Ever since I was a girl I’d look upon them and wonder: What lives in them? Hides in them? They’re a sanctuary, a prison, protecting a secret, protecting us from a secret…

One such cluster is near my daughter’s school. I parked, and entered.

Such a difference a tree-lined path can make for the soul! Sunlight in leaves will forever be Nature’s stained glass to me. A forest is divine, a place where the soul breathes deep that which has always been, and always will be. Churches rise and fall. Their air grows cold and stale as the outdated hymnals in their pews. But the birdsong heard since Creation, the leaves’ processional in the wind–that is always.

I had time for only one path; no concerns, I knew I’d be back for autumn’s transformation. One tree caught my attention:

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A vine of some sort? Its roots jutted out like centipede legs.

My fantasy mind turned immediately to roots of dark magic. Possibilities blossomed.

Why else does a writer need sanctuary away from words? Not all stories come to us in the spoken word, but in the whisper of a leaf, the chatter of the twigs, the dance of light upon the stones in the bottom of a stream. Some stories hide among the brush, eyes invisible to the ignorant, waiting for the right imagination on which to pounce.

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Writer’s Music: Daniel Pemberton

When I listen to the music flowing beneath a film, I search for tributaries. Could this music tell more than one story, or is its course reinforced with concrete, impossible to divert?  Some scores are simply too entrenched to draw elsewhere, such as John Williams’ work for Superman and Jaws. Other scores tell the narrative their own way with music, and in that narrative arc flow many streams of story. One need only pick the flow to follow.

John Powell is one such composer, whom I’ve written of before, as well as Daft Punk. I still remember the excitement in me when I heard they were composing for Tron: Legacy, and knew that, if nothing else, the music would be amazing.

But the less said about that film, the better. No, I wanted to touch on Daft Punk because this year I felt that same excitement in discovering a composer previously unknown to me, one whose work I’m most assuredly going to dig through in the coming months:

Daniel Pemberton.

So I’m a sucker for a good fantasy film. King Arthur: Legend of the Sword has its flaws with pacing and use of characters for plot propulsion, but there’s amazing aural storytelling to be found in this “175m music video.”*

In the first moments, you already feel a knowledge of old brilliance:

That lone violin pays homage to another master composer, Ennio Morricone, and his use of a music box to elicit feelings of love lost and revenge throughout the film For a Few Dollars More.

That connection sparked in my first viewing, and brought a smile to my face. I knew I was about to listen to someone who knew the power music has in cinematic narrative.

And I was right.

This theme blends period strings and electric guitar with such a gutteral heaviness that you can feel the weight of chains upon you. You’re being marched into a bleak land of little hope. Had Pemberton amped up the pacing here, he’d have something rather steampunky (rather like Hans Zimmer’s Sherlock Holmes, I’d say), but he didn’t, and I’m glad. The rhythm of trudgery emphasizes the setting into which Arthur is born and raised.

“Gutteral” is a term I use as a compliment because it’s so bloody perfect with Arthur’s character. Guy Ritchie’s film has Arthur orphaned and raised by prostitutes in a brothel. He’s a boy of the streets, doing anything and everything to make a little money and protect those who didn’t have to raise him, but did.  Just listen to how the bows scrape along the strings to create almost-notes. The plucking and drums evoke a sense of dim lights, warm beer, and sly talk.

The human body itself is even an instrument in Pemberton’s score.

Breathing plays a role in a number of tracks, and for good reason: Arthur is a fighter, then literally on the run for his life. The breathing carries a determination to survive, but a desperation, too. He hasn’t the magical knowledge of the sage (the less said about her, the better), nor has he the confidence of his father’s knights. Pulling Excalibur out of the stone pulled him out of his own element, and he’s constantly catching up to understand just what the hell is going on. And as “Run Londinium” climaxes, Pemberton shows that all that frustration, desperation, and confusion is going to explode in the height of the fight to survive.

Okay, last one, I promise. I just had to show how, like Morricone, Pemberton uses the lone violin in the climax to bring this story full circle: from murder to vengeance. From child to hero.

Give Pemberton a listen. Watch your characters toddle, play, saunter, run. Fight. Survive. Thrive.

Live.

Click here for more on Pemberton’s Score. 

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*A reference in Daniel Pemberton’s Twitter feed that made me laugh.

Lessons Learned from Diana Wynne Jones: Yesterday Needn’t Stay in Yesterday.

While I frantically prepare a presentation on Diana Wynne Jones for my university’s literary conference, please enjoy an essay on I wrote last year but never posted.

I distinctly remember the sensation of pins, countless pins, all over my body.

“Stand still, Jean.”

The pins held paper shapes to my clothes, and I’m sure my skin.

“Turn this way, Jean. No, this way.”

My grandmother and my mother titted and tatted over the pattern and its potential for Sunday best. I stared at the green shag carpet and thought of a great green plain that led to a waterfall there, where my grandparents’ blue comforter ruffled by the floor. To mountains, where the white metal closet door clanged shut as my grandfather got his hat and announced he was taking my kid brother for a drive to the park.

Sure. He gets to go to the park. I have to be a mannequin.

Grandmother lets out a loud arc of a laugh that verges on a bark, but there’s a music to it, too, like a drunk opera singer. I still get a “stand up straight, Jean” from my mom, but my grandmother laughs until my scowls subside, and I can’t help but smile. The scent of old cigarette smoke clings to her fingers as she removes some pins, HOORAY!…only to re-pin the back paper shape down a bit.

Blast.

So I take off inside me across the green plains for the white mountains, and wait for life to be not-boring.

~*~

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Isobel, Diana, and Ursula. Photo from Publisher’s Weekly.

Diana Wynne Jones took the initiative to make her life not-boring. As the eldest of three, she was required to look after her sisters, and occasionally other village children, while her parents ran a conference center where adults could spend a week or weekend to experience some culture. Nine years old, and in charge of cooking and cleaning for two kids younger than she. To entertain them she would write stories, endless stories, since their parents would not allow made-up stories in their meager library.

I, too, made up stories for myself. They rescued me from the boredom endured in fabric shops as my mother and grandmother pondered over fabric costs and pattern catalogues. I could see roads through the patterns, beasts in the shapes. There wasn’t a monster my trusty Pound Puppy Spike and I couldn’t handle.

Except for one.

~*~

Diana Wynne Jones’ mother often called her a “clever but ugly delinquent.” Jones and her sisters were never the priority when compared to work, which left the kids to fend for themselves. Often there was no food in the family residence, and if the kids went into the conference center, the cook shrieked at them to get out. The sisters’ garments were often cast-offs from the orphanage while the parents always had proper clothes. Diana’s sister Ursula even knotted her own hair to keep it out of her eyes. It took 6 months for their mother to notice. Sister Isobel was nearly strangled by the neck when they strung her up to fly about like a fairy. God forbid if they got sick; Diana went to school with chicken pox, German measles, scarlet fever and more because their mother insisted all their illnesses were “psychological.” No grown-up noticed them. Knew them. All they had was each other.

That kind of past is not easily forgotten.

~*~

time-of-the-ghost-1Published in 1981, The Time of the Ghost is Jones at her most autobiographical: neglected sisters whose lives mirror much of Jones’ childhood accidentally awaken an evil god. Time is not one of her most popular books—I’m not sure if it’s the time-jumping or human sacrifice that get people, but any time I hear of Jones, it’s never over this book. Maybe it’s because of her life story, and people take one look and think, “Yeah, right.” When I look at the past, cringe from the nightmare-years of sexual abuse no one else knew, and then see The Monster who made those nightmares still walking in the sunlight, I know how friends and family would react to such a revelation: “Yeah, right.”

It’s a harsh epiphany, realizing one’s “normal” childhood doesn’t fit the pattern of others. Memory darns the past to be presentable to the eye: there. Fit to be seen.

So long as no one looks underneath, and sees the desperate stitches and knots that hold the perception together.

Perhaps this is why I connected to Diana Wynne Jones as fiercely as I did: she pulled the old pain out of her closet, put it on, and stepped out into the world. Sure, it had the dark red glitter of a wicked fantastical god stitched on, but it was still her.

It only took her several decades to do it.

And if she could do it, then God-willing, so can I.

 

 

Writer’s Music: Emmylou Harris

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Burning. Vicious.

Fearful.

Righteous. Determined.

Painful.

There are those songs that evoke a moment with such clarity that the world cowers behind a fog of silver. The universe narrows itself until all is void but for this bare ground and air, where beasts and heroes entwine. Such is “Fire in the Blood”–when done right.

I have used music from the score Lawless before, which also contains music from an artist I’ve used before, Nick Cave and Warren Ellis. But “Fire in the Blood” is different. Not only is it used three different times on the score, but it’s sung by two different artists with a different twist on it every time. Ralph Stanley’s weathered voice brings a nostalgic atmosphere with the lyrics. Nostalgia is not what I need.

Emmylou Harris’ first version is sweet and mild. The strings move fluidly as the river, indefinite as to melody or climax. Harris’ voice moves as footsteps across a river’s stones, guiding one to the meadow where fingers run through blades of grass and rake fresh earth.

But I do not want sweet or kind. I need a heart beaten and crippled and thrown into the corner. I want that cornered creature to look up wide-eyed in anger and panic, knowing the only way out is through the beast.

Here, the strings have soured in dissonance. Bows scrape indefinite sounds intended to be music. Harris’ own voice has gone widdershins against the wind, all harmony lost, its beauty not gone, but no longer what it was.

In this brief minute, I saw one of the turning points for my heroine Wynne: the moment her true love is captured by the wealthy, mysterious Prydwen, and crippled before her eyes.

Jean LeeSnarls rumbled in the low branches. Swift, eager sniffs and snaps of jaws. “Y-you c-c-c—“ I needed to speak, but fear found new footing inside me and crushed my heart. I struggled against the hold of that guard, but he was so bloody strong I could not break free. Oh for a weapon that day! “You can’t!”

A row of five muzzles broke through the foliage. I saw their lips quiver against yellowed, pointed teeth. Prydwen’s hand remained up. “Can’t I?” He snapped his fingers.

Vicious biting, howling, Morthwyl’s screams it was all so red, death could only be a blessing, Annwn take us both! But they would not attack me no matter how I screamed for them to find my throat. They only fought over Morthwyl’s leg for moment, after moment, after moment, when flesh and bone turned to mangled playthings among the hounds.

Prydwen snapped again, and the hounds dropped Morthwyl and ran into the night.

Blood rained from Morthwyl’s lips as he spoke, “No one will believe your story, I’ll tell the—“ Prydwen’s hand clamped Morthwyl’s mouth shut, and that smooth face stretched into…into I know not. Something unreal, un-right. “You will tell no one. Your very body will keep my secret for me. Such is the magick I know. I can guide your hand to drive a dagger through your chest if I so choose, but this gentle,” he shook Morthwyl’s mangled limb, “reminder should be adequate for my bride to understand her proper place.”

Morthwyl was breathing through his teeth, growling like the animal I knew Prydwen to be. How dare, how dare he do such a thing, but I…I felt so, so powerless… “Leave him, please, just leave him alone,” I was begging, and did not care, and crying, and did not care. He had broken and bewitched my love’s body. What hope could I hold for escape, for a future?

Prydwen arose. He brushed mud and scraps of Morthwyl’s leg off his cloak. He ran those ringed fingers through his hair, and at once he became the elegant tradesman of mystery my sisters swooned over. “Leave him alone, after my own hounds did such a thing? Not at all, my Lady. No, I will ensure his family is handsomely compensated for my beasts’ mistake, and that the boy wants for nothing. I will have a guard visit his home every day to check upon his health, his needs. He will be under my ever-watchful care day after day, year after year.” He stared hard at his own palms, then sighed deeply. “There is simply no other recourse. I care not for this, but even now, I see it in your face. You would betray me, even with such a gift lain at your feet.”

“A gi–!” I could not finish. His palm smelled of Morthwyl’s sweat and tears. To taste Morthwyl like this, and fear it the last!

“Your lips cannot speak of what has happened. You can only say you found the smithy’s son on your way to visit me, your betrothed. You cried out, and because of you, this boy will not die. Is that not so?”

His eyes burned as the slaver’s brand. He was burning me, burning my soul and heart for his own, his hate and want so powerful, too powerful for my love, too young love, I had to let Morthwyl go to save him—

—and yet something stirred in those ashes Morthwyl’s magick left in my mouth. Something new in me that I had not yet known found my heart, called it out of hiding for a different hope:

The hope of vengeance.

Find your hero’s song of vengeance. They will need that fire in their blood to conquer all you’ve placed in their path.

Writer’s Music: Susanne Sundfør

Of all the “Writer’s Music” entries I’ve placed here so far, only one (sans my Christmas posts) has been a song with lyrics. This is the second.

Unlike most of my music shared, however, this isn’t a song that helped me into a character’s head, or visualize a scene.

The_Silicone_Veil_Album_ArtMusic engages more than just the ears. It brings colors to shape. It beckons scents from the breeze ever blowing just above our hair. And sometimes, it drops a piece of itself, a thing of some sort, into our hands.

Just so with Susanne Sundfør’s “Silicone Veil.”

I had never heard of the artist before my dear school friend Anne Clare, now online with her own writing as The Naptime Author, sent me a mix of songs that have helped inspire her own writing. A fabulous present—I had only heard of one group on the entire album.

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Anne Clare drew this cover, too! She’s awesome. 🙂

Normally I’m skeptical about newish fandangled lyrical music, I say as I harumph and thump my fist like my grandfather in the midst of a cribbage match. Oftentimes it all seems too weepy, repetitive, lacking any actual vocals and/or instruments, or as Grandpa would say, “Too loud!” (This from the man who was pretty much deaf already.)

Thanks to Anne and her own Writer’s Music, I experienced an epiphany for Wynne. When? Not sure, but it was a cold spring night, driving, listening, and knowing: That’s it.

Wynne of Beauty’s Price wasn’t much more than a brainstorm at that point. I was still finishing up Middler’s Pride, but I knew I had to have at least a few allusions to BP in order to establish a connection. I knew Wynne had a love, and another suitor, someone dangerous and powerful, who wouldn’t leave her alone. Wynne needed a tangible symbol of true love, something to reflect the fragility, steadfastness, and hope. Jewelry? Eh, that’s too easily noticed by nosy family members. Clothing, too. And tattoos weren’t exactly acceptable for her class in medieval-ish times. A mark on a tree somewhere? Pfft. Can’t carry that along. Dried flowers, or a lock of hair? Easily hidden, but just as easily crushed, too, or lost.

Then this song came on…

…and its lyrics gave me the answer:

Beauty is poisonous
Disruptive
Oh heaven must be an iron rose
Unfolding

Lyrics found at
http://lyrics.wikia.com/wiki/Susanne_Sundf%C3%B8r:The_Silicone_Veil

YES. There. The boy she loves is the smithy’s son of another village; of course he’d make her a token, something she could hold, caress, carry with her whenever she’s away from him.

Jean Lee“Oh…” Mother spoke of [orpines] often, promising many potential suitors we would plant them in our garden to divine which of my sisters they would marry. The three times she actually did instruct Father to purchase orpine for planting, however, one set grew straight as corn, one grew sick, and one simply died. Not one flower grew to touch another, and therefore promise marriage. Now I sat with one resting upon my arm. Morthwyl released his, and it leaned forward to grace the petals’ tips in the most chaste of kisses.

Then Morthwyl’s own hands unfolded as a flower, revealing two orpines of iron. They were but the length of our thumbs, woven wound one another, leaves embracing, heads touching intimately.

As much as I depend on music’s inspiration for my writing, Anne and Sundfør reminded me that music’s not just about vision or atmosphere. Sometimes it’s about the sign we pass on the journey that tells of the next turn, that reminds us where we are between A and B. It’s not like we pick that sign up and carry it around with us. It remains where it is, and we walk on. Sundfør’s song revealed a vital element to me; now I can listen to the song for enjoyment while continuing on with other music to enter my story’s world.

Think carefully on the lyrics of your beloved songs. What poetry hides within them? Let their language bring light to what remains in story’s shadow.