Looking back on the year, I have to admit my writing has fallen off in volume and quality. It was early in 2008 that I composed a story I submitted to one of those True magazines. I didn’t wait with baited breath but eventually, of course, it was returned with a form letter of regret. I have felt distracted. If there is any creative energy in me, it has failed to manifest itself in works I can share. Am I working as a freelance writer, or even a sometimes hobbyist? Not really. I have written copy, I guess, better than nothing.
I have, however, discovered a new venue for self expression….
I’ve heard that computers are like a series of switches. Binary. On or off. The complexity comes into play in the sheer volume of information. When something goes wrong, one has to sift through to find the problem. I am sure there is a usable metaphor in there somewhere, for the novel I long to write, about how computers changed my life. I was a quiet, introverted person, naive and inexperienced in life, a kid, a failed adult whom society strongly hinted was aging without ever having been truly young, who suddenly found myself in an environment that used the means of communication at which I excelled…the written word.
Flash fiction has its place, though there are critics who insist, with justification, that character, theme, and any number of literary necessities cannot be achieved in 500, 1000, or 2000 words. I wrote several flash fictions in an attempt to win a crocheted teddy bear and was quite fortunate to have done so. When the opportunity came up to create short videos in my favorite metaverse< i had something ready to go.
The urge to write a novel is growing stronger every day. Yes, I know. I have two or three incomplete novels somewhere in my files and I should finish those before I start something new. But those are genre fiction and this is serious. The framework of the story incubating inside my consciousness is how computers changed my life.
Visitors to the property ask if the barn is filled with arts. I have to explain that, no, our dad’s name was Art and the barn is dedicated to him. It is impossible to articulate the artistry of Art. He was a wonderful person and he was a storyteller, and so am I.
Still wearing those french cut jeans,
Still keeping my hair perfumed and glossy
Gold; silver earrings fall against my jaw, I move in shadowed time
And live for those seconds of tension.
The young ones stand before me and sway
And to me they are as alike as cattails,
Heavy and cynlindrical on their stalks.
This is my private swamp.
They have no right to be here.
Eating their cones,
They start and grin, and we begin
The dance.
I feign disdain.
They forget their ice cream.
It runs in rivulets between
Their hot fingers.
I have three yards of grace.
I am pushing…whatever age…
Their faces go blank.
They shrug. Nothing is lost.
They lick up the sweet syrup,
And I go on.
I am a fragile bird flapping and flapping
Forever caught in midair between
The door and the place of peaches and vanilla
And other flavors.
I managed to acquire several books the past two weeks. Two from the Nordlands lag, about the history of Jewish families in Norway, another about a friendship between some regular Norwegians and the Sami, formerly known as Lapps. I purchased two at the dollar store, a fine literary novel The Ice Chorus (the author’s name escapes me), and a hefty, rather useless volume about spells and wicca that feels good in my hands. At the silent auction, a church fundraiser, I won the bid on a super book about making the flatbreads of various cultures around the world. It has a lot of colored photos and extra recipes. All in all I feel good about my acquisitions.
I am primarily a fiction writer but I’ve decided to branch out. What is my favorite subject for non-fiction? Animals. I love them. People want to know, are you a dog person or a cat person? I can honestly say, both. I also like horses, rabbits, birds. Sadly, I don’t have the space, resources or energy to take on more pets, and I certainly don’t want to be a pet collector or hoarder. Five cats, a dog, two horses and goldfish are enough. Writing about animals may require that I sharpen up my photographic skills.
If you learn to dial the stargate, and to see the glowing blue event horizon, you may discover a new world. Don’t count on it. So much over there has been abandoned because it’s junk. However, it IS the road less traveled, and you may happen upon someone new and different. Then again, you may run into society’s dregs. Voices who are turned in upon themselves, who don’t have the courtesty or sophistication to engage you in conversation. Through the stargate, all is fresh and raw., Not the least bit stale. That civilization was constructed before people knew what they were doing, and it shows. And yet, so much is familiar.
Lately, I have been watching reruns of Little House on the Prairie. I’ve discussed them with my brother who, like me, was a fan of the Laura Ingalls Wilder books both when he was a kid and as an adult. We get back to the subject of how closely the series followed the books, and how the characters on TV seem to speak in seventies vernacular.
This ongoing discussion has led me to researching the author online and I have gleaned a few interesting facts. One is that the books didn’t follow Real Life as closely as one might think and are more fictionalized autobiography than memoir. The TV series goes even further astray.
Laura Ingalls Wilder achieved financial security late in life through her writing. Prior to that, her daughter Rose supported Laura and her husband Almanzo for a time on the earnings from her own writings. What impressed me was that Rose achieved this during a time of economic depression.
Now the news analysts et al are talking recession and depression. I didn’t know there was one until I read about it in the news. And sure enough, my internet business has dropped off to almost nothing. Maybe this type of news feeds upon itself. Maybe I will spend more time on my writing, and keep my fingers crossed. Hard times ahead? Makes a person wonder……
Many, many years ago I did independent study in ancient Scandinavian literature at the local university, under the direction of a professor of English who had grown up in Cavalier, North Dakota. I visited that area once and found it to be true, that quite a few of the residents were of Norwegian or Icelandic descent. This professor whose name was Ruth has long passed on, but I have a book she loaned me and which I sadly did not return. The title is Skaldic Poetry, and now and then I thumb through its pages. The time has come for me to delve into the intricacies of Old Norse poetry, which has been made less daunting by the presence of Wikipedia on the web.
My first observation is that Old Norse poetry can be viewed as consisting of two broad types, eddaic and skaldic. The eddaic is straightforward, informal, anonymous. Authorship of skaldic poetry is assigned to known poets, some of whom may have been kings, is fairly complex and employees fixed literary devices. Some skaldic poetry is so obscure that allusions may be lost on the modern reader without extensive footnotes. And I will get back to this topic when I sort out the relevancies.
