The girl weighed the dagger in her hands. It was still in its sheath, a silver thing beautifully carved in whorls: some smooth, some scaled, some studded with jewels that glittered a strange blue-black. It reminded her of a woman's hair, or of the swirling sea, and of the unmentionable things that move beneath it. She pulled the blade out and almost dropped it when she realized it was crusted with old blood.
"This can't be right," she said, turning wide eyes to meet the old woman's. "In the stories she never uses it! She lets the sleeping prince and his new bride live; she chooses to turn to sea foam with the dawn rather than kill the man she loves!"
The crone cackled.
"That much is true, dearie. She chose her path and left this world with soul unstained. But her sisters... they chose differently. Mind you, the merfolk believe strongly in justice, and are by nature merciless- that's what made her so unique among them. And after all, they'd traded all their hair- their beauty!- for that dagger, for a single chance to save their sister... Why should they let it go to waste just because she was too weak to use it!"
8.31.2010
8.30.2010
Choking
The air in here- it's so thick with nostalgia I'm choking on it. Nostalgia filling my eyes, my ears, my lungs- I can't breathe, I can't breathe!
And then I'm outside, collapsed against the rough brick of the wall, drawing in deep, shuddering breaths. Was that what an asthmatic feels like, in the throes of an attack? I suddenly have a lot more sympathy for my nerdy cousin Alvin. How horrible to constantly feel like you're encountering the ex-love-of-your-life whenever a dog walks by.
This thought makes me giggle. Maybe hysterically; I don't know. What's an appropriate giggle when you're suddenly drowning in four years of memories that you've spent the past seven years flushing?
I bite my knuckle, and the sharp pain focuses my mind. Sharp pain, in contrast to the dull, bone-deep ache that sprang up when I realized that I was not okay, not okay at all and what the hell possessed me to come to this? Sure, Amy was sick and that's why we were all here because we all still love her even if we can't stand one another. Even if, until I got the email, I couldn't even stand the thought of her because of all the other thoughts snarled up in the same ball of horrible painful thought-yarn.
But she was my best friend, man. We did everything together, back then. How could I not come now? And how could I not expect that he would be here, too?
Not that he is. I mean, not his body. But that's not the point- the point is that his presence, it's everywhere, it's in everything. People look at me and they don't see me, they see half of a whole that hasn't existed for a long, long time and it makes me feel like a crippled ghost, you know?
Is it better that he's not here? Do I wish that he was? Would it be easier if it was actually him, instead of just the expectation of him?
I don't know. And I don't know if I can go back in there.
And then I'm outside, collapsed against the rough brick of the wall, drawing in deep, shuddering breaths. Was that what an asthmatic feels like, in the throes of an attack? I suddenly have a lot more sympathy for my nerdy cousin Alvin. How horrible to constantly feel like you're encountering the ex-love-of-your-life whenever a dog walks by.
This thought makes me giggle. Maybe hysterically; I don't know. What's an appropriate giggle when you're suddenly drowning in four years of memories that you've spent the past seven years flushing?
I bite my knuckle, and the sharp pain focuses my mind. Sharp pain, in contrast to the dull, bone-deep ache that sprang up when I realized that I was not okay, not okay at all and what the hell possessed me to come to this? Sure, Amy was sick and that's why we were all here because we all still love her even if we can't stand one another. Even if, until I got the email, I couldn't even stand the thought of her because of all the other thoughts snarled up in the same ball of horrible painful thought-yarn.
But she was my best friend, man. We did everything together, back then. How could I not come now? And how could I not expect that he would be here, too?
Not that he is. I mean, not his body. But that's not the point- the point is that his presence, it's everywhere, it's in everything. People look at me and they don't see me, they see half of a whole that hasn't existed for a long, long time and it makes me feel like a crippled ghost, you know?
Is it better that he's not here? Do I wish that he was? Would it be easier if it was actually him, instead of just the expectation of him?
I don't know. And I don't know if I can go back in there.
8.29.2010
Misting
Rain again. But this was a gentler rain than it had been before, a rain that was more akin to mist.
She liked it. It was comforting, like a soft gray blanket to wrap herself up in: something she could hide under, so that the world wouldn't notice her as it went about its dreary business.
She always did feel better in the water.
She wandered down a deserted street, noting the difference between the water droplets striking her bare arms: some fell from the sky, some from the leaves of the trees that arched overhead. Each droplet had different experiences, and therefore brought her different stories. Each one was unique- and yet they blended together on her skin as though they'd never been apart.
They were like God, she thought.
(She didn't bother to explain what she meant by this.)
She'd come to an abandonded field, and as the street lights dwindled in the distance her pupils grew so large that if anyone had been around to see her eyes they'd have seen only the barest hint of color around the edges. Dilated pupils always made her feel like a wild animal- she bared her teeth in the rain: a savage with a grin.
Laughter, bouncing back from the waving grass. She waded through the stalks, danced with them to the variable beat of the droplets. They caught at her hair, at her skirt, each one tugging her a different direction.
"You're unruly," she scolded them, then sank down to lay on her back amongst them. The rain beaded on her eyelashes, and the imagined what the stars were doing behind the clouds. Probably sleeping in, she decided, and rolled over to count the grains of sand mixed in with the soil.
(More Drops)
She liked it. It was comforting, like a soft gray blanket to wrap herself up in: something she could hide under, so that the world wouldn't notice her as it went about its dreary business.
She always did feel better in the water.
She wandered down a deserted street, noting the difference between the water droplets striking her bare arms: some fell from the sky, some from the leaves of the trees that arched overhead. Each droplet had different experiences, and therefore brought her different stories. Each one was unique- and yet they blended together on her skin as though they'd never been apart.
They were like God, she thought.
(She didn't bother to explain what she meant by this.)
She'd come to an abandonded field, and as the street lights dwindled in the distance her pupils grew so large that if anyone had been around to see her eyes they'd have seen only the barest hint of color around the edges. Dilated pupils always made her feel like a wild animal- she bared her teeth in the rain: a savage with a grin.
Laughter, bouncing back from the waving grass. She waded through the stalks, danced with them to the variable beat of the droplets. They caught at her hair, at her skirt, each one tugging her a different direction.
"You're unruly," she scolded them, then sank down to lay on her back amongst them. The rain beaded on her eyelashes, and the imagined what the stars were doing behind the clouds. Probably sleeping in, she decided, and rolled over to count the grains of sand mixed in with the soil.
(More Drops)
8.28.2010
So Long, and Thanks For All the Fist
There are many things that I love about tonight's photo. In fact, let me count a few of the ways!
1. I love my rubber-face, I really do. As much as I love the conventionally beautiful photos that Nathan takes of me, I sometimes almost prefer the ones like this, in which I am doing something highly implausible with my expression.
2. I love Jeff's grin. I love that grin because of what it represents: how much fun I have with my brothers-in-law. They really are like brothers to me (the good kind) which is something I'm incredibly grateful for.
3. I love the little thumbs-up Jeff's giving, down in the bottom left corner. It's easy to over-look, but it's the sort of thing that (as we used to put it in our senior art seminar in college) "rewards the patient viewer". Little details like that bring you deeper into a piece, deeper into the story- which in turn deepens your appreciation for both the piece and the artist (regardless of what Nathan has to say about this shot being "not art").
4. The lighting. The lighting- especially on my face- is just fantastic. The ironic thing is that the batteries in Nate's flash had died, and so he was working without it, and therefore a touch crabby (he hates it when his equipment malfunctions) because he didn't have perfect control over the lighting. But he worked with what he had and I think it came out wonderfully- the higher contrast on my face gives the scene a sense of drama. Comedic drama, but drama nonetheless.
1. I love my rubber-face, I really do. As much as I love the conventionally beautiful photos that Nathan takes of me, I sometimes almost prefer the ones like this, in which I am doing something highly implausible with my expression.
2. I love Jeff's grin. I love that grin because of what it represents: how much fun I have with my brothers-in-law. They really are like brothers to me (the good kind) which is something I'm incredibly grateful for.
3. I love the little thumbs-up Jeff's giving, down in the bottom left corner. It's easy to over-look, but it's the sort of thing that (as we used to put it in our senior art seminar in college) "rewards the patient viewer". Little details like that bring you deeper into a piece, deeper into the story- which in turn deepens your appreciation for both the piece and the artist (regardless of what Nathan has to say about this shot being "not art").
4. The lighting. The lighting- especially on my face- is just fantastic. The ironic thing is that the batteries in Nate's flash had died, and so he was working without it, and therefore a touch crabby (he hates it when his equipment malfunctions) because he didn't have perfect control over the lighting. But he worked with what he had and I think it came out wonderfully- the higher contrast on my face gives the scene a sense of drama. Comedic drama, but drama nonetheless.
8.27.2010
Won't Ask for Directions
the tales they tell of her
(that beautiful woman
without mercy)
they say she enchanted
a valiant knight-
then abandoned him
most cruelly
damned him to wait for her
forevermore
no one stopped to think
that maybe she, too,
is waiting-
but that he
is on the wrong
damn
hill.
(Vagrant)
(also, in case you haven't read it: La Belle Dame Sans Merci)
(that beautiful woman
without mercy)
they say she enchanted
a valiant knight-
then abandoned him
most cruelly
damned him to wait for her
forevermore
no one stopped to think
that maybe she, too,
is waiting-
but that he
is on the wrong
damn
hill.
(Vagrant)
(also, in case you haven't read it: La Belle Dame Sans Merci)
8.26.2010
Smelling As Sweetly Legitimate
It's possible that you're not up-to-speed on the current tizzy regarding whether or not women writers are taken as seriously as men writers- if you're not, there are a number of good articles out there right now about that topic, and other related topics (such as Linda Holmes' excellent piece on whether or not "chick lit" is even a thing) (she says no, and I agree) that will catch you up on the squabble. But there is one article in particular (by Chris Jackson) which addresses something that I remember very distinctly from my own book-selling days:
"...it's clear that women are willing to buy books by male writers, but men seem much more reluctant to buy books by women."
In my experience, men are not only less willing to read a book written by a woman, they are far less willing to read a book about a woman. Obviously this is a sweeping generalization, and does not apply to every man, but it is definitely prevalent enough that you notice it if you work in The Industry. Even my husband, who happens to adore the Honor Harrington books, as well as author Naomi Novik's work, did not pick those books up without prompting. My mother introduced him to the first, and I to the second.
In their defense, I do believe that men are conditioned to this from a young age. I remember one specific incident where I was working back in the children's section, and a mother came in looking for an adventure story for her son. I gave her a selection that met the criteria she laid our for me, and do you know that woman rejected every single one that had a female protagonist? She even came out and said she would prefer he have a book about a little boy. And these were not coming-of-age stories, people. They were picture books. Like this one. Ladies and gentlemen, the "gender-appropriate" brainwashing of our youth.
It is for this exact reason that, when I started toying with the idea of writing a novel, and I got far enough into it that coming up with a pen name seemed like an excellent Procrastination Exercise (you know you have them, too, fellow writers), I knew without doubt that I wanted one that was at the very least androgynous. Initials are a good way to go, I figured. And then came the quandry- author's photo, or no author's photo? Because I honestly feel like I could probably sell more books if no one knows my gender- specifically if men don't know my gender- but at the same time, I also know that being attractive has rarely hurt anyone's chances at anything. And my husband takes some darn flattering photos of me, knowhatI'msayin'?
(And before anyone points out to me that things like pen names and dust jackets really ought to be reserved for after the novel is finished, I say to them- hush with your kill-joy-ness.)
But the fact that the thought entered my mind at all- what is this, the 19th century? Shall I call myself Currer Bell II, perhaps? To ensure better sales and a chance at legitimacy, rather than being banished to the realms of Genre Fiction? Part of me is disgusted with myself that my brain just automatically went there- but then the pragmatic part of me just sort of shrugs. I guess I, too, am just a product of my society.
"...it's clear that women are willing to buy books by male writers, but men seem much more reluctant to buy books by women."
In my experience, men are not only less willing to read a book written by a woman, they are far less willing to read a book about a woman. Obviously this is a sweeping generalization, and does not apply to every man, but it is definitely prevalent enough that you notice it if you work in The Industry. Even my husband, who happens to adore the Honor Harrington books, as well as author Naomi Novik's work, did not pick those books up without prompting. My mother introduced him to the first, and I to the second.
In their defense, I do believe that men are conditioned to this from a young age. I remember one specific incident where I was working back in the children's section, and a mother came in looking for an adventure story for her son. I gave her a selection that met the criteria she laid our for me, and do you know that woman rejected every single one that had a female protagonist? She even came out and said she would prefer he have a book about a little boy. And these were not coming-of-age stories, people. They were picture books. Like this one. Ladies and gentlemen, the "gender-appropriate" brainwashing of our youth.
It is for this exact reason that, when I started toying with the idea of writing a novel, and I got far enough into it that coming up with a pen name seemed like an excellent Procrastination Exercise (you know you have them, too, fellow writers), I knew without doubt that I wanted one that was at the very least androgynous. Initials are a good way to go, I figured. And then came the quandry- author's photo, or no author's photo? Because I honestly feel like I could probably sell more books if no one knows my gender- specifically if men don't know my gender- but at the same time, I also know that being attractive has rarely hurt anyone's chances at anything. And my husband takes some darn flattering photos of me, knowhatI'msayin'?
(And before anyone points out to me that things like pen names and dust jackets really ought to be reserved for after the novel is finished, I say to them- hush with your kill-joy-ness.)
But the fact that the thought entered my mind at all- what is this, the 19th century? Shall I call myself Currer Bell II, perhaps? To ensure better sales and a chance at legitimacy, rather than being banished to the realms of Genre Fiction? Part of me is disgusted with myself that my brain just automatically went there- but then the pragmatic part of me just sort of shrugs. I guess I, too, am just a product of my society.
8.25.2010
How Fish and Chips Became My Designer Drug
If you've been reading for a while you might remember my introduction to fish and chips. If you don't (and don't care to click that lil' ol' link I just made) I will summarize for you:
Skeptical Jenny O listens to her mother (and others) and dutifully tries native food whilst in Portsmouth, England; her mind (and taste buds) are summarily blown.
So yes, I am now what one might call A Fan of fish and chips, although I have not had them since that fateful day, over three months ago. Recently, however, a Craving rose up in me, and I started to make pathetic I-Need-Fish-and-Chips noises to my dutiful husband. Sunday night we agreed we'd go out and get some during the week. We were going to go out last night, but between one thing and another (Nathan not feeling well and me being Utterly Exhausted and in bed before nine) we didn't. But we promised each other we'd go out tonight, after my eye exam.
We figured that The Fish Market would have fish and chips, but as it turned out they use a country style cornmeal batter for their fried fish, so that was a no-go. The next place Nathan located was McCormick and Schmick's, but I took one look at their menu and realized I could not bring myself to pay $16 a plate for what is essentially the British equivalent of a Big Mac. My boss gave me a few suggestions, and I used them as a springboard to do a little research of my own, until I found The Fox and the Hound. They didn't have their menu online, but I called up and was reassured that yes- they carried properly beer-battered fish and chips, for about $9 a plate. That was more reasonable, so Nate and I declared Success.
As we were walking in he said that it wouldn't be as good as it was in the UK, and I told him I knew that- I knew that it was basically like heroin, and I would spend the rest of my life in search of that "perfect high"- ie, fish and chips that would live up to my memories of the First Time. But I hoped it would at least be "good", if not "perfect". That it might dull the craving for a while, if not fully satisfy it.
Weeelllll.... it kind of did. But as much as I thought I'd braced myself for the disappointment, I must have still been hoping in my secret heart. I was expecting a piece the size of my forearm (we'd had cod, before) but instead it was four tiny pieces, each not even the length of my hand (Nathan posits they were culled from white fish). And rather than the dense, velvety-smooth-yet-flaky flesh I remembered, these guys were... a little gritty. And the batter wasn't airy and crisp- the whole thing was sort of... limp. But the flavor of the batter was okay. And the vinegar was good.
::sigh::
We have to go back to the UK.
Speaking of which, check out Nate's shot from today, which, when I first came in and glanced at it, I thought was from our trip.
(backalley)
Skeptical Jenny O listens to her mother (and others) and dutifully tries native food whilst in Portsmouth, England; her mind (and taste buds) are summarily blown.
So yes, I am now what one might call A Fan of fish and chips, although I have not had them since that fateful day, over three months ago. Recently, however, a Craving rose up in me, and I started to make pathetic I-Need-Fish-and-Chips noises to my dutiful husband. Sunday night we agreed we'd go out and get some during the week. We were going to go out last night, but between one thing and another (Nathan not feeling well and me being Utterly Exhausted and in bed before nine) we didn't. But we promised each other we'd go out tonight, after my eye exam.
We figured that The Fish Market would have fish and chips, but as it turned out they use a country style cornmeal batter for their fried fish, so that was a no-go. The next place Nathan located was McCormick and Schmick's, but I took one look at their menu and realized I could not bring myself to pay $16 a plate for what is essentially the British equivalent of a Big Mac. My boss gave me a few suggestions, and I used them as a springboard to do a little research of my own, until I found The Fox and the Hound. They didn't have their menu online, but I called up and was reassured that yes- they carried properly beer-battered fish and chips, for about $9 a plate. That was more reasonable, so Nate and I declared Success.
As we were walking in he said that it wouldn't be as good as it was in the UK, and I told him I knew that- I knew that it was basically like heroin, and I would spend the rest of my life in search of that "perfect high"- ie, fish and chips that would live up to my memories of the First Time. But I hoped it would at least be "good", if not "perfect". That it might dull the craving for a while, if not fully satisfy it.
Weeelllll.... it kind of did. But as much as I thought I'd braced myself for the disappointment, I must have still been hoping in my secret heart. I was expecting a piece the size of my forearm (we'd had cod, before) but instead it was four tiny pieces, each not even the length of my hand (Nathan posits they were culled from white fish). And rather than the dense, velvety-smooth-yet-flaky flesh I remembered, these guys were... a little gritty. And the batter wasn't airy and crisp- the whole thing was sort of... limp. But the flavor of the batter was okay. And the vinegar was good.
::sigh::
We have to go back to the UK.
Speaking of which, check out Nate's shot from today, which, when I first came in and glanced at it, I thought was from our trip.
(backalley)
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