A Writer’s Give and Take
By Juliet Marillier | November 8, 2023 |
Spring is moving into a baking early summer here in Australia; the fire season is already upon us. In a few days I will be travelling to Ireland for a writers’ retreat, and the contrast will be dramatic, with autumn storms in that region unusually fierce this year. Tempting as it is to draw parallels with various world events of the present time, or to comment on climate change, this is my final post for 2023 and I want to end the year on a positive note.
I’m lucky enough to live within walking distance of a river, in an area with many wonderful old trees, mostly eucalypts. My suburb and my garden are visited by a variety of birds. We also see quendas (bandicoots) which are expert at tunnelling under fences; opossums; snakes; lizards large and small. I now have a few animal rescues to my credit: not only the unlikely case of the magpie caught in a picket fence, which inspired the opening scene of my work in progress, but quite a few small but significant rescues of drowning bees or lizards. The whole suburb, on the fringe of Perth, Western Australia, is alive with blossoms at this time of year. Jacarandas wear their springtime purple, roses abound in front gardens, and households with lemon trees share their abundant harvest by leaving boxes of fruit out for passers-by to help themselves. No wonder there are so many bees.
My street is short and narrow. Several of the houses, including mine, date back to the early 1900s. One-way traffic; house numbers go up to 20. At one end is a bakery and cafe; at the other, the river. A good street. A street where most people know one another. A street where houses seldom change hands. But sometimes change comes in a flood. So it is with our street. Between autumn and spring the home of a long-term, well-liked resident who had died last year was put on the market and sold. One of most energetic and best known older folk, source of many wonderful tales about growing up in wartime England, suddenly became unable to live independently and moved into residential care; their house was quickly sold. Another resident of the street then died under particularly sad circumstances. A family went away for six months, leaving their house empty. And so on. The rest of us lived our lives, went to work or worked from home, walked our dogs, attended our social events. We exchanged our news when we met on the street. But it felt different. So different. Almost as if the unpredictability of the climate (and world events) had filtered down to suburban level.
Something happened a day or two ago to hearten me. It was a small thing, but it reflected what has been so significant about living in this particular street, which has become something of a community. In an attempted declutter of my over-full house, I rediscovered a practice chanter in a beautiful tartan-lined box. A practice chanter allows a learner to play bagpipes without the full, heroic, marching-into-battle sound, which not all housemates or neighbours love. This chanter was a relic of long ago, from a time when I attempted to teach myself to play the pipes. I never quite got there, and it languished in storage for many years. But there’s a real piper living in this street, a person whose music lifts the heart, and I realised that at last I could find the chanter a home where its voice could be set free. The recipient was delighted with this gift; their work includes assisting young musicians, so the chanter will find an appreciative player. It feels good to give. And I also received. The local piper told me a true story of a friend who owned and still played a set of pipes that had been played at the Battle of the Somme. Just think of it — those pipes are over a hundred years old and still in service. My writer’s brain filled with possibilities. What had those pipes witnessed? How many stories could they tell? Are the pipes still telling those tales in their unique musical voice? Maybe we hear the sounds of battle, the effortful advance, the screams and whispers of the dying. The song of grief; the young soldier’s loss of innocence. And then I thought of trees: the trees from whose wood bagpipes might be crafted, the trees still standing, perhaps on the outskirts of a long-ago battlefield. Trees have very long lives. Their roots go deep. They, too, are witness to generations of human courage and human folly. When I gave away something that had been precious to me, I was given something equally precious. The seed, not of a tree, but of a story. Inspiration.
What has this to do with writing, you ask? I guess it’s related to that oft-asked question, ‘Where do you get your ideas from?’ You may be writing a story whose setting is far away in time, distance and culture from the place where you live now. It may be set in an entirely invented world. But you use what you know to build what you write. A writer takes the raw materials of real life and crafts them into a story. Where do we get our ideas from? Everywhere. We use our senses, our memory, our reading, our history, our interactions. Every writer is different; every writer brings their own unique interpretation to what they see, hear, feel, remember, learn. And something small, slight, apparently insignificant, can spark an epic saga, a polished literary gem, or an entertaining page-turner. For a writer, every single day can bring inspiration. We are fortunate indeed.
Do you gain inspiration from small things? How does your daily life feed into your creative work? What’s your unique anser to the question, Where do you get your ideas from?
Juliet Marillier has written twenty-four novels for adults and young adults and two collections of short fiction. Her works of historical fantasy have been published around the world and have won numerous awards. Juliet’s most recent series was Warrior Bards, of which the third and final book, A Song of Flight, was published in 2021. Her collection of reimagined fairy tales, Mother Thorn and Other Tales of Courage and Kindness, had its trade release in 2022. Mother Thorn is illustrated by Kathleen Jennings and published by Serenity Press.
Juliet is currently working on a two-book fantasy series. The first book in this duology, The Amber Owl, will be published by New Dawn in February 2025.
When not writing, Juliet looks after a small crew of rescue dogs.
Lovely, descriptive post. I have a small cloth-covered box full of old women’s gloves from my grandmother. That box (and a pair of gloves) made it into my YA novel, Half-Truths. You never know what an object will inspire.
Oh, so many stories in those gloves, I’m sure!
There are many small inspirations in my office. Framed pictures of strange towers. A collection of bizarre ceramic stemmed goblets. A tableau of a toy Good Humor ice cream truck, next to which are three Lego steampunk demon hunters, who are gathered around a very tiny plastic screaming nun.
I have no idea what that tableau means, but someday it will be a story. And then there are the many, many research books on topics for which I do not yet have stories, but just in case I have those books on hand for the day. Small things but great comfort.
Makes me wonder who has the weirdest set of inspirations in their office, Benjamin! Mine includes well-chewed soft toys that once belonged to a beloved dog, a set of small metal warriors, a Yoda figurine, and a group of ceramic chickens.
A wonderful post today, Juliet. YOur comment about small inspirations reminds me of something the head of the math department at the university where I studied often said: The Difference between great minds and minds that are not so great is that the great think deeply about simple things. Your post suggests a corollary: Fertile imaginations allow simple things to affect them deeply.
Have a safe trip to Ireland and a productive retreat in that land haunted by great writers and brilliant tales.
Thanks, David. I love that quote and the corollary – it feels deeply true. I’ll do my best to enjoy the retreat – I love Ireland. Hoping to get lots of writing done AND enjoy the company and the magical setting.
Juliet, this is such a lovely and heartening essay. I’ve been thinking about you, here in Salem. I just walked by the Witch’s Brew restaurant and fondly remembered our lunch. So much has happened since, and yet it seems like only yesterday. Brisk with blowing leaves and blue skies here. We miss you!
Wishing you cooler and calm days ahead. Thanks for the lift!
Hi Vaughn, and thanks! Faceboook is bringing up photos from my last visit to Salem, mostly beautiful autumn trees in the park near our hotel. I remember that lunch very well. Hope you are all having a great time, and I wish I could have made it this year.
A beautiful post, Juliet. I love the lines you draw between the pipes and the trees. For me, both are keepers of old wisdom, maybe of old follies too. All valuable to remember. For me inspiration comes in surprising ways. A turn of phrase, a mood, a color. Even dreams can leave traces of a story behind. Lately, I’m finding inspiration in the backstory and character bio material from my WIP. Have a safe and lovely trip to Ireland.
Thank you, Susan. The past experiences of my characters are also emerging in more detail and helping shape the story (even though I had it all worked out in advance.) Characters becoming real on the page, a good thing. Lovely ot hear from you!
What a beautiful post. I write historical fiction and my latest novel was prompted by one random sentence buried in an 1893 obituary that i had to use a magnifying glass to read. So many times I’ve come across something and said, “Ooooo…there’s a story in this.”
On another note, where is the retrear.in Ireland? (I’m not stalking you, I need a dream…).
Hi Anne. The retreat is run by Serenity Press (an Australian publisher with family connections in Ireland) and is at Crom Castle, County Fermanagh, just over the border in Northern Ireland. It’s been an annual event for a few years, hosted in Crom Castle by the Earl and Countess of Erne. I hope you make it one year!
Juliet, such a lovely farewell post. Thank you. I, too, wonder about the lives of trees–what stories they could tell. My sister had made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and she told me about the Garden of Gethsemane, how ancient those olive trees were. Closer to home we have live oaks, the angel oak tree being the oldest this side of the Mississippi. I lead a small life, walking my dog, riding my bicycle to the church or the library, sitting out on my porch with a cup of tea, enjoying the symphony of birds, squirrels and insects, and have a rich interior life with the writing. It’s truly a life of leisure, cooking, gardening, making music, and writing. Deo gratias!
Thank you. My ideas come very slowly. When I want one, I know it’s in there; I just have to tease it out. Progress can come from anywhere-another story, TV, something someone says. I have to do one of the things that’s hardest for me, practice patience. Ugh!
I hope you have a great time at your retreat in Ireland, and a wonderful summer at home.
Bob, maybe the slow process improves the result! No pain, no gain? But patience can be hard to find, especially when you need to get something done. Sending positive vibes, and may the winter be kind to you.
A lovely post as usual, Juliet. Ideas are like jewels, some more precious than others, some that glitter and shine and some that when you explore them are dull, even aged and don’t offer much of a future. But even those duller jewels can often be polished with hard work. Thus, if today what anyone reading this is writing, you might need to shine it up, polish it more…then it will be brighter, provide more meaning, even have that jewel tone. (At least I was trying with these metaphors!!)
Very true, Elizabeth, and beautifully expressed. Use all the metaphors you want!
Missing you in Salem this week Juliet and remembering how in my first days of discovering my story in 2018 you generously talked story and inspiration with me. You were in progress turning aside from one project and looking for new inspiration. It was such a profound moment for me in my firsts into fiction—seeing how open and adaptive we writers must be market and creative winds. The result was Warrior Bards. You tuned me in to inspiration. And paying attention to the tiny magics we weave with simple presence. Powerful wisdom. Story seed is everywhere. Enjoy Ireland and a good winter gale. I love writing on with you in mind.
Great to hear from you, Tori! I’m so glad our interaction had such a positive result for you. I’m sure I will enjoy the retreat in Ireland, if not the very long trip to get there. And I’m hoping to do solid work on the last few chapters of my work in progress, if I don’t get too distracted by the fun side of the programme. Power to your pen, my friend!
Power indeed!
Hi Juliet, I’m not a writer nor an especially deep thinker. As I think you might guess from my Facebook posts. So I’m somewhat of an imposter here, commenting on your blog. But I enjoyed your bagpipes anecdote enormously. Yesterday evening, just after 8.30pm, as a soft late spring sun was closing its descent somewhere west of a heaving Melbourne city, I heard an incongruous sound. Well, at least it was incongruous for a Saturday night suburban Ivanhoe. I heard the bagpipes being played. Practiced, briefly, and then played by an evidently skilled piper. I’ve heard him/ her playing before, mostly on evenings such as this, when the day has been warm and kind, when the evening air is light and still, carrying the poetry of music across gardens and houses and through green leafy streets. I’ve got no idea where it comes from. But there are some RSL houses not too far away and I wonder if it originates there. A lone piper, a melancholic tune, a setting sun, a suburb a long way from a Scottish homeland. Now if I was a writer, I’m sure there would be a story to weave around that.
Hi Martyn, it’s so good to hear from you on Writer Unboxed. You are always welcome to comment here, and I suspect you actually are a writer, putting your talent into the way you post online. Your unknown local piper would certainly be the seed for a good story, possibly quite a sad one. But then, the person is still playing music, and that is a sign that hope is not lost. I’m happy you shared this!