Posts by Juliet Marillier
These are challenging times. There’s the political and societal crisis that is rolling out second by second before our collectively horrified eyes. I live in Australia, which is geographically distant from the USA, but I’m well aware that this ripples (or gushes?) out to affect the whole of the globe, my part of it included. Alongside that, war, death and destruction continue around the world. Racism, hatred and division play out on the streets, even here. And let’s not forget climate change, which is well and truly with us now, underlining the failure of many world leaders to take timely and decisive action. Humankind: we are our own worst enemies, and sadly it would appear that we are intent on destroying, not only ourselves, but this beautiful world and all its living things along with us.
That was not the most positive way to start a post about writing. But even as those horrifying developments unfold, I hear voices speaking out in hope. I see poems and essays and opinion pieces of remarkable wisdom, perception and courage. As a writer, you have the powerful tool of your voice. Note my choice of the word tool rather than weapon – I prefer not to cast this as a fight. But it is a battle of sorts, requiring bravery, stamina and skill. Words can indeed be powerful weapons for good or evil.
I’m writing this in company with fellow authors, sharing a table in a public library – we have become good at blocking out the exuberant voices of preschool children attending the regular story hour. In fact, their enjoyment of the bright and welcoming library and of storytelling gives us heart. As for our Write Club meetings, they are of immense value – it’s amazing how heartening it can be simply to work in silence alongside one’s peers. Today I intended to get on with the final chapters of my current work in progress, the sequel to my soon-to-be-released adult fantasy novel, The Amber Owl. But those world events continued to whirl around in my brain, a far greater distraction than the laughter of children. Earlier, I had been wondering how I could summon my usual words of hope for this post, with the world seemingly headed for hell in a handbasket at remarkable speed.
Then, last night, something clicked into place. It was the first rehearsal of the year for our small local choir, after a long break over the summer school holidays. I do love to sing; in the past, music was a major part of my professional life. And we’d been sent some exciting new pieces to learn, so I anticipated an enjoyable evening. What I didn’t expect was a strong reminder of how good singing is for us, both physically and mentally – a real workout for body and mind. I came home tired, but feeling positive, hopeful, thinking of beauty and peace and how important it is to speak up on behalf of what we believe in. What were we singing to inspire this? In particular, a setting of the beautiful Leonora Speyer poem, Measure Me, Sky, by composer Victor C Johnson. You can find it on YouTube, along with at least two other choral […]
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In my August post I talked about writing in turbulent times, and suggested it might be easier to keep going with our creative work if we remained mindful of the small good things in our daily lives. Since I wrote that post our world has become even more turbulent. Shadows loom large over the future. Louder, more aggressive voices threaten to silence our words of hope, courage, defiance, protest. At such times it’s all too easy for the small good things to be lost or dismissed in the face of our fear, our anxiety, our anger that this has come to pass. It’s all too easy for the writer to fall victim to despair.
I’ve come close to it myself, despite my posts celebrating the beauty of nature, the wisdom of storytelling, the strength of our inner spirit. For me, the monumental threats to the planet and to the world order are joined by troubles that loom large in my everyday life – small troubles, some would say, but gut-wrenching on a personal level. My two elderly rescue dogs have been my close companions since they came into my care over three years ago, after being removed from a situation of appalling neglect. For those three and a half years they’ve been doing well, making the most of their second chance and becoming well-known local identities (being small, cute and near-identical helped.) But now both have developed life-threatening health problems. Seeing them suffer is terrible. Managing their situation gobbles up a lot of writing time. Anxiety banishes the muse just when I most need her. Yes, I am in the middle of writing a novel, and it has a looming deadline.
So how do we keep on going when things are hard? How do we help ourselves stay sane, balanced, rational, able to keep writing, to keep speaking out, to keep helping others, be they human or something else? How do we stop ourselves from simply shutting down, creeping into our dark burrows or rolling up hedgehog-style and trying to pretend none of it is real? And how is it that I, who so often write reminders to find beauty, wonder, positivity in this troubled world, seem not to be heeding my own good counsel?
It took a dog to remind me. One of the symptoms of Rocky’s complex medical condition is inappetence (a word that was new to me, meaning loss of appetite.) Part of managing his condition is a special diet. He also needs twice daily medication that should be given with food. My boy was visibly wasting away, not his old self at all, and (of course) he hated the special diet. Meal times turned into lengthy, stressful sagas, not always ending in success. For the first time ever, the old trust between human and beloved dog was on a shaky footing. I might add that I am an experienced carer for old and chronically ill dogs, having fostered or adopted similar rescue animals for at least the last 15 years or so.
So what changed? Well, the eating battle is not yet entirely won. But the moment Rocky decided to accept one, then two, then quite a few hand-delivered morsels of food felt like a blessing. Seeing the old […]
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When I sat down to write thie post, I started by checking my definitions. The first definition the search engine brought up for turbulent was this: ‘characterized by conflict, disorder, or confusion; not stable or calm.’ Apt for the world of today? Most certainly. The second definition related specifically to air or water: ‘moving unsteadily or violently’. That is appropriate right now in my part of the world, where a storm is blowing in from the ocean, with wild winds and heavy rain making their presence known outside my study window, not to mention the booming thunderclaps that make my little dog tremble with fear, while her stone-deaf brother sleeps through it all. Storm sounds do make a change from the buzz and screech of power tools outside that same window, where my neighbour and his friends are working almost daily on the gradual restoration of a neglected old house. A house where a man died a lonely death. I’m surrounded by stories here.
As the rain pelts down outside, I’ve been writing a scene in which a character risks his life to rescue crew members from a sinking boat, with the assistance of porpoises. There is indeed turbulence, both in the water and in the mind and body of the rescuer, not to speak of those whose lives are in jeopardy. In a different scene, a character uses a forest pool for scrying (seeking wisdom in visions) and sees snatches of the boat rescue on the water’s surface. She knows the rescuer, who is far away. Finding the deeper meaning in such visions requires calmness of mind. That calm may be hard to find if you’ve just seen someone you care about on the verge of drowning. So there’s inner turbulence for this character also.
In many earth-based faiths the elements of earth, air, fire and water play a part in ritual practice, and are significant in the way we view the world and our fellow creatures. Water, for instance, can both life-giving and, in times of storm or flood, destructive, as shown in traditional stories from many parts of the world. Perhaps, in our writing, we draw on both the peaceful and the turbulent. We may find that dichotomy in the world beyond the window and also in ourselves.
Are my choices as a writer influenced by the world outside my window? Of course they are, even though I’m writing a fantasy novel set in a far-off place, in an earlier time, combining real world elements with pure invention. Everything in our lives is fuel for storytelling. The world outside our window, and the wider world beyond, is almost certain to play some part in what we write and how we do it. Even if your characters are not human, it’s your observation of human (or animal) behaviour that helps you shape them into something real and compelling on the page. A writer may choose to set aside the big issues confronting the world right now, and write a story intended solely to spread good cheer, to divert and entertain the reader, to provide rest for the stressed-out brain or solace for the wounded spirit. In my own dark times I read stories like that and I find them as comforting […]
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‘There were trees here once, in another age,’ Mother Rowan said. ‘Great, wonderful trees something like the one you called the Ancestor. Such things they witnessed in their long lives: the fall of kings, the deeds of heroes, the passing away of tribes and the grief of survivors. Courage and cowardice; justice and tyranny; love and hate. No wonder old trees are so full of wisdom.’
That’s a quote from my work in progress, folks. Odd way to start a WU post, you may think. How can the wisdom of trees shed light on the craft or business of writing? Well, this is a post about storytelling, and the protagonist of my novel is a storyteller who cares very much for the environment, and in particular, the preservation of forests. And it’s a post about writing in an age when trees are often not accorded their due respect. In some parts of the world, those in authority understand how vital the survival of trees is in the struggle to protect our planet. In other parts, tragically, those with the power to act don’t understand this—or don’t care—even when it’s playing out right before their eyes. Here in Western Australia we’ve had virtually no rain in the last 7 months (late spring until end of autumn.) This has been the hottest May since records began. And our trees are dying. Street trees in the cities and suburbs; forest trees further away. Not only young trees, but mature ones and ancient, celebrated ones. Habitat for wildlife. Shade for humans. Breath for the earth.
A step back into folklore, fairy tale and legend now. Trees have an important place in traditional storytelling. In the days of tales told around the fire, folk most likely understood the importance of forests without knowing the science behind it (I’ll refrain from a harsh judgement of today’s humans here.) People in those times knew trees offered shelter from the cold, shade from the heat, food, fuel, somewhere to hide from your enemies. No doubt tree deities or spirits were duly thanked for these gifts. As for storytelling, where would the Robin Hood legend be without Sherwood Forest, where you can still see Robin’s ancient oak? In Irish mythology, a lone hawthorn tree was believed to be a portal between the human world and the Otherworld, a place where a person might communicate with that realm of magic and seek wisdom. And there’s the Ogham alphabet, thought to have been used by Irish druids back in the day, in which each letter relates to a tree species with its associated symbolism. These signs were inscribed on stones or the trunks of trees, or sometimes, it’s said, shown subtly with the fingers as a means of covert communication – not so much spelling out words as using a coded sign language. Handy in an awkward business meeting between, say, druid advisers to warring kings.
Can a tree be wise? Can writers learn from that wisdom? I think so. Trees send their roots deep down. They grow tall. They spread their branches wide. Some can live for many, many times a human lifespan. Readers may remember my previous posts mentioning the ancient yews at Crom […]
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There are the turning points in nature: the day we feel summer’s scorching heat start to abate as a sneaky breeze ruffles the leaves and a few drops of actual rain fall. I write from Western Australia, where a climate change summer is giving us a series of appalling heatwaves. The summers are always hot here, but this one keeps setting new records. There’s the turning point at the end of winter: if you live in the Northern Hemisphere you may see the ice on lakes break up and melt. The trees will put out fresh green leaves, and you’ll start to feel some real warmth in the sunshine. Like magic, almost. It’s no wonder the earth-based faiths so often mark such times with ritual. The acknowledgement of moving into darkness; the celebration of emerging into light. In an earlier age, the changes might have been attributed to the action of gods or spirits.
I’ve written before about the influence of changes on traditional storytelling, whether it’s the regular changes we expect from the turning of the year or extreme events that disrupt the pattern and cause chaos: cyclone, eruption, flood, plague, war. Many old stories are shaped around the way such changes impact on human existence, and were part of helping folk cope with whatever challenges came up. In a subsistence culture, survival depends on learning to deal with both steady patterns of life and times of disruption and upheaval.
These days we don’t engage in oral storytelling in quite the way we might have done in earlier times. But we do read fiction; we do watch movies and television shows; we attend live performances that tell a story in one way or another. And some of us write. Many stories are built around the impact of change and the capacity of the central characters to cope with it, not least in my genre of fantasy. Think of Frodo’s journey away from the comforting familiarity of the Shire, a wrenching change for the home-loving hobbit, with consequences that affect the whole of Middle Earth. Looking beyond fantasy, a change such as a marriage break-up or a death or a major illness could spark a whole story, one that might have special meaning for readers who have experienced something similar. Of course, a reader might also relate strongly to a character in folklore or fairy tale—such tales have a universality that keeps them relevant over the years. It’s no wonder so many writers are now giving us their own imaginative versions of fairy tales, folklore, myths and legends.
Change can be disruptive. It can get in the way of our steady, well-ordered lives. I’m feeling this especially strongly at present, though alongside Frodo’s my change is miniscule. I’m almost due to submit the manuscript of my next novel, and it’s my first experience of doing a series with a small independent publisher rather than the major publishing houses that have brought out most of my 26 backlist titles. Downsizing, you might call it. But as I rush to get my last revisions done before sending this in—insightful suggestions from a trusted beta reader led to the need for quite a lot more tweaking—my confidence is flagging. I love this story and its characters. […]
Read MoreSpring 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 […]
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Is it something about the time of year? The change of season, the weather? Or is it world events (war, climate change, inept politicians) getting to us writers again? Here in Australia winter is turning to spring and nature is in beautiful bloom, but instead of considering new beginnings and positivity, many in my circle of writer friends are expressing weariness, lack of motivation, self-doubt. For some, this occurs alongside completing projects, winning awards, and speaking brilliantly at workshops and conventions. Their success as writers is evident; it’s public knowledge. The internal struggle is mostly hidden. But it is real.
I was close to giving in to this kind of self-doubt recently. I’d been working hard on the novel and meeting my self-imposed deadlines, but I felt tired out. I slept longer. I spent too much time on lightweight recreational reading when I should have been writing. I opened my home and heart to an elderly, unwell foster canine while knowing perfectly well that managing three needy old dogs would suck up time and energy. Self sabotage? Maybe. There are other people like me who, when especially busy, have a tendency to add to their existing workload. It’s as if we’re testing how many balls we can juggle before dropping some.
At such times the intervention of a fairy godparent would be helpful. Lacking them, we can work our own hearth magic to help restore our physical and emotional equilibrium and our self-belief. These suggestions may be obvious, but it doesn’t hurt to remind ourselves of them occasionally.
Value your past body of work / achievements
Re-read something you wrote that you know is good – a passage or story that still makes you laugh or cry or feel deep satisfaction.
Consider all you have written. Think of all you’ve had published. Whether it’s one story or a zillion, give yourself a virtual achievement award, and have fun designing the trophy. Writing is hard. You’ve done well!
Remember the positive feedback you’ve had from readers, and perhaps also from respected professionals. In particular, remember any comment that really warmed your heart. (For me, the winner is the feedback from readers who’d been through PTSD, and from mental health workers, about how my Blackhorn & Grim series helped them/their clients.)
Think about how you’ve assisted other writers by offering guidance. That might take the form of a contribution to Writer Unboxed or another writing blog, or teaching/mentoring, or agreeing to read someone’s work and provide feedback. It might be through example: someone reads your work and is inspired to begin writing, or to create art, or to write music. This provides a wonderful boost to the spirits. If it happens, value it.
Work on your physical and mental health
Look after your body. A healthy diet and regular exercise, even if it’s walking a geriatric dog around the block rather than running a marathon, will help you stave off those attacks of self-doubt. Also, the dog loves you even at times when you don’t like yourself so much. That love is a precious gift.
While we’re on exercise: swimming is particularly good for switching your brain into a different mode. Creative ideas may flow as you move through the water.
Writing takes time and energy. You may be sitting at a […]
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In traditional storytelling, especially in fairy tales, the main characters often don’t have names. Instead they are referred to only by their roles: the tailor, the shepherdess, the knight, the princess, the giant. When a character does get a name, often it’s an emblematic sort of name, like Snow White (named for her skin as white as snow) or Rapunzel (named for the herb her mother stole from the witch’s garden.) Then there’s Prince Charming, named thus (I guess) because his parents assumed he’d grow up to be much admired, and would learn pretty court manners in preparation for the prince job. Jack (of Jack and the Beanstalk) has a real name; but you’ll find quite a few different stories with a Jack in them, and he’s usually making mischief and/or getting into trouble, so that one may be emblematic as well – what about the Jack in a card deck, also known as the Knave? Generally those stories are not big on character development. We may have a dramatic change of circumstances: the goatherd slays the dragon and gets to wed the princess (too bad it she’s not keen on the idea); the tailor is kind to the elves and is given magical assistance as a reward. But an individual human journey that draws us in deeply? Generally not. Maybe fairy tale characters don’t need names.
Legends are different, being almost always associated with a particular location, a notable event that took place (or may have taken place) there, and a person or being: Robin Hood, William Tell, King Arthur. Each of those has some historical basis, but in the cases of Arthur and Robin, the old story has morphed over the years into an elaborate piece of (mostly) fantasy. For Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, this is largely down to a twelfth century Welsh cleric and writer, Geoffrey of Monmouth, and to a lesser extent to Chrétien de Troyes, a French writer of the same general period. There are many more such examples. The stories are grand, heroic, stirring, and often deeply romantic, and they’ve been retold and rewritten over and over right to the present day. The retellings and reworkings tend to reflect the culture and values of their time; the storyteller shapes the tale to resonate with its audience. Generally the original character names, or recognisable versions of them, remain.
Today’s writers, and fantasy writers in particular, have produced some ground-breaking work when re-interpreting well-known, and often well-loved, traditional stories. A case in point is Juliet E McKenna’s The Cleaving, published recently by Angry Robot (UK). In this compelling novel, the heroic trappings of the Arthurian story are stripped away, and we are confronted with the gritty reality of the time and culture through the eyes of the women in the tale. It’s a challenging read at times, especially for anyone who loves the pageantry and romanticism of the Arthurian legend. It’s also deeply rewarding. These characters are not the idealised figures of legend, but real individuals struggling to take back control of their lives and their world. We recognise their names—Ygraine, Morgana, Nimue, Guinevere—and because the Arthurian tale is so familiar to us, it hits us with striking force when these […]
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Here in the southern hemisphere the season is turning. A baking hot Australian summer—now even hotter thanks to climate change—gives way to cooler and damper conditions where I live, but not before a period of dramatic rises and dips in temperature from day to day. Inside, dogs are snuggling close to heaters. Outside, leaves have been falling for months, or so it seems. I wish I could understand the mind of a tree, with the climate under such stress, and the ancient, steady pattern of the seasons replaced by wild extremes. Instead, I rake up the leaves. I greet the magpies, regular visitors to my garden. I check on plants that are in trouble for one reason or another, and attempt solutions for them. I feel delight that some are doing well despite the odds. I observe that some plants have been confused by the juxtaposition of very hot days and chilly ones; of (literally) months without rain followed by a flooding deluge. Trees respond by putting out new shoots in autumn, or flowering out of season, or with that continuing leaf drop. When I go back indoors to write, my mind is ready for the task. It’s little wonder that my work in progress is built around a threat to nature, and a protagonist who must overcome extreme challenges, both internal and external, to fight for what they believe in.
I’ve blogged before about the way natural cycles—the seasons, the weather, the life patterns of creatures, including humankind—helped shape the spiritual beliefs and the storytelling in societies of the past. These days, armed with scientific knowledge, we are less likely to blame some malign god for a devastating flood, fire, or plague. We are less likely, when witnessing a growing disaster of human making, to believe a kinder deity can supply solutions. It often seems there are no solutions. But we writers have a strong tool in our hands. As the storytellers of this age, we can make a difference; we can fight for a cause through our work. Not by hammering the message home; not by ranting and raving; not by lecturing. Through the magic of story. The story, well told, captures the listener or reader and holds them enthralled. It presents its message subtly, in a way that both entertains the reader and causes them to think, to ponder, to try out new paths, to learn.
I’m coming out of a two-year writing gap, with the exception of a couple of short stories. That’s a long hiatus for me. Prior to that I’ve had a new novel on the go every year since my first was published way back in 1998. Now I’m happy to be tackling what might be called a project of the heart. This time around I’m working with a small independent publishing house rather than the major publishers of the past. I feel as if I have more artistic freedom, more ability to build my own passionate beliefs into the story. This is not a novel about climate change; the quasi-historical setting doesn’t allow that. But the underlying theme, related to protecting nature, is entirely relevant to the enormous challenge we face in our time. It’s also a story whose protagonist doesn’t fit the mould […]
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When I think of the word home in relation to writing fiction, certain novels spring immediately to mind. There’s Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, in which home and family are the core that binds all. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy, in keeping with much high fantasy, has an epic journey away from home and an eventual return, but our protagonist is so changed by his experiences that the old home no longer fits him. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society, by Annie Barrows and Mary Ann Shaffer, is a long-time favourite of mine. Through letters exchanged between various characters, it tells a moving story of life under wartime occupation on the island of Guernsey, and the power of books and reading to unite a community in times of crisis. It is anchored, not only by the idea of Guernsey as both ancestral and newly discovered home, but also by the way its motley crew of characters becomes a kind of family. And what about A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles? Its central character, under lengthy house arrest in a luxury hotel, has the remarkable capacity to create a home and draw in a circle that feels like family. Barbara Kingsolver’s Demon Copperhead, whose framework is that of the Dickens classic David Copperfield, is a powerful story of a young man from a deprived background growing up in an inadequate foster care system, and shows the reader that home may not necessarily be a physical place. Sometimes it may be about friendship, community, or meeting just one person who believes in you. It can be a long journey for the damaged spirit to find that home, a journey every bit as epic as Frodo’s from the Shire to Mount Doom (and back again.)
Many traditional tales are built on journeys – stories of “there and back again.” Often three siblings in turn (ah, that magical number 3) are sent out on a quest of some kind, perhaps grand in scale, perhaps as domestic as fetching water from the well. The behaviour of each brother or sister determines how the quest concludes. Generosity of spirit, or kindness, or selflessness, often sees the youngest or least likely sibling achieve the goal. If magic is involved, the right behaviour may mean it works in your favour – for instance, when you speak you cough up rubies and diamonds rather than frogs and toads. I can’t say I find either appealing! Or the quest may be undertaken solo, as with Jack and the Beanstalk, requiring physical strength, quick wits, and a readiness to heed good advice. These stories don’t always contain a return home, at least not to the home of before. In fairy tales, achieving the quest tends to enrich the protagonist’s circumstances so that the hut becomes a comfortable house, or the house a mansion, or the mansion a castle. What is the message of such stories? Do good and you will become wealthy? Do good and you will become powerful? The message that doing good will make you happy can get a little lost sometimes. But as I’ve said before, those tales change with the passage of time and the consequent changes of social norms. My story Copper, Silver, […]
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Greetings for the New Year, all! In 2023 I’m presenting a new series for WU, exploring how walking ancient pathways, physical or metaphorical, can strengthen writers in an age when humankind sometimes seems bent on destroying not only itself, but also the precious and beautiful natural world of which we are a part. I’ll build the series around the philosophies that guide me in life and in artistic practice. These owe a significant amount to my membership of a druid order, OBOD. But I am no spiritual leader. I’m an ordinary woman, I’m a writer, and I’m on a journey. The way is sometimes steep and stony, taking a toll on the bravest traveller. And it’s sometimes broad and sun-kissed, inviting the wayfarer to sprint, dance, or enjoy a quiet stroll with body and mind at ease. I hold out a hand and invite you to walk with me awhile.
We’ve been through a turbulent few years, and the dark clouds are still hanging over our world. Climate change, the pandemic, war, political instability, leaders held back from meaningful action by their own blinkered focus or by political systems that no longer seem adequate to deal with the challenges we face … I don’t know about you, but the weight of all that, and the feeling of powerlessness it brings, sometimes make it hard for me to keep on writing, let alone write the kind of fiction I usually love to create, stories in which characters can face some pretty grim challenges on their physical or psychological journeys, but which end, at the very least, with a note of learning, redemption and/or hope. Whether a story is set in the world as we know it, or in a different time, or in an invented world rich with magic, I present my characters with challenges we all know: the struggle to be brave, to be part of a community, to take meaningful action or to grow beyond prejudice. To own our true voice; to be worthy of love; to find the courage to walk away. When the world teeters on the brink of disaster, a storyteller must delve deep to uncover that note of hope.
I often wonder if the ability to tell stories is an inherited quality, something in the DNA. My ancestry has Celtic and pre-Celtic roots, and I think of myself as one link in a long line of storytellers. I imagine a time when my antecedents lived in a subsistence society, in which the patterns of the natural world – the changing seasons, the vagaries of the weather – played a major part in the survival of the tribe. A deep understanding of nature was vital to that society, and that included dealing with disasters such as fire, flood, famine and plague. In such a culture, oral storytelling around the fire at day’s end performed several functions. Entertainment, yes. Some of the silliest and funniest stories may have been invented to keep folk’s spirits up – to unite the group in laughter. But storytelling also teaches life lessons, presenting them in a way that engages and holds the interest of listeners. So, through the tales with their trappings of the bizarre and magical, their monsters […]
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In my workshops for aspiring writers, I am often asked how best to categorize a manuscript when submitting it to an agent or publisher. As I’m mainly a writer of fantasy, this question usually comes from fledgling writers of speculative fiction. Where does their work fit into the various sub-genres of fantasy, or is it actually science fiction? If there’s a love story, maybe it’s romantic fantasy, fantasy-romance, paranormal romance? Fantasy comes in many varieties. We have epic/high fantasy (think Tolkien), fairytale fantasy, low fantasy, urban fantasy. Then there are sword and sorcery, grimdark, and magic realism. And don’t forget cosy fantasy, a sub-genre I hadn’t heard of until a couple of weeks ago. I’ll come back to that later. A similar range of variants exists in other kinds of genre fiction, such as romance, crime and mystery.
When this comes up in a workshop, I usually say, forget this for now. First get the manuscript all set for submission. That means not only finished, but polished and edited to the very best standard the writer can achieve. I explain about the value of critique partners or writing groups, the need to seek feedback from someone with the appropriate expertise, the value of beta readers and so on. A writer who reads widely is less likely to ask that question about sub-genre – they will already have a fair idea of where their work fits in. Others may need to think it through, in particular to be clear about the difference between science fiction and fantasy. The generally accepted definitions are that SF contains elements that do not and cannot exist in the world of today, but that might exist in the future, eg human contact with life elsewhere in the universe, where fantasy contains elements that do not and could not exist in our world now or in the future eg magic, supernatural beings (though that definition is crying out to be challenged.) Just to confuse the issue, it is possible for a story to be a blend of science fiction and fantasy. Steampunk, with its combination of magic and technology, has the potential to be both at once. Once the manuscript is as perfect as it can be, the writer does need to decide how they’ll describe it in their cover letter to the agent/publisher. I remind them that if they’re lucky enough to have someone read it, that person will first be looking for outstanding storytelling and originality, whatever the genre or sub-genre.
Genre categories can be misleading. They don’t mean the same thing to everyone. What led me to write this blog post was an invitation to participate in a panel about Cosy Fantasy. I was startled, to say the least. I had never thought of my books as in any way cosy. To me the term suggested the fantasy equivalent of Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple series, something set in a quaint English village or equivalent, with a cast of (mostly) loveable or amusing characters and a story the reader can breeze through without being too troubled. As it happened, I couldn’t do the panel in question because of time zone problems. I asked why they would put me on a cosy fantasy panel when I don’t write […]
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Why would you go on a writers’ retreat? To network with fellow authors? To get intensive writing done without the usual interruptions from kids, pets, partners, the day job, real life? To have fun? To learn? The answers will be varied, reflecting the undeniable truth that not all writers are the same. Writers’ retreats also vary. A retreat may be tailored to a certain group or built around the expertise of a particular guest. It may be a small, informal event arranged by writers who already know one another, or it may be planned months in advance and attract participants from far and wide, folk who have never met before. It may be casual or formal. It may take place in a beach house, a B&B, or a castle.
Attending a retreat may give a writer new insights into the craft or business of writing. People may overcome problems and find opportunities; they may make new friends. Most writers will welcome quiet time and creative space. Introverts must meet the challenge of engaging with strangers. Shy folks may find themselves asked to stand up and speak to the group, or even to the public, about their work – uncomfortable for many, but an essential skill for a published writer. People at the start of their writing journey may welcome the opportunity to mingle with more established writers, or they may find the experience rather overwhelming. Supremely self-assured people may discover that quieter folk have some good insights. Listening, like writing, is a skill that improves with practice. There’s always something to learn.
I slipped in that castle reference for a reason. Recently I attended a writers’ retreat in the beautiful setting of Crom Castle in Ireland, residence of the Earl and Countess of Erne. The retreat was organised through an independent Australian publisher, Serenity Press. One wing of Crom Castle has been converted to luxury self-catering accommodation for visiting groups. For the writers’ retreats we have the services of the castle butler, housekeeper and cook – not quite Downton Abbey, but definitely the same vibe. The Crom Estate is managed by the National Trust, and is a truly magical place in which to walk and think and create. There’s a beautiful lake with resident swans, a deer park, and a remarkable woodland area. Fields of wildflowers now replace what were once manicured formal gardens, and there are many varieties of birds, animals and insects. Our week-long retreat had seventeen participants, age range 18 to 70+, hailing from many parts of the world.
The experience brought home to me how a person can learn from the unexpected. As a special guest at this retreat I had some duties to perform. I gave a keynote speech and an informal workshop. I had intended to do a lot of writing, as I’d done at previous retreats, but that didn’t happen. I spent most of my free time walking around the estate, observing, listening, taking in the beauty and magic of the place. It is fertile ground for a writer of fiction, and especially so for a writer in my genre. The Irish settings of several of my series owe a great deal to my time spent on the Crom Estate – this […]
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Recently I attended a book launch for Slipping the Noose by Meg Caddy, second book in a YA duology about notorious pirate Anne Bonny. Many attendees embraced the invitation to dress as pirates for the event. (Reader, I did not dress as a pirate.) The most exciting part, for me, was seeing a young writer whom I had mentored when they were in high school now launching their third novel to considerable acclaim. Even better, the launch was attended not only by the author’s family and friends, but by many enthusiastic members of the local writing community. The event brought home to me what a privilege it was to have been involved in the early stages of this writer’s development.
Did this event make me feel old? Just a bit. But it was wonderful to see that this writer’s joy and dedication have only increased in the time since we first met as mentor and mentee. I’m confident they are already reaching out to a new generation of writers and spreading their delight in storytelling. If you’re interested in reading the two novels featuring the unforgettable Anne Bonny, they’re available in paperback and Kindle editions. You should read Devil’s Ballast first. The books are suitable for older YA (14+) and are also a good read for adults.
This experience reminded me of the opportunities that exist for established writers, not only to create stories and send them out into the world for readers to enjoy, but also to help other writers grow and develop in their turn. That reminder came at an ideal time for me – my own writing is in the doldrums at present, and I’m asking myself serious questions about what comes next. By nature an introvert as well as something of a perfectionist, I limit my teaching to the occasional workshop these days. Sometimes I think that the more teaching I do, the more I realise how little I know. That made the recent book launch a particularly positive experience for me, even though I can claim only a small bit of credit for the writer’s success!
There are plenty of ways in which we can help our fellow writers, not only those coming up, but also our peers. There are also some possible pitfalls along the way.
Write cover endorsements: I’m often asked to do this, and I’ve read some brilliant new work as a result. An endorsement from an established writer can help boost sales. Ideally a request for an endorsement will be sent to my agent from an editor at the publishing house, allowing me to say yes or no at arm’s length. There are also direct requests from writers whom I know in real life – also OK, as I have a good idea of whether or not I’ll be able to comment favourably. Requests from my own readers are much trickier. Imagine yourself agreeing to read such an advance copy and finding that the work is not up to publishable standard, or that the publisher involved has rated a mention on the Writer Beware site. At this stage of the publishing journey, with a book almost ready for release, it’s way too […]
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