I Have a New Publisher! (She Dances for Joy)

Me doing the happy dance!

Me doing the happy dance!

I have signed with a new publisher! Diversion Books has agreed to re-publish “The Obsidian Mirror” AND the sequel, which I am now writing. I simply could not be more pleased. I emailed the manuscript and cover art to them today.

Diversion Books is located in New York City (and on Park Avenue at that. Isn’t that cool? C’mon. It’s cool.). They started as a division of Scott Waxman Literary Agency, but are now an independent company. Diversion publishes a wide range of fiction and non-fiction titles. In my genre, you might recognize authors Henry Kuttner, Ursula K. LeGuin and M.K. Wren.

I am thrilled to be in such august company, and really looking forward to working with this very professional outfit. I am also–needless to say–delighted that “The Obsidian Mirror” will see the light of day again, and that the sequel has a home as well.

I’ll be keeping you posted about the sequel. The one thing I learned from writing “The Obsidian Mirror” is to always start with a plot outline. (In all fairness to myself, I didn’t think at the time that I was actually going to write a novel.) I finished the plot outline for “Fire in the Ocean” (working title; it may change) two weeks ago and started writing it last week. So far, I’m more than 7,000 words and four and a half chapters into it. I like having a plot outline!

I’ll try asking you another question. Do you like the working title of the sequel? Not? I really am looking for feedback.

Terry Pratchett Is Gone, and I Miss Him

Terry Pratchett

Terry Pratchett

Today, I was going to write about some good news, but then the sad news arrived: Terry Pratchett died.

I have written about Pratchett before in these pages because he is one of my best-loved authors. He was a fantasy writer who was also a brilliant satirist and humorist of the highest order. Reading a new Pratchett book was for me as richly satisfying as artisan chocolate, and it lasted a good deal longer. (Plus I can go back and re-experience the books, which is hard, not to say disgusting, when chocolate is involved.)

Pratchett used his fantasy creation, the Discworld, to satirize our absurdities in this world. Nothing was off-limits for him. Personally, I think one of his finest pieces was “Monstrous Regiment,” which satirized bias against women and the absurdity of religion, which are deeply interconnected. Unlike fellow satirist and countryman Evelyn Waugh, Pratchett never indulged in invective; instead he made you laugh. And when you laugh, you become more open. And becoming open to new perspectives is how hearts and minds get changed.

There are, according to Wikipedia, 41 novels in the Discworld series. Pratchett also wrote several other novels, including “Good Omens” with the luminous Neil Gaiman, a series of children’s books, “The Long Earth” series with Stephen Baxter, and numerous handy guides to Discworld, short stories, and more. There’s a lot more to say about this man. He was awarded an O.B.E. and later knighted, so he is officially Sir Terry Pratchett. He suffered from a particularly vicious form of Alzheimer’s disease for eight years, and bore it with humor and bravery. He was deeply knowledgeable about the folklore of the British Isles, and commented to a meeting of folklorists that he viewed folklore much as a carpenter views trees. Wikipedia has an exhaustive amount of material on Pratchett and also his novels, so I won’t go into a lot of detail here–but he was a man of many parts.

I enjoy everything Pratchett wrote, but Discworld holds a special place in my heart (me and millions of others). He created a world so rich in detail, teeming with fascinating characters and creatures, that a return to Discworld was a richly enjoyable experience every time. I love his witches, especially grumpy and wise old Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg, who had a lively girlhood and likes her pint or two. I love brave Captain Carrot, the 6 foot-plus dwarf who is the unacknowledged King of Ankh-Morpork, Discworld’s largest and (probably) most noisome city. And Lord Vetinari, the ultimate politician who always manages to keep things on course without too much bloodshed. And Death, who always SPEAKS IN CAPITALS (and has the last word). In Discworld, you meet hundreds of characters who are so beautifully drawn that they leave the mark of their personalities with you forever.

But the real reason I cried when I heard he had died is because he was kind to me once. I have related this before, but here it is again:

You see, I met Connie Willis first. I was in the vendors’ hall at Worldcon when it came to San Jose, CA several years ago. I happened to glimpse her nametag. Connie Willis is also a favorite author, so I introduced myself—and proceeded to commit every rabid-fan sin it is possible to commit in attempting to praise her work. Even as I heard the vapid words burbling out of my mouth, I knew I was doomed. The expression of pain on Ms. Willis’ face only confirmed my gauche blundering. I attempted to extricate myself by saying, “Well, I’m starting to drool on you, so I guess I’d better go now.” Ms. Willis nodded mute agreement, and I slunk away with my tail between my legs, feeling like a complete moron.

I was standing at a vendor’s stall wondering if it is possible to actually die of embarrassment when a tidy gentleman with a gray beard and a black fedora walked up. I thought he looked familiar, but when the vendor called him “Mr. Pratchett,” my suspicions were confirmed. He stood right next to me as the vendor handed him a CD, saying, “I’ve been saving this for you, but I was afraid I might come across as a rabid fan.” (Like me, I thought.)

Pratchett took the CD and said, “I adore rabid fans!”

I turned to him and said, “Well, then, would you mind if I drooled on your shoulder?”

Pratchett responded, “Not at all—but would you mind drooling on this shoulder”—he patted his right shoulder—“as the other one is already rather damp?”

Instantly, the oppressive cloud of feeling foolish lifted and disappeared. I will never forget how Terry Pratchett’s humor and kindness brightened my day and turned my embarrassment into laughter. (Not that I mean to say Connie Willis made me feel bad. I made myself feel bad. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.)

And now this kind, brilliant, prolific and amazing writer is gone. There will be no more tales of Discworld to anticipate with glee. His brilliance continues to shine in his work, which will live for a long, long time. He set a high standard for humanity. I only hope that someday we live up to it.

The last Tweet on Pratchett's account. Fans will know who is speaking.

The last Tweet on Pratchett’s account. Fans will know who is speaking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

American Folk Lore: There’s No Such Thing

Joseph Noel Paton [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Joseph Noel Paton [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

I just finished reading Terry Pratchett’s “Folklore of Discworld,” co-written with folklorist Jacqueline Simpson. (Do people actually get paid for knowing about folklore? What a great job!) Pratchett and Simpson discuss the relationship between the Discworld’s traditions and those of Earth (with the conceit that folklore, tropes and memes are particles of inspiration that drift across the multiverse, so that myths of Discworld wind up here, and vice versa).

While reading (actually listening to) this book, it struck me how deeply I am attracted to the folklore of the British Isles (although this is obviously not a particularly rare trait, as evidenced by libraries full of epic fantasies, tales of witches and warlocks, dragons and cloaked heroes and faeries). Nothing entranced me more as a child than tales of banshees, pookahs, faeries, disappearing gold pieces, leprechauns, elves and pixies. As an adult, I am still entranced by Tolkein, C.S. Lewis, G.R.R. Martin, and many less well known authors who write in that tradition—whether humorous or not. It’s one of the reasons I adore Pratchett, who once remarked that he regarded folklore much as a carpenter regards trees.

Why be so attracted to the folklore of another place? I could put it down to my Scots-Irish ancestry. But I think the real explanation is that the folklore of my own time and place is sparse and rather unimaginative. Perhaps if I had grown up in Louisiana or some place with more history than California, I would have a healthy backlog of swamp critters, ghosts, haunted mansions, and eerie sightings to freshen the imagination. As it is, I am hard put to say exactly what constitutes folklore here.

Sure, we told each other the stories about the guy and girl making out in the car who hear on the radio about the escaped madman with a hook for a hand. And step on a crack, break your mother’s back. (As this never happened, I didn’t believe it for long.) But these things lacked the enchantment I found in fairy stories and old tales from Ireland, England, Wales and Scotland. Witches, warlocks and wizards. Spirit horses. Water nymphs. Faery gold. Selkies. Leaving milk out for the Good Folk. Strange dancing lights on the moors at night. The Wild Hunt. King Arthur.

An incredibly high percentage of American “folklore” has disappointingly mundane origins. Paul Bunyan and his giant blue ox, Babe, appears to have originated in the oral tradition of lumberjacks, but according to Wikipedia, was “later popularized by freelance writer William B. Laughead (1882–1958) in a 1916 promotional pamphlet for the Red River Lumber Company.” Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer was originally a promotional character created for Montgomery Ward. Pecos Bill was a character created by short story writer Edward S. O’Reilly in the early 20th Century. Johnny Appleseed was a real person, John Chapman, but all he did was plant apple trees, not conjure gold and silver apples or something interesting like that. Santa Claus comes closest to having true folkloric origins, but in America, even he was largely shaped by modern forces in the form of Clement Moore, author of “A Visit from St. Nicholas” in 1823:

“His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face, and a little round belly
That shook when he laugh’d, like a bowl full of jelly:
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laugh’d when I saw him in spite of myself…”

Moore changed the majesty of Father Christmas, a tall, thin gentleman wreathed with holly and robed in green, into a “right jolly old elf,” later immortalized in his modern incarnation by the Coca-Cola Corporation. Moore also invented the eight tiny reindeer, which were not found in the stable of Father Christmas.

Where’s the magic in all this? Sadly lacking, in my opinion. Our modern American monsters are the psychopaths, serial killers, stalkers of children, terrorists real and imagined, and that guy with the hook, who may be folkloric, but he’s not very magical. Our urban legends may technically be folklore, but flashing your headlights getting you in trouble with gangs, or tapeworm eggs in bubble gum, or waking up in a bath of ice with your kidneys missing falls well short of enchantment.

I will admit that we Americans have our share of cryptozoids. Probably the leading examples of this are Sasquatch (Bigfoot) and El Chupacabra (the goatsucker). El Chupa is an import from Mexico, where apparently they are so folklore-rich that some of it is oozing across the border. None of these to my knowledge is actually magic; it’s just that no one has ever proved they exist, so of course, lots of people believe in them. Here’s a map of North American cryptozoology, if you’re interested in more.

And, of course, there’s a lot of flying saucer lore. But I don’t think any of the anal probees would say that there was magic involved.

As I mentioned before, it may depend on where you grew up. In Hawaii it is clear that many ethnic Hawaiians (and also many non-ethnic Hawaiians) believe in the old lore. I met people who believe in ghosts, in Pele and other ancient gods, in Menehune, and in spirits generally, both good and evil.

Magic offers the possibility of the good and brave and clever overcoming evil or at least magical trickery, whereas our monsters are sometimes overcome by the judicial system (and sometimes not). Magic also casts a glamor over folk tales; in fact the word “glamor” used to mean magic or enchantment. Our “folk” heroes are artificially created to make money—although they are still presented to schoolchildren as though they were genuine. I suppose Pratchett would say that when people start to believe in something, it transforms that thing into folklore. But no one really believes in Paul Bunyan or Pecos Bill. Thank heaven, some children still believe in Santa Claus, and around a campfire at night, you can believe anything. But I still think we are a culture that is sorely deprived of a true folkloric element.

Do you agree or disagree? Did you hear a truly magical (and American) story when you were a child? Did you have a haunted house on your street where lights and music could be heard at night? Were tales of helpful pixies or harmful sprites told in your neighborhood?

I would love to hear from you if you have such stories to tell!