Waiting and the Tarot

The worst part about where I'm at right now is waiting. Waiting to get feedback on my senior project; waiting to hear back from the University of Iowa, where I've applied for graduate school; waiting to hear back from the agent I most recently queried (which may or may not ever actually happen, since it's a bigger agency). I'm normally pretty good at patience, but sometimes I just want to know what's going to happen. Especially with things like Iowa, which are going to determine what I'm doing next year--more school trying to find a job. I'm really, really hoping for the former.

Now, onto the writing portion of this week's post. Last time, I mentioned that I have been working on a collection of flash fiction-esque stories inspired by the major arcana of the tarot. I say flash fiction-esque because most of these stories took more than a few minutes to write, and several of them are much longer than a typical flash fiction piece. Anyway, I finished the series earlier in the week. The entire piece totals at roughly 12,000 words. A little long for a short story, but much, much shorter than what I'm used to writing.   Overall, I consider the experiment a success, though several of the pieces were rushed and I'm not entirely sure if I pulled off all the little challenges I incorporated. My favorite is a second-person piece (aka, written using "you" instead of "he/she" or "I"), inspired by the Devil card. Unfortunately, it's a bit long to share here, so I'm giving you "The Fool," instead.

This story is different from what I normally write, both because of the semi-ambiguous ending, and the use of present tense narration. So, basically, I present a slice of what I completed last week. I certainly hope you enjoy it, whoever actually reads this.

0-The Fool

Infinite possibilities stretch before him. They expand like a map, flowing away from him as far as he can see. Different paths, different futures, all mingling at the point where he stands, all rippling out from under the souls of his feet. Which path will he choose? Which story will he write?

He turns to the left, toward the path that leads down a series of ever-darkening tunnels, toward a distant, barely visible light, and crouches down. His fingers are steady as he takes hold of the path and lifts it up, into himself, pressing the entire story into his chest. For a moment, he is frozen as he absorbs this knowledge, an entire lifetime of journeys.

The other possibilities slither away, back into their red-checked bag.

He turns to the shadowy figure that holds the sack, opens his mouth to speak, and falls. The newly gained knowledge is stripped away from him as he drops. Down, down, away from everything he has known. A sudden jolt ends his descent.

A baby boy cries as it is born.

Senior Project Rambles

Alaska Pacific is an interesting school. Instead of a capstone course or a thesis, an undergraduate has to complete a senior project. This can be almost anything you can think of, as long as it pertains to your major and can bring together various aspects of your education for however many years you've been here. 

For me, the plan was originally to write an historical fantasy novel with two, interconnecting plots: one set in early Christian Ireland (around 500AD), and one in modern day (or forward a year, to 2012 and the supposed end of the world). The writing of it would include all sorts of other challenges to myself as a writer, and it was going to be wonderful. The only problem is that, when I set out to do my research for the historical plot line, I got another idea for something every other page. So I contacted my project board and asked if I could tweak the project so that I was writing a collection of short historical stories instead of the long, intricate novel. Bear in mind that I've always had horrible luck writing shorts--I tend toward fantasy naturally, so the ideas for my stories are so big and so long that trying to smash them into 10,000 words or less doesn't really work. 

Whether it was that or the fact that I've never written a historical piece in my life (school papers exempt), I found myself struggling to get past a single page on anything I started. With that in mind and the beginning of the semester looming, I decided to make another change: this time I was just going to be writing a series of short stories that all involved some sort of writing challenge to myself, e.g., a single historical piece, something in first person, a comedy piece, a contemporary fiction piece, things out of my comfort zone of male protagonists and high fantasy. 

For the last few days, I've been plugging away at what was supposed to be only part of this, but may wind up being most, if not all, of this project: a series of flash fiction/super short stories inspired by the major arcana of the tarot deck. Each story is one of the different challenges I wanted to attempt and they're all tied together in a minor way, so that each tale--no longer than three pages, at the maximum--fits into what was supposed to be a single short story. It's looking more like a novella, at this rate. Regardless, the whole piece is an experiment in itself. As far as I'm aware, the only piece that uses the tarot in a way similar to this is Neil Gaiman's "Fifteen Painted Cards from a Vampire Tarot," and even that isn't exactly what I'm doing. I'm just hoping it turns out decently.

I'm also tossing around the idea of gathering a few other shorts together with it, polishing it all up, and submitting it to Createspace or something of the ilk. Of course, that would mostly be for my ego, more than anything; vanity presses like that don't generally go over well with agents or publishers, from what I've heard, so I would generally just leave it off any query letters. But it would be an interesting experience and, potentially, a good aspect to add to the project. I guess we'll see how that goes. 

And, though I'm not really anticipating anyone actually answering this question, I'm going to pose it anyway: anyone interested in reading bits and pieces of the tarot stories?

The Realm of Revision

I'm a perfectionist. At least, when it comes to my creative endeavors. Point in case, I've been working on Savior for six years now, trying to make it as perfect as possible. Of course, each successive draft is "perfect" until I go back and reread to make edits. Then it feels like I've written nothing but dribble. Any other writers/artists out there who feel like this, go ahead and raise your hands. Yeah, I thought so. It's a common problem among us creative types, I think. We never give ourselves enough credit.

What we should be looking at when we go over the most recent draft or the final painting is how far we've come. Yes, we will always see something we can improve; but just think about how much this draft improved over the last. Eventually, there will come a piece we are proud to call our own. I sincerely hope I'm almost there with this book. As I said, I've been plugging away at this story for six years--since I was a sophomore in high school, yikes!--through four versions, and it's still not completely where I want it. This from the girl who never wrote a rough draft for a school paper in her life.

Anyway, what I wanted to get at with this first "real" post is both a reminder to myself and to other perfectionist types out there: perfection changes; there will always be something we could tweak; get it to where you're happy and set it aside for a while. As an example of this "celebrating how far I've come" mindset, I'm going to let you, whatever readers I have, read a bit of one of my oldest and most beloved stories. Four times. No, it's not Savior. It's something that came about before that, between middle and high school, when I was just starting to dabble in creative writing. At the moment, I'm calling it Wizard's Bane, but that's not final. What I'm going to share with you now is the way the opening to this story has changed with each successive draft, from the very first to the one I started a few days ago. Why am I doing this? In an attempt to persuade any other artists reading this that you can improve with practice and that you shouldn't give in just because one draft isn't what you wanted it to be.

So, without further ado, the beginnings of Wizard's Bane:

2004: 
Tomorrow was Naylen’s coming of age. At Noon, he would be fifteen, the time of change and discovery. Naylen was not sure if he was frightened or excited by the impending period of exile. Exactly one hour after the coming of age ceremony, he would be kicked out of Omicron until he found his true identity, name, destiny and all. All of the sorcerers in Omicron had gone through the exile though no one revealed their true name to anyone except the elf-priests so the burial rites could be preformed properly after death. Naylen swore not to give out his name to anyone, that way he could not be controlled by him or her. Naylen got up off his bunk in the boys’ dormitory of the sorcerer school. He headed down to the large oak door that led down to the village.

“Alani,” Naylen called to his warden, the school was so small every student had their own warden, “Alani, I’m going out. I’ll be back by supper, don’t worry.”

As he headed out the door, a heavyset man came jogging up to him. “Naylen, where are you going? You should be resting.” The man stopped and tried to catch his breath.

Naylen laughed nervously. “I…I haven’t gathered my supplies yet. But I swear that I’ll rest when I get back. All right Alani?”

Alani nodded. He was still huffing very hard.

“Good. Bye.” Naylen left the older sorcerer standing in front of the school. Following the well-worn path out of the small wood and into the market, Naylen soaked in all the sights of the village, including the monstrosity that the wizards called a school. When he finally arrived at the market on the other side of town, he proceeded to buy supplies for the journey tomorrow. First he bought a sturdy pack followed by a strong bow, good arrows, dried meat and fruit and finally a small knife. After gathering these few supplies, Naylen hurried back to the school, supper was almost ready.

2006: 

The young sorcerer tread silently through the corridors, wringing his hands. He came of age tomorrow and he still hadn’t gathered any supplies for the quest that would follow the ceremony. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the gardens that flowed down from the school to the village. The soothing gargle of a fountain calmed his nerves but they quickly returned as his eyes were drawn to the foreboding stone fortress that served as a school for the wizards. He would have to find a way past all that dark magic.

The wizards were well renown for their evil ways. Rumor among the students at Semper Terra, the sorcerer’s school, was that the wizards could drain magick with only a look. Of course the staff was eager to put down these rumors and encourage good will toward their fellow magick users. Most of the students found it hard to think of the wizards as something like themselves: wizards were born of human parents while sorcerers had no such luck.

In fact sorcerers were rare among the world, coming into being only when lightning strikes marble. Every student at Semper Terra had his or her own warden for crying out loud. Wizards despised them; magi were neutral in these disputes, sometimes siding with the wizards and other times with the sorcerers, depending on which mage one spoke to and what was happening with the humans at that point in time. Both sorcerers and magi tried to live among humans without qualms once they were out of school. Of course it didn’t always work…especially when a wizard showed up. That’s really when everything went wrong.

Naylen sat on the edge of the fountain, his mind wandering through his lifetime of lessons. Of course it wasn’t really all that long…he was still very young by sorcerer’s standards. Unwillingly his mind strayed back to wizards and the problems he might encounter trying to sneak past them. 

2009: 

The stone halls of Asharusk filled with the tolling of the bells, summoning students to the first classes of the day.

Naylen Liemdel waited in a shallow alcove, leaning on his broom as he watched the students hurry past. He was a servant in this school for wizards and easily ignored by those who attended lessons. He easily blended into the crowd; with his dusty blond hair and green eyes, he wasn’t exceedingly handsome or horrendously ugly. Just a normal, gawky servant boy. How he wished he had magick and could attend the classes here.

But he was stuck sweeping up the little fragments of magick and spells that got away.

The hall emptied and he stepped out of his alcove, turning his attention to the dust and dirt that the young wizards had dragged in. He hummed to himself as he worked, the bristles of the besom grating against the stone in a hypnotic rhythm.

When he was halfway down the corridor from his hiding spot, a great cheer burst through one of the closed doors.

Naylen jumped at the sound, his grip tightening on the handle of his broom. He hesitated, staring at the place where the sound had emanated. With a hard swallow, he crept toward the door and stood on tiptoe to peek through the tiny window in the wood.

Through the warped glass, he saw a large brown dog sitting on the professor’s desk. The class had erupted into chaos, the students throwing paper balls and harmless spells at each other. Several of the older girls were huddled around a solidly built boy named Tomo Orlan, who had his booted feet propped up on his desk and was idly examining his fingernails.

20011: 

His lungs burned. Leaves, twigs, brush, and thorns snagged his clothing, slapped against his face, and tore at his flesh. Blood trickled down his forehead. He struggled for breath. He stumbled, his foot in a tiny hole. His ankle wrenched and he bit back a desperate scream as he fell. No. No, no, no! He couldn’t stop running! He had to keep going!

Naylen forced himself to his feet, pained tears rolling down his cheeks as he staggered on. If he stopped, the wizards would catch up, and that meant certain death. Even with a sprained ankle, he had to keep going. He had to. A branch snapped back after he brushed it aside, smacking into his eye. He yelped this time, despite his better judgment, and pressed the heel of his palm to his eyeball in an attempt to ease the stinging pain. And still he stumbled forward, limping and crying. The only other choice wasn’t even really an option. At least, it wasn’t one he wanted to consider.

“Stop! Oi! Sorcerer!” That same, rough voice from Asharusk shouted through the forest, making Naylen’s heart leap. A moment later, the violent crashing of foliage shattered the relative silence among the trees.

Naylen kept running, though he was blind with pain and tears. All he knew was that he had to get away. Why he was running, though, was a mystery. He had woken in the middle of the night to his mentor hurriedly explaining some sort of ancient prophecy, shoving a pack at him and telling him to run. Not five minutes after that, a trio of wizards had broken into the school and started shouting, both with their voices and their spells. It hadn’t taken much more persuading to get Naylen out of bed and racing for the woods on the outskirts of town.

***

See how the opening changes over time? It's still the beginning of what will be the same story, give or take a few details or changes to the characters, but the writing is different. As we learn, our style and voice changes, our idea of perfection enters a state of flux, and some of us are driven to dredge up old stories or ideas to renew them with our new knowledge. I encourage you, any and all of you who read this, to try this at some point. Pull up a piece, written or otherwise, and redo it, then compare the old with the new. Which do you like better? Why? What did you learn from this? For me, rewriting this story gives me new insight into the characters each time, new plot twists and ideas, and a new understanding of why this isn't anywhere near ready for publication yet. And, I promise, that's not just the perfectionist in me coming out to play. 


Oljiru kovy.

Welcome!

A big shout out to everyone joining us from the internet today! Welcome to Writing Emer, a new blog by Emer d'Ange: a struggling student/aspiring writer with plenty of quirks to go around and a desire to see the world. Like all novelist wannabes, I've got a touch of arrogance, a love of my work, and the occasional bout of insanity (far more often than I'd like to admit). And you, my lucky guests, get to experience it all with me.

Here, I plan on musing and rambling on art in  general as well as writing, in specific, books I've been reading, school, the horrors of the slush pile, finding an agent, bits and pieces of writings-in-process, questions, advice I receive, advice not to follow, helpful websites or books, and whatever else comes to mind. In other words, follow me long enough and I'm sure you'll get to know the inner workings of my mind almost as well and my characters and I do.

So, for this introductory post, I suppose I'll start with some trivia. I'm a senior at Alaska Pacific University at the moment, planning to graduate in April (so keep your eyes peeled for some graduating posts in a few months). At the moment, I'm shopping a manuscript to agents--more on that later.  My pseudonym actually has a story behind it: Emer was a queen of Irish mythology, the queen of the great hero Cuchulainn, said to possess the six virtues of womanhood; d'Ange is French for "of the angels." All in all, much more appealing and unique than my legal name, which shall remain a mystery. I am, indeed, a woman, but I prefer writing male characters--females are, for some reason, a challenge for me. One I'm attempting to battle head-on. My publishing credits at the moment include a few short pieces in my high school's literary magazine, various short stories online (mostly via fictionpress and DeviantArt, which don't really count), and a few thousand forum posts. The manuscript I'm shopping at the moment (I'm sure you'll also get to read all about that process) is a young adult fantasy with a working title of Savior that I've been perfecting for six years now. Long story about that; it'll all become clear at some point, I'm sure.

To be honest, though, I'm new to the big, wide world of blogging. I've read a few, of course, and I know the theory behind it, but this is my first attempt. If anyone who stumbles across this has any advice for a novelist-turned-blogger, please don't hesitate to throw it my way. I'd be eternally grateful. For now, I believe I'll leave this prologue as is and begin throwing ideas around for the first chapter of this Writing Emer experiment.

Oh, one more note before I go: the words I plan on wrapping these posts up with are my own elvish, meaning, roughly, "good day." For those of you remotely interested.

Oljiru kovy.