Category: Writing


Sep
2017

Too Much French!

categories: Writing

I call you to arms against the strange ascendency of French in our land, in our education, in our upper classes. This tongue is itself an invader, brought in the villainous ships of the scoundrel Norman conqueror. It is the tongue of Napoleon, the tongue of bloody and anarchious revolutionaries against monarchy, the tongue of a people renowned for their loose morals. And yet, despite all this, despite that we are near the beginning of a new and enlightened century, despite the fact that technological innovation is skyrocketing, despite the fact that unprecedented quantities of pea soup are being dished up to Londoners, we persist in the absurd habit of making instruction in French, of all languages, an integral part of our children’s education. No longer must this be so, no longer must this invading tongue be taught to our children from infancy, no longer—

Oops. I’m off by about a century, a continent, and an ocean.

But I do have a problem: my characters keep speaking French.
(more…)


Jan
2017

Tribulations of an Amateur Apprentice in Soup-Craft

categories: Prose, Writing
I do not often feel that I am a lone, lorn creature, and everything goes contrarywise with me, but I did during the latter part of cooking dinner yesterday evening. Everything went all right until I began cutting up the bell peppers. The butternut squash, potatoes, and carrots stewed nicely, and the sausage was cut into uniform pieces. Then I put the sausage into a pot, and being pleased with my successes regaled Justin with Rapunzel while cutting up bell pepper.
Unfortunately, I was so intent upon my story and peppers that I forgot to stir the sausages. Consequently, although they acted out of the mere nature of sausage and not out of malice aforethought, the sausage burnt. Not wishing to set burnt sausage before my family, who will in all likelihood suffer enough at my hands in the way of cookery without the addition of unusually unnecessary amounts of carbon, I fished out the burnt pieces after finishing up cutting the peppers. Feeling that it would be the worse part of thrift to throw away completely the burnt pieces of sausage, I carefully cut off the burnt parts. The sausage returned to the pan and the bell peppers and frozen spinach added, I turned again to the soup. But, alas! The root vegetables had been enjoying themselves so much with the chicken broth I had allowed them to share their pot with that they had imbibed every last bit. That was the point at which I began to feel that everything I put my hand to did the reverse of flourishing, and though not exactly unhappy, I became rather low in my spirits and felt tired. Anyhow, since this seems to have turned rather to the fate of this evening's supper than to my lornness, I had best conclude the story as I may.
Dad, upon seeing the vegetables in their state of liquid-less yet decidedly not arid mush, declared himself baffled as to what I ought to do, but told me that that was not how butternut-squash-soup-in-the-making was supposed to look, a fact I was already cognizant of. (I may take this opportunity to remark that the vegetables were at least not much burned—small comfort, but comfort still.) Well, Dad consulted with Mom, who recommended the addition to my pot of four cups vegetable stock, that being the identical quantity of broth as I had used before, when adding chicken broth and naively thinking all would go as prophesied by the recipe. Having mixed my four cups of stock from a mingling of cool tap water, warm tea kettle water, and the prescribed amount of vegetable-flavored “Better Than Bullion,” a thing like condensed stock, and of a texture somewhat thicker than toothpaste, I added the new-formed stock to the pot. The mess did not look solved when the inexperienced stock and veteran vegetables were gently coaxed to make friends by the means of a spoon, but I resorted to sterner measures and by the end of a course of immersion blending, all the ingredients were very good friends, indissoluble and quite inseparable. A can of coconut milk, some curry powder, and salt, that indispensable sodium chloride of cookery, finished the list of ingredients, and I had a soup quite nicely rounded off, if not exactly what Mom's rendition of the same recipe turns out as.
How the soup was a little too cool when served and the bell peppers not quite sufficiently cooked are tales for another day; I shall end now on the happy note that the soup was really quite good in the event.

Dec
2016

How Sir Thomas Green Won His Spurs—A Short Story

categories: Prose, Writing
During the fall semester this year, I took an online class about fantasy writing and some of J.R.R. Tolkien's lesser-known works. The assignment at the end of the class was for each student to write their own Faerie story. Now that I've finished mine up, I'd like to share it on here. I have the file in two formats, as a .pdf and as a .docx document. You should be able to open either file on any computer, but if you are unable to open the file or would like it in another format, please tell me in the comments.
 
My tale is set in the usual realm of the Faerie-tale, a place mostly like England in the medieval period, with a few anachronisms added in for interest and because they flowed nicely into my narrative. There are the standard evil wights in the forest, and the hero is, as so often, unlikely. I make no claims to originality, but I will say for myself that I love words and writing, and very much enjoy the creative process. I think I did a decent job on this story, and can recommend it to you. Wait—that's a lot of talking about my writing. Show, don't tell, is a piece of advice given to aspiring authors much more often than they forget it, so I might as well follow that injunction. Instead of just telling, let me show to you the hero of this story as he is described in the opening paragraph.
 

His very prosaic name was Thomas Greene, and his very prosaic self was a farmhand, and—I cannot for the life of me understand how he was chosen to be mixed up in such things. But mine is but the post of chronicler, to record faithfully what is done and question not. Still, even with all that is was against him, for his hands were large and his bearing undistinguished and his boots deep in the farmyard mud, he loved tales of adventure; and had the choosing been his he would have been the bonniest knight in shining armor that ever drew sword from sheath. Also he had an “e” at the end of his name, and knew to be proud of it, and his dog was named Galahad. These things, perhaps, cover a multitude of offenses.

To find out what happens to the farmhand named Thomas Greene when he becomes lost in the woods at night, finds himself trapped in the aforesaid gloomy forestland by a magical hedge, and begins an adventure such as he has only dreamed of (in day-dreams, as Narnia readers know to be very different from night-dreams), read the story!
 
You can download the .pdf file here.
And you can download the .docx file here.

Sep
2016

Muddled—A Poem

categories: Poetry, Writing
I read some Kipling and I thought
That Kipling's way was how I ought
To make my verses all the time –
And yet – I couldn't make mine rhyme.
 
And Beowulf – oh my poor head!
“What happened to the rhymes?” I said.
Alliteration's good, it's true –
But I must have a rhyme or two.
 
Shakespeare's sonnets far beyond
My little rhyming powers yawned.
And what is left he didn't say?
I really thought of naught that day.
 
Hiawatha (how to pronounce?)
My Indian names made readers trounce
Me, so I thought I'd leave alone
Adventures of “Turrintelone”.
 
Befuddled, muddled, and bemused,
I can't make poems as they used.
And so I really must just now
Use styling of my own, I trow.
 
n.b. – This is not autobiographical.

Aug
2016

Presenting: The Morning Moonbeam!

categories: Prose, The Morning Moonbeam, Writing

I am delighted to announce that I am starting (drumroll, please) a newspaper! Currently I'm not sure how often The Morning Moonbeam will be issued, but today I am excited to share with you the first issue! In this issue, you will meet the staff of this paper, read a learned article on modern American education, and find some amazingly gifted poetry from our resident poet. Have at it!

 
As before, if clicking the image does not work to download the PDF, or if no image displays, please use this link. Thanks!
 

Aug
2016

Night & Blackness—Short Story

categories: Prose, Writing
Hmm, I’ve been a bit dark in my writing lately. Dark for me, that is, but anyhow, here’s a short story I wrote. It is very interesting to note the influences of what I read on what I write in this – and as it was rather an experiment in writing, I let those influences reign untrammeled. I would say that the works most notably affecting this would be Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, from which I tried to borrow somewhat in the way of mood; the musical of The Secret Garden, with its wandering spirits; and Beowulf, with its hall no one can venture in by night. But without more ado – Night and Blackness.

Clicking the image ought to work to download the short story. If not, use this link. All else failing, please email me or leave a comment on this post and, if you wish, I will convey the story to you in another manner, probably by PDF. Using a MOBI file is an experiment on my part, and this is somewhat of a test run. Thanks!

Unrelated note: I would love to hear from you about anything posted on this blog! Please feel free to email me or comment on posts; if you would like to email me but don’t have my email address, please comment to that purpose on this post or another and I will send it to you.

Jul
2016

A Poem: Bitter the Taste

categories: Poetry, Writing
Once I was happy, dutyless, free,
All had I, life a guardless tree –
Its fruit at my hand, I a willing picker –
Now taste I Death – and find it bitter.
 
Life I tasted, squandered, wasted,
No joy in money, honey desweeted –
Life expunged of every glitter –
Now taste I Death – and find it bitter.
 
I drained the cup, and found it dry
Hopeless-hoping, for death longed I –
For Death long longing, peace my desire –
Now taste I Death – and find it bitter.
 
Death, thought I, would ease my pain,
Still dead longing in ceasing strain –
For Death I longed, I thought it fitter –
Now taste I Death – and the taste is bitter.
 
 
This is a poem I wrote somewhat recently. It is rather an experiment for me, the subjects of my other attempts at poetry having been rather lighter in tone; but I think this turned out pretty well. Interestingly, the “motif” or “refrain” of the poem was suggested to me when we were reading about the illness of Hezekiah, when Isaiah told the king he would die and Hezekiah “turned his face to the wall” in bitterness. I don't suggest any similarity between the Hebrew king and the unknown narrator of this poem, but it is interesting to see where the idea of it came from.

Apr
2016

Moose Meeting

categories: Prose, Writing
One day, I met a large gentleman on four legs with dark brown fur and a magnificent pair of antlers. I had just started to photograph him when I was surprised by his saying, “How do you do?” “I am very well,” I answered, “But who are you?” “I, as you can tell, am a moose, one of the tribe which is largest of all the deer family.” “Thank you, so I thought – but would you please tell me a bit about yourself?”
 
“With pleasure,” The moose answered, “I and my very extended family live in Canada and the northern United States, most notably Alaska as far as the U.S. is concerned. We are quite high in the wilderness pecking orders in most areas, except for perhaps the grizzlies and wolves, and even those will rarely attack us in our full strength. Cowards that they are, they have found that they have better success with the young, the old, and the weak, and these they separate from the rest of their herds before attempting anything.
 
“Unfortunately, you humans have an unpleasant habit of shooting my kind, and have learned to imitate the call of the moose quite well, so that sometimes when we go a-courting and hear sounds as of other bull moose looking for the same lady, and go along to find the intruder, there is no moose, but only one of your people with one of those frightful stick-things you shoot with, and a sort of horn made of birchbark. Many of our greatest moose have been lured to their deaths this way, but the advantage is not all on one side. Due to our large size, weight and strength, we can often turn the hunt around, and chase your little human hunters. I myself [he swelled with pride as he said this] have treed several, and hung around helpfully offering to help them out of their perches. For some odd reason, however, they never took me up on my offer.”
 
There was a wicked glint in the moose's rather beady eye as he said this, and I backed away a little. “Go on,” I said, “What sort of things do you like to do? Do you swim? What do you eat?” “Well,” the moose said, “I do swim, but when I am in water I generally prefer to root around for the delicious roots that grow about on the bottom of lakes. Do you really say you have never tried them? Well, I highly recommend lake-bottom roots to you. I hold my breath quite well, and so can remain underwater, with only the tips of my antlers poking out, for good periods of time. Lakes and good sized rivers are also very useful as fly and gnat deterrents in summer. In addition to roots both by land and lake, I eat a variety of green stuffs, and find the bark from trees palatable.
 
“Really, though, I ought to tell you more about the fights we moose can have over our ladies. They are tremendous! We clash together, using both feet and antlers, and they really are grand both to watch and participate in. Our fights are not always bloodless, and sometimes one moose gives the other fatal injuries, or their antlers can become locked together, and, as neither moose can eat, they die of starvation. Speaking of 'watch', though, what time is it? Oh my, really? I must be going!”
 
As my large friend (would 'friend' be the right term?) crashed off through the trees, trumpeting something or other about apologies of being late to the lady I assumed he was going to see, I watched him, dumbfounded. I had just held a conversation with a moose, one of the largest land mammals in North America – or had I? You don't believe me either, do you?
 
We had some end-of-term exams recently, and one of my tasks was to “Tell all you know about moose”. I got rather carried away.
 

Feb
2016

Hollyoake, Esmerelda

categories: Prose, Writing
It was Mr. Brown's first day with his new fifth grade class. Just another year, with just another batch of normal ten year old kids. Time for roll call. Just like all the other twenty-seven years he had taught the same grade. Some of the kids here were probably the children of the kids he had taught so many years ago. Maybe he should be retiring soon. Oh well, time for roll call. Couldn't start wandering off, now, especially on his first day of the new year. Not that it would be any different from any other year. Mm? Yes, roll call. He picked up the list.
“Ames, Thomas” “Here”
“Bates, Henry” “Present”
“Elsy, Jane” “Present”
“Frederick, Emily” “Here”
And so on, and so on… The teacher kept straight on, getting the same two answers, until, after, “Hollyoake, Esmerelda” “Ezzie for short!” bounced a girl in the second row of desks. There was really no other word for it, the teacher had to realize, she bounced her unusual reply. As Mr. Brown peered at her, he noticed that this girl with the thick, long black hair and the brightly colored dress was sitting alone. Odd. Well, time for “Hart, James” and “Jones, Martha”. Both present and accounted for. He finished the list without further ado. Eighteen children. Not so bad. At the end of the day, the teacher told the children that the next day they would go on a mushroom hunt, to see how many different kinds they could find. He smiled benignly, if tiredly, and was about to dismiss class. However, there was a hand in the air.
“Yes, Esmerelda?” “But, it's August, Mr. Brown, hot weather, and there can't be any mushrooms. What are we to find?” “We will hunt for mushrooms, my dear,” the teacher answered, “and, as you have pointed out, there are not normally many at this time of year, this will be a special test for your observational skills. Did I tell you that whoever can find the most mushrooms will receive a prize?”
All the students were unerringly on time the next morning except Esmerelda. She was precisely two minutes, forty-three seconds, twenty-two milliseconds late. After seeing that all had arrived, Mr. Brown led his class outside. The first fifteen minutes of the mushroom hunt passed without event as he gave the students a pre-formulated precautionary lecture on the dangers of eating any fungi they found and then shepherded them along a path towards some well-groomed woodlands. Soon, though, Esmerelda glanced around, knelt down by the base of a tree, fumbled with something, and called,
“Mr. Brown, I've found a mushroom, and it's a real beauty!”
The teacher hurried over, followed by a large part of the rest of the class. He peered closely at it, took of his glasses, peered again, coughed, and said,
“My dear, I'm afraid that isn't a real mushroom. It seems to be made of wood – perhaps some picnickers left it here.” Esmerelda looked closer, “Why, you're right! It is wood. How funny that I I didn't see that.” Mr. Brown told Esmerelda that she might take it and keep it, as she had found it and no one else seemed likely to come back for it.
Seven minutes later, Esmerelda glanced, knelt, and discovered another mushroom. When Mr. Brown came to see, he pronounced it to be metal, “Probably tin”. Esmerelda was again bewildered at her own lack of perception.
The next mushroom was also found by Esmerelda, though this one was decided to be some sort of plastic. The teacher remonstrated his student gently to carefully examine any mushroom before calling him.
After that came another wood one, cunningly painted to resemble the most poisonous mushroom Mr. Brown had ever seen.
Five minutes after that, Esmeralda again glanced, knelt, and pushed aside the leaf duff. She started to take something out of her bag, but gasped as she looked down and hastily closed the bag. It was a mushroom! It was large, bright yellow, covered in purple spots, and as real as any fungus anyone had ever seen.
“Teacher! I found a mushroom! It's bright yellow, and it has purple spots all over!”
As Mr. Brown didn't immediately come over, Esmerelda ran over to him. “It's real, Mr. Brown, really and truly! Real, and and big, and yellow, and covered all over in purple spots! I bet you haven't ever seen a mushroom as yellow and purple as this one, nor as big!”
“No, I probably haven't, Esmerelda,” the teacher wearily replied, “If it really is as yellow and purple as you say it may not be real. Paul here says he has just found a shelf fungus and I would like the whole class to come and see.”
Paul had indeed found a shelf fungus, though the real marvel was that he had managed to spot one so small and colorless. After glancing at it, Esmerelda ran off toward the mushroom she had found. She felt it, and smelt it, and touched it, and did everything short of tasting it or digging it up. It was indeed real. She went back over to the teacher and tried again to make him come look at it. However, he would not go. Instead, he consulted his watch, found that the class was four minutes and seventeen seconds late in heading back, and told all the students to follow him back.
After he had told the students all about mushrooms with many colored photos and diagrams (all of the best quality) back at the school and later dismissed them, Mr. Brown sank down in a chair. He really was tired. Maybe he shouldn't have waited another year to retire after all. Especially since it seemed this year might not be quite as normal as all the preceding twenty-seven. He tried not to think about that. Ah well, hopefully it could all be solved by simply getting the girl a pair of glasses. Hopefully. He would have to send a note to her parents asking them to get her eyes examined.