News (Nov 25 2017)

I have to put aside my historical fiction to work on something new. Been studying for over five years now trying to sculpt that project and it is still nowhere near ready. Now I'm exhausted. Started writing a science fiction thriller and it is a breath of fresh air to be working on something that doesn't have so many rules to abide by. I have so much yet to learn in this art. Reading every day, and learning new techniques. Now I am trying to apply what I have learned. Science fiction was my original love. However much I so enjoy history, any dramatic telling can get tangled up in the details of what was happening then very quickly if one tries to pursue it too carelessly. So I am taking my time with that. Might even salvage elements from the projects I was working on in the past, and work them into other pieces to come. Nothing is a waste of time; everything we do in the pursuit of our goals is worth it. Every now and then one must plant new seeds and watch it grow from all of the rich ingredients one has collected over the years. That is what I am doing now. Time builds strength. Nothing is a waste of time. Keep studying, keep writing, lay down the story, shine it up later, and worry about the business of it all when the time comes to burn stress on that. For the moment, just have fun. If you lose the joy, you lose the heart, and your story will begin to fall apart quite quickly.

Goddess In Flames: Black Silhouettes

Swabia, 1558

Her words were passionate, but plagued with melancholy and confliction as they came, “The world has so many realms,” she said, pondering it all. Her voice was bodied with the strength that wrote every bit of her very being, but there was a sense of hurt, and love, and childlike spirit woven within. A girl was in there still who just wanted to be a girl, but the hard world wrought her into steel, it made Adalia sad when she thought on it. “In the East they recognize four elements: Earth, Fire, Water, and Air. In the West there is Heaven, and Hell, and Earth is only a dead thing to be pillaged, and exploited. Where my family comes from there is Earth, there is sea, and Sky. But the imagination… here,” she touched her on the forehead, it made her blush; she was such a shy thing then. “There is no end here. In the mind you can go anywhere… You are free.” She was so beautiful.

A shrill scream tore Adalia from her sleep. Her father’s irascible wroth had been woken in the late hours. It was an unwise thing to do. She listened. They went quiet for a moment. She shrunk under her bed covers, fearing what might come next. Then she heard her mother mewling, and begging, and through the walls the sounds of her suffering bled through. Her mother quailed, and her father cursed. Tears drew from Adalia’s eyes. The blows were so deafening in the night they echoed off the boards that walled her room. The neighbors would be waking soon. If she were going to get away she would need to move fast. There was nothing that could quicken the lust hungry monster that was in her cruel father like the disappointment that her mother drew out of him. Quickly she wriggled herself into her dress and pulled on her boots. Then she escaped out her window and she ran, crying. Her father would only storm into her bedchamber to find it empty long after he was finished objurgating his wife for whatever great offence she could have caused him. There at the doorway he let go of his rage, falling into confused despair. He looked at the swollen bruises on his knuckles, and listened to the waning whimpers still clinging to her lips. It was her fault, he told himself. The girl was as wild as her mother’s treachery.

Adalia did not know where she was going, she just ran. On and on she went, hurtling into the foliage, and up an old road until she was lost in the wilderness. The forest never scared her, not so much as did her father’s quick temper. Her home was so much like a prison to her, and in the woods she felt the breath of freedom. The critters went scrambling from her as she walked. She could not see them, but she knew when they were near. She always had a sense for such things. Animals seemed to love her; at least she liked to think so. Nothing ever hurt her out there. It was her place to go to feel safe. But after a time she saw something strange. There was a fire; its brilliance was swelling through the threaded branches. Wind burbled around her as she went to see where it was coming from.

She found the home at the top of the hill. Of course, it was the Eisenbergs. They were a queer presence in the city, mostly because they were scarce seen in the city. A new family, with a keen sense for business and art, it had fed them well since they had first arrived. She heard laughter, so she tentatively moved closer. Adalia suddenly found herself crawling in the brushes trying to see. The big cabin house was in the way. Her dress snagged on a limb from a bush. She yanked if free to the startling scream of a tear ripping in her skirt. It sounded so loud out there. But no one heard it. Twigs and dry leaves crushed and crinkled under her. She went on, moving as deep as she would dare to go, but the ranch was still so far away. A pile of rocks eclipsed the fire, but she could see figures swinging round and round. They were his children. The silhouettes bounded about so graceful, so happy. It was a queer thing, as they always seemed so miserable when found in public seeing, helping their father sell off his stores at the market square. But here they were, in high ecstasy. Capering, and singing strange songs, on the strangest night they could ever choose to do so. It was a cold night, and the end of harvest, said to be the darkest season of the year. A chill went down her spine, but for Adalia it was all so very exciting. She wanted to know more about them. She wanted to taste this joy… this freedom. Here, before a lively hearth they whirled, and cavorted under the stars. Their black impressions burning against the fire as it flailed like a golden banner made them appear as though they were weightless, like they were flying without wings. And Adalia watched with coveted eyes, ensorcelled, stolen with the wonder of a fly caught in the web of a seductive black widow. That night was October 31^st, and she would not soon forget it.  

A snippet from Call of a Raven

Here is a small excerpt from my upcoming historic fiction/fantasy Goddess in Flames: Call of a Raven. #Otherworld
***
He pulled her close and explained, “Men are taught to loathe and fear their mother, for to submit to her is to admit her power over them; to accept their mortality—their weakness. So we blindly go about our lives denying her truth: as are we born of her power, so must we return to her in the end, when we die; when she drinks our blood, eats our flesh, and swallows our bones. Too few bear the heart to heed such wisdom, that we belong to her, and she bows to no one save for the sun and stars. That, my dear, is why it is the stars that show way to the birth of Jesus, the human incarnation of the Sun. For if the male deity can mount the world as a man than surely we in His image should rightfully inherit the Earth and therefore claim our power over her.” 

Old Basilica

There are so many fascinating mysteries and forgotten tales in this world. One of the most interesting stories in history is the all-inspiring, yet daunting journey of the rise and fall of the Roman Empire, and the elevation of the Christian Rule. The grueling tale of St. Peter's demise that would ultimately pave the land for the foundation of The Pope's kingdom, and the development of the legendary Basilica is a gripping one indeed. My upcoming novel Goddess in Flames will give you a taste of that amazing story, but I hope that all of you will take some time to research St. Peter's Basilica in depth . The rise of the Christian power really is one of the Greatest Stories Ever Told, and I believe it is an important historical monument of how such a dominant power structure can effect the whole of the world.
The figure that is featured in this piece is an artist's rendering of what the Old St. Peter's Basilica looked like before it was rebuilt.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Exploring the forgotten

Spent all day working on my new novel today. I am pretty excited about it thus far. The more I progress, the more I realize the breadth of the world I am trying to recreate in this piece, and it is quite the adventure. Writing about the 16th century is like exploring a whole other world, that is bound by the strangest rules. Imagine a time where simply speaking your mind could land you in a dungeon where you are to starve or freeze to death, or caught in a malign torture device designed to twist, tear, or break an individual until they are forced to confess to crimes that which they could never possibly commit. While at the same time, it is a world of beautiful forgotten natural wonders. It really is a ying and yang type of universe, but so very fascinating to me. My goal in this piece is to guide my readers through the trials and tribulations of the renaissance period, and show them the beauty of a culture that has been misconstrued for so many years by ancient political propaganda. The word Witch as we understand it today is such a vague term compared to its true meaning. From the Anglo-Saxon word Wic, which means to bend or shape, it has taken on many different forms over the centuries. Like the many shape shifters in Irish mythology, it's meaning has evolved and transformed in our minds, and now I believe we are finally returning to that magical time when it can return to its true form. Nature dweller, or one who understands the wisdom of the earth, that was its true origin. Today however, as a result of the horrendous witchcraze period, we misunderstand the word as a symbol of evil, instead of enlightenment. The same charges that were leveled against accused witches, and heritics, were used to justify the enslavement of the Africans (who were brought to the New World, supposedly to christianize them), as well as the enslavement of the Irish who worked side by side with the Africans in The early days of America. The same immoral justifications would eventually lead to the destruction of other cultures, and the wholesale genocide of Native Americans. The patriarchal powers of the world have been training their subservients to view the world as a dead machine, to which men have a god-given right to pillage and destroy for many centuries. It is that same mentality that would lead into the witchcraze and slavery. We went from, "if one is different from the majority, then we should have power over them" to "if someone or something is different, then I should fear it" when we should be thinking, "we are all apart of this living earth, and so we should take care of each other, for we are all family." This piece is about a culture that once understood that concept.
I have learned a lot be studying the work of Starhawk. If anybody is interested in learning more about these topics, I strongly recommend you checkout some of her books at your local Library.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Witch, witchcraze, pagan, book, writing, novel, Irish, Celtic, Starhawk