Yes, I’ve already posted today, but I couldn’t wait until tomorrow.

Shuffling through my room, I noticed the top of my ridiculously full bookshelf was a bit askew. This is where my massive hardcovers share space with small pocket-sized books because they don’t quite fit anywhere else. Between Brisingr and Romeo & Juliet I spied Shakespeare Sonnets leaning conspicuously out of line. Curious and with no other real purpose, I pulled it out and opened it to a random page, remembering with some fondness the enjoyment I’ve gotten from the sonnets in the past. It’s been awhile since I touched it, and by some literary magic the book fell open to an extremely suitable page: Sonnet 27 if my counting served me correctly.

Though I’ve known it for several years, and have been told it by several people, I was reminded today of something I should carry with me always. For inspiration, advice, hope, joy, enlightenment, pleasure. Someone who shares ink and blood. Someone with more credentials than any contributor to a highly-Photoshopped beauty magazine, and he’s got my back, my heart, and my mind. And I’m grateful to him.

Reading this, I want to stand on a hilltop and scream it to the world. I want everyone to love these words. I want everyone to hear the sounds spoken through time, achieving immortality. Hear the truth in it. Taste it. Hug it. Love it.

Good night.

Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and to compounds strange?
Why I write still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent;
For as the Sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.
~William Shakespeare, Sonnet 27

One Stone is Easier than a Thousand

Walking aimlessly along the road, your eyes roam across the gravel, instinctively searching for an anomaly. Ah! There! A stone, about the size of a small nectarine, green with grey and yellow highlights. You pick it up, study its contrasting veins, and slip it into your pocket with satisfaction. You love stones!

Can you image lugging one of these around? Source: Wikipedia.

Excited, you eagerly scour the ground at your feet for more, and the longer you look, the more you find: a purple pebble, a silver rock, a few rose quartz fragments, a shiny black one, and one shaped like a wine bottle. Before you know it, your pockets are crammed full and your pants are slowly sliding over your hips, too heavy to continue their job properly. You have no more room, so you fill your boots, your hat, and make a hammock out of the front of your sweater, spilling a stone every time you bend over to retrieve another one. Simply, you can carry no more, and you’re losing the ones you’ve already tucked into your rubbers and Toronto Maple Leafs cap.

I look at researching for writing in this light. There is no doubt that research is a priority during the brainstorm-to-final-draft process, especially in regards to historical fiction or fiction that has elements similar to our own past. I’ve heard of authors spending years on their research before they actually put pen to paper. Years. It’s nice to have a supply of background knowledge or informational tidbits on hand to insert, as well as making yourself sound knowledgable and dedicated to your topic. You don’t want to write a book about Shakespeare’s personal life and talk about him in the summer of 1617 — because he was dead by that time. You don’t want to write about a falconer who keeps her raptors in cages — because she would keep them in buildings called ”mews,” which are akin to a large dog kennel.

But years? If I researched for years on every aspect of my story, I’d eventually have no story left. It would slip away and one day I would look up from my research and wonder why I was still in the library, full of facts about outhouses and the flammable qualities of alcohol, but with nothing to apply it to. I suppose your researching methods would differ depending on if you were writing fiction about a historical figure or event (Charlie Chaplin, the Battle of Bosworth), but where your tale takes place in a world similar to earth, you’re likely to take a different approach.

Take me, for example. Walking along the road (or storyline), I’ll occasionally look down at the ground and look for a stone (fact) that suits my needs. Then I’ll look back up and continue on until I need another stone. This way my pockets aren’t dragging behind me and I’m learning something new.

A lot of the time information I insert into my writing is accidentally

A dragon playing flapdragon. Source: Wikipedia.

discovered (like I tripped in a pothole and did a faceplant, eating gravel). Just the other day, a Facebook page mentioned something called flap-dragon. Curious about anything with the word dragon in it, I searched it up and ta-da! Flap-dragon, also known as snapdragon, is a game dating from the 16th century and primarily played during the winter: the game entailed burning brandy in a bowl with raisins. Players then had to snatch the hot raisins from the bowl and eat them without being burnt. Shakespeare mentioned the game in 1594′s Love’s Labour’s Lost: “…thou art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon.”

Now, I don’t know about you, but that’s a pretty interesting concept. It’s post-medieval/early modern and would fit wonderfully in most fantasy worlds, especially among young men or at a family gathering at Winter Solstice.

So I pocket that lovely tidbit and store it away for a later reference.

Talking to people is just as valuable as spending hours sifting through dry, complexly worded texts. My uncle described to me how to skin and prepare a porcupine and how it sits in your stomach (heavy; you could never eat an entire porcupine on your own). Pocket that. You never know when your character might kill a porcupine.

I might be writing, or thinking about writing (which is just as productive, you know), and suddenly something will raise its attention to me, a question that needs to be remedied via Google. Just the other day I was struck with the notion that an outhouse will not last forever. Obviously I knew they weren’t indestructible, but I had no idea how long one outhouse would last. I asked around and visited the suspiciously helpful Wikipedia, and it turns out that after ”many years” the solid wastes will form a pile and fill the pit; a new pit is dug close by and the dirt from the new pit is used to cover the old one. Helpful, isn’t it? Basically, my characters won’t have to re-dig an outhouse pit within the period of the novel.

Then there are the things I go looking for. One of my main characters is a falconer — that is, she uses birds of prey to hunt. I did my entire first draft without much more than a quick Google search for falcon breeds; the second time around I hit the local library and falconry association websites. It was only until I cracked open the books that I realized how complicated the sport is! Female raptors are favoured, because they’re approx. a 1/3 of the size larger than a male, and only the peregrine falcon performs the near-200 mph stoop (dive) to kill its prey. Goshawks are more ideal for hunting in the woods because their shorter tails provide easier, sharper, and quicker flying around tree trunks. Falcons and hawks are like horses in that they might have an off day, act ornery, and do nothing despite treats and urging from the owner. Falcon droppings are called “mute.”

And those are only coming from the top of my head. I have one borrowed book, a collection of stories from falconers, and a book on strange methods of hunting, in which falconry takes up a chapter. I’ve watched videos on YouTube of falcons flying, hunting, and resting, and plan on emailing a falconer later on in the year when things are a little less hectic. If you’re a falconer, please leave a comment below and correct any mistakes!

But because I’m not collecting information at an alarming rate doesn’t mean I have to wait for more facts to continue with my writing. I have some basic knowledge of my main character’s trade, and with it I can write about her, her life, and her routine without being an expert in falconry. Later, when I’ve researched more (in a calm, patient, relaxed manner) I can go back and add details or fix my mistakes.

I would rather spend more time editing than researching and letting my story slip away from me. I’ll answer any questions I might come across — how to make paint? — and pick up any facts that I think can be incorporated, but I’d rather have a little load and more time to write than a heavy load and no time to write.

Happy writing/researching! Why not go play a game of flapdragon with the boys this weekend?

The Birth and Story of Frankenwriter

On a muggy day in July, while Dr. I. M. Nevil was planning on his next act of evil-doing (he had just set fire to a library), he spilled his latte on the morning’s newspaper.

He growled through thin, snake-like lips and mopped at the sweet, creamy mess with his handkerchief. “Wonderful, Igor, wonderful,” he muttered to himself. “Now you can’t even read about what those other super villains did last night.” In the middle of wringing out the coffee-laden fabric — “Silk,” he exclaimed. “Pure silk!” — the article which his latte had attacked caught his eye. Dr. Nevil adjusted his monocle and peered closer at the soggy paper.

His already-foul mood worsened. “That J.K. Rowling,” he said. “I despise her. She was a nobody, had no special background, and BOOM! She’s living in a castle bigger than mine. And she didn’t even kill anyone to get it!” The doctor glared at the brown-stained, smiling face of the richy-pants author and flipped the page in disgust. “And Stephen King! He’s just as bad. Or good.”

Frustrated, Dr. Nevil wondered how anyone without a medical degree and fractured soul could achieve such fame without formal training. “My father put me in a sorts of stimulating environments to ensure my evil-ness!” he exclaimed. “And these celebrities were nothing.” He remembered later that both authors were teachers with the average literary background, but that didn’t seem to count. “They didn’t run around fighting Dark wizards and killing zombies as kids! How on Earth did they manage to come up with some half-brilliant idea that made them cultural icons?”

The doctor paced back and forth in his lush, gadget-filled study, all other matters of evil-doing wiped off his agenda. He pulled out his pipe and clenched it between his crooked, yellow teeth. Continuing his inane bamboozled ramblings about stimulae and the undead for several more minutes, a light bulb seemed to flare to life over his bald head, making the pate shine.

“I KNOW!” he cried, leaping eight feet into the air as villains sometimes do. You might have thought that the delicate, kitten-patterned china on the walls would have rattled as he landed, but Dr. Nevil instead did a somersault in mid-air and floated gently down to his red velvet sofa. While his pupil-less eyes brightened with new thoughts, a ratty notebook, pen and inkwell reluctantly walked across the coffee table and settled in front of their owner nervously, surely remembering what had happened to the last pen.

“I will create a writer!” Dr. Nevil announced. He snatched the writing tools and began to scribble. “He shall be made with equal parts of insanity and cleverness, with a touch of pride and a wagon-load of passion. I will raise him as my own, and like me, he’ll be exposed to all sorts of stimulating experiences that will shape his career and life, and make him THE BEST WRITER IN THE WORLD!!” He broke off into a fit of cackles that frightened the cuckoo back into its clock.

The super villain ended his maniacal laughter, for he knew how much it frightened the cuckoo, and leapt back his feet. “So much to do, so much to do…” The objects in his study watched with fear as Dr. Nevil left his study.

“This can’t end well,” said the desk.

“Who knows?” the coffee table said. “Maybe he will create the best writer in the world.”

The china tinkled laughter on the wall. “I doubt it, C.T., but you never know!”

SIX YEARS LATER.

Frankenwriter tended to his wounds, knowing exactly what herbs would heal the dragon-inflicted scratch to his right thigh. He was a handsome lad, with blond hair and clever fingers to match his words. He seemed entirely normal, but when you look at him and squint, or see him for the first time in a dark room, you notice the uncanny resemblance to J.K. Rowling and Stephen King. And, if you imagined him in his thirties and dressed him in Elizabethan clothing, he was a dead ringer for Shakespeare. There was also an air about him that spoke “distinctly common” and “not too extraordinary.”

This was a lie.

All his life, Frankenwriter had to fight for his survival. His father sent him to strange places to convene with dangerous beasts, meet pretty women, and settle the occasional bar fight or two. The dragon was the latest quest, and with that finally slain (after he tried befriending it and offering to be its Rider, of course), the six-year-old boy hoped for a few days rest before his dad unleashed a three-headed dog and a basilisk in their backyard.

After dressing his wound, Frankenwriter mounted his horse and galloped the thirty feet back to his house (because his father ordered him to gallop everywhere on his horse). He nodded to the closet doors in the porch, which answered with its usual “THE PROPHECY IS YET TO BE FULFILLED!” and stomped wearily up to his room. He half-expected a banshee to be waiting for him, or a zombie to crawl from out under his bed.

“Oh wait,” Frankenwriter said, “that was last week.”

And, like every night before supper, the strange little boy picked up a pen, opened his notebook to a new page, (he was never permitted to have a laptop, iPad, cell phone, or any other electronic device) and stared at it.

He hadn’t realized how long he’d been staring until a thin hand rested itself on his soldier. He quickly unsheathed his sword (which he always had strapped to his belt).

“Whoa, there, Frankie.” His father took a step back. Frankenwriter lowered the sword, which had begun glowing green. “How’s the writing coming?”

The boy sighed. “I’m stuck again, Dad.”

“Well, maybe if you let me help you…”

“No, Dad. That would be so uncool.” (Because even super villain dads can be uncool.) Frankenwriter put the pen down and faced his father. “It’s just that Daphne is shunning Daisy because she likes Derrick who likes Daisy.”

“If you were having problems at school, why didn’t you say something?”

Frankenwriter rolled his eyes, his King features briefly overpowering the Rowling. “No, Dad. They’re my characters.”

His father was silent for a moment. “You’ve never told me what you were writing about. Are they dragon slayers, like you? Oh, I know! They’re training to be dragon slayers! I bet they live in a secluded corner of the world, a place where animals talk through a series of experiments –”

“Dad. They live in New York.”

Devastation crossed his father’s face. “New York? Why are dragon slayers living in New York? There are no dragons on the east coast at all, and believe me, I checked.”

Frankenwriter resisted his built-in urge to curse in Elvish. “They’re not dragon slayers, Dad. They’re normal kids.”

“But – I don’t – why – how.” His father regained his wily tongue and his tattooed forehead turned red in outrage. “I gave you everything so you could be an amazing writer, a STORYTELLER. And you’re writing about whiny teenagers who live in New York? And you know what? I could live with that. BUT THEY’RE NORMAL TEENAGERS. NOT MAGICAL, NOT ZOMBIE KILLERS, NOT TERRORISTS OR — ANYTHING.” He wiped his pupil-less eyes, which had begun weeping black tears. “I’m sorry, Frankie,” he said at last. “But I had such high hopes for you.”

Frankenwriter grinned at his father. “Dad, I still want to write. I just don’t want to write fantasy or sci-fi or freaked-up murder mysteries or any of the things I’ve done in my life. Writing is supposed to be about experiencing new, foreign things, things you only dream about. Since you’ve made sure I’ve experienced just about every possible thing — and a lot of impossible things — the only thing I have left to dream about is a normal life.”

His dad sniffed. “That’s the Shakespeare in you talking.”

Frankenwriter turned back to his desk. “I have to go now. Daphne and Daisy are about to be confronted by Derrick’s older brother Devin. It’s going to get catty.”

Staring at the back of his son’s head, Dr. Nevil managed a small smile. Frankie was write right. And just so long as whatever he wrote made him happy, then that was fine with him. The snakes curled in the doctor’s stomach wriggled faster, hissing and exposing venemous fangs. Dr. Nevil’s smile broadened. After all, look how Nora Roberts had turned out.

He turned from his son’s bedroom and into the kitchen, where he made a fabulous dish of dragon pot pie (why waste the meat?). He hummed his theme song under his breath as the potatoes boiled. The mention of Nora Roberts made him wonder if he could create the opposite effect he made on Frankie on another child. Dr. Nevil realized that he wouldn’t mind having a daughter. If a life of sci-fi and fantasy and other freaky things inspired his son to write tragic romances, maybe a life of tragic romances would inspire his daughter to write sci-fi and fantasy. Frankie would have someone to play with. Of course, if he were to make his daughter the protagonist in a tragic romance, the rules dictate that the heroic elder brother must die. But it would be necessary, very necessary.

The doctor stirred in a few mermaid eyes with the peas. “Equal parts Nora Roberts and Nicholas Sparks, with an underlying of Jodi Picoult. Yessss. I shall call her Novellansteina.”

**I have nothing against the authors mentioned. In fact, some of them I love. It was just something I thought of — not creating literary versions of Frankenstein, but of being in a writing-stimulating environment. Do you think if you had been raised slaying dragons and fending off zombies, would you want to write about those experiences? Frankie didn’t, but maybe you would. [This was mainly a fun thing to write. So yeah.]**

Tudor-Inspired Art!

It’s been awhile since my last Tudor-related post, and I was contemplating  what my next should be about. I only had to take a peek around the house to decide.

My Tudor art.

I’m not an artist, but I enjoy sketching and painting, especially Tudor-era people (i.e., Anne Boleyn and Katheryn Howard) and Tudor-era scenes (mainly executions and the occasional birth of a princess/prince). I’ve branched away from my traditional mediums lately, however, and the results are rather interesting…

We can start with the least amazing. If Hans Holbein the Younger had a personal Facebook account, I imagined this is what it might look like. I exaggerated quite a bit, but I tried to include actual information about him — don’t sue me if I made an error. I believe I mainly used Wikipedia as I was aiming more for the art versus the history of it. I just took a Facebook template from the Internet, plugged in some pictures, typed in some status updates, and voila! A 16th century artist rocking the social media!

Click to embiggen and check out Hans’s latest status updates!

The next one was fun to make. After cutting out a template from a piece of cardboard (an old pizza box, I think), I used the same sort of gluey-gauze strips they use to make casts (don’t ask where I got them, but they really work!). Shaping the strips into leaves, branches, and bark was tricky as well as messy, but the end result was pleasing. I just used acrylic paint to detail it. The inspiration behind it was Shakespeare’s A Mid-Summer Night’s Dream, as well as the magical Forest of Arden in As You Like It. Arden is the name of my protagonist in my fantasy-esque manuscript. While I don’t think I’ll be wearing it anywhere, it might make a good Halloween prop!

This piece was perhaps the most taxing to make. I wanted to represent how Anne Boleyn has become just as a large and influential and controversial figure now as she was during her time as queen and queen-to-be. Hence, my poor attempts at skyscrapers and the Eye of London versus my laughable Tower. Simple acrylic, etc. See for yourself. Notice the teeny little airplane?

Okay, this last one is perhaps the most interesting piece I’ve ever made. Normally I don’t do sculptures, but I don’t regret making this! The process was semi-difficult, but simple. Pick your shape. Wrap a layer of packing tape, sticky-side out, snugly around your shape. Do more layers, sticky-side in, until you have at least three layers, and more depending on how strong you want it. Cut it off your shape and tape up the slit. And, ta-daa! Add paint or other things if you like, like I did.

This is Katheryn Howard. I used a dummy head for her head shape, and a box for the chopping block. The axe is made of cardboard, tin foil, and newspaper. The ”blood” is paint, so don’t worry. Her coif is created with some rather thick paper towel I found in a cupboard, and her hair is a painted braid of yarn. Notice her blood-soaked hair? And her tear?

I love her. So much.

She’s on display in my room. (There are worse places to put her, though. Like the bathroom…)

I had too much fun with the blood.

Katheryn might wear this as a disguise for her next secret meeting with Thomas Culpepper! Do you think Henry will be fooled?

What Did Shakespeare Call You?

What did Shakespeare call you in his moments of frustration – when you left an empty pan on the hot stove or spilled ink on his latest manuscript? A beslubbering, rump-fed strumpet? A dankish, elf-skinned bugbear? Or maybe a reeky, guts-griping codpiece?