Fiction

My Universe: MAGIC and the fallen world.

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

In my universe:

The Celts (Irish) have a legend about the fall of Satan from Heaven.  They say when God created the universe, he created three groups of angelic beings.  Satan and his angels were charged with testing creation.  Michael and his were to defend, support or uphold creation.  Gabriel and his were the heralds, to announce the goodness of creation to all. 

When Satan rebelled and was cast from Heaven, he took his third of the heavenly host with him.  As they passed through the realm of the earth, however, some of Satan’s followers had a thought, perhaps their first independent thought.  “Why should we blindly follow Lucifer into Hell?”

Those spirits stopped where they were, no longer fit for heaven, but not fully rebellious.  They were stuck, but by the grace of God, they were allowed to take on form.  Why?  Because a spirit has neither eyes nor ears nor any other apparatus to apprehend this universe.  By itself, a spirit is little more than the blind force as it is often understood to be.  By taking on form, these spirits could perceive the world and know what they were doing.  And why was that important?  Because they still had a job to do:  to test and try creation.

Though there is a continuum of spiritual beings from the greatest to the least, it is possible to crudely divide these earth-bound spirits into four types which initially would include the Titans, the greater spirits, the lesser spirits and the little spirits. 

The Titans were nature spirits in the largest sense of the word.  It was the children of the Titans who became the Gods of old that were turned in their task from testing creation to testing and trying men’s souls.  

The greater and lesser spirits were rarely found in human form, though the cold north wind might be found by sailors as a giant with an evil eye.  The Djinn, the various types of which run the scale from greater to lesser spirits, sometimes took on humanish (or ghoulish) form.  The spirits of purity were generally seen in the guise of the unicorn.  Greater Spirits in China often wore the form of the dragon.  The howling spirits of war and blood lust did appear in Celtic lands as women, but then, they had a touch of the blood of the Gods in them.

The little spirits or sprites are too numerous in their kinds to name.  There were once sprites in the air, the waters, the fire and the earth, but the sprites of the earth are the ones that are best known to most people.  In describing these, I often simplify matters by using the descriptions given in the Eddas:  There are dark elves, including goblins and trolls, and light elves, including fairies and brownies, and there are dwarfs in between, including ogres, imps and the like.  Curiously, these little ones are not immortal like their bigger, “cousins.”  Though very long lived, they nevertheless die after a time and await judgment even as mortals do.

In my universe, these little spirits often need help themselves to focus and concentrate their own spiritual power.  Thus we see wands and fairy dust and such depicted in many “fairy tales.” 

Most greater and lesser spirits need no such helps, and for the most part they are immortal, though many can be killed; but then many of these spirits are nature spirits and in their area of watch they need only a word of command like “let there be light” to affect this world.

The Gods, of course, are also limited, but it is a limit in their authority, not in their power.  As the saying goes in my time travel fantasy, “there is almost nothing the Gods cannot do.”  They can bend, shrink or expand space and time and change the course of the world simply by deciding how it must be.  To be able to do almost anything, though, does not mean they are so authorized or that it would be wise.  For one, competing Gods cancel each other out and that makes them vulnerable, even like Baldur, to die.  For two, these spirits also wish to regain Heaven (and who can blame them).  Most want to do their job well.  Some…

Exactly what wickedness in magic is will be covered two posts from now.  For the next post, I will say something about how magic came into the human race.

 

My Universe: MAGIC and the spiritual dimension.

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Writers of science fiction and fantasy in particular, but all genres in general including literary writers and storytellers of all kinds may speak of creating a world or universe within which their story or series of stories take place.  Some might simply call it the setting for the story, but really it is more than that because it not only includes houses, buildings, sometimes woods or communities or entire nations that do not actually exist; but people that are invented (after a fashion) for story purposes as well. 

For any author who steps outside of our present reality, building a story world that is consistent and plausible is imperative.  This is true for every author, even those who travel on the road, or visit a shack, or happen to be married to a time traveler.  The author needs to know what is and what isn’t, what is possible and what is not, and to some extent, how it works.  In short, they need to build a viable universe. 

This series of posts concerns my universe.  I want to share some thoughts on creating and building a world in which a story may live and breathe.  I hope by showing some aspects of my own universe, as conceived, you will find the discussions helpful in your own work, though I expect you will develop things differently and in your own way, and so you should.

In my universe:

Magic in my universe is rooted in the spiritual world.  It begins with the Biblical witness where God said, “Let there be light” and there was light.  It occurred to me that the Spirit has power over matter and energy in this way, not only to manipulate the material universe, but even to create “ex-nihilo” (out of nothing).  And what is magic as commonly understood but the exercise of some power to affect this material universe?

 I have no doubt that someone from the first century would find electric lights magical.  That sense of awe might be diminished on learning to turn the light on and off by themselves, but even if they learned to use the remote, I am still sure they would count as magic how I managed to fit all of those people into a flat television screen.  I have seen enough of the science to imagine a teleportation device (like on Star Trek).  But what first century person would see that as anything but magic?

In these examples, we see how science and technology have taken various “energies” found within this material universe and used them to manipulate matter and affect life.  You might imagine cooking in a microwave oven. 

In my universe, spiritual power takes precedent over both matter and energy.  You might then imagine a wizard calling or commanding microwaves to gather around your person and frying you where you stand without needing the oven.  You could also imagine a wizard commanding you to change, and the matter (as in “Let there be light”) would be unable to resist changing.  Thus, POOF!  You are a frog.

Of course, while the human spirit has the promise of being made greater than the angels, at the present time the human spirit is so diminished we cannot normally touch the world “magically.”  That is reality.  Even the wizard, opened to the power inherent in the spirit, would likely need something – a wand, a potion, gold dust perhaps – to bring their spiritual power into focus and to manage it.

But, you may ask, if the human spirit is so diminished, how is it that any human being might gain the power of magic?  That will have to wait until the next post:  MAGIC and the fallen world.

 

BLOGS OF THE FUTURE: Things I look forward to sharing…

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FROM STORYTELLER TO STORY WRITER

One of the things I want to look at in the coming weeks and months is my struggle to move from a teller of tales – a public speaker with an audience –to a writer of tales where the words alone have to do everything.  I have discovered, and I am still discovering that there are big differences between the two in terms of time and talent and a completely different set of skill involved, despite the superficial look of both as simply telling a tale…

CLASSIC STORYLINES

Another thing I look forward to delving into are the classic tales and story lines (plots) and how they can be used effectively in our own storytelling.  Several friends recently shared with me about how they believe there are no new stories, just new storytellers.  I agree in the sense that every person will take a story line (and I believe every person can take a plot) and tell it in a different way. 

I also believe, though, that it helps to be clear about what plot you are working with.  Too many authors don’t recognize this truth and as a result they ramble, follow extraneous trails for some distance, and end up throwing out whole chapters in the process.  Understanding the classic plots can go a long way in keeping a story on track.

WRITING ELEMENTS

I hope to be able to continue to share writing tips as I have found them and continue to find them.  This line will extend the work I began under the heading “Writing Secrets,” but I intend the ideas at this point to be more topical and open to discussion.  Some of those topics might include the selection (care and feeding) of character names, the “happily ever after” syndrome, where background information belongs in a story (and how important it is to the story and character development), what research is really good for, and so on.

MY UNIVERSE

Lastly, I want to share some thoughts on creating and building a viable world in which a story may live and breathe.  I hope to do so by showing some aspects of my own universe, as conceived.  I hope you will find the discussions helpful in your work, though I expect you will develop things differently and in your own way.  With that said, let me share some general thoughts about creating a writing universe.

Writers of science fiction and fantasy in particular, and all genres including mainstream/literary writers to some greater or lesser extent will speak of creating their own world or universe within which their story or series of stories take place.  Some might simply call it the setting for the story, but really it is more than that.  It includes houses, buildings, sometimes woods or bridges or countryside that does not actually exist in our reality; and people, of course, that are invented (after a fashion) for story purposes. 

For any author who steps outside of our present reality – that which we experience every day, whether Wal-mart or Nordstrom’s – building a world that is consistent and plausible is imperative.  This is true, not only for the obvious world builders like science fiction and fantasy (and horror) authors, but for anyone who travels on the road, or visits a shack, or happens to be married to a time traveler.  The author needs to know what is and what isn’t, what is possible and what is not, and to some extent, how it works.  In short, they need to build a viable universe.  

Now, I plan immediately to go out on a limb and make my very next post on showing the development of my system of magic (as used in my fantasy stories and novels, as well as my time travel fantasy).   Yours will undoubtedly differ, and so it should.

One Writer’s Writing Secrets 12: Finish & Polish, don’t rub it raw.

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My editor father was a great one for quotes of value.  Living in his non-fiction world, he once said, “Good writers know what to put into a story.  The best writers know what to leave out.” – J. W. Kizzia.  He was right, and as I have grown older, and now having lost him more than a year ago, it is remarkable to me to realize how often he was right.

To that end, whenever I finish a story or book, after running through spell check and whatever, I first return to see what I can cut out.  What is extraneous?  What does not advance the story?  What is repeated?  Because of the way I outline before I begin, I have never discarded whole chapters, but I know some who have.  (I actually added a chapter once when I needed a more direct confrontation to build the suspense).  But I have discarded many sections, paragraphs and innumerable lines and bits of dialogue where they do not contribute to the development of characters, or to the storyline.

Next, I look for the obvious storytelling flaws, the most obvious probably being where I explain rather than show.  If it is important for the reader to know (and often it is not) I determine when the reader needs to know it and then I try to design a way to show the information in an active scene, or dialogue, or (as a last resort) through introspection.  I always read the omnipotent author stopping to explain something as an interruption of the story and it turns me off.

Finally, I consider the words.  I admit that I am not good at worrying about whether “flying” or “soaring” would be a better choice for the passage.  Some people are, but it seems to me that would take forever (that may be why I am fairly prolific but consider myself a pedestrian writer).  I do consider the flow of the piece, however, and especially where I become repetitive, using the same word too many times or repeating the same phrase or descriptive bit.  I take Dickens as my lead on that.  

Dickens got paid by the word, of course, so he was inspired to draw things out, and yet he could take three pages to say it was snowing and get away with it.  The thing was, Dickens wrote those three pages brilliantly, using parallel constructions and without ever repeating himself, exactly, so his readers were captivated and never realized that all he was saying for three pages was it was snowing, and perhaps cold.  With that inspiration, I figure that surely I can find a different way to say essentially the same thing (like “flying” or “soaring”).

Once I have cut out what I can, resolved my storytelling flaws and assured myself that the story flows well, I type THE END and then the most important part, I don’t look at it again!  BAEN publishing, one of the few publishing houses that currently has a set-up to receive over the transom manuscripts via the internet has an automatic response that every writer should seriously consider.  “Your manuscript has been received.  It takes 9-12 months to review a manuscript so while you are waiting, go write your next book.”  Don’t look at it!  Go write the next one.

Remember Robet Heinlein’s rules of writing:
1. You must write
2. You must finish what you start
3. You must refrain from rewriting, except to editorial order
4. You must put your story on the market
5. You must keep it on the market until it has sold

Writing Tip 12:

My wife likes things clean.  Normally, I don’t mind, but we have a table that got a stain on it from a wine glass.  She tried everything to get that stain up and finally rubbed the finish off, cleaning it right down to the wood.  The whole table had to be stripped and refinished.  Was it worth it?  Don’t do that to your writing.  You may see the wine stain, but an agent, publisher, reader may not, or they may feel it gives the work character.  Don’t second-guess,  Instead, take a deep breath, recognize that no story is ever going to be perfect and go write the next one.

One Writer’s Writing Secret 11: How to get to THE END.

M G Kizzia 2 Comments

            The one time I met Kurt Vonnegut, he was having a bad hair day.  To make matters worse, he just finished addressing an auditorium full of people and he confided to me that he thought he was invited to address a small class and if he had known he was going to have to give a lecture, he wouldn’t have come.  (I think I got that bit of confidence because I was Mount Everest to his Hillary:  I was there).  But it was a double-whammy.  A bad hair day and a bad mood!  Still, I was determined to mine this mind because I had a drawer full of started stories, started novels, started plays even, and nothing finished.  My great ideas always seemed to rise to the level of inefficiency and petered out (The Peter Principle)?

            I asked him.  “How do you finish?”  He stared at me with those droopy eyes and almost smiled while I frantically tried to rephrase the question so he would understand what I was really asking.  Fortunately, he smiled and spoke first.

            “I never think about finishing.”  He said.  When I was clearly stunned, he explained:

            Whenever he got a good idea, he would climb up into the attic room in his brownstone and lock the door.  People knew enough to stay away from him at those times.  He would stay up in that room for a long time, working.  Once, it was almost six months.  He said he spent all that time working on the first sentence.  (I translated that as the opening of the story), but he said, once he got the first sentence right, the rest just poured out of him.

            I nodded.  “So while you are working on that first sentence, your subconscious in the back of your mind is busy plotting out the story, characters and all.” 

            He frowned before admitting, “Probably, but I try not to analyze it too much.”

            I thought this was great advice at the time, and I soon added page after page of great opening sentences to my drawer of the unfinished.  Then I read Camus’ “The Plague,” and recognized the character who spent his whole life trying to write the perfect opening sentence, and he died, the plague of course, without having written a thing.

            It was not long after that I read an article about how a writer should always have an ending in mind before they ever start.  I thought that made sense.  Years later, I understand J. K. Rowling had the gist of the end in mind before she penned the first “Harry Potter.”  It is not a bad way to go, and given my imagination, I came up with all kinds of great endings.  The trouble was for some, I couldn’t find the beginning.  For others, the trail veered off and no matter what I did, it was determined to go nowhere near the end.  For still others, I could see the end on the horizon, shining like the proverbial city on the hill, but I was stuck in the swamp (bogged down) and could not find the path at all.

            Grrr!

            So someone told me I needed to outline the whole thing before I wrote a word.  We even worked with storyboards so the outline turned out to be 15 pages for a 10 page short story.  I finished it!  But it read like it was encased in a straight jacket.

            Grrr, again!

            After several variations on the theme, I finally ended up with what I call the skeleton.  One paragraph (no more) describing the whole piece – a good thing to have later for promotional purposes & book covers.  Characters are often noted with just names, sometimes age or other important characteristic is given and a word or too summarizing temperament or personality is jotted down, but that is it.  Then a sentence or two, perhaps just phrases but no more than a paragraph describing what needs to happen in each story scene or novel chapter.  Such an outline might be 6-8 pages maximum for a 300 page novel.  I have found that this works for me.  I keep on track, I look forward to the next scene or chapter rather than the blank page, and I can breathe and move freely right to THE END.

            This works for me.  What works for you?

 

Writing Tip 11:

I feel there may be as many ways to THE END as there are writers; but there are four things to consider here:  1)  Don’t let the unfinished works steal your time, attention or energy.  2)  Don’t worry about what so-and-so recommends because it might work for you, but it might not.          3)  Don’t assume that all roads lead to Rome.  Some will peter out, some may leave you in the swamp, and some may leave you so exhausted at the end you can hardly breathe.  4)  Don’t give up.  Keep looking until you find YOUR path and then head for home.

 

One Writer’s Writing Secret 10: Write what you know, sort of.

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            My Dad used to tell this story about a frumpy, old woman that came into his office one day.  He was editor of “Railway Age Magazine” at the time and the woman apparently had some railroad questions.  Now, he was a kind soul, but he had work to do so he said he would be with her in a while if she cared to wait.  She did not mind. 

            Dad described the woman as five-foot nothing, rather round, not anything to look at, and she wore a crumpled dress and an apron that made her look like what he called a “Woolworth’s Lady.”  He watched her for a while.  She sat quietly, occasionally scribbling a note or two in a little notebook, but otherwise she appeared to be a happy wallflower.

            At last, he made the time and invited her into his office.  She was grateful and as she waddled in and sat, he noticed the small suitcase for the first time and wondered if she needed a few dollars.  The woman pulled out her notebook and began to ask her questions.  Dad answered as well as he could, pointing out one historical point where she was mistaken.  That was when she looked terribly frustrated and shook her head in despair.

            “What is it?’  Dad asked, kind soul that he was.

            “Well, I was wondering if you would read my manuscript.  I am afraid I may have made terrible mistakes and I really want to get it right.”

            Dad was an editor, you know.  He said later that he imagined the manuscript was some historical article on railroads, and while his magazine did not publish those sorts of things, he said, “Sure.”

            That was when the woman opened her suitcase and pulled out a massive number of pages which she plunked, ker-thump on Dad’s desk.  “Thank you.”  She said.  “I will be forever grateful.  Should I call back in a month?”  Dad could only nod, grimly while the woman left.

            The woman was not known at that time.  She became very well known.  It was Ayn Rand, and the “little” manuscript was Atlas Shrugged.  I say she became very well known, but I doubt anyone would have picked this frumpy wallflower out of any lineup and say, “Surely this is the person who wrote that rich and powerful tome.”

            On the surface I might say don’t worry about what you look like.  Your readers don’t know and likely don’t care if your self-esteem is high or low.  I have never gotten with this author picture on the book jacket business.  I would rather not know what the author looks like because if it is a really good story, I am probably inclined to imagine the author as richer, more successful, more beautiful and wiser than they really are, and that is how I would like to be seen.

            But let’s not stop there.

            One layer under we come to the question of “Write what you know.”  (Surely you have heard that before).

            On a mico-level, “Write what you know” makes great sense.  By drawing on your own experiences and the information stored in your brain you can turn characters into people, make potentially stilted dialogue flow with realism, and transform your scene and scenery from cardboard to real, living trees.  Like Pinocchio, you can make real boys even as J. K. Rowling, welfare mom did when she wrote about a real boy in a special school fighting an evil wizard.  But wait, J. K. Rowling never experienced being a boy, and while she may have imagined all that other stuff in her head, she certainly did not “know” it.

            Well, you see, that is because on the macro-level, as far as the overall story itself goes, “Write what you know” takes on a whole different meaning.  The little frumpy old lady in my father’s office certainly never experienced the life of a rich and powerful industrial giant.  So can it be said that she wrote what she knew?

            Yes.

            Very simply, this level of knowing has nothing overtly to do with experience (that is micro-instructive), and it has nothing to do with what is in your head (you can always find some hapless magazine editor to check your facts) it has everything to do with what is in your heart.  In that sense, rather than saying “Write what you know,” we might say, instead, “Write what you believe.” Or as I have said many times, “Write what you know in your heart.”  Ayn Rand did, and I am sure J. K. Rowling did, too.

Writing Tip 10:

What do you believe?  What is important – vitally important?  What are you passionate about?  Write what your heart knows, because passion is the essence of a good story – the best stories.  When you write out of your passions, the reader will get it and you know, they just might become passionate about your story in return, and they might even believe you are richer, more successful, more beautiful and wiser than you really are.

Series: Dreamchild Story: The Most Important Lesson M/F Story

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            The ground was covered with a cold white blanket where the fresh snow had fallen under the moon and stars.  Bobby got up early.  He loved the snow; but sadly that day was a school day despite the winter conditions.  Mama wrapped him up snug and tight in a hat, coat, mittens and scarf and sent him out the door.  The school yard was three houses up the street and through a wood too small to hold a house but big enough for a stream to run through.

            Bobby decided to have some fun on his way to school.  He made great footprints in the snow, jumping from foot to foot and leaving a wide space between, he imagined it was like the footprints of a grown-up or maybe a giant.  On the last footprint, he slipped and fell flat in the snow and all of his clothes got covered with white and wet.  He decided then, that since he was already wet he might as well make some angels.  Lying flat on his back, he moved his arms up and down and his legs back and forth until wings appeared in the snow.  When he was satisfied with his great work, he moved on to a new spot.  He did not want to be late for school, but this was fun.

            By the time Bobby reached the little wood there was a regular path of angels.  The snow began to fall lightly as Bobby decided to build a snowman to guard the angel way.  The bottom snowball was easy to make and it rolled right to where he wanted it.  The middle snowball was harder, taking him farther from the snowman, and it was heavy.  The top snowball was smaller and lighter, but making it took him into the woods.  He noticed it was warm in that little shelter, and hardly snowing at all.  He put the head on the snowman and smoothed his creation as well as he could; and then he found some pebbles by the little stream which he used for eyes, nose and mouth.

            He went back to the stream in the woods.  It was only finger deep, even in the summer, and a giant step across at the widest part.  Bobby noticed where the wind had cleared a small section, but there, instead of running water, he found ice.  His rubber boot crashed on the ice and made a delicious sound.  Crunch, crunch, Crunch!  He marched up and down the stream like an army of soldiers until there was nothing left of the stream but puddles of frigid water. 

            This army needs a fort, Bobby decided, and he set about building one, rolling great snowballs up to the water’s edge.  There were seven for the base and six on top, and finally five on the very top.  He carefully shaped them from round balls into blocks, and stood back to examine his work.  It was not right.  Instead of a fort, he needed a castle.  Three more blocks spaced on the top gave the appearance of a real castle, and with that he could set about making ammunition.

            Bobby could count to twenty but that hardly seemed enough, so he made another twenty and then he used them against the invisible army of the enemy.  He threw his snowballs against the trees and against certain bushes where the enemy was hiding.  With the last snowball, Bobby won the war.  Everyone cheered and celebrated the winner.

            Suddenly, Bobby stopped and listened.  He heard someone calling.  It sounded like a man calling for Robert; but Mama told him to stay away from strangers so he hid behind the castle wall.  It seemed like a long time, but it was really only a few minutes before the man went away; and Bobby thought he had better go, too.  He did not want to be late for school.

            There was a hill to climb to get out of the woods and on to the school yard.  Near the top, Bobby’s foot slipped on a piece of cardboard someone left by the woods.  He tumbled and slid back down the path that ran between the trees, and came to a stop near the stream.  Someone else might have been frightened, but Bobby decided it was fun.  He raced to the top and pulled the cardboard free of the snow.  It was a carton top and it was just big enough to sit on.

            Bobby used the carton top like a sled and raced down the hill, this time all the way to the stream.  Once was not enough.  There were several trips, running to the top and sliding to the bottom before the cardboard finally fell apart.  On the last slide, the cardboard stopped short on a grassy spot that had rubbed clean of snow.  Bobby fell forward and his face and hands went into the ice cold water of the stream.  He shivered, but he knew he could warm up as soon as he got to the school.  He ran across the school yard.

            When he reached the school room door and stepped inside, he was surprised by what he saw.  The teacher gave him a mean look, the children stared, some open mouthed, and his mother was there.  She had been called.  She raced over and scooped Bobby up before he could even take off his mittens.  Everyone asked him where he had been.  He was just playing.  He did not know what else to say.  Then he found out it was nearly noon and he was not only late for school, he was in big trouble.

            Mama took him home, dressed him in warm pajamas and put him in bed.  She made him some hot soup so he would not catch cold, but she was angry with him, and that made Bobby afraid of what his Daddy might do.  He spent all afternoon in his room, in his bed, unable to nap for fear.  His father told him to go to school.  It was what he expected, but Bobby did what Bobby wanted instead and he upset everyone and made everyone worry; and now he was in trouble.

            When his father’s car pulled into the driveway, Bobby nearly started to cry.  He heard the kitchen door, and shortly, Mama came and took him by the hand.  She led him to the living room where Daddy was waiting in his high back chair.  The terrible stern look on his face made Bobby draw back.

            “Come here, son.”  Bobby’s father said, and as Mama pushed him gently, a reluctant Bobby inched forward.  “First things first.  Come here for the most important lesson.”  When Bobby was close enough, his father reached out and drew the child up into his lap.  And then Bobby’s father spoke.

            “The first thing you need to know is I love you.”  He kissed Bobby and hugged him, snug and tender, making him feel warm.  Bobby put his arms around his father’s neck and returned the hug; and then he did cry, at last, but he was not unhappy.  He knew he would be punished for making everyone upset and worry, and he knew he would have to do a better job of going to school; but he also knew that as long as his Daddy and Mama loved him, everything would be all right.

            All of us are tempted from time to time to follow what we want rather than what God asks of us; but as the Apostle Paul reminds us, “Nothing can separate us from the Love of God.”  It is sometimes important to remember that first and most important lesson.

Halloween Questions just for you…

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Halloween Story is complete and under the tab: The Other Earth. 

Ghosts, under the tab Strange Tales, is also a good read for the season.  Enjoy.

Meanwhile, I have some Halloween thoughts and questions:

Natural selection:  If this is a fact, why is there still road kill?  Shouldn’t all the stupid squirrels be dead by now?  (What?  This is just gross thinking?  Well, hasn’t Halloween become just gross)?

What are parents thinking when they encourage their children to dress as the most grotesque and evil costumes they can find?  OK, maybe some parents think Halloween is only a time for spooky, scary stuff, but really:  what are they promoting in the minds of the children?

You know, kids used to dress their dreams at Halloween: princess, knight, fairy, clown, angel, superhero, and the ever popular  “what I want to be when I grow up.”  Some still do, I suppose.  Then again, maybe some kids don’t dream anymore.  Maybe all they have are nightmares.

So, is Frankenstein’s monster a kind of zombie, or what?  And whoever decided the job of the undead was to eat the living – Romero?

 So, is your neighborhood safe to let your children trick-or-treat.  No?  Do you know your neighbors?  What can you do to make it safe?

So, is the Wizard of Oz still a Halloween treat at your house?  And when was the last time anyone bobbed for apples?  How about reading Washington Irving (Sleepy Hallow)?  What are your special Halloween traditions?

So, do you remember Samhaine, Halloween, or All Hallows Eve?  Will you take time on the following morning to remember the good on “All Saints Day” as the world moves from darkness to light?

One Writer’s Writing Secret 9: Deeper Characters

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

            What is your character’s worldview?  What is yours?  Do you know?  Do you know what a worldview is?  Basically, a worldview is the lens through which we see the world, and often, like fish in water, we are unaware that our perceptions of reality are being colored (rose colored glasses) or even distorted.  It is essentialy an unconscious thing having to do with the way we were raised, things we were taught when we were very young, and the pervasive view of the word as exemplified in the culture around us.

            Right now in America we are transitioning between two competing worldviews.  Most people over, say, 40 are moderns.  The key to understanding modern thinking is to think of the word “progress.”  Modernists see the world as progressing on all fronts, particularly in science and technology, but not exclusively so.  Religious thinkers of the past 400 or so years of modern thinking have talked of moral progress, for example.  Evolution is a very modern idea.  Karl Marx imagined society and politics as progressing in a certain order; but so did Thomas Jefferson.  I have always thought of the modern worldview in relation to Isaac Newton.  He discovered the laws of gravity and motion and invented calculus to prove his theories.  Thus the world advanced.  How very Newtonian of him.

            If you are under 30 though, you are likely to be what they are calling a post-modern thinker.  Here, I think of Einstein, because one of the key words of post-modernism is “Relative.”  Everything in the post-modern mind is at least potentially relative.  Cultures?  Relative.  Western Civilization is no “better” than any other.  For the modernists, a tribe of hunter-gatherers in the jungle were “primitives” (not progressed), but for a post-modernist they are simply different without regard to such terms as better or worse.  Cultures, civilization, morality, truth, it is all relative, opinion, preference, subjective.  Even science and the very laws of the universe are not spared.  Nothing is considered absolutely true.  According to Einstein, the very fabric of time and space are relative.

            Why does this matter?  Well, because you don’t want your characters behaving in a way that doesn’t make sense.  An old person is not going to be a radical post-modernist unless they are trying to be young and cool.  A young person who believes in absolutes and the universal nature of things (generally) and in making appropriate and reasonable judgments between better and worse as opposed to simply having preferences, is probably going to need some explaining.  Behavior, and in particular dialogue is going to be determined to a large extent by the character’s worldview.  That is where they are coming from.  That is their point of view.

            You know, the last time there was this kind of clash of worldviews, one fellow took a long hard look at the medieval view (the medieval ideals) of chivalry, damsels in distress, love conquering all, nobility and the whole social structure.  He wrote a book called “Don Quixote” which made a mockery of that whole old way of seeing the universe!  It bores almost as many people today as Moby Dick, but in its time Don Quixote was a radical, mind boggling commentary of life, the universe and everything.

            This is important, now, in our place and time, but also if you write historical fact or fiction.  It is important. as far as possible. to see things through their eyes – through the eyes of history.  If you write science fiction, well, how will the human race view the universe and our place in it 400 years from now?  Then again, our whole worldview might change in only a hundred years given the way we are progressing.  (Oops!  I’m showing my age).

Writing Tip 9:

What is your character’s worldview?  It is the point of view that will motivate and drive behavior and color dialogue.  And I didn’t even mention the religious worldview – the joker in the deck – where millions of people (sincerely) try to view life, the universe and everything through God’s eyes.

Series: Tales of the Other Earth Tale: Halloween Story part 5 M/F Story

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

            Barten-Cur came up to the Middle School in a hurry.  He tried to make it before the school busses started, but failed, and so he was delayed in traffic for a long time.  By the time he arrived, the library was already closed up and Arosa had gone home.  Lila was also nowhere to be found.  He was about to turn and rush to the house, but the Middle School Principal caught him.

            “Barten.”  The Principal called.  “I appreciate you coming over from the High School for this dance.  Wilson has little ones to trick or treat, you know.”  He said.  “I’m a little concerned, though, that all of the decorations are up to code.  We can’t have the Fire Marshall coming in and shutting down the whole event.”

            “Yes sir.”  Barten said.  He would need to check on that, but later, he thought.

            Mary, Principal Barlow’s secretary stuck her head out of the office door on hearing the voices in the hall.  “Ah.  Mister Cur.”  She said.  “I was hoping you would come early.  I have several instructions to go over with you and I want to ask you some questions.”

            Barten-Cur swallowed.  “Yes mam.”  He said, hoping it would not take too long.  He looked to the side as Morgan and Mary went by. 

            “I hear Secretary Mary, the school witch is coming as the Wicked Witch of the West.”  Morgan whispered.

            “Perfect.”  Mary said with a smile and shrug as they hurried off.

            Later, when Barten-Cur came out of the office, he looked very confused.  The school secretary was very good at doing that to people, even the bright ones.  Barten-Cur walked down the hall that ran along the side of the auditorium, and headed for the gym.  He had to be sure the decorations were not in violation of the fire codes.  By the time he remembered the soldier and his need to tell Arosa, it was too late.       

                                                            ————

            Lila left Jennifer and Ginger at the front walk and came in by the picket fence gate, waving as she walked up the porch steps.  Of course, Jennifer and Ginger had to go home to get in their costumes; but they would be back.  “One hour!”  Jennifer had shouted from the distance, though Lila suspected it would take a bit longer than that.

            Grandpa drove up as Lila reached the door, so she waited, and then decided to go to the car to meet him.  She hugged him.  “You are coming to the dance?”  She had not had a chance to ask earlier what with chemistry tests and such.

            “I wouldn’t miss it.”  Wendel said, putting his arm around Lila’s shoulder for a real hug.  “Your mother inside?” 

            “I guess.”  Lila said.  “She left school right away.  What takes so long to get ready for a crumby date, anyway?”  She asked.

            “Ah, yes.”  Grandpa Carter said in an all-knowing tone of voice.  “But I think you had better let your mother explain that.  I’m not much good on the ways of women and their dates.”

            “Oh, Grandpa.”  Lila said, happily, hugging him just a little more.

            Wendel Carter smiled.  He was genuinely happy.

            Upstairs, Arosa fretted in front of the mirror.  The white gown would suit well.  It fit nicely and had a solid Greco-Roman look to it as would be expected for an angel; but she was not sure if she should really do the wings or just suggest them with the strap-ons.  She straightened the golden circle around her hair, which was there to suggest the halo.  She was not about to wear one with a stick attached.  She picked up her brush and began brushing her bangs.  Her hair was short now, at least by her standards, falling only to the middle of her back; though it was still much longer than the boy haircuts so popular among the women around her.  “Definitely do the wings.”  She decided, and she focused, waved her hands slightly, producing a soft, swirling white light, which rose over her shoulder and touched her back.  The magic would do the work.

            Vents appeared in two places in the back of her gown, well edged so as not to fray, but large enough to let out the wings.  She felt the magic when it touched her back, and was uncomfortable for a moment as her back muscles became much stronger, multiplied and rearranged themselves.  Then the wings began to grow.  She could feel the tips extending, and felt the feathers like one felt one’s hair; yet there was life in the wings, and she could play with them, though she did hope she would not molt too much over the course of the evening.  The wings, when contracted, soon rose as high as her head, and the tip feathers touched the ground so she had to let them out just a little to keep them from dragging.  She considered their shape.  They were spaced perfectly so she would have no trouble sitting in a chair.  She would have to tell David no booths, though, wherever he was taking her.

            Arosa sighed.  “Why not?”  She asked herself.  She let the wings all of the way out and allowed one gentle flap, putting her hands above her head just in case she ran into the ceiling.  She lifted gently off the ground, about a foot, and then settled slowly back to her feet.  Lila came to the door just in time to see.

            “Mom!”  Lila nearly shouted. 

            “What do you think?”  Arosa asked.

            “Oh, Mom.”  Lila came close for a hug.  “I always knew you were an angel.”

            “But.”  Arosa had a sudden thought.  She broke the embrace and turned around.  “How do I look?” 

            Lila took a moment to look closely at the wings.  She saw them flex, like a wave beginning in her mother’s back and continuing to gently flow all of the way to the tips.  “Fine.”  She said, not knowing what she was supposed to be looking at.

            “My back isn’t too big?”  Arosa asked.

            Lila looked more closely.  “No.”  She said.  “Bigger than it was, I think, but not too big.  Still nice.”

            Arosa turned again with relief on her face.  “I was afraid the muscles needed to carry my wings might turn my back into some monstrous size.”

            Lila shook her head.  “They are angel wings, right?  Wouldn’t they have some magic in them to prevent that?”

            Arosa smiled.  “I know we haven’t practiced magic much.”  She said.  “We have to work on that, but you should at least remember the lessons you have had.  Even with magic, things…”

            “Still work by natural means.”  Lila finished the sentence.  “OK.  Now you can help me with my fairy wings.  Oh, wait.  Let me get in costume first.”

            “No Lila.”  Arosa spoke in her firm voice.

            “What?  But Mom!”

            “First of all, fairies are only about six or nine inches tall, and you are not allowed to go to the dance nine inches tall.”

            Lila interrupted.  “And second of all, we are not supposed to practice magic in public.  That’s your rule.  But you are.”  Lila was glad to point that out.

            “And second of all, you left the front door unlocked this morning.  No real fairy wings!”  Arosa shook her finger.

            “Not fair!”  Lila complained and went off to her room, closing the door with some volume.  Arosa sighed and went downstairs, letting her wings float her down.

            “Dad?”  She saw him rummaging through his briefcase.

            “I have to go back to the office.”  He said. 

            “You better dress first.”  She suggested.

            “Richard the Lionhearted goes to school.”  He winked.

            “Dad.”  She knew he did not have such a costume.

            “All right.  I’m really dressing as the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz, you know, if I only had a brain.”

            Arosa laughed softly and kissed him as the front doorbell rang and Wendel hustled upstairs.  Arosa answered the door, and David was dressed as Richard the Lionhearted.  She turned and shot a hard look up the stairs.  It was a good costume, too, almost good enough to give Arosa a feeling of home.  “You look very nice.”

            “You look.”  David had to pause for the right words.  “Very lovely.”  That was where he finally settled, though it was not what he was thinking.  Arosa saw much more in his eyes.  She smiled and looked down as she stepped out and took his arm.  They walked to the car, and as an afterthought, Arosa sent a bit of special magic, secretly, to let her sit comfortably in the front passenger seat, and still wear her seatbelt, despite the wings.  She had not thought of sitting in the car.

            “You do look lovely.”  David repeated himself as they got in and buckled up.  He really was a nice man, Arosa thought.

            In the house, Wendel Carter got his things and headed for the door, shouting back at Lila.  “I have to go back to the office.  I’ll see you at the school.  Your mother left supper on the stove for you.  Are you there, Lila?”

            Lila opened her door.  “I’m here. Grandpa.”  She shouted.  “I’ll lock the door when I go.”  She finished dressing and heard Grandpa’s car start and leave.  Lila let her magic out, but the wings would not attach and she could not grow any from scratch.  She felt useless.  Her magic was more yellow, like sunlight, and not the pure white of her mother’s magic.  She wondered briefly if that might have something to do with her difficulties, but she remembered when her mother explained that it should make no difference.  Barten-Cur’s magic tended to come with a light purple light, and he was a very powerful magician.

            “Someday.”  Lila said to herself, and she went downstairs and turned her nose up at the dinner her mother left.  She checked her resources and decided on the McDonalds, which was just a block from the school.