The Hatching Season

It’s the hatching season. Not just of the various critters that appear to be attempting to invade the house, but of a new story.

It struck me this morning as I waddled around the kitchen that I felt thoroughly pregnant. Like the egg was ready to be laid. I’m speaking metaphorically, and I hasten to add there was no waddling, just the sensation that I should be waddling because I’m carrying this huge “thing” that needs birthing. Then I remembered that I’ve had this feeling several times before and always at the same time of year. It’s as though there is a season for bringing a new story into the world.

When I started my paranormal novel a few years ago, it was in March. When I started each book in my midgrade fantasy trilogy, it was the end of February. When the novel I’ve just finished first appeared, it was late February/early March. And now it’s happening again.

As with the others, this story has been composting and brewing in my subconscious for a long time – this one for perhaps longer than any of the others. I’ve started first chapters of it on several occasions, but it’s never been the right time to really bring it into the world. Now it is.

The trouble is, I decided that I would really like to try and plot this story. I figured I’d take control, avoid the endless rewrites, and condense the whole process. But I’m not by nature a plotter – I am a complete “pantster” – I write on the fly – I have nothing but the barest hint of what is about to happen and I don’t know where the story will go. I have a concept and I have a character and I go from there, to who knows where, on a huge adventure with my characters. You might say the story happens to me as much as it does to my characters.

For me, this is the “magic” of writing; it’s like “channeling” the story. That’s the wonder and richness of it. For someone who is usually very organized, disciplined and well-grounded in business and process protocols, this is where the creative energies force me to trust them and take me on an alchemical ride of their own. It’s once the first draft is down that I regain my power, and my work (the rewriting and editing) begins.

This time, however, I thought I could try and change the process. Ho-ho-ho.

For the last few weeks, knowing the story has been reaching boiling point, I’ve been trying to find the various bits of it so I can sit down and plot the thing. Ha! Not a chance. It’s just not going to happen. Every time I try to sneak up on the story to unravel its secrets, it hurtles off and blows raspberries at me from behind a bush. Each time I try to cajole it and encourage it to reveal its inner workings to me, it slinks off and sulks. It becomes capricious, petulant and single-minded. Any attempt to pin it down, just makes it thoroughly elusive.

Let’s not kid ourselves, stories have minds and lives of their own. They are alive and they live on their terms. Some people’s stories may allow themselves to be captured and tamed into submission to reveal their inner depths. The stories that come to me don’t.

So, I will now capitulate and sit down in front of my blank screen and wait for the story to reveal itself. It’s the only way to do it and frankly, at this stage, I’m so heavily pregnant with story that if I don’t, I’ll probably explode. And we all know how messy that might be - chocolate and vanilla will be splattered everywhere!

As it is, just having said all this, I can hear the gentle rustling of wings as the story settles itself down and readies itself to be told.

Here we go…!

A story about the Mamlambo

Every now and then, when she’s in town, I get to have tea with my old chum from junior school days, Felicity Wood. Felicity is fascinating and I put much of it down to her disappearing through Bilbo Baggins’ round front door when we read The Hobbit in Grade Six (when we were 11). I’m not sure that Felicity ever came out again and since then her fascination with myth, fairy tales and legend has simply grown. She now has her doctorate and teaches English and Creative Writing at one of South Africa’s universities and has just had her first book published – on the life of Khotso Sethunsa, the millionaire Xhosa medicine man (inyanga) who was known to work magic.

One of the best things about tea with Felicity is the stories – for Felicity has spent many years gathering stories, as she has researched the oral narratives that form a fundamental part of life in South Africa. I thought I’d share one of the stories with you so as to give you another - and different - insight into the many elements that make up South Africa. So here is a story about the Mamlambo – the serpent mermaid who promises great material wealth but at a terrible price. The story was told to Felicity by an acquaintance, who we'll call Alice.

When the Alice married her husband he told her there was something he needed to tell her about his family – because he didn’t want to have any secrets from her.

It was several years ago, he said, that the events took place.

He had noticed his father was gaining wealth – the cattle were increasing, the fields were producing good harvests. But the son also had the sense that something was amiss. He discussed the matter with his brother and together they decided to approach their father.

They asked their father how it was that the family’s fortunes were improving so dramatically. The old man hedged for a few moments before saying he had something to confess. He had, he told them, some months before, gone to see the sangoma (a traditional African healer) – to ask for the family fortunes to improve. The sangoma had said the best way to achieve this would be to call on the Mamlambo, an ancient creature of the rivers who variously takes the form of a serpent, a mermaid, or a water monster and who is able to provide great wealth. Yes, there was a risk involved because the Mamlambo always extracts her price – but the old man was willing to take the risk in order to grow rich.

The deal was struck and the magic done and immediately the old man started to notice a change in his fortunes. However, after a while he also made another discovery. Each morning when he put on his jacket, he would find a snake in the pocket. It made no difference which jacket he took from his wardrobe, there was always a snake in the pocket. And as time passed, so the snake grew. By the time the sons came to their father, the old man was getting desperate for not only could he not get rid of the snake but he also knew the Mamlambo would soon want her “payment for services rendered” –the snake’s presence was a sure sign of that. He also knew that what the Mamlambo probably wanted was a blood sacrifice - or she would place a dreadful curse on the family.

Together the sons and father decided they had to get rid of the Mamlambo’s cursed blessing. But every sangoma they approached refused to help being too afraid of the Mamlambo. Finally they heard of a Malawian sangoma in Johannesburg and off they went, trekking half way across the country to see him.

The sangoma told the men that in order to rid themselves of the Mamlambo they’d have to fool her with a “gift” – an offering. He told them to buy a pint of amasi (sour milk) and to go to a high place, where they were to dig a hole, pour in the milk and then run like hell while the Mamlambo drank the milk.

Since they were in Johannesburg the highest place they could find was a mine dump and so the sons, supporting their elderly father, duly made their way up the vast mound of earth. At the top they dug a hole and poured the amasi into it. They waited a moment and then heard the sounds of slurping. The Mamlambo had arrived and was drinking the milk! They took to their heels and ran, the two brothers supporting the old man between them so his feet didn’t even touch the ground.

They returned to their home in the Eastern Cape and within days the family’s fortunes started to dwindle. The harvest failed, cattle died but no one in the family was harmed and the Mamlambo did not come to take her blood sacrifice. Family life returned to just what it had been before the old father had requested the intervention of the Mamlambo to aid his fortunes.


Now, you’re probably thinking that this is a nice fairy tale but I will tell you that the people who participated in this event will assure you that it was no fairy tale and that it is absolutely true. Mythology plays a powerful part in the every day life of African people – as you believe and know your God to be there, so they know their gods and other beings to be there too.

You might like to take a look at this if you want to read more reports of the Mamlambo in action!

Lions Circle Writing Endeavour

(Image from the Shameless Lions blog.)

As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, the Shameless Lions Writing Circle has been geared up for a new project - to write a collective short story. Now frankly, I have my doubts and concerns about over 40 people writing one story... but I'll reserve judgement and we'll see how it goes.

The first four pieces have been written and I've been tagged by Minx to write the fifth bit - thank the goddess I wasn't left to write the conclusion, or even something somewhere near the middle. Thank you, Mistress Minx, for saving me from that!

In his rules Seamus suggests that we all post the picture, the entire story and then add our own bit - but as I said to him this makes the thing become altogether unwieldy. So... I'm just going to post the pic - see above - and my bit - and if it intrigues you in any way, then I suggest to you go here to read the start of the story and whatever may come after...

So, this is my offering:


Sebastian leaned back in his chair, ran his hand over the stubble on his chin and afforded himself a thin smile. So, she had finally turned up in Jack’s life again. Just like the proverbial bad penny.
He flicked through the images on the screen. Grace laughing. Gracing dancing. Grace lazing in the sun. His eyes ran over the curve of her body, lingering on the rise of her breasts, the pert roundness of her backside. Ah yes, Grace the Temptress. Grace who could have been anyone, had anyone. Grace who knew the world lay at her feet. And by god, she’d meant to conquer that world. Ultimately it hadn’t mattered to her who she might trample on to grab her dreams. Sebastian chewed his lower lip, remembering the advice he’d given her long ago. "Be careful what you wish and dream for, Gracie. Make your choices wisely." But she’d just laughed, ran a hand over his face and flicked his hair from his eyes – with that casual sense of ownership she had with every man who’d crossed her path.
Funny how things came full circle… From owning, she’d been owned. Strange that she should have fallen for Sebastian Carrebreu, the sauve Frenchman – his namesake. He had no doubt she’d long forgotten him, Sebastian Comptom – but at least she’d remembered Jack…
He remembered the night she’d told them… He and Jack were on their way to the Hampton’s to Jack’s folks’ place – Grace was supposed to join them. Instead she had waltzed into the apartment, her hair flying, her cheeks flushed and declared, "Boys, you’re going to have to go without me!"
The smile on Jack’s face had crumpled. "Why, what’s come up? Whatever it is, can’t you cancel?"
"Absolutely not! See, I’m getting married, darlings!" The glittering diamond on her ring finger flashed as she thrust out her hand.
"To who?" He remembered how Jack had clutched the back of the sofa.
"To Sebastian!"
He remembered the pain, the betrayal in Jack’s eyes as he’d turned to him, gasping.
"Not me," he’d said. "Dear God, she’d never marry me. Nor would I ever ask her." He’d noticed how she’d narrowed her eyes at him.
"Of course not. Don’t be daft, Jack. Oh no offense, of course, Seb…" Her voice had been loaded with meaning. "No, I’m marrying Sebastian Carrebreu. Remember," she said, her eyes gleaming, "we met him at that protest and then at the conference his company gave."
"But you barely know him!" Jack cried. "You can't! He’s…"
"Why ever not?! Oh God, Jack, don’t get all possessive on me now. That would be so tedious."
She’d blown air kisses at them and flounced from the room. Twelve years… It might have been yesterday. But now she was back…and in Jack’s arms. Oh how the mighty are fallen. Sebastian smiled. It was a cold smile which didn't reach his eyes. He took a last glance at the photographs in front of him, closed the images and glanced through the notes in the file. Unfinished business... but not for much longer. He opened his email and began typing.


Now, I'm tagging Verilion to write the next bit.

Lovers of Delfhaven

Delfhaven

In a neighbouring suburb there used to be a coffee shop, a quaint place with huge windows and creaking wooden floors. A friend and I used to meet there occasionally to catch up and share news. Across the road is a jumbly old house filled with memories and ghosts. I recall sitting in the coffee shop waiting for Jane to turn up. I had my notebook out, as writers often do… It was then that I felt a presence. A woman, watching me, assessing me. I tuned in, susceptible as I am to these beings who’ve gone without going. She had a story to tell and as I listened and waited this is what flowed from my pen…

Daffodil yellow window frames, with matching awnings billowing on the wind. A yellow tin roof. Sash windows and potted geraniums and marigolds behind a bleached white picket fence. A house with a story to tell…
Fairy cakes on a refectory table. Autumnal chrysanthemums in a red enamel jug. Scrubbed wooden floor and tall airy windows. Illumination from a gleaming brass chandelier. A coffee shop now. Called Gryphons – with a story to tell…
There’s a ghost, I can feel her presence and her memories, drifting, watching, whispering with the breeze.
Smells of coffee linger on the air.
Empty soda bottles with violet blue statice stuffed in their necks.
I hear a rustle of old lace and a giggle – girlish yet cracked. She is amused, curious, shy and yet… She too has a story to tell.
He lived in the house opposite behind the daffodil yellow window frames. She is a ghost now, he was a ghost then but she loved him, even through his moods when the pots would fly and the shutters bang as he declared his frustration at being no longer fully alive.
The house with the yellow windows – Delfhaven…
The curtain in the upstairs room trembles, now as it did then. I think I see a pale hand, just as she thought she did.
Yes, I hear her whisper through the clatter of teacups.
“I did. I saw him watching me, felt his eyes upon me…”
The floorboard creaks. She knows I am here, am listening, like she listened to him. She edges closer, stepping through the waitress, who unseeing, moves on.
“We were lovers,” she whispers and across the road, I sense him sigh.

I never finished writing the story – never really started it – there were other things that came along, as there always are. But last week I drove past the house and as I waited in the traffic to make the crossing into the side road, I felt them again. Both of them, him and her, still waiting for their story to be told. They know I’m out here, I know they’re in there. The coffee shop has closed but I shall have to find a place sit nearby so I can listen to their story… For it seems to me they want it told to the world. But in the meanwhile the gryphons watch over them.

Watchful Gryphons

And so it starts again...

And so the story begins…

Ah, yes. At last. I’ve started my new manuscript. It’s a story that’s been composting for a while, while I’ve been doing other stuff. But the thing with stories is they have their own time and when they’re ready to come, then they must come. I was seized the other morning with an “I have to, I can’t delay a moment longer. This story is coming whether I like it or not.”

I’ve learned to heed those calls – stories need honouring. If you don’t honour them they drift away, sneak off in the night when you’re asleep and you wake up one day and wonder what happened to that idea, that absolutely brilliant idea you had.

So, the writing has started and as always, the first few chapters are proving to be a little slow going as I find my way into the story. I’m hoping though, as with my other novels, this one, once past the get-going mark, will take off and live a life of its own, with me feverishly bent over my keyboard, churning out the words.

How long this one will take to write, I’ve no idea, it depends how well the story and I meld, how long we take to come into being as one.

Yes, I know, I write as though the story has a life of its own. It does, all stories do.

And the muse, I see, has reappeared in her diaphanous pink feathery baby-doll nightgown and fluffy pink high-heeled slippers, armed with her nail file. Goodness alone knows why my muse looks like this. I could have understood purple robes and lots of dangly silver jewelry, or an old guy with silver hair and beard down to his middle. But no, I get Diaphanous Daphne. Ouch! No, okay, that’s not really her name and I can’t tell you her name because that will give you power over her and then you might jinx everything.

So, for the next while expect me to be vague and abstract has I disappear into another world.

What? You want to know what it’s about? I haven’t a clue. I never do. That’s all part of the adventure. I write what I must. All I think I can tell you is that I think it’s for young adults and the genre is supernatural – maybe… You’ll just have to watch this space. So will I!

(Image used in this post... courtesy of an internet search.)