On the Shoulders of Giants: in memory of Ursula Kroeber Le Guin

 

I read my first Le Guin in late childhood, when I was in my first flush of Sci Fi discovery, moving on from fairy tales and fantasy to stuff that had more meat to it. She has been my favourite living author ever since. Until today.

She stands head and shoulders above all others in my personal pantheon, so what is it that I value so much about her? What is so special?

For a start, as a female writer, I owe her an immense debt. Growing up I didn’t consciously gravitate to male writers. I read whatever I could find that looked good to read, and in the arena of science and Sci Fi the writers were virtually all men. But at age 14 or so, back in the mid 70s, I was astonished to discover that some of my favourite writers were in fact female. Women who’d had to disguise their sex under initials or gender-neutral names in order to get published at all. And as for the hubris of daring to write science-based fiction? Andre Norton, C.L. Moore, Leigh Brackett, L Taylor Hansen, and most of all U K Le Guin: I salute you. You changed the world. According to Wikipedia, six women have been named Grand Master of science fiction by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. Andre Norton was named in 1984, and Le Guin, at last, in 2003.

I do know that the sex-bias of early Sci Fi publishing is disputed, and there were plenty of writers who didn’t hide their sex under gender-neutral names, but it was and remains my perception that it was much more difficult for women writers to be taken seriously, particularly if they were writing ‘hard’ Sci Fi.

She’s been a vociferous and challenging voice up until very recent times, outspoken in her advocacy of books and writers and the universe of words. In 2014 she made a passionate speech about the value of writers to society, at the National Book Awards in New York after accepting the 2014 Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters .

“Hard times are coming, when we’ll be wanting the voices of writers who can see alternatives to how we live now, can see through our fear-stricken society and its obsessive technologies to other ways of being, and even imagine real grounds for hope. We’ll need writers who can remember freedom – poets, visionaries – realists of a larger reality.”

One of my favourite Le Guin novels is Rocannon’s World. It begins with a myth, Semley’s Necklace, which tells the story of the lost treasure of the Angyar, and the young woman who enters a dark cave to retrieve it, only to return home a few days later to be greeted by her baby daughter, now a grown woman. It cleverly takes a well known fairytale trophe, and explains it in terms of relativity. In fact, when I later came to study Einstein’s thought experiments and the Theory of Relativity, Semley’s Necklace was the strand on which I strung the precious (and elusive) beads of my understanding.

In Rocannon’s World the hard science of space travel, and of relativistic effects on aging and communication, rub shoulders with a generous and perceptive assessment of humanity and a convincing portrayal of alienness. Le Guin’s own invention of the ansible (enabling instant communication between star systems, although physical travel could take a generation) has spread throughout all the universes of Sci Fi, and we hardly remember a time when it wasn’t taken for granted.

She made magic wonderful again. I have my favourites (I’ll always be a Tolkienophile) but their worlds are distant from ours. We are shut out. Even those worlds (such as Narnia) which connect with ours are open only to a few. But in Earthsea, and the arch-mage Ged who began his life as a goatherd on the isolated island of Gont, we find a world that is open to all of us. The reason Earthsea’s inhabitants seem so accessible, so human, is that its mores and philosophies are taken from the Tao. I didn’t come to study the Tao until quite late in my life, but when I did it felt like coming home to an old friend, its cadences were so familiar.

Le Guin creates a philosophy of story-telling in one of my personal favourites, The Telling which was first published in 2001. Here the human perspective, the Haining Universe in which so many of her books are set, comes up against a peculiar military dictatorship, the prime focus of which seems to be to bar literacy, to destroy books, and to wipe out learning. In travelling this world, human envoy Sutty gradually begins to understand what motivates the people of Aka, and opens a doorway into her own soul. At heart, all Le Guin’s stories are about the individual’s search for meaning, for stories that help us to make sense of our lives, and The Telling shows that in a particularly wonderful way.

In Always Coming Home, Le Guin changed the rules again. Part memoir, part half-lost history – she calls it an archaeology of the future: an imagined California in which everything has changed, but people find ways of living that are meaningful and rewarding no matter how hard the environment. Gentle, elegiac, deceptively simple – a series of moments like beads on a string; you can read the book from cover to cover, or dip into it, or pick only the poems or only the narrative, as you please.

But here too we recognise the scholarship, the scientific basis for her work. See all that stuff in the news at the moment about the effects of plastic microbeads on the oceans? Le Guin predicted it in 1985.

Perhaps her most famous work, The Left Hand of Darkness, is a more difficult beast. I didn’t enjoy it as a teenager. I needed to live life a bit before I was ready for its politics, its difference. I sometimes feel now that Le Guin overdid the gender-bending aspects of her stories, and the peculiarities of Winter and its non-gendered natives is a particularly strong example. But creating a world in which everyone is of the same sex (or no sex, most of the time) and then dropping a lost and as usual confused earthman into the middle of them, enables her to play mindgames with us and she challenges our expectations. I expect I’ll still be reading this book into old age, and it will always have something new to tell me.

RIP Ursula Le Guin. Rest, of course – you’ve earned it. But don’t expect us to stop arguing about your stories. Long may that continue.

Serendipity – and storytelling

Serendipity. Sometimes it’s all you could possibly ask for. This week I’ve had three unexpectedly inspiring experiences. Firstly, one of my fellow Crooked Cats came to the island on Monday – we visited beaches and art galleries, ate icecream on the waterfront, and spent the day talking about our writing. It’s wonderful to be in the company of another writer. That evening a parcel arrived – a paperback copy of Lauren Sapala’s book ‘The INFJ Writer’, which is full of useful exercises and helpful advice. I learned that my messy, bitsy, disorganised method of writing (which is neither pantsing nor planning, but more like patchwork) has a name. It’s called the mosaic technique. How nice is that? (Despite my best attempts at cheating, I always code out to INFJ. It’s a nuisance, but there we are.)

And then another friend gave me a wonderful thing. It’s a booklet and pack of forty ‘storytelling’ cards. I was messing around with them today, shuffling and dealing out a handful of cards, then using them to make up stories. It was just a bit of fun, until suddenly a story started to tell itself. ‘The Blanket of Stars’ is the first piece of extended writing I’ve done in over three months, and here it is. Small, and whole and perfect. And all thanks to Jennifer, Lauren and Carol. Here’s to serendipity – and to friends!

The Blanket of Stars

Once there was a king: the usual kind, strong and rich and wilful, dispensing judgement from his great carved throne and overseeing the running of his kingdom. He was not a happy man, for he was troubled with poor sleep, and nightmares. Not so many nightmares, at that, for it was not often that he slept long enough for dreams to come.

He sat on his throne, which come to think of it was rather hard and not very comfortable, and stared down at his servants and companions in the great hall. His brow was deeply furrowed, his shoulders high and tense, and he tapped one boot on the flagstones of the floor as he sat there. His chamberlain came forward, rather reluctantly, bowed and enquired after the king’s health.

The king glared at him. “I’m tired of having no sleep,” he grumbled. “I’m sick of these poor quality dreams. Fetch the Keeper of Dreams.”

The servants reported that no-one had seen the old man for a very long time, and they weren’t even sure if he was still alive.

“Of course he’s alive,” roared the king. “If he’d died someone would have told me.” This sounded quite logical, and anyway everyone was too afraid of the king to argue with him.

“Search high and low,” said the king, “from the deepest, darkest dungeon to the highest, most windswept tower and find the Keeper of Dreams. I want to sleep.”

So the king’s servants spread out through the castle. They searched from the deepest, darkest dungeon to the highest, most windswept tower, and at last they found the Keeper of Dreams where he’d been all along: in his own bed, fast asleep, with a dreaming smile upon his face.

The old man came before the king, sitting on his high throne, and he bowed. “Your Majesty is looking well,” he said.

“Never mind that,” said the king. “This is no time for platitudes. Anyway, I don’t believe I am looking well, because I haven’t slept for weeks. I need to sleep, Keeper. I want some pleasant dreams. Open your box of tricks. Make it happen.”

The Keeper of Dreams eyed the king for a moment, noting his frowning brow, the unsatisfied twist of his lips, and the distinctly red tinge of his eyes. “Your Majesty,” he said, “the solution to your ills is the Star Blanket. If we can get you settled into bed with the Star Blanket tucked around you, you’d soon find yourself snoozing peacefully, awash with pleasant dreams.”

“Oh,” said the king wistfully. “That does sound good.” He mused for a moment, then his shoulders, which had relaxed, drew up again either side of his ears and he shouted, “Well, what are you waiting for? Get out there and find me the Star Blanket.”

So the Keeper of Dreams packed a small bag of his most essential possessions and set off into the world. He took with him a tiny casket, containing his favourite and most beloved dreams. As he walked through the streets of the city, he observed the daily lives of the king’s people, and spoke with many as he passed by. But none had heard of the Star Blanket, or knew of its whereabouts. One old, old woman gazed at him, her face creased with thousands of wrinkles, and spoke.

“You might as well ask the beasts of the fields as the people of this city,” she said. “For they are too busy and too worldly to pay any attention to something as old and well-worn as the Star Blanket.”

“That’s good advice, ma’am,” the Keeper of Dreams said, for he was nothing if not polite, and he remembered his own old mother, dead this many a long year, and treated the old lady with courtesy on behalf of his mother’s memory. He set off out of the city gates, on his way to ask the beasts if they had seen the Star Blanket, since the people of the city had been no help to him.

The old woman watched him go, her eyes bright and far-seeing in her old, old face. She smiled, and the wrinkles doubled, as she noted that the kind and charming man was not much younger than herself. “Good luck to you, my fine fellow,” she said. “I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you again.” She closed her eyes and her head nodded upon her breast, as she fell into the quick, easy sleep of the very old.

The Keeper of Dreams got no help from the beasts of the field: cows, sheep and llamas have no use for the artefacts of dreaming. They simply lay down with the coming of darkness and the Star Blanket fell over them quite naturally so that they slept till morning, and dreamed the dreams of contented animals. Perhaps he would have more luck in the dark forest. He stumbled his way into the deepest, darkest part of the forest, tripping over tree roots and extricating himself from bramble patches, until at last he found himself faced by a fearsome looking beast, half-human and half some wild creature of the wilderness.

“Halt,” cried the beast. “I’m hungry and you’ll do for my dinner. Stand still and let me kill you.”

The Keeper of Dreams replied that he would sooner not be eaten, if possible, as he was on an urgent errand for the king. He delved into his small bag and pulled out a heel of bread. The beast seized the bread and ate it in a few bites, washing it down with water from a nearby streamlet.

“Why should I care about the king?” he said. “Once I lived in that great city of his; I was a respected member of society. But I began to have bad dreams, and then I couldn’t sleep, and at last I was so maddened by lack of it that my neighbours turned me out into the woods to die. It’s a bad season – too early in the year for fruit and grains. I’ve eaten nothing but meat for weeks. There’s not much meat on your bones, old man, but I’ll have what there is regardless. It will keep me going until tomorrow.”

He lurched towards the old man, but stumbled to a halt as the Keeper of Dreams drew out his tiny box and opened it. A warm, golden light filled the clearing.

“Oh.” The beast leaned forwards and gazed into the box. “Oh, I see.” He sank to his haunches and bowed his head, closing his eyes and falling into sleep. A little golden dust settled on his head and shoulders as he began to snore. The Keeper of Dreams patted the sleeping beast’s shoulder companionably, tucked his box back into his bag, and walked away.

On the other side of the dark forest the Keeper of Dreams spotted a young lad, watching over a flock of sheep. The sheep grazed peacefully on the green grass, a rainbow flickered into being as a shower passed across the ground, and then the sun shone again as the shepherd lad pulled a pipe out of his pocket and began to play. The old man smiled, and he felt a little of his burden lift at the joyful sound. Surely a boy so contented must know the secret of peaceful sleep and quiet dreams.

“Lad,” he cried as he started forwards. “Please help me. I am on an urgent errand for the king, who is troubled in his sleep and suffers unquiet dreams. I am seeking the Star Blanket. Please tell me you know where it is.”

“I’m not sure I can help you,” said the boy. “Each day I bring my flock in from the pasture and put them into the barn. My sister brings me food, and then I curl up with the sheep to sleep in the warm straw. Sometimes a star looks in the high window of the barn, and even though the wolf howls I know that I am safe. But I remember that when I was very young my mother would sing me to sleep, and I always had good dreams. Maybe she can help you.” And he gave the Keeper of Dreams a little bread and cheese from his satchel (for he was a good boy, and his mother had taught him to be kind to strangers) and directed him towards the mountain path that would lead him to the village in the valley below.

The Keeper opened his small box and offered it to the boy, who reached inside and pulled out an amber honey chew. This he ate with every evidence of enjoyment. The Keeper made his way across the meadow, wondering what sweet dream the young shepherd would receive when he lay down in the barn that evening.

By this time the Keeper of Dreams was very tired, and he wondered if he would ever manage to find the Star Blanket for the king, or if perhaps he was fated to walk until his legs dropped off, or his poor old heart gave out. But at last he reached the outskirts of the village, and saw a wee white cottage with a carving of leaves and flowers over the lintel. In the doorway of the house stood a woman – a very ordinary looking woman, in a peasant’s black dress and grey shawl, but her face was kind and her eyes a warm brown as she gazed at him.

“Sir, you look tired,” she said. “Will you sit awhile and take a sup of ale with me?”

The Keeper of Dreams was very pleased to take the weight off, so he dropped onto the bench beside the door and sighed as he stretched out his aching legs and sore feet. The woman brought two tankards of ale, cool and frothy, and sat beside him, sipping her drink and gazing out across the yard where a couple of chickens were hopefully pecking the ground.

“Mother, I thank you. This was just what I needed.” The Keeper of Dreams raised his tankard to the woman, who nodded but didn’t reply. For a long moment they sat there in the warm sunshine, enjoying the moment of rest, however brief. Then the Keeper of Dreams stirred and turned towards her.

“It seems to me that I met your son, up in the high pastures,” he said. “I told him I was looking for the Star Blanket, and he said that he couldn’t help me, but he remembered that when he was very young you would sing him to sleep and he had pleasant dreams. I wonder if you would mind coming with me to the city to sing to the king. He is troubled in his sleep and has unquiet dreams.”

The woman gazed at him wonderingly. “They are very ordinary songs,” she said, “and I have only a very ordinary voice. Of course, he is my son and I love him. That makes a difference.” She thought for a moment, then stood. “Wait here,” she said, and disappeared back into her cottage.

The Keeper of Dreams was content to wait. It was pleasant sitting in the sun after a mug of ale and a day of hard exercise. He may even have dropped off for a moment, but came fully alert when the woman emerged from her house, holding an old, scruffy, many-times-patched blanket. It was the faded pink of the washed out evening sky, and every square of its patchwork bore a cloth star. Some of the stars were bright and colourful, but others were faded or torn, and a few hung loose where the stitching had come undone.

The woman bundled the blanket into a bag and pulled it onto her shoulder, along with a pouch of cheese and apples. “Come on, then,” she said. “I can’t be away long, because the sheep will soon be shorn and then I need to get busy with my spinning. But my housework can wait a day or two, if the king’s in need of a sleep.”

On their first night of travelling the Keeper offered her his little box. She peeped inside, her face warmed by the golden light, but she shook her head and he closed it again. “An early start, plenty of hard work and a job well done – those will bring me rest at night. No need for any golden toy to charm my sleep.”

The two of them trudged through the great gate of the castle a couple of days later. They’d eaten all the cheese and apples along the way, and the Keeper had traded a dream for a loaf of sour bread on the second day, but they were both footsore and hungry, and very glad to have arrived. The castle kitchen was bustling with preparations for the king’s dinner, but the second cook sat them down at a table in the corner and served them soup and bread, and a fruit compote for dessert, for the ordinary people of the castle ate the same good food as the king, only that theirs was not served on silver platters or accompanied by the best Rhenish wine.

After the meal the Keeper of Dreams spoke quietly to the cook, and she allowed the woman to use her kitchen, although she insisted first on a thorough wash and a change of clothing. Luckily one of the housemaids was a similar shape to the woman, and loaned her a grey dress and white apron, and a white scarf to cover her hair. The woman set to work in the kitchen, and before long doors were opening and servants peering in to discover the source of the appetising aromas that were issuing from the oven.

At last the Keeper of Dreams brought the woman before the king. He sat as before on his high, hard throne, with a frown of bitterness on his face and his tired head on his hand. The doors opened and the Keeper strode into the hall, bringing with him a wholesome smell of cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves. The king sat up and breathed deeply. “What is this?” he demanded.

The woman curtseyed, and placed her items on a nearby table. She poured him a simple pottery mug of cinnamon milk posset, and offered a plateful of spiced cakes, still hot from the oven. The king took the drink, not without a slight curl of the lip at the plainness of its container, but after one sip he drained the mug and turned his attention to the cakes. He ate three. The Keeper took advantage of the king’s distraction to help himself to a cake. They were really very good.

The woman sat on the step below the throne and stretched out her legs in front of her, pulling down the housemaid’s skirts which were, truth to tell, slightly short and displayed a pair of nicely turned ankles and two neat, stockinged feet. The king gazed at the shapely ankles and munched absently on another cake. She leaned her head against the side of the throne and began to hum.

There was nothing much to the song – a low, swaying melody, a word or two and some fal-la-lals. Nothing much to listen to. Nothing to excite, or interest, or…

The king’s eyelids drooped and he let go of the pottery mug. The Keeper swooped forward and caught it before it could shatter on the flagstones. The king’s head fell forward and he began to snore. The woman stood and regarded him for a moment. The Keeper of Dreams began to speak, but she put her finger to her lips.

She turned and beckoned to the chamberlain, who was peering in through the double doors of the great hall. The chamberlain pushed the doors open and in came the king’s huge, wheeled, four-poster bed, so heavy that it took twenty footmen to manoeuvre it. They rolled it into the centre of the hall, and then the Keeper ushered the servants and retainers away.

The woman went to the throne and gently nudged the king.

“Whassam?” he muttered, his eyelids flickering. She put one hand under his elbow and encouraged him to stand. With the woman on one side, and the old man on the other, the king climbed down from the throne and lay down on the clean white sheets of the bed. The woman pulled up the eiderdown as the king turned on his side and mumbled sleepily.

Opening the bag she still carried over one shoulder, the woman pulled out the Star Blanket and draped it over the king. One hand came up and pawed at the blanket, but she took it and laid it down by his side, and tucked the blanket around him. She stroked his cheek gently and the frown cleared from his face. After a moment his breathing deepened again, and she gestured to the Keeper to precede her into the corridor.

“That was a kind thing you did,” said the Keeper. “Being as how that’s no magical object in there, but only an ordinary ratty old blanket of the kind that any peasant woman might make for her babies. Still, there was surely magic in the song, anyway.”

The woman smiled and touched the Keeper’s cheek. He leaned into the touch, feeling again the long distant warmth of his mother’s hand. “Every boy needs his mother from time to time,” she said. “And every mother knows the secret of the Blanket of Stars.”

She spoke to the chamberlain, who was hovering outside the doors to the great hall, clearly wanting to go in to his master. “I will return in the spring when my first grandchild is born. I’ll want the Star Blanket back then, and he won’t need it anymore.” She shouldered her empty bag and walked out of the castle, without a backward glance.

The Keeper stood watching after her for a few minutes. Behind him the chamberlain slipped quietly into the hall. The Keeper’s forehead bore its own frowning mark as he thought, rather slowly since he was tired after his journey. Then his face cleared and his eyes widened. Nodding to himself he walked out of the castle and down into the town.

As he crossed the marketplace the old woman was there, sitting on her doorstep, taking in the late afternoon sun. She looked at him without speaking as he sat on the doorstep beside her, and turned to look into her face. Her back was bowed and her face old, but her expression was as young as springtime and her eyes were bright. The Keeper took one of her gnarled, arthritic hands in his and rubbed it gently.

“When I was young, and new in my job, and I thought that I was soon to hold all the secrets of the dreaming world in my hands, I had a dream.” He paused and looked at her, and she smiled at him. The wrinkles on her face doubled, but her eyes were clear and shining and fixed on his face.

“I dreamed that I walked far, far from my home, until I came to a valley between two peaks. There the grass was green and the streams fresh and clear. The trees bore blossom, green leaf and fruit all together, and in among the fruit bushes deer grazed in the company of wolves, rabbits scampered between the paws of a lion, and an eagle screamed overhead but did not disturb the hens which searched for worms amongst the strawberries.”

The woman gazed at him serenely. Her smile deepened, and the wrinkles tripled, but she made no sound. She patted his hand comfortingly, and he continued.

“In this valley was a small white house with smoke coming from the chimney. And on the threshhold stood an enchantress, young in years and strong in the use of her power. She led me into her garden and fed me on the sweetest fruits. And as the sun dipped behind the mountains, I realised that her eyes were the precise colour of the sky at the moment when all the light has gone, but the first star has not yet begun to shine.”

He stopped, and for the first time looked uncertain. He looked again into the old, wise face and was drawn into two deep pools of smoky blue. He began to tremble.

She smiled, the smile of a woman who is taking pity on a man when she knows he has floundered into deep water. Despite the wrinkles, the Keeper suddenly saw a woman who, in her own mind, was as young and powerful as ever she had been. She stood and pulled him to his feet.

“Some dreams are not meant to be shared,” she said, “and others wait a lifetime within us.” She pulled his head down and brushed her lips over his. “But now you have found my garden, and you will find that the fruits are still sweet.”

***

Cards used:

The King

The Keeper of Dreams

The Enchantress

The Wild Beast

The Youngest Son

The Mother

The Star Blanket

So… why Treacle?

Treacle  ˈtriːk(ə)l

noun: treacle; plural noun: treacles

1. a. British: a thick, sticky dark syrup made from partly refined sugar; molasses.

         b. syrup of a golden-yellow colour; golden syrup.

2.  cloying sentimentality or flattery.

“enough of this treacle—let’s get back to business”

Origin: Middle English (originally denoting an antidote against venom): from Old French triacle, via Latin from Greek thēriakē ‘antidote against venom’, feminine of thēriakos (adjective), from thērion ‘wild beast’. Current senses date from the late 17th century.

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According to various online sources, the word treacle goes back to a borrowing from Old French triacle, a word referring to the sugar-syrup base into which apothecaries would decant whatever nasty-tasting cures they wished their patient to take. The word derives ultimately from a Greek word thēriakē, meaning an antidote against venom, which suggests that its early applications were topical (i.e. slather it on the outside, rather than apply it to the inside).

This dark, viscous product of sugar refining thus gained its name due to its association with apothecaries and their products. All the syrupy by-products of sugar refinement were known as treacle, but later the British firm Lyle perfected the refining process to produce that other, more popular, sugar syrup known as golden syrup. You can still buy treacle – these days it’s often called black treacle (or, in the US, molasses), to distinguish it from its golden cousin.

While sugar can be produced from beets as well as sugar cane, only the latter produces a pleasant tasting treacle.

The 17^th century seems to mark the time when treacle made the jump from a medicine to a foodstuff. https://britishfoodhistory.wordpress.com/tag/treacle/ suggests ‘bread tart’ and ‘sweetmeat cake’ as early recipes using treacle, and the earliest recipes for ‘treacle tart’ in the 1870s precede Lyle’s development of golden syrup, even though most modern recipes call for golden syrup rather than black treacle. Gingerbread, which has been around at least since the 1400s, switched to using treacle as an ingredient during the 18^th century. But the popularity of ‘Mary Poppins’ suggests that the association of sugar syrup with medicines remains as strong as ever.

I’m rather drawn to the idea that a substance famed for being sickly sweet (as in the famous treacle tart of my story – the favourite dessert of Harry Potter – and the treacle wells mentioned by the dormouse in Alice in Wonderland) ultimately derives its name from medicines which were so bitter that they required a sweet coating. That seems a good metaphor for this story collection.

In Treacle and Other Twisted Tales I take some well-known tales and retell them with a twist, a difference, or a wee flicker of darkness. There are new stories, too, some drawn from imagination and others from experience. There are no entirely happy endings – I don’t really believe in them – but some at least come to satisfactory conclusions. If there’s a moral in the story, it’s that beneath sweetness there is always a small, sharp tang of bitterness, and sometimes the sugar coating is very thin indeed. Life isn’t fair, and nothing ever turns out exactly the way we want it to. These aren’t fairy stories, you know.

As for the second meaning – sentimentality or flattery – isn’t that the business of we fiction writers? I employ my words as the appetising coating to encourage some unpalatable suggestions to go down. Did I sweeten the mixture enough?

And am I genuinely channelling my East End ancestors, or merely mocking Eastenders the soap, when I say to you, “Don’t worry, treacle* – if you don’t like this story, maybe the next one’ll suit you better”?

*Treacle (tart) = sweetheart

mybook.to/treacle

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Tweets by Alayanabeth

 

Here is my interview with Yvonne Marjot

My blog interview with Fiona McVie. Thanks, Fiona.

authorsinterviews

Name Yvonne Marjot
Age 52
Where are you from? I was born in England but grew up in New Zealand. Now I live on the Isle of Mull, off the west coast of Scotland.
A little about your self `ie your education Family life etc
Yvonne Marjot was born in England, grew up in New Zealand, and now lives on an island off the West Coast of Scotland. She has a Masters in Botany from Victoria University of Wellington, and a keen interest in the interface between the natural and human worlds. She has always made up stories and poems, and once won a case of port in a poetry competition (New Zealand Listener, May 1996). In 2012 she won the Britwriters Award for poetry, and her first volume of poetry, The Knitted Curiosity Cabinet, was published in 2014 by Indigo Dreams Publishing.

She has worked in schools, libraries and…

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The Calgary Chessman book launch – all welcome

Ever fancied a visit to the Isle of Mull? This Saturday, 6th September would be a great time to go. Not only is the weather still warm, with the prospect of sunshine, but the local book (and fishing gear) shop, Tackle and Books, will be hosting the launch of my novel, The Calgary Chessman. 11am to 1pm. I’ll be reading excerpts, signing books and enjoying a glass of wine or two with friends and visitors alike. It’s going to be great!

Of course, if you can’t be there you can still soak up the atmosphere of Mull by buying the print or e-book version of the book. It’s available from Amazon, Smashwords and direct from the publisher, crookedcatbooks.com. http://www.amazon.co.uk/Calgary-Chessman-Yvonne-Marjot-ebook/dp/B00MLBQ6SG/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1409769634&sr=1-1&keywords=the+calgary+chessman

A Small Twitterverse

This week’s prompt from @fieryverse on Twitter.

#fieryverse prompt ’Say it Slow’

Say goodbye
slow…
…ly
I don’t
want
you
to
go.

Poetry Map Poem 25: Calgary Bay, Isle of Mull

the StAnza Blog

Metaphorical Distance

Out at farthest focus, drifting, peaceful:
Green ladled with mauve like a healing bruise.
Light lies heavy on the horizon; chooses
To lean its languid body westward. The pull
Of the rolling planet quickens, and the full
Swelling, murmurous mass of the tide looses
The bonds of gravity, dropping the deep, pellucid,
Purpleness of light gracefully into the ocean’s well.

Dipping my toe into the water, gasping
At the cold, desiring to go deeper and far,
I stare outward along the long divide
Of the horizon: the waves on the sand rasping
At the edge of the land, my feet, my heart:
Like this sea-coloured bruise I am trying to hide.

Yvonne Marjot

To view our Map of Scotland in Poems as it grows, see http://stanzapoetry.wordpress.com/2014/07/13/the-map-revealed/ . For more information on this project, and on how to submit a poem, see http://stanzapoetry.wordpress.com/2014/07/04/mapping-scotland-in-poetry/.

All poems on our poetry map…

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The Calgary Chessman – new book by Yvonne Marjot

Thanks, Angelika, for coming up with a really fun interview – and for hosting me on your blog.

Angelika Rust

Yvonne Marjot, the name rings a bell, doesn’t it? Right, over the past months, she contributed greatly to my little PublicTransport PoeTry project. Today, her book The Calgary Chessman was published. I’ll admit, I haven’t yet finished reading it, but I’ve read the first few chapters when it was still on authonomy, liked it a lot and thus was delighted when she asked me whether I’d be willing to bang a few drums for her.

So let’s move straight on to what she has to say.

Who are you?

My name is Yvonne Marjot, and that’s also the name under which I’m published. I did think about having a pseudonym, but my surname’s pretty unusual and I hope that means I stand out. Don’t worry if you’re not sure how to pronounce it – even my family aren’t entirely sure!

Until now, I thought it’d be with a j as…

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Berceuse for a Sleeping Mirror: F G Lorca 5 June 1898-19 August 1936.

Como mi corazón
así tú,
espejo mío.

As my heart is,
so you are,
my mirror

On this day in 1936, Spanish poet Federico García Lorca was shot by Franco’s troops after being forced to dig his own grave.

I was introduced to Lorca’s poetry by one of my boyfriends.To grant a poet the gift of another poet’s words, when those words are precisely what is needed in the situation: that is a gift beyond measure. It seems only fitting that today, when things are difficult and my mood is low, I turn to Lorca to commune with a fellow soul and am reminded that this is the anniversary of his death.

Lorca’s a hard man to get to grips with. It’s tempting to try and shoehorn him into categories, which I won’t list here – because he’s not so easily pigeonholed. For me he speaks the silent language of the heart, the words birds make when they swirl past you, the staccato machine-gunned voices of argument, the slow slip of the river into which we are so, so tempted to fall. To my friend he said something entirely different.

Here is a man who spoke a language other than my own, whose life followed a path with which I am unable to fully empathise, whose generation lived and died in a world that now seems so very distant from our own. So very distant. It was, after all, another century. But his words still speak to me. “Is my heart your heart? Who is mirroring my thoughts? Who lends me this unrooted passion?”

Maybe they will speak to you too.

The Calgary Chessman today

My first novel is published today, by Crooked Cat Publishing, Edinburgh. Here’s the release info from the top of my launch page on Facebook:

RELEASED TODAY, the quite individual Scottish tale, Yvonne Marjot‘s THE CALGARY CHESSMAN

Buy in the UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Calgary-Chessman-Yvonne-Marjot-ebook/dp/B00MLBQ6SG

Buy in the US: http://www.amazon.com/Calgary-Chessman-Yvonne-Marjot-ebook/dp/B00MLBQ6SG

And order yours in all major book stores.

Join us at https://www.facebook.com/events/1445878739001649/ for some good craic, and the chance to win some Calgary Chessman related goodies.