No, this isn't my house, but I wish I would have thought to do this!
On the first day of Christmas the writing gods gave to me…
A Xanex for a panic attack.
On the second day of Christmas the writing gods gave to me…
2 beta readers
and a Xanex for a panic attack.
On the third day of Christmas the writing gods gave to me…
3 red pens,
2 beta readers,
and a Xanex for a panic attack.
On the fourth day of Christmas the writing gods gave to me…
4 query letters,
3 red pens,
2 beta readers,
and a Xanex for a panic attack.
On the fifth day of Christmas the writing gods gave to me…
5 inspirations!
4 query letters,
3 red pens,
2 beta readers,
and a Xanex for a panic attack.
On the sixth day of Christmas the writing gods gave to me…
6 agents reading,
5 inspirations!
4 query letters,
3 red pens,
2 beta readers,
and a Xanex for a panic attack.
On the seventh day of Christmas the writing gods gave to me…
7 keys a-clacking,
6 agents reading,
5 inspirations!
4 query letters,
3 red pens,
2 beta readers,
and a Xanex for a panic attack.
On the eighth day of Christmas the writing gods gave to me…
8 bloggers blogging,
7 keys a-clacking,
6 agents reading,
5 inspirations!
4 query letters,
3 red pens,
2 beta readers,
and a Xanex for a panic attack.
On the ninth day of Christmas the writing gods gave to me…
9 muses musing,
8 bloggers blogging,
7 keys a-clacking,
6 agents reading,
5 inspirations!
4 query letters,
3 red pens,
2 beta readers,
and a Xanex for a panic attack.
On the tenth day of Christmas the writing gods gave to me…
10 nerves a-fraying,
9 muses musing,
8 bloggers blogging,
7 keys a-clacking,
6 agents reading,
5 inspirations!
4 query letters,
3 red pens,
2 beta readers,
and a Xanex for a panic attack.
On the eleventh day of Christmas the writing gods gave to me…
11 words of wisdom,
10 nerves a-fraying,
9 muses musing,
8 bloggers blogging,
7 keys a-clacking,
6 agents reading,
5 inspirations!
4 query letters,
3 red pens,
2 beta readers,
and a Xanex for a panic attack.
On the twelfth day of Christmas the writing gods gave to me…
12 villains plotting,
11 words of wisdom,
10 nerves a-fraying,
9 muses musing,
8 bloggers blogging,
7 keys a-clacking,
6 agents reading,
5 inspirations!
4 query letters,
3 red pens,
2 beta readers,
and a Xanex for a panic attack.
I hope you enjoyed reading that as much as I did creating it. (Any resemblance to any other versions is purely coincidental; no artistic infringement is intended.) Who knows, with a little luck next year at this time I’ll be giving you the “Published Writers’s 12 Days of Christmas!”
This is my last blog post of the year (well, unless I think of something that can’t wait), so Merry whatever-you-celebrate and Happy New Year! I’ll be back next year with a whole new set of posts on the Celtic world, other Arthurian characters, the Isle of Avalon, a special book review and much more! Please tell me what you want to read about – I take requests!
Catherine and Lorenzo de’Medici did it. So did Queen Elizabeth I and Pope Julius II.
Without it, Chrétien de Troyes, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, William Shakespeare or even Mozart may not have been famous.
The relationship between artist and patron was often a complex dance of artistic vision and political motivation
What is it? Patronage, that old-fashioned, mostly out-of-style idea of the wealthy supporting talented artists, musicians, writers and scholars as they plied their craft for the betterment of society.
Chances are good you’ve heard or imagined it going something like this: A struggling writer or painter, so gaunt his clothes hang off him like a coat rack, is barely able to scrape together the meager coin needed to buy his ink/paint, much less put food in his mouth. In only a few days he will have no roof over his head and it is all because of his ruinous, yet irresistible muse. All seems lost…until, seemingly out of nowhere, a noble chances upon a scrap of his poetry or a half-finished drawing discarded in the gutter in a fit of artistic rage. The noble is immediately besotted with the work and seeks out the artist, promising showers of gold in exchange for more samples of what must be heaven-sent inspiration.
Chances are even better it went something like this: “William, dear, your last play was just divine. I’m trying to woo/embarrass Lord Blahbityblah, would you be so kind as to write him into the next one? Make sure to emphasize his virtues/vices, but not so much as to make it obvious or he’ll have my head…and I’ll have yours. Oh, and be certain to give him the role of hero/villain.” Let’s face it, as much as we’d like to believe these patrons to be noble, their intentions likely were not (always).
So whatever happened to the ancient system of patronage? Some argue that capitalism forced society into a system of public art venues made for mass consumption, such as museums and theaters, thereby negating the need for personal funding. Others might even argue that publishers are modern-day patrons, in that they pay writers for work they believe will be commercially viable.
While I write this post with tongue firmly planted in cheek, it does make me wonder what would happen if Hollywood celebrities, sports stars or ridiculously rich CEOs would sponsor a few up and coming artists. I know many of these people do wonderful work with arts and education groups, but what if one of them took a shine to an artists’ work and made it their mission to promote it? (Oh wait, Justin Bieber is coming to mind…make it stop!) Would we in modern society laud them as patrons or decry them as using their wealth to further their own agendas? Can we, in the 21st century, accept such support without suspicion? And what would it be like for the artists? Would it mean freedom to follow their dreams, or would they feel like sellouts beholden to someone else’s artistic desires?
Still, it would be nice to find out how that kind of support could change your life. I guess you know what I’ll be wishing for if I’m on the winning side of the wishbone this Thanksgiving. 😉
Brigid is perhaps the most well-known Celtic goddess whose gift is the fire of inspiration
Last week’s guest post on inspiration got me thinking more about the source of all our artistic endeavors and how that relates to Arthur, Guinevere, and the rest of the Celts.
Did you know the word inspiration comes from the Latin inspiratus, meaning “to be breathed upon?” It’s little wonder then, that we as humans have always looked outside ourselves for inspiration. And no matter the time or place, inspiration almost always leads back to a higher power. The Greeks had their nine Muses. The Hebrews considered poetry and prophecy of divine origin, as did the Norse. And and from the first Pentecost, Christians have been inspired by the Holy Spirit.
But what about the Celts? The most commonly invoked goddess of inspiration was Brigid. Worshiped on the Celtic holy festival of Imbolc, Brigid is the patroness of poetry, inspiration, fire, metalworkers and childbirth. She’s most commonly associated with Ireland in modern thought (thanks in large part to St. Brigid, her Christian counterpart) but she was worshiped throughout most of the Celtic world, including the areas we know as England, France and Spain. Other Celtic goddesses associated with inspiration include Druantia, a Gaulic goddess who is sometimes called “Queen of Druids” and is associated with fir and oak trees; Cerridwen, the Celtic goddess of death and the Underworld who tends the cauldron of knowledge; Canola, the Irish goddess of music and dance; and Cebhfhionn, who guards the well of knowledge and intelligence.
Celtic mythology gives us the Salmon of Wisdom/Knowledge, who according to legend, started life as an ordinary salmon. Then he ate nine hazelnuts that fell into the Fountain of Wisdom from the nine hazelnut trees that surrounded it. After eating the hazelnuts, the salmon gained all the knowledge in the world. In turn, the first person to eat his flesh would in turn gain all of his knowledge. The legendary warrior Fionn mac Cumhaill was said to have gotten his wisdom this way, as was the poet Taliesin, who is sometimes associated with Merlin in Arthurian legend. (I personally always feel smarter after eating salmon, but that might be the Omega-3s.)
The Druids were said to gain their inspiration through dreams and various forms of divination. Several sources tell of the Druid practice of secluding themselves in a cave or other very dark place to facilitate inspiration. I’ll be honest and admit I’ve tried this one myself, but to a lesser degree. It’s very hard to get a modern room dark, with all of our gadgets and streetlights, but if you use enough black duct tape, you can get close. I’ve found that the darkness and lack of distraction does make it easier to collect my thoughts, but for overall useful plot ideas, I have better luck with meditation.
In Greek thought, inspiration was an otherworldly, ecstatic state (furor poeticus, the divine frenzy or poetic madness), in which a poet or artist would be transported beyond his own mind and given the gods’ or goddesses own thoughts to embody. The Celts had the similar concept of Awen, although that word comes from eighth century Wales, which is well beyond the timeframe of the Celts in my books. Call it what you will, I believe every artist has experienced it at one time or another, that feeling of not being in control of what they’re creating. For me, its like the words flow out of my fingertips as though I’m taking dictation. Or sometimes scenes just come to me, especially if I’m doing something with my body I don’t really have to think about, like cleaning my house or driving a familiar route.
I don’t think we’ll ever understand the true nature of inspiration, where it comes from or why it is. But that’s really the point. Inspiration is all about awe and wonder, and the drive to create something out of nothing. If we lose that, life loses its mystery and the creative act, its purpose. For we understand the world through that which we and others create.
Whatever your source, I pray your muse will bide with you and breathe upon you so that you may experience many moments of furor poeticus.
This is the first in what I hope will be a series of posts by other authors. Today’s blogger is my fellow writer and friend Courtney Marquez. She’s currently writing her first book, historical fiction based in early 1900s Oklahoma.
Hi, my name is Courtney and I’m a writer. Of course, the word “writer” can encompass a broad range of activity. There is the poet, the songwriter, the novelist, the essayist. Then there is a whole host of corporate careers in communication requiring the skill of a wordsmith.
I don’t fit all of those categories, but we all have one thing in common: inspiration. It seems like such a simple term for the complex emotion and action that come with it. You see, inspiration seems like a very active word to me. You must act on it or its time will pass, leaving in its wake an empty void.
The other day I was pondering why I write and the answer was very clear. I’m inspired. And that inspiration comes in so many forms. For me, a writer who spends a lot of my time in historical fiction, it can be something as simple as an old photograph, the front page of a newspaper from 1934 or the marriage license found in a stack of family documents.
Those objects get me to thinking about the people, our grandparents and great-grandparents, who were once our age. They once had dreams and aspirations—or maybe they didn’t. Who knows now? They weren’t “famous” and their lives weren’t documented closely. When you start digging into their history, you are left with only the few documents that mark their high and low points. Birth, marriage, military service, procreation or death. As the pastor who spoke at a family funeral recently said, “There is a lot of stuff that goes with the hyphen between when you are born and when you die.”
So, that’s where I’m inspired to imagine what might have been.
Those aren’t the only things that help the creative to surface in me. Music plays a huge role. That would be why I own nine days worth of music in my iTunes library. There are moments when I hear a song and it carries me to the place where words flow from my fingers. God Bless those artists. (A big shout out to Amos Lee, The Punch Brothers, Johnny Flynn and, in moments of angst, Fiona Apple)
Inspiration is tricky though. If you are open to its flights of fancy, anything can be inspiring. A movie, a book you read and pieces of art are easy. Some of the best inspiration can come from unexpected corners. The next time you drive down the highway take a look at the couple in the car arguing. Imagine what they might be saying to each other. Go sit in a park for an hour and watch parents interact with their children. Volunteer at the local homeless shelter. Talk with a stranger. Or simply take something you feel like you’ve always known and try to take it out of its box and reimagine it.
Of course, then you must act on it.
– Courtney Marquez
Comments closed due to spam.
“Make no mistake, a rewrite is always a corrective measure. Nothing to brag about,” writes Larry Brooks in an otherwise extremely insightful article on structuring the end of your novel in the latest issue of Writer’s Digest.
I had to read this line several times. My first reaction was, “Really? Seriously? Of course rewrites are corrective measures, that’s kind of the point.” But then I got to thinking, what kind of message do those two sentences send? Nothing to brag about? I agree, but rewrites are necessary. To imply they aren’t is to set up expectations of inhuman perfection in writing that will only result in despair. I’ve seen this attitude in “how to” writing books before and all it does is make me think that I (and every author I’ve ever read) should pack it in and never write anything again, even our grocery lists. And I refuse to buy in to that kind of thinking.
The whole point of rewrites/revisions/editing is to make your work better. To expect that perfection will pour out of your fingertips on the first try is just ludicrous. You have to allow yourself to make mistakes in early drafts; that’s the only way to actually get where you want to go. Hemingway famously said that all first drafts are terrible. In Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott extolls the virtues of “shitty first drafts” because that is where you’re just trying to get the ideas down. Drafts are great because no one has to see them unless you want them to. They are you’re chance to play and work things out in your own head. Change your mind a million times and no one has to know. I have personally chopped 15,000 words out of a story, only to try again. I know of succesful authors who have thrown away entire drafts and started over. Sometimes rewrites are just necessary.
I’ve also learned by experience that if you don’t give yourself permission to write a big ol’ mess from which you can later mine the good stuff, you’ll get so mired in details and perfectionism that you won’t get anywhere. And sometimes the plot changes as you go, so you have to go back and make changes. I’ve edited more drafts of Book 1 than I care to think about, but each one has taught me something and I’ve walked away as a better writer with a richer story for it. I’m not saying that I enjoy editing. I don’t know anyone who does. Whether it’s for work or fiction, it’s my least favorite part of the process and is sometimes physically and/or mentally painful. But once you’ve gotten through it, the rewards are sweet.
So no, needing to correct your work is nothing to brag about, but it’s also not something to fear. Like death and taxes, rewrites make you human, and you can’t escape them. You may never savor them, but edits are what transform your work from something you write for fun to something others will pay to read.
Remind me I wrote this next time I complain about having to edit something…
Samhain, or as we know it, Halloween, marks the beginning of the Celtic New Year. We have no records of exactly how this holiest of feasts was celebrated, but traditions passed on over thousands of years give us a good starting point. What follows is my dramatic imagining of what could have taken place at a Celtic Samhain ritual. Journey with me back in time, won’t you?
The last of the day’s dying light casts long shadows at your feet as you depart from your small cottage. Leaving the door slightly ajar, you look back one last time at the simple plate of bread and cheese on a table by the front window, sustenance for wandering ancestral spirits, and to the single burning taper meant to both welcome the good and ward off the malevolent. All is in place. You can make your journey in peace.
As you walk through the countryside to the forest, you pass the herders and shepherds, coaxing sheep down from their highland pastures to their winter pens and leading the weaker cattle to be slaughtered, their sacrifice a store against the cold, starving days of winter that linger just on the horizon. In the thick blanket of leaves on the side of the road, squirrels and children scrounge for the last of the nuts and withered berries, for this is the night of last harvest. Anything remaining on the vine after nightfall is taboo, left for the spirits, a gift for the puca, with its long, shining mane and luminescent yellow eyes, or the beguiling Sidhe who ride out from the hollow hills in search of humans to enchant. Your stomach tightens against the current of unease in the air. This is the time of magic, the time when the dead walk among the living, for the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest tonight.
It is dark by the time you reach the stone circle and the air is thick with the scent of wood smoke and sounds of merriment. Friends call greetings and beckon you to feast with them on the roasting meat of a sacrificed boar, freshly baked barley bread and dishes made from apples and gourds. You gladly accept a cup of cider and sit on the cold earth to sup.
Watching the crowd you see tribesmen of all ranks joined together to mark the end of one year and the beginning of the next. To the east, a group of giggling young girls take turns peeling apples and casting their seeds like lots to divine the identity of their future mates. In the center of the circle, a couple leans toward the bonfire, each grasping the handle of pan, seeing their future predicted in the dancing of the hazelnuts on its surface. All around you, a stream of dancers twirl, some from an overabundance of drink, while others keep the more sacred tradition of dancing to keep the evil spirits at bay.
You are about to join them when a hush falls over the crowd as an elderly woman enters the circle, her long gray hair trailing loose over the folds of a black cloak. You recognize her as the high priestess of the Druids and bow to show your respect as she passes by, shuffling footfalls echoed by the thumping of her walking staff.
When you rise, you see someone has placed a large cauldron over the fire. The woman takes her place behind it and lifts her arms in invocation. The air stills and the crowd holds its breath. When she looks up, her eyes hold an otherworldly fire and you realize the Goddess stands before you. Before you can draw breath, you hear her reedy voice resonate in your head, although her thin lips scarcely move.
“This night you pay homage to Me, keeper of wisdom, harbinger of death, She to whom all return in the end. In my cauldron you shall be reborn or taste the bitter dregs of death, dependant on your actions in this life. Come forth and drink in remembrance of those who have passed through the veil before you.”
Your Chieftain steps forward, carrying a bowl in which the blood of the slain boar was the collected. He and the Crone walk the circle moonwise and pour out the blood at the base of each stone in thanksgiving for the fertility of the past year and as a gift meant to ensure its continuance in the year to come.
Returning to the center, she dips the cup into the cauldron and presents it to the Chieftain. He drinks, passes it on to his family, who give it to the next and so it makes its way around the circle. When it comes to you, you hesitate, seeing for a moment in its gleaming surface the blood of the fallen boar, even as its acrid smell identifies the contents as mere red wine. You swallow, wincing as the sour liquid winds its way to your belly, and seat yourself on the ground.This is the time for saying farewell to those whom the tribe has lost since the last Samhain festival. You close your eyes and slowly their faces take shape, the father lost to winter’s chill, the sister who died in childbirth, neighbors and friends who were their own bloody sacrifice in battle. And then you think of her, the Goddess Cerridwen. You must make you peace with her, for life is fickle and you know not if you will live to see this festival again. After several moments of silent prayer, another face rises in the darkness, a man crowned with antlers. It is his voice you hear this time, the dying God.
“Mourn me not, for I shall always return. Born on the longest night as the child of light, I wait only for the return of the sun. Blessings be upon you and those you hold dear.”
As you watch, his antlers fall off and he is swept into the Goddess’ ancient embrace.
When you open your eyes, you see the priestess is now gone. The ritual is over. All that remains of the former revelry are a few people casting objects into the fire – bunches of reeds or scraps of cloth representing their prayers – and those still rapt in private contemplation.
Taking a torch lit from the bonfire, you join your friends for the journey home, for no one should wander alone this night. There is solace in numbers from both the wolves howling in the hills and the wandering spirits.
Later, as you rest your weary head, you reflect on the transition of this ritual, from the time of harvest into the season of silence and of sleep. Though the land will soon be swathed in ice and snow, deep within the frozen earth, life goes on unseen. And from these tiny seeds, swaddled in their loamy wombs, shall rise the buds of spring.
