Ink and Fairydust
In our November issue there was a mix up about the authorship of one of the articles. "Choosing a Laptop" was not written by Rose Dominick but by Allison DeWolf.
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I hope that this issue of I&F is as fun and in formative to read as it was to work on! I don't pretend to be much of a poet (my poems look like my knitting-- misshapen ... things), but I know that the articles on poetry tips will be very helpful for me! This issue prompted me to pull out some old, rarely read books of po etry and discover the treasure inside. There is nothing better than poetry on a cold, snowy January afternoon! ~Shaylynn
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It's winter time and the air is full ofa festive spirit. 'Tis the season for parties ... but you need party ideas? Well, that's what I'm here for! Theatre Pa What to do and what to wear: Play a game ofcharades, or improvisational skits ... or any other acting game you know of. Dress up as a famous actor/actress or something that looks theatrical. Decorations: You could hang up stars with movie star names on them, or hang up a strand oflights, or decorate your house to look like a film set! . . . , . Food: Pick food from a favonte moVIe, or some moVIe star s favonte food. Mas uerade What to do and wear: Have all your friends dress up as a character from a book or a movie. Then sing and dance to 'Masquerade' from The Pha ntom ofthe Opera! Oh, and don't forget to make masks! Decorations: Pick a theme and hang streamers and anything that goes with it! Food: "Dress up" your normal party foods: give entrees new names and then hand your guests a menu and have them figure out what's for dinner! Themed What to do and what to wear: Pick a favorite movie or book and have people dress up according to that theme. Play games from that time per iod. Decorations: Decorate in the style ofthat time or fantasy world. Food: Pick dishes from that time era.
Winter Pa What to do and what to wear: Snow clothes ofcourse! Go sledding or ice skatin or ·ust sta and la in the snow ... have snowball fi ts ma-• · ke snow angels, and snow men too! Decorations: Cut out snowflakes and hang them on the walls and from the ceiling. Make them beforehand, or with your guests. Food: Hot chocolate is a must! Perhaps some peppermint chocolate chip cookies, or other such delicious goodies ... like snowflake sugar coo kies. These are just a few ofthe thousands ofparty ideas; you can use one of these ideas or one ofyour own. The most important thing for any party is to have fun! So go ahead and party!
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Whether you're sharing a poem online or in real life, if you're a beginner at writing poetry, that kind of feedback is going to throw you for a loop. "But...what is meter?" is going to be your response, and after that will come a long, confusing explanation that you can't quite make sense of. So...what is meter? Besides being every new poet's bane, that is. It's basically just rhythm. You didn't think it was something that simple, did you? But it is! Once you know what meter is, it's almost ridiculously easy to keep your poems flowing smoothly. All words are made of syllables that are stressed and unstressed-meter is the art of putting them together in a way that follows a consistent pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables. "But:' you might say, "I write my poetry, not speak it. How can I keep up a steady rhythm if it's all just on paper?" Well, you could try reading it out loud as you write (or under your breath if youcl rather not have curious siblings overhear your first attempts at poetry), exaggerating the stressed and unstressed syllables, slowly enough that you can tell if there's one missing. (Or, alternately, you could try underlining the stressed syllables in each word as you write. This one is a lot easier when you're writing on paper, though!) And then, when you discover your meter is off, it's reword and rethink your line until you come up with the perfect match! Isn't it fun?! Well... okay, maybe it's just me. But revision can
be as an important step in writing poetry as in writing fiction! Look at the bright side of things-poetry is so much shorter than a novel or even a short story would be, so doing any needed revisions won't take as long! So! Now that you know what meter is, it's time to move on to the actual different kinds of poetic me ters. The most common forms of meter are:
famfic: da DA da DA da DA. Unstressed, stressed, unstressed, stressed, etc. Or, in regular English, a line like "He had a pair of shoes:' Read it out loud to yourself, exaggerating the stresses, and you' ll see the rhythm quickly.
lmchaic: the opposite of iambic. DA da DA da Da da. Stressed, unstressed, stressed-- you get the point.
Dacvlic: this one is fuuuuun. (Well, I find it fun, any
how!) It goes DA da da, DA da <la-stressed syllable followed by two unstressed syllables. Think of a horse cantering-well, that's what it makes me think of, anyhow. A line in dactylic meter would sound something like, "Elephants chewing on-" (etc, etc. But hopefully a little more poetic and less random.)
AVl..apaf5fll: The opposite of dactylic. (But just as fun.) It goes, da da DA, da da DA-two unstressed syllables followed by one stressed syllable.
And, of course, there are poems which incorporate a mixture of those meters. You should never be afraid to experiment! Poetry should always be fun, not boring!
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An Extract from the Diary of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
Percy asked.
Last evening a furious storm blew over the lake. The wind sounded like a thousand furies from Hell, and the rain so thick that the fountains in the gardens all overflowed.
“Often,” said I. Then I frowned. Difficult as it was to see in the dark and the rain, I was quite certain that two figures were advancing towards the house. “Quick Percy!” I cried. “The door!”
My dear Percy and I sat ourselves down in the living room, each with our writing utensils. We have struck a bargain with our friend Byron in which each of us three is to write a ghost story this summer. So far my story has little to do with ghosts. I've introduced a young man named Frankenstein who seems to have quite a terrible relationship with his father. I'm almost afraid to show it to Percy for fear he will say it is far too autobiographical and hardly Art. However, I digress. We had just sat down when, without a knock (as is his custom), in came Byron. He was completely soaked and his black hair tumbled down every which way across his face. With a furious exclamation (which I shall not copy here) he threw down his coat and marched to the fire.
My husband had scarcely thrown it open when two men stumbled in. Their hair, like Byron's, was soaked, but cut most unfashionably and their clothing was strange. The older one, who was dressed most plainly and in clothing of poor cloth, was the first to speak. “Where on earth did the rain come from?” “That was just what we were wondering,” said Byron. “It came up most suddenly.” “I didn't even see it,” the elder man agreed. “But I ought to have known that no good could have come from taking the road less traveled.” Percy and I exchanged quizzical looks.
“It is a regular Shakespearean Tempest tonight!” he exclaimed as he rubbed his hands over the flames. Percy laid down his pen and called for some hot tea to be brought. “What brought you out in such a night?” he asked. “Why, it was not raining on my side of the lake!” said Byron. “Twas but a sprinkle, a fairy's dance. Hardly worth worrying oneself over. Indeed, mere rain would never keep me from your dear company, my friends.” I went to the window and stared out into the fury. “I did not know Geneva could have such a storm. It reminds me of my childhood home in Scotland.” “Did you have such tumultuous winds there, dear Mary?”
“Road less traveled?” said Percy. “I was not aware of any such thing in these parts.” “No? I mean the old riding path out back in the woods,” said the man. “There is no riding path or even woods here,” I told him. “No woods? Have you all gone mad? They're just back there –,” here he rose and went to the window, but all he saw was the wind-tossed lake. “Why, what is going on here?” Now the second man spoke. He was small and dark with a full moustache. “Stranger things have happened. To travel
to Italy in a heartbeat can be no more upsetting than the haunting of a man by the thumping of a long-murdered heart.” “Has such a thing happened?” I wondered. “Indeed, I have written it,” said the small dark man. He bowed very low. “I am Poe. Edgar Allan Poe. Perhaps you have heard of me?”
very fierce!” “No, you are not allowed to protest,” Byron insisted sternly. “Sit down this minute and not another squeak out of you, madam!” The woman looked too startled to protest and obeyed. However she perched on the very edge of the chair and looked quite uncomfortable. I quickly filled a cup of tea and handed it to her.
“I'm afraid not,” I said. The man's face fell. “Alas! Is my fame so small?”
“Here,” I said. “For this stormy night all of us strangers are friends. I am Mary Shelley. Might I make your acquaintance?”
“And what is your name?” Percy asked the older stranger. “Frost,” he answered. “Robert Frost.” But I could care less for the cantankerous old man. I went instead to Poe and caught his attention again. “Do you really think it possible for a heart to beat after it is dead?” I asked. “Why not, Madam?” said he. “All things are possible in this day and age, are they not? Just because we've never seen them happen doesn't mean that they shall not someday.” Before I could question him further, the door opened again. This time it was a woman on the steps, a small plain woman with no especial beauty to merit our attention. Yet the very mystery of her sudden appearance seemed to appeal to Byron, who leapt up from his own chair to offer it to her. “Oh, I couldn't,” said the woman. “I would never intrude on such an intimate setting. It is only that this rain is so
She took the tea from me most gladly and nodded. “Yes. My name is Charlotte Bronte. I was just taking a walk out on the moors when this gale hit. I shall not stay long, else my sisters will worry.” “Walking on the moors? Alone?” said Byron, raising his dark eyebrows. “You are a brave woman!” “Not at all,” Charlotte said quietly. “But I find it the best place for inspiration. I am a writer, you see.” At this there was a sort of general chorus as everyone else in the room chimed in with the revelation that they too were writers. “Why, this is fate!” said Byron. “By magic or some supernatural means or science, it has been decreed that this storm has the powers to bring together all like-minded of our craft.” “Nonsense,” Frost snorted. “You all have just had too much to drink.” Here Percy and Byron let up a chorus.
love with her employer.” “Too much!” cried Percy. “Never say such a thing!” “Oh!” Charlotte exclaimed. “But that would hardly be --” “Why not?” asked Charlotte. “Drink is surely of the devil.” I turned to Mr. Frost. “See? Charlotte has not had any strong spirits, and surely you would not accuse me of such either?”
“Proper?” asked Byron. “The point exactly! And to make it all the more shocking, the man ought to have a mad wife locked up in the attic.” Here he shot a wink at Percy. “I say,” Percy growled. “That was hardly fair.”
The old man looked rather abashed. “Why, no, I didn't mean...” “What need is there to understand it?” said Poe. “It is a gift of the weird and strange and we should use it to our advantage.” “Indeed!” Percy agreed. He jumped up and started pacing the room. “We have here great and creative minds – excepting, perhaps, Mr. Frost --” (here Mr. Frost growled and Byron chuckled) “-- and as Poe says, we ought to use it. And how else could it happen but to aid each other in the culmination of our masterpieces?” “Masterpiece is a strong word,” said Charlotte gravely. “Is it?” Byron asked, taking the stool at her feet. “Tell me, Miss Charlotte Bronte, what is your latest work about it and how might you need assistance?” Charlotte folded her hands primly and tried to ignore the blush rising on her cheeks. “Oh, it is a very dull tale, I fear. An orphan girl goes to a mysterious house to be a governess.”
“She's not mad and she's not in the attic,” I added. Charlotte looked supremely horrified. But then a glint came into her eye. “I suppose there are all sorts of moral and ethical dilemmas that could be intriguing to expound upon,” she said. She leaned forwards and rested her chin on her fist, taking careful survey of Byron. “I think I'll make the employer a rough, conceited sort of man, with a dash of the darkly sinister about him, yet inside a heart that truly longs to be good.” Raising his head, Byron let out a long laugh. The comparison was not lost on him. “Are you trying to reform me, Miss Bronte?” “Oh, never,” said Charlotte with a smile. “And what of you, Mr. Poe?” Percy said, turning to the little dark man. “Can we be of help to you?” Poe sighed. “Unless you're in the police department, I doubt it.” “And why is that?” I asked.
“That is a very dull tale indeed,” said Mr. Frost. “But any tale can be redeemed!” Percy added. “Mary, you're a woman. You first.”
“I am composing a mystery story, about a Parisian detective.” “Oh, Paris!” said Byron. “Delightful women.”
I smiled at Percy. “Why, it is simple. The girl must fall in
“Well, yes,” Poe said rather ruefully. “It has to do with a woman's secret and a purloined letter that the police cannot find. I've fully established that the letter cannot be in the thief's house, and that he could not have taken it anywhere else... and now I'm beginning to wonder if the man is innocent!”
“I've my help already,” he replied. “I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference. An excellent line for a poem, don't you think?”
“How do they know the letter isn't in the house?” Charlotte wondered.
“It does conjure up all sorts of ideas,” Percy agreed.
“The police have gone over every inch of it with rulers. There's not a single fraction of a millimeter left unaccounted for.”
The others nodded.
Suddenly Charlotte rose and went to the window. “Look, the rain is lifting. And I can see my moor.” “And I my woods,” said Frost.
Frost chuckled. “Sounds like they're so obsessed with details that they're missing the whole picture.”
“And I my own driveway,” said Poe.
“What do you mean?” said Byron.
“Then we will bid you farewell and many thanks for this fantastical evening,” said Percy.
“No, he's right!” Percy exclaimed. “Explain,” Byron demanded. In reply, Percy reached over, plucked a letter from my writing desk, and turned it inside out. He then grabbed a pencil, scribbled another address on it, and stuck it back in the pile. “There,” he said. “No name to catch suspicion, and no one would ever dream that a thief would leave the stolen object lying where it could be so easily found.” Poe's face lit up. “Brilliant!” he said. “Absolutely canny! No one will ever suspect!” “All right,” said Frost. “Who's next? Mrs. Shelley?” “No, no,” Byron put in quickly. “Percy, Mary and I are all out. We've a wager to win and no outside input is allowed. What about you, Frost?”
Poe bowed and Frost tipped his hat. “Our pleasure.” Who says that? Meanwhile Byron offered his arm to Charlotte. “May I see you up the drive?” “No sir,” she said with a pert smile. “I think you offer more dangers than any I might meet on the moor.” “Wise woman,” said Percy, laughing at our friend's crestfallen face. As they all took their leave, I turned back to my writing desk and took up my pen. Poe's unquiet heart had set my imagination on fire. What if it were not merely a heart, but an entire body, brought to life by the skills of men, just as we authors brought characters to life by the power of our imagination? After all, there is no limit to what one can devise upon the pages of a book.
Premiering June 23rd - 26th, 2011 in St. Paul, MN! Check out www.theshadowofthebear.blogspot.com for more info about the release!
“Why the long look?” Marcie asked as she stuffed her books into her locker. Her best friend, Shannon, was walking around with a nearly visible storm cloud over her head. Shannon let out a long sigh. “Does killing a fictional character count as murder?” “You mean like killing off the villain?” “No,” said Shannon. “I mean like hitting the delete key so many times that it erases the heroine from existence.” Marcie's eyes went wide. “But I thought you liked Evangeline. Wasn't she the most amazing girl on the face of the planet?” “No. She's the most infuriating, soulless girl to ever lack personality and motivation.” This ever happen to you? You start writing a book and then halfway through the third chapter, you realize that the most interesting person in the book is the little sister. Your heroine, on the other hand, might as well as be a brainless automaton. (I'm going to refer to the character as a heroine for simplicity's sake, but of course all of this applies to males as well.) You are most definitely not alone. Main characters are absolutely infuriating to write. Getting that right balance of personality is a delicate job. And then you've got to make them relatable to the audience as well... sometimes it seems tempting to throw in the hat altogether. There is no easy fix to this problem. Crafting the perfect lead for your story is going to take work, no matter which way you go about it. You may have to spend hours writing pages of backstory, or dialogue between her and all the
other characters, or draw sketch after sketch of her. Some people like to fill out character charts. These consist of all sorts of information like hair color, personality type, relationships, feelings toward religion, etc. I do think it's wise to write a brief biography about each character for easy reference so that you remember who has blue eyes and how old everyone is. However, I find a character list rather cold and limiting. To understand my characters I need to talk about them, usually while driving in my car. Describing motives, backstory, history, personality and relations aloud is strangely helpful for me. Maybe I've written a scene that describes an interaction between the hero and the heroine and they both reacted differently than I expected. That doesn't mean it was out of character, it just means that I have to figure out why it was in character. Or maybe it was out of character and I need to fix that. No matter what way you decide to explore your character, it is important that you take the time to do it. You need to know things like whether she is introverted or extroverted, why she hates cats, and what her problem is with accepting help from other people. And she should have quirks like this because all people do. It is what will make your heroine real, and will carry her memory on in the minds of your reader long after they have set the book down. Still at a loss? Pull out a pad and paper and start interviewing your heroine. Write her answers in the voice you see as hers. It may evolve over the interview, but that's just the point. Keep writing and discover who she is!
In February A Gir l in th e
Tower of Shalott
The
Arthurian Detective!
S in g le o n
Valentine's Day
The Once and F u tu r e K in g ...and More!
