Scary publishers… are scarier in my head

I mentioned in my last post about sending away a story to a publisher and completely mucking it up thanks to my limited understanding of how my laptop actually works. I’ve always had Windows, and my move to a Mac hasn’t been a seamless one. Anyway, I was worried, after figuring out how to send my MS away mere minutes after sending a panicked ‘can you please help me,’ email. I had assumed\hoped it was a generic email address that an intern or someone similar would read – basically, I was pinning my hopes on some random IT person, separate from the editing side of things, playing witness to my stupidity. But, alas, not even 12 hours after sending my email the editorial assistant emailed me back.

And she was lovely.

I was momentarily taken aback at why this was so surprising, that she was not only helpful, but also just very nice. I don’t think the mental image I had built up of publishers as being a little bit scary was a conscious one. I studied Creative Writing at uni for five years, and I think this scary image was somewhat drip fed into my brain little by little. We had talks from agents, writers, poets, and publishers themselves. Don’t get me wrong, they were nice. The most prickly characters actually turned out to be the writers themselves. All the words of doom were from the mouths of writers: Don’t set your goals too high, you’ll only be disappointed; Most of you will fail; Self-publishing is something you should seriously consider, it’s the only way you may end up getting something immortalised in print. It was all very grim. Honest, of course, and not anything I hadn’t already realised. I walked into my first Creative Writing class knowing JK Rowling’s story was unique, that I would be lucky to even have someone ask to read my whole MS, never mind actually publish it. My sights were low. But in each talk I could feel my heart sink just a little more as all my fears were encouraged, and any hope shooed out of the way.

This idea of being published felt like an impossibility. And the publishers themselves were the stern faces behind the resounding no I would hear over and over again for the rest of my life. As a writer, you absorb all these stories – as many as you can find if you’re anything like me – about the process of getting published. And the one phrase you’ll hear repeated is: Keep trying.

I remember talking to one of my mum’s friends who used to work in publishing. He said something to me that helped ‘Keep trying’ feel less trite: Getting published is all about luck. Luck on what mood the person is in who is reading your story. Luck if it’s their preferred genre. Luck of timing. So, make a list of your favourite agents/publishers, edit, edit, edit, and send it out. And after you reach the end of your list? Edit, edit, edit again, and go back to the beginning of your list. Time has passed, trends in the market change, and luck may be on your side this time.

I realised recently that I’ve spent a very long time just opening my stories and staring at them. I’ve been scared to send them away. Daunted by the prospect of writing a synopsis (those things are insanely hard by the way – oh yes, I’ll just condense my 90,000 word story into two pages, no bother.) But has anyone else noticed how quickly time goes as an adult? And I’m wasting a lot of mine too frightened to try. A bit silly, really.

It’s essay time…

I can’t believe it’s been nearly four months since I first set the blog up. In December it was easy to be flippant ‘pfft I’ve got loads of time, April is so far away.’ It really wasn’t. But I’ve been sent some fantastic stories in that time. My slight -cough- huge -cough- obsession with fairytales has only gotten worse, I fear. The more I read up about them, the more fascinating they turn out to be.

I’m in the middle of writing my essay. I’d be further along, but for some reason this essay is more difficult to structure than others. I want to get in as much about the experience of running this blog, because it really has been fantastic. I’ve had so much fun reading up on fairytales, if a little disturbed at the same time: for example, this is something I found early on while reading my lovely new copy of the Grimm’s Fairy Tales. And it was so exciting when my phone pinged with a new email submission or ‘you have a new follower’ notification.

This is just a wee thank you post. Thank you for following Fairytale Corner, thank you for liking, sharing, and commenting. And thank you for your stories. I know how important my writing is to me, so the fact you shared it means a lot. I’ve really enjoyed creating and running this blog, so much so, I’m reluctant to let it just disappear into the ether. So, you’re still stuck with me after the 22nd. I’ve enjoyed working on the blog too much.

If in the future you have a fairytale you feel like sharing, or a story you think isn’t a fairytale, despite the fact it has all the makings of one, just send it here. We’d love to read it.

Narrator, character or not?

I don’t think I actually really thought about how I write until I went to university over four years ago. I may have been writing for as long as I can remember, but suddenly the world of writing was horribly complex, and I wasn’t sure how I’d managed it for so long. It hasn’t been until recently, though, that I actually thought about the role of the narrator.

In a novel I’ve been writing for the past six years, I’ve made some major changes since starting a masters; what was once a story written in third person, past tense, is now in first person, present. Even during my shift in narrator, I never actually sat down to think of who I was getting rid of, because I had never identified who my narrator was.

In class recently I’ve had the role of the narrator drilled into me. A writer should always know who their narrator is. Even if the reader never finds out who they are, you still need to know. I recently read ‘The Book of Night Women’ by Marlon James, which is a harrowing but truly fascinating read. James uses his narrator beautifully; they aren’t a character, but a storyteller. Without giving away any spoilers, the ending is somewhat devastating, because the narrator is revealed, in this big dun-dun-dun-bet-you-didn’t-expect-this moment and they go from storyteller to character. For me, this cheapened the ending, but that’s a subjective point, and also a tangent.While studying English, I was taught to NEVER put the author into the text. Even if the author has turned around in an interview and said ‘Yup, this is about my life,’ we weren’t allowed to mention it in an essay. With my own stories, though, I think I always just assumed the narrator was me. My narrators were never characters. Sure, they had their biases, but I waved that away by concentrating their focus on my main character.

I stumbled upon this quote by Philip Pullman: “I write almost always in the third person, and I don’t think the narrator is male or female anyway. They’re both, and young and old, and wise and silly, and sceptical and credulous, and innocent and experienced, all at once. Narrators are not even human – they’re sprites.”

This very much goes against everything I have been taught and mulled over this year…but then I suppose I have only just started thinking about the roles of my third person narrators, so I still have a long way to go before I come to a conclusion. Writing, it really is a never-ending learning curve.

The Dreamweaver by L. Lombard

In a cottage south of the North Sea, lived an old man aged eighty-three. He called himself a Dreamweaver, although no one knew why. They suspected it had to do with the beverage he liked to make from rye. Yet dream a lot he did, almost every day and night. The most fantastic tales he told, of all manner and sorts, from dungeons and dragons to stories of summertime resorts. All the time claiming he was sharing his dreams, people came from near and far to listen to his schemes.

Now you must understand, dreaming is a gift that not all can command. Word soon spread, and with it came dread. From the depths of the forest surged the people of Morrets. Dreamless they were, these small folk from yore. Few knew of their existence, those who did warned with insistence, “Do not trust the Morrets. They be deceitful and foul. Your dreams they are after, and moreover your soul.”

The old man had a grandson of a very young age. The boy loved his Grandpa and considered him sage. Knowledge of the Morrets reached his tender ears, and begging he asked his Grandpa in tears, “Please, stop your dreaming, or at least guard your tongue. The Morrets come closer, they’ll be here before long.”

“Shush, boy. I have dreamt of the Morrets. Let them come to our home. After listening to my dreams, they will leave us alone.”

The moon rose and set in a rhythmic pattern. Night after night, the boy stood outside holding his lantern. He raised his head and muttered a prayer, “Please, whoever is out there, if need be, make me a Morret slayer.” The day finally came, when he saw them approach, each rode a mouse. Their queen rode a coach.

“Grandpa, they’re here! Should we flee to the sea? Or at least hide in the barn, please listen to me!”

“My boy, I have told you they will cause me no harm. There will be no disaster, it is the Dreamweaving they are after.”

The Morrets were dressed in furs and old leather, but the queen dressed in silks and sat under a canopy, protected from the weather. Tiny they were, with beady little eyes. The boy thought they resembled their mice.

“Old man,” the Morret captain spoke, “deep from the forest we come to listen to your dreams. We have no imagination, and you could be our salvation. In our land nothing changes, nothing stirs. All remains the same, after all these long years. We offer gold for the stories we’re told. But be warned, if your dreams do not help us, you will pay with your soul.”

Without a worry, the boy’s Grandpa started his story. Dream after dream he shared with all that listened and cared. Then came the dream of the fairy, which had been trapped on the prairie. He told of how the fairy people lamented and moaned, and to the boy’s surprise, the Morret queen glowed. The Morrets grew restless and circled their queen. They whispered enchantments, not all was what it seemed.

The queen glowed brighter until it hurt to look. With the light came power, and the ground shook. “Release me, you brutes!” came the queen’s angry voice. It was laced with sorrow and regal poise. The Morrets grew furious, and the boy trembled in fear. He tried to run, but his Grandpa held him near.

“Pay close attention to what happens next. It is not everyday we save someone from a hex.”

The boy did not understand his Grandpa’s words, but became distracted when the Morrets drew swords. They charged on their mice and to their surprise, their silver swords turned to ice. Scared and confused, they stopped in their tracks, forgetting the lady who remained at their backs. She uncovered her face from the elegant silk. Her skin was radiant and white as milk. Such was her energy that she had become light, she shone like the sun, just as warm and bright. The warriors yelped when the swords they held melted. The boy’s Grandpa chuckled as the Morrets lamented.

The old man then became somber. “I dreamt of a wrong that should go on no longer. The fairy folk grieve for the kin they cannot retrieve. This Dreamweaver is old and can no longer hold the magic of fairies of which he’s been told. The breeze of the prairie has been gifted, instead, to my grandson—the next Dreamweaver to be bred. Kneel at his power or be warned of your death, for he will right all the wrongs with his almighty breath.”

A gentle breeze stirred the boy’s sandy hair, leaving a scent of lavender in the air. Slowly gaining force and tempo, it carried fairy voices like a distant echo. The Morrets shook with rage and fear at the trick they had been dealt, but none on the land before the boy knelt.

The wind was too much and the boy had to gasp, it entered his lungs with the sting of a wasp. It came with a strength that had no place to go. The boy understood that he had to let go. Aiming at the Morrets, he gave a mighty blow. The Morrets panicked. Their mice they tried to ride. From the fairy’s magic wind, there was no place to hide. It reached them swift, and their souls were set adrift. With the wind came the music, for the whole land to hear. The beautiful song of the fairies was so pure and clear, that to the boy’s eyes it brought a tear.

From the coach came the light, of the fairy in flight. “For your gallant courage, wishes I grant you three.”

“The only wish I have, my lady, is for you to be free.”

“A gift I must bestow for such selfless an act. Your life, of suffering, from now on will be intact.” Fairy dust descended from the fairy’s wings with ease, and on the boy’s and old man’s head it landed, making them sneeze.

It is said that in a cottage south of the North Sea, live a Dreamweaver and his grandson, as peaceful as can be.

Like what you read here? You can find out more about L. Lombard and her writing here and also on Facebook!

Drawing, writing, procrastinating…

I feel like fairytales are a big theme in my life at the moment. In my spare time I’m reading them and I’ve even started drawing lots again. It’s strange, I like my fairytales on the creepy side, but I find drawing Disney a lot easier.

It makes me feel better when I say my drawing is for the blog, then my procrastination isn’t stealing hours at a time from my day. Luckily, Disney is in keeping with the theme of Fairytale Corner. So here’s a little Ariel while we wait for the final touches to be added to the next wonderful story that is due to be posted.

This one is done in a rhythm I could never capture with my own writing. I was rather jealous while I read it, knowing I would never be able to pull off what this author has managed.

Hope you enjoy it. And once it’s up, that’s me a story down. Please send me something!

A small plea for submissions.

I’m not very good with poems. Actually, I’m a horrible poet. My only attempts have been two shorts I’ve written for different stories. One, I’m currently using, but the second was in a short story for uni two years ago. I’m not a huge fan of the story, so I’ll just post the short by itself. Tomorrow, my first story from a blog reader is going up. For now though, it’s still me.

Please send me in some things, show off, be creative! I love how fairytales are so versatile, they can be cutesie, or they can be super creepy. Maybe you disagree, I suppose it all depends on what a fairytale is to you. Does it have to be something you’d be okay reading to a small child, thus needing to trust in the story not to give said small child horrific nightmares? Don’t want to be like Morticia Addams when she makes all those kids cry in the first Addams Family film, huh? Or have fairytales evolved with storytelling? In an age where people can whip out a copy of Fifty Shades on the train and not be embarrassed that EVERYONE knows they’re reading about Ana’s lack of gag reflex and Christian’s Red Room of Pain, can a fairytale be scary and horrific?

You tell me. Or, better yet, show me.