Gnott Hill, pt. 2

Peculiar beings in the mud, waiting. (Image by pocius via Flickr)

While the stories of Rold and Margg, and of course Tam, will need to be told, we will travel for a moment to where they will end up.  Rest assured, they are on their journey, and despite the oddity of it, it is uneventful.

Gnott Hill is far more interesting. 

Sometimes places conjure feelings.  Some describe it as energy, others don’t know what to call it.  But, places can hold something in their grasp that will change a person, something that will echo inside them without an understanding of why. 

There is a sensation that exists while standing on a precipice.  Perhaps peering over the edge, you hear whispers in your head, perhaps its the sensation of something tugging at your edges, perhaps its gravity.  But whatever that is, it is there, inside you.  A primal urge linking you back to  apes leaping from tree branch to tree branch, the sudden sensation that, for a moment, you are surrounded by nothing.

Well, Gnott Hill is not a precipice, but there exists a similar sort of feeling.  The landscape is heavy, weighed down, eroded.  The hill rolls upward, a slow ascent of smooth rockface and scraggly moss.  An uneven path winds  up the side, but without reason, seems to dissolve at the peak.  It is not that the road ends, mind you, as it continues at the foot of the hill, just that this particular path, untravelled past the peak, has reached its pinacle. 

Whereas the landscape is heavy and rooted, the air feels lighter than ever.  It is hard to grasp a breath in this lightness.  It never appears to be completely sunlit on the hill, yet there exists a white bright  in the overcast days.  When storms litter the horizon, the rain seems to glitter on the shale.  It would be foolish to call it pretty, though.  Prettiness invokes a sense of good, and we travellers should not mistake it for such a place.  Beautiful and strange, but not good.

It is here where the paths of many converge.  Some figures with flaxen hair, and others an otherworldly red, like amaranth or carmine.  Odd faces; some are pinched and stretched, like they are ripping at unknown seams, yet oddly beautiful. Others are much less pleasing to the eye, unsettling and ancient.  These travellers have flocked here from everywhere.  Some have been on the road for hours, and some for weeks.  Yet, drawn like magnets, they are here.  Peculiar beings in the mud, waiting.

Tags: fairytale, fantasy, fantasy fiction, myth, storytelling, writing, Young Adult

Does originality exist in art?

Image via Wikipedia

This post was born out of a discussion on music, the concept of selling out, and the idea of originality in the music industry.  But, I think we can look at originality in a broader sense, as a concept that pertains to all artforms, including writing.

While someone may pioneer a style in whatever artform they are producing, I think it is very hard to find something truly original, because in my definition, originality would imply a lack of any outside influence, which I feel is impossible considering the amount of interaction we as humans have with each other. Although, speaking linguistically, originality just implies that the work is not a copy of something else.  We’ll ignore that one for now, though.  That is easy.

But looking at the origins of “originality” in terms of value in the arts, it appears it emerged during Romanticism, which I feel was largely influenced by the Enlightenment (albeit, it was more of a rebellion, than an agreement with the ideals of that period.) So, personally, I don’t even find its origins truly original. Umberto Eco writes on this in The Limits of Interpretation: “Much of art has been and is repetitive. The concept of absolute originality is a contemporary one, born with Romanticism ; classical art was in vast measure serial, and the “modern” avant-garde (at the beginning of this century) challenged the Romantic idea of “creation from nothingness,’ with its techniques of collage, mustachios on the Mona Lisa, art about art, and so on.” (p.95)

Despite being both an art major and a history major in undergrad, I was never one for art history. But, I’ll travel with Eco’s statement a moment, and try to look at avant-garde. Here, an art form that was so radical in notion, was also openly mocking the idea of originality. Marcel Duchamp’s fountain, an upturned urinal, was both completely lacking in originality, and yet completely groundbreaking. It shook the art world to the core. Minimalism later shook up western ideals by drawing from eastern influence, namely Japanese design, and probably Buddhism and Zen. (Feel free to correct me if I am wrong about this one.) And Minimalist art was probably influenced also by an opposition to abstract expressionism.

While I am not a music historian, I would then take a guess that the Minimalist school of music, while perhaps not drawing influence from other musicians, was drawing from the artform of minimalism. And in turn, influence can be negative or positive – so being negatively influenced by a certain style can lead you to a creation of a polar opposite.

But, if Originality, being a modern Western idea, only came about in the Romantic period, as a term of value, what was it like before?  I want to use the example of Shakespeare, because most people consider him as one of the greatest writers of the English language.  But was he original?  Sure he wrote his own work (unless you are of the Marlowe, Bacon, etc. camps), but was he really that groundbreaking in style? In form?  He was talented, immensely talented, but talent does not mean the same thing as originality.  He adeptly used the writing style of the day, and was able to make it his own, but he didn’t create anything from nothing.  Indeed, he didn’t strive to do so.  It just wasn’t something of value.

So, why does it have value now?  I honestly do not believe originality should be that important in the scheme of things. I buy into the idea that art, of any form, is about feeling and humanity, and that the collaborative effort, whether it be through friendship, or over a span of a millennium is what we are all about in essence. We are such amazing creatures, with a vast array of histories and cultures and we should celebrate humanity, rather than strive for separate, lonely genius.

Of course this idea stands separate from the idea of plagiarism, I should add.  Of course, that is another discussion entirely.

Anyone disagree? (I really miss my grad school debates, as the semester is over)

Tags: art, creativity, originality, writing

Gnott Hill

“…they appeared to tumble about like rolling stones, their only objective being to stop. “

Rold and Margg had been on the road for days, criss-crossing through scraggly forests and rolling moors.  Neither, from their outward appearance, seemed to be travelling with purpose; rather they appeared to tumble about like rolling stones, their only objective being to stop.  Whatever propelled them, compelled them to travel beyond their own homes, lay in the dark.

Curious travellers, this pair seemed.

They carried nothing, save the ragged, mudstained clothes on their backs.  Boots just as stained and worn, were tied haphazardly to their feet, the laces about to burst with age.  Middle aged, with the harshness of long winters etched into their skin, they appeared haggard.  Margg, the woman, seemed barely indistinguishable from her partner, the plainness of her face making her visage almost masculine.

To young Tam, an apprentice baker from Kull, they were like two old dogs.  Drooping skin, sad eyes, tired and confused.   He had watched them approach town, having begun as only specks in the distance.  The townsfolk, being wary of strangers, all gathered at windows and stopped their daily routines to watch the pair.  But, as strange as they seemed from a distance, the stranger they seemed up close. 

Muttering incoherently, not even to eachother, they travelled through town, not stopping for a moment, and just as strangely they left.  Up the hill and beyond, away into the distance. 

It was enough to make Tam curious.  Enough to make him want to know.  He didn’t know what posessed him, but struck by a simple, yet frightening idea, he ran with it. Ran inside, grabbed a bag he had packed without purpose, and ran up the hill, after them.  It was, of course, an idea that he would later question, an idea that would replay over and over in his head, as he sought the whys of it all.  He might even regret it.

Tags: chapter, fairytale, fantasy, fantasy fiction, fiction, Hybrinia, storytelling, writing

The Lesson

This closes, for a little while anyway, the story of  The Dog.  Or, at least, it concludes the story of how he came to be a part of Tobias’s world.

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Image via Wikipedia

That was how the dog came to be a part of his life.  By late winter it felt as though he had always been a part of their lives. In the morning Tobias and the dog would rise, and together they would fetch wood for the fire.  Dog, as he was simply called, would sit at his feet while they ate.  Dog watched over Raina when she played outside, running circles in the melting snow.
But the mystery of the dog’s arrival still plagued Tobias on occasion.  It silently crept into his mind out of nowhere, and woke him in the night.  Who was this dog’s owner, where had he come from?  Perhaps there was no sense in it, perhaps his owner had simply perished in the storm.  But something in that answer, or lack of an answer, bothered him.  And every time the dog’s collar caught the light, stones glinting, he was reminded of that mystery. 

Tags: chapter, chapters, fantasy fiction, Hybrinia, Red Maggie, storytelling, Tobias, winter, writing

Caput inter nubila condit

I’m still here, I’m just not. (That’s a terrible sentence.)

As it has been for the past year and a half, my posting is sporadic, due largely to the grueling schedule of graduate school.  Every now and then, I think:

 ”Oh, yeah.  I was supposed to finish that story.”

And then, get caught up in dishes or vacuuming, or whatever else I’ve been putting off due to papers, pilot studies, and intellectual debates (on the pros and cons of pornography in libraries, no less.)

So, I’m really not going to promise anything, but I do have a week off, and maybe…. just maybe, I’ll have the end of The Dog up.

Image via Wikipedia

Have a photo as consolation.  It’s getting quite pretty out.

Tags: writing

The Wind

It is still in rough form, but I had been so terrible with my promise of a story, that I’m posting it.  This continues  The Dog.

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Despite his efforts to discover the origins of the dog, Tobias found himself coming up empty. None of the townsfolk had ever seen the animal, and it was unlikely he would find an answer beyond the borders of the town, as remote a village it was. There was a small creeping satisfaction that settled in when he realized that the dog, more or less, was his. Dolmat may not be pleased, but little Raina would brighten at the news, he thought. She had a smile like Brin’s.

Tags: fantasy, fantasy fiction, fiction, Hybrinia, Red Maggie, Tobias, winter, writing, Young Adult

The Dog

This takes place after Distilling Starflowers, and Killing the Darkness, and references both (in later parts).  It’s a longer Maggie story than normal, and is also different as it opens with Tobias.  I’m breaking it into parts, to make the reading easier, and I’ll try and get the next part up soon. 

Comments/critiscism are always welcome and appreciated.

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(image from wikipedia-ccsa)

The dog appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, in the middle of a midwinter storm.  White fur matted with ice, it blended into the background, appearing much like a bounding ball of snow.

Tobias had only been by the window by chance, adjusting a bolt of fabric that held the draft away, and would not have seen the dog pass if the fabric hadn’t fallen during his efforts.  He went to the door and whistled.

Tags: Dog, fantasy, fantasy fiction, fiction, Hybrinia, Red Maggie, Tobias, winter, writing, ya, Young Adult

Dorah

It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these, so I thought I should preface this post with this: my ‘information posts” are not actually factual.  They are fiction written like travelogues, encyclopedia entries, or occasionally letters, all set in the world of my novels.  The photos I use in them are of real places and I’ve linked to them.  They have no real purpose, but I have fun making things up.

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In Duryim, slightly northwest from Lake Mend lies the city of Dorah.  It is small as cities go, but is notable for being one of the more beautifully designed cities of Duryim.  A distinct mix of styles, drawing from both Northern and Marakan architectural design, it is a work of art in itself. 

image from wikipedia

Note the archways and the decorative brickwork on the image above.  Clearly the Marakan syle of decoration was mimiced, although the structure itself is very different, resembling the heavy stone structures of the northern areas and Arroll.  This shift in architectural style is due largely to the expansion of the Marakan civilization after the fall of Arroll before the Reunification.  With an expanse of territory came a wave of settlers from the lower regions, due largely to the desertification of large areas of lower Marakas and the abundance of fertile land surrounding Lake Mend.  Although the settlement was not permanent, their influence on the culture is still apparent.

image from wikipedia

The Clas in Dorah (as pictured above) is an excellent example of the repetitive design found in the elaborate tilework that is so often a part of Marakan architecture.  The tiles are handcarved before firing, and can be very time-consuming to create. 

Architectural accents are quite prized as art, and are often exported to Arroll.  Old buildings often become salvaged for parts, and anything from mouldings to archways to broken tiles find their way to market.  This trend has also lead to a revival of Marakan architecture in some trendier areas of the kingdom.

Tags: Duryim, fantasy, fantasy fiction, fiction, writing

Precarious Skylights

Image via Wikipedia

There’s a stretch of road an hour out of M. that slides down the mountain and through another valley, leading north to the wilderness.  It’s wilderness itself, just the narrow winding road and the thicket; the forest blanketing the folding mountains surrounding it.  In the autumn, when the leaves fall, and on into winter, small skeletons of huts can be seen through the trees at the base of the mountain, their inhabitants long since gone. 

Perhaps they were hunting cabins once, or perhaps they were homes.  Their contents are now forgotten, spilling about the floors and left on tabletops for the forest animals to admire.  The ceilings open to precarious skylights, the trees and stars above peeking in.  Leaves and moss creep along the floorboards, and the wind rattles the walls.

It’s always been a curiousity of mine, those little huts.  I’ve often wondered who these strangers once were, the occupants of these dwellings.  Were they ruddy and bearded mountain folk? Flaxen-haired and mud-stained children who ran barefoot through the clearings?  The hidden people, the forgotten ones.  I wonder where they went when they left.

Tags: fiction, storytelling, winter, writing

Airborn by Kenneth Oppel

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Since quite a few of the books I’ve been reading are pretty stand-out, I’ve decided to post reviews of some of my favorites this semester.  Airborn isn’t new in anyway, but it is a fantastic steampunk adventure, and is also one of the few YA novels I’ve seen recently that will probably appeal to boys as much as girls.  With so much written to young women, it’s nice to see something that will cater to all teens.  There are some standout YA novels that are for boys, or that are gender-neutral, of course, but when looking at the entirety of the genre, it does appear to be a minority.

The book is also being made into a film, due out in 2011.

Matt Cruse, a cabin boy on the airship Aurora, is moving up in the world.  At home among the clouds, and working on the ship his father was on before his death, Matt is content with his life, and his dreams to one day become captain of a ship like the Aurora. Growing up hearing stories of his father’s adventures, and of his own birth on the airship fifteen years before, his desire to be aloft is paramount. 

Tags: Airborn, fantasy, fantasy fiction, fiction, steampunk, writing, Young Adult