An essay on dream-interpretation
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Book Review No. 1: Joan Aiken, 'The Way to Write For Children'
Hello, Julian here--
On The Website, we have a linked page on books to read for aspiring authors--here is the first in a review series.
All in all, a fine book containing the essential questions and basic information that every author--not restricted to those hoping to write for children--must consider. Aiken's cohesive, thoughtful book, The Way to Write For Children, is a masterwork of resources, pulling extensively from the wisdom of past authors, and drawing on the canon of children's literature to present a full and clear portrait of the craft.
She presents the very practical considerations of age range, length, and genre, in a knowledgeable and often tongue-in-cheek style, creating a guidance book that is overall entertaining, if not indeed thrilling to read.
Above all, her focus is on motive. This is not a quick-fix book for a best-seller; no, it is an instructive book on the essence of writing. 'Ideally, writing for children should be a vocation,' she says, and continues with the many variations on responsibility with which the passionate writer must wholly agree.
Altogether, a more-than-satisfactory read, and well worth one's time to find.
Of course, the sensible writer must weigh Aiken's recommendations carefully; that is, after all, part of the carving-away at a raw block to shape the self, the author in his or her own unique definition.
For further information, or to purchase the book through ABE, please visit http://www.creative-works-intl-media.com/new-books-recommended-reading.html
On The Website, we have a linked page on books to read for aspiring authors--here is the first in a review series.
All in all, a fine book containing the essential questions and basic information that every author--not restricted to those hoping to write for children--must consider. Aiken's cohesive, thoughtful book, The Way to Write For Children, is a masterwork of resources, pulling extensively from the wisdom of past authors, and drawing on the canon of children's literature to present a full and clear portrait of the craft.
She presents the very practical considerations of age range, length, and genre, in a knowledgeable and often tongue-in-cheek style, creating a guidance book that is overall entertaining, if not indeed thrilling to read.
Above all, her focus is on motive. This is not a quick-fix book for a best-seller; no, it is an instructive book on the essence of writing. 'Ideally, writing for children should be a vocation,' she says, and continues with the many variations on responsibility with which the passionate writer must wholly agree.
Altogether, a more-than-satisfactory read, and well worth one's time to find.
Of course, the sensible writer must weigh Aiken's recommendations carefully; that is, after all, part of the carving-away at a raw block to shape the self, the author in his or her own unique definition.
For further information, or to purchase the book through ABE, please visit http://www.creative-works-intl-media.com/new-books-recommended-reading.html
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Storytelling, Or, Best-Laid Plans &tc &tc
There is an exercise employed, so I am told, by the great masters of the classics...one can see them, sitting around their café table (round, naturally: there is no hierarchy of creativity), sipping espresso or wine with impressionistic delight...one says to the others, 'Yesterday, I saw a duck with green spots on its back.'
'Really? And so?'
And so it begins. A story unfolds, tossed about by one of the artists with compelling skill--something heartbreaking, absurd, reflective. 'Yes, perhaps,' says the first, 'But actually, I believe what happened is this:' And he presents a story a little pithier, a little funnier, a little heavier, than his comrade's. Each takes a single image, and elaborates upon it, adding depth and the various exquisitries of his own wit, until it has spiralled out of control--the duck is no longer just a duck, but a hero, the spots the evidence of its remarkable passion, search for justice, fatal flaw.
At the end of the morning (or afternoon, or evening--this game can take place at any time, on any day), the masters bid each other good-day; they part, congenially, each taking up the thread of the story they have broidered in his own mind.
An ancient pursuit, and a thrilling one. It pulls past belief, into mythology; mythology is what we, as humans need in all times, in all circumstances.
(N.B. I had intended this post to be about Joan Aiken, but was diverted. Watch for next time: a review of Joan Aiken's book on Writing for Children)
'Really? And so?'
And so it begins. A story unfolds, tossed about by one of the artists with compelling skill--something heartbreaking, absurd, reflective. 'Yes, perhaps,' says the first, 'But actually, I believe what happened is this:' And he presents a story a little pithier, a little funnier, a little heavier, than his comrade's. Each takes a single image, and elaborates upon it, adding depth and the various exquisitries of his own wit, until it has spiralled out of control--the duck is no longer just a duck, but a hero, the spots the evidence of its remarkable passion, search for justice, fatal flaw.
At the end of the morning (or afternoon, or evening--this game can take place at any time, on any day), the masters bid each other good-day; they part, congenially, each taking up the thread of the story they have broidered in his own mind.
An ancient pursuit, and a thrilling one. It pulls past belief, into mythology; mythology is what we, as humans need in all times, in all circumstances.
(N.B. I had intended this post to be about Joan Aiken, but was diverted. Watch for next time: a review of Joan Aiken's book on Writing for Children)
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Business Philosophy. Part II., or, Whence That Dusty Shelf?
Books are artifacts. Do you ever wonder if, in a hundred or so years, this blog that you have haplessly decided to read, will exist? If the myriad upon myriad email messages, notifications, websites, &tc will possibly remain? If a plague decimates humanity, or a plot to undo electricity finally works--where will the bulk of human wisdom be stored, save in books?
Already, we know of our distant ancestors through their own recorded history; if we obliterate the written page, we shall become a society without a past, and with no future to speak of. Something to muse upon in these summer days, while sipping one's iced tea beneath an iridescent umbrella, while the cicadas sing their melancholy, tense chantings, this.
Without the rediscovery of the Classical texts, would the Dark Ages have ended? It is a pithy question to ponder. So it is in our current 'light age,' when the blinking of computer screens and televisions is all that can be seen from space--when, at last, the world wakes up unto itself again, it will seize upon the remaining relics of this civilization--the books--to aid in the answering of that immutable question, "What was it all about, really?"
It is our duty to provide these valuable archaeological finds for our children's children's children. Or even, our children's children, or our children's children's children's children's children's...I think you get my point.
And so, those groaning dusty shelves in my house are for a purpose, after all. They are archaeology, and so I tell my friends. Future historians will thank you for not moving them from your chair, to the ground.
Already, we know of our distant ancestors through their own recorded history; if we obliterate the written page, we shall become a society without a past, and with no future to speak of. Something to muse upon in these summer days, while sipping one's iced tea beneath an iridescent umbrella, while the cicadas sing their melancholy, tense chantings, this.
Without the rediscovery of the Classical texts, would the Dark Ages have ended? It is a pithy question to ponder. So it is in our current 'light age,' when the blinking of computer screens and televisions is all that can be seen from space--when, at last, the world wakes up unto itself again, it will seize upon the remaining relics of this civilization--the books--to aid in the answering of that immutable question, "What was it all about, really?"
It is our duty to provide these valuable archaeological finds for our children's children's children. Or even, our children's children, or our children's children's children's children's children's...I think you get my point.
And so, those groaning dusty shelves in my house are for a purpose, after all. They are archaeology, and so I tell my friends. Future historians will thank you for not moving them from your chair, to the ground.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Business Philosophy. Part I. Or, Why Publish BOOKS in This Day and Age?
Well. Books are essential, even in this day and age--more than that, they are themselves essences. At risk of being effusive, allow me to explain:
The touch and smell of a book. Books found, in mouldy corners, on dusty bookshelves, books discovered in a great-aunt's attic, books seized upon under cover of rain. Books opened, quested, to find--a world anew. There is no electronic equivalent.
Suppose, for one, you went to an open-air flea market. It is quite a gypsy flea-market--summons to mind those medieval portraits of fairs, bright colours encamped near bright colours, wagons, tents, camel-like horses chafing at the bit, dazzled onlookers seeking to buy their copper's worth of ribbon, of silk, of silver. You needn't be a connoisseur. The secret alcoves, containing hidden treasures--an old bird-cage, wrought in gargoyled iron; an ancient lamp, dusty with adventure; a roll-top desk perfect for writing letters of intrigue and experience (' Dear Isidore, Our hearts can no longer contain each other, for our lives have grown too full. Remember me, as I remember you, and above all remember that summer we spent by the sea, in which we discovered that cave, from whence the dread secret has encumbered our lives...).
And a stack of old books, ripe for opening. The world is yours...
Imagine this: a scene in which a child as well as a wizened sage may take pleasure.
Now, imagine a virtual marketplace, filled with the same wares...but in what form? Two-dimensional echoes, devoid of sensory value--no scent, no feel, no sunlight, no sound. The hawkers' cries do not ring out, all moves on a flat screen.
There is simply no comparison.
Books are artifacts.
So it is with books--so it is with literature. Take away the sense and smell and feel of the covers, the bindings, the pages, the ink-pressed characters that enfold to tell a tale, and you are lost. It is not literature, simply information, processed and uniformly packaged. And what mystery in a screen?
The touch and smell of a book. Books found, in mouldy corners, on dusty bookshelves, books discovered in a great-aunt's attic, books seized upon under cover of rain. Books opened, quested, to find--a world anew. There is no electronic equivalent.
Suppose, for one, you went to an open-air flea market. It is quite a gypsy flea-market--summons to mind those medieval portraits of fairs, bright colours encamped near bright colours, wagons, tents, camel-like horses chafing at the bit, dazzled onlookers seeking to buy their copper's worth of ribbon, of silk, of silver. You needn't be a connoisseur. The secret alcoves, containing hidden treasures--an old bird-cage, wrought in gargoyled iron; an ancient lamp, dusty with adventure; a roll-top desk perfect for writing letters of intrigue and experience (' Dear Isidore, Our hearts can no longer contain each other, for our lives have grown too full. Remember me, as I remember you, and above all remember that summer we spent by the sea, in which we discovered that cave, from whence the dread secret has encumbered our lives...).
And a stack of old books, ripe for opening. The world is yours...
Imagine this: a scene in which a child as well as a wizened sage may take pleasure.
Now, imagine a virtual marketplace, filled with the same wares...but in what form? Two-dimensional echoes, devoid of sensory value--no scent, no feel, no sunlight, no sound. The hawkers' cries do not ring out, all moves on a flat screen.
There is simply no comparison.
Books are artifacts.
So it is with books--so it is with literature. Take away the sense and smell and feel of the covers, the bindings, the pages, the ink-pressed characters that enfold to tell a tale, and you are lost. It is not literature, simply information, processed and uniformly packaged. And what mystery in a screen?
Dr. Johnson's Dictionary, or, Things Lost Beneath Beds
Dr. Johnson's Dictionary, or, Things Lost Beneath Beds
I intended to make this blog more than, as mentioned, Yet Another Literary Blog. I intended to begin with a pithy quote from Johnson's Dictionary, a tingling word to excite the senses and stir the mind. The latter intention, it seems, shall have to wait.
Why is it that books disappear beneath beds? There is a sort of piquancy to it, almost--a twist of fate that, if written the right way, could lean towards the tragic...
Nevertheless, we shall see about the first intention. My work takes me to far-off climes and dangerous territories of the imagination. I shall endeavour to explore dark secrets, heroic attempts, fantastic feats of courage and alliteration. There is much to learn in the world of books beyond what is written in the pages; one must go deeper still, to the essence of them, the heat and heart and light of which they are (at centre) composed.
Dr. Johnson will have to wait.
I intended to make this blog more than, as mentioned, Yet Another Literary Blog. I intended to begin with a pithy quote from Johnson's Dictionary, a tingling word to excite the senses and stir the mind. The latter intention, it seems, shall have to wait.
Why is it that books disappear beneath beds? There is a sort of piquancy to it, almost--a twist of fate that, if written the right way, could lean towards the tragic...
Nevertheless, we shall see about the first intention. My work takes me to far-off climes and dangerous territories of the imagination. I shall endeavour to explore dark secrets, heroic attempts, fantastic feats of courage and alliteration. There is much to learn in the world of books beyond what is written in the pages; one must go deeper still, to the essence of them, the heat and heart and light of which they are (at centre) composed.
Dr. Johnson will have to wait.
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