Soon to be Seen, or, Next Thought

An essay on More Serious Matters.

Various Confusions With the Ds, or, When Not to Alliterate

Today, I found myself torn between dandiprat (n.s., a little fellow; an urchin: a word used sometimes in fondness and sometimes in contempt) and disrelish. However, at risk of over-alliterating, I shall choose the former:

Intense emotion wracked the bosom of little Charelzefride as he surveyed the tiny figure, high up, in the rigging of his father's ship. "O, that little dandiprat ," an officer said as he passed, evidently inclined to pay no attention to the lithe, monkeylike boy in the rigging. But Charlelzefride stood motionless as he contemplated the sight: his old enemy, alive and upon the same ship. The dandiprat's features twisted in mocking recognition; his lips formed the words:
"Tell no one about the map." Charlezefride nodded.

Less levity, more information should arrive by next post. If Our Readers have any questions, let them not hesitate to submit them (and, if they are common, we shall address them in posts) at this Ask-Our-Editors link: http://www.creative-works-intl-media.com/Writing-Books-Publishing-Ask-the-Editors.html

Why Read Children's Books, or, Editor Julian North's Personal Business View

As perhaps our readers may have guessed by this time, and judging from our list of 'Books to read Aloud,' I am unquestionably in love with children's books.

(Good children's books, that is. The world of children's publishing is full, it is true, of irritating, puerile characters and brash stereotypes, but the certain class of book I am talking of is less commercial than it is authentic.) One might wonder why...

I give myself free leave to be serious, I am afraid, in this post.


Children's authors, as Joan Aiken perceptively observes, have a much bigger responsibility than authors of the common sort (I use this qualifying term with all due respect). A child will only read, it is estimated, a certain number of books during the course of childhood; thus, every book counts, when it comes to informing, enlightening, and above all kindling a sense of wonder without being dreary or didactic.

Children's books, I find, are very often truer in perception of character than the rest of the vast ocean of literature. They depict characters which, though often oversimplified, are true in essence--for a child will not abide stodgy characterisations or a lack of heart. The issues presented are so often so much nearer the mark, when it comes to an understanding of human problems..

..for often, in our multivariating world, the common author seeks to depict only suffering, without meaning, or plot, without purpose. Why lapse into nihilism if there is a chance of a happy ending? Happy endings breed optimism, which in turn cultivates action. Cynicism, or nihilist/existentialist dilemmas do just the opposite. For if a person believes there is no reason to hope, why would they strive for the best, for change, growth, life?

Likewise, it takes a true maturity to exhibit optimism--for, as we have all doubtless seen, any adolescent can dowse into cynicism.

This maturity, children are born with. If they lose it over time, it is our responsiblity to look to ourselves, to see what in us is fostering this unnatural trait. All of nature is in a constant state of change, of growth, cycles of birth and ephemery. Let us keep the fade-and-fall of optimism, of hope, of expansion, alive. Let us do it through literature.

Fleshquake, or, A Word Perhaps Better Left to the Past, and Other Musings

Fleshquake. n.s. A tremor of the body: a word formed by Jonson in imitation of earthquake.

A word, one could say, perhaps better left to the past?

It is singular that, in our modern world of automatic newsfeeds and nonstop commentary, we have not the penchant for forming new (often beautiful) words that our forbears did. If human nature can be allowed to exhibit its fullest creative qualities, perhaps 'fleshquake' will do.

Cloris looked up at the Baron; her whole small being was wracked by a fleshquake. "If the Commodore holds my father's will, then please tell me this: Who will buy the peas for our army's offense?" The Baron had no answer for this nine-year-old's precocious questioning, for in truth, she was right. Without peas, they were lost.

Next, as I believe, will be a post on Why Children's Books?.

Things Lost Are Not Often What They Seem, Or, How I Found Dr. Johnson's Dictionary, Not Where I Thought It Was Hid.

I have found it--and we shall see if the finding augments, or rather detracts, from this Blog. A series on musings (for sometimes I find that finding an antiquated or strange word, and musing upon it, helps to inspire a story) is forthcoming, of which this is the first.

But I must explain.

Not, under the bed was it--not in the eternal abyss of darkness and despair, where souls of library books in torment await their accumulating fine--not in that black hole betwixt my bed's four feet, and the dusty floor--but in a pile of books by my door. Yesterday, searching for something else (and isn't that always the way) I found it, by chance, spilled to the ground as my hand knocked it out of place.

So here it is.

I will start with By-coffeehouse, a happy thought today.



By-coffeehouse. n.s. A coffeehouse in an obscure place.

Phyllis reached out her hand, searching through her laboured breath for an alleyway to dart into, a cubbyhole in which to evade her pursuers. She heard them, hot upon her heels--faster, she turned, not caring where she went, her frenzied lips forming the anguished words: 'O, if only there had been a by-coffeehouse!'

By-the-by, I must give heartfelt thanks to Liam's Pictures from Old Books for the images found here. http://www.fromoldbooks.org

A Holiday Scene, Or, How To Snare Even The Most Attention-Deficient of Relatives

It is the evening of a holiday.

You are all clustered 'round a table laden with the remains of a feast. Only a few derelict pieces of sponge cake remain; everyone's glass is nearly empty. Conversation flags. The children are somewhere beneath the table--you can feel them, tugging at your feet, and plucking at Great Aunt Meredith's shoes.

What to do?

All new news has long since been exhausted, and your relatives have started in on their favourite subjects--you respond, drearily, the with the same noncommital phrases they have heard time and time again, and still cease to understand. Old tensions rise. Old arguments stir. Sensibilities rankle.

What to say?

There is only another hour or two until you can righteously turn them out--time for a board game (only the rules are missing)--or, should you resort to turning on the television?

How differently things would go, if only you had a book to read aloud!

Reading aloud over a dinner table--an antiquated, funny old notion, from the bygone days when people would cluster around a piano in the tiny parlor, to be entertained. An adventurous notion, requiring relatives to put on their spectacles, crank up their character voices, and fall into the tale.

The children have crawled up from under the table; they wish to be involved. Little Alfred's chapter may take forever, but he feels proud at its end, for having navigated words such as 'pecuniary' and 'Herculean'. If it is a humorous book, all the better--the ice is instantly broken! No-one minds about Aunt Agatha's creaky voice, or Cousin Matthias' inability to differentiate between the female characters and the male.

When the evening is done, you may rest assured, they will come again. And leave their arguments behind.

Dream-Sequence, Or, A Lesson in Madness

Although dreams can occasionally frighten us, confound us, or startle us, though they bring out our worst social fears, or make us wonder whether we really are as sane as we assumed, there is one purpose for which dreams hold a continual charge. Never mind about analysing your dreams; sometimes they are best in their raw, emotion-filled, bizarre state. So it has been for ages past.

Dreams are a great source of inspiration.

Yes; from foretelling catastrophic events to revealing inner secrets, dreams have a long-established power upon the human understanding, coming as they do from the human imagination.

Just think, if you were given a space in which to tell stories wholly uninhibited by rational censors--

Well. Each night, each dream, is that space.

Here is an exercise:

1) Dream.

2) Without thinking too much about it, write it down. Don't worry if some of the details vanish into that black hole of oblivion, somewhere between the dreaming-consciousness, and the waking-consciousness. Neither should you be afraid to go back to your notebook and add details as they occur to you throughout the day.

3) Keep the journal handy; when you think of story ideas (when they spontaneously pop into your head, that is) write them down in this journal as well. For dreams, and story ideas, come from the same place--the more liberty you allow them to grow, the better they will turn out. When the story, like the dream, takes off by itself, that is the first step to writing well--semi-consciousness.

Take note of any recurring themes, symbols, or situations. If you truly think you may need help, perhaps a call to the psychiatrist helpline is in order. If not, analysing dreams can not only spur your writing, but help you to sort out your life.

And that is altogether a win-win situation.


For more ideas such as this, please visit http://www.creative-works-intl-media.com/http://www.creative-works-intl-media.com/chesterton-davies-ltd-books-workshops.html, and sign up for a workshop. Finding yourself is just the beginning of it!