Hello Again

I know it has been many months since I've posted on here but life has been expectantly busy and I have not found time, nor made time, to write fiction or blog posts. So why am I writing today. Long story short, a tutoring student of mine came up to me yesterday and asked if I would be interested in reading the story he wrote over the summer. I haven't read it yet but I promised I would give him some feedback by Tuesday.

It was honoring and humbling to be asked to look at his work. He could be the next writer big writer and I could say "I knew him when". I am playing a part in his life as a teacher and a writer and he is teaching me in ways I don't even know yet.

This sparked some inspiration within me and in the time time between reading the 3rd Act of Hamlet and having class in the afternoon I decided I would work on the short story I finished but had not yet edited way back in July. I'm still working my way through the 3000 words of it but really liked some of what I had written. For those who have never read any of my works I would like to give you the opportunity to read the following paragraph.

"She has made a list of liquors and their subsequent consumers. For thieves she serves a finger worth of thin orange scented whiskey. For runaways, stowaways, and the abandoned it is vodka spiced with cloves and catnip. Adulterers receive tannic wine to stain there sin-soaked lips purple as the kings crowns. To pimps she gives a dry gin that tastes of pine and cardamom and something like liquorish rolled in rosewater.  Malaria will not suffer the likes of murderers in her establishment but the hospitality-tradition decrees she is to serve all those who can pay. Therefore, those who have taken a life are poured a glass of her special distillation. Beneath the ritually clean counter is a crystalline vat and into it she has placed datura seeds and aconite leaves, mandrake roots and hemlock stocks, oily keys made of mercury and moonstones, and henbane flowers and nightshade berries black as the streets of Tantrum. These and other organic terrors are covered in a grain alcohol and stirred daily. Down into their hollow eyes Malaria glares and strains out a portion of the glowing green liquid; it shines in the din and the dust of her bar bright as life itself. She is an executioner; unveiled and unafraid of judgment day.  Before long these killers of children and wives and the unfortunate bystander keel over; the bitter liquid burning through them like a knife, like a bullet, like a harp string oscillating its final mournful note. "

Yes it is long and rambling but I hope you found the imagery pleasant.  If inspiration still moves within me after class I will go through and edit again and hopefully send it out to a beta-reader today!*

Also I recorded this paragraph and will up-load it to sound-cloud for your listening pleasure.. I've had experience with soundcloud before and sometimes I get it work and sometimes I can not! Hopefully this time it will all run smoothly. Keep an eye out for this and other recordings.**

*If you would like to be a beta-reader of mine. Please send me an e-mail to cjgrabuski@gmail.com and I can tell you what I'm looking for in beta-reader.
** If you have a specific story of mine you would like narrated let me know and I'll record and post it as well.

Writing and the Equinox

Merry Equinox,

So I haven’t posted in a while and that’s because I have been less than inspired. That is not to say I haven’t been creative. I have bread proofing in the oven as I write this. Yesterday I made some naan bread and the day before that I made a Galette des Rois which is this wonderful almond pastry thing. I even made the pastry myself using a pie crust recipe. It was the best pie crust I’ve ever made. Thanks Jaclyn Weber of Red Goose Gardens.

There is something inside of me right now that really wants to create. I want to bake and garden and get back outside and start the growing season again. I’m so happy the sun is out longer every day. I would didn’t say I get SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) but my energy levels truly do decrease in the winter time. Even though we’re getting these little snow storms the sunlight and the increased temperatures do lift my spirits and I’m getting antsy. I’m starting seeds for tomatoes and peppers and broccoli and a bunch of herbs really soon (I just need to find my grow light).

Even though the tender fires of creation are moving in me, I do not have the divine spark of inspiration. I have many ideas and stories about which to write about but when I sit down to write out my thoughts or try to outline/construct a story nothing sounds quite right to me. Even writing this little blog post is difficult. I’m not exactly sure how to court the muses. When I think about the times when I’ve had really great ideas it is often time when I’m not thinking about writing. I generally see something, like a wall of fog or a bee landing on my hand a bus stop and then words begin for form in my mind as if out of the ether. From there it’s about piggy-backing on the original idea and drawing on things like mythology, research, or whatever else needs to be incorporated into the work.

The piece I’m working on now was inspired by the poem She Had Some Horses by Joy Harjo and a story my mother told me about the time when she brought home our dog Jake. I’m having trouble finishing the story because I feel that it wants to go into crazy/bizarre places (like Venus)  nd I want to ground it in a no-less strange but definitely different territory. I’ve still a few days before I have to send it out and I believe I will have it done by then (wish me luck though). And for those who subscribe to The LunacyProject I promise Greek Mythology is nowhere in sight.

Oh and did I mention the story I worked on last November (the one about Polish Mythology/Folklore) has been nudging its way back into my life. Not that I’ve been working on it but I can hear it calling to me from the recesses of my hard-drive. Even though I’m hearing these callings and am feeling pulled towards various writing endeavors I can’t get over the feeling that everything I put down on paper sounds like shit. Sorry for the language but that’s how I feel. I guess for the time I just have to let it be what it is, continue to work on it and hopefully, with some skill and some luck, something beautiful will emerge.

So where can the equinox help me. Equinox means equal night. Today we are experiencing 12 hours of light and 12 hours of darkness. This is a great time to breathe deep and feel connected with stillness, the mindfulness, and be in balance with our world. Because this is the spring time we need to move forward on the exhale. Breathe deep the power of balance on this day. Feel it aligning you with heaven and earth. All your parts fitting in place. Now breathe out momentum and growth. This isn’t the summer time so there is no reason to bolt out of the starting gate like a race horse. There will be time again for that kind of intense movements. For now move with this season. Stretch towards the strengthen sun; reach for the summer stars. Let the fires of the warming earth and sun fuel your work and your beautiful creations.

Breath in deep my friends, Spring is here!

Ida of Kildare

ĺda was a child, barely six years of age, when she was brought to the abbey of Kildare. When she arrived her stomach was as empty as her head. She wasn’t the only little girl there. Nuns herded groups of five or six into and out of buildings like the shepherds that herded the little black and white and brown sheep. She gave a fearful good-bye as her father deposited her into the hands of the sisters dressed in gray. She cried mightily for several days when she realized he would never would come back for her. Some nuns were kind and took compassion on her; finger combing her hair until she fell asleep. Some nuns were neither kind nor caring. They had seen this before and showed no mercy; little girl comes, cries, and carries on with her life. This was the way of things at monasteries and they believed Kildare should be no different.

With a bent head she learned to read and write with rest of the little girls. She took to the learning of Latin verse and prayer as a babe takes to the breast. Of all the girls there at Kildare, ĺda was the one who recited the rosary and the Lord ’s Prayer the best. Her vowels were strong and her consonants sharp.  By age nine she knew the linage of Christ, the number of popes in the Holy See, and even a little Greek she learned form a traveling Bard who had a little yellowing scroll bearing the names of prophets she had never heard of before.

Ĺda, head always bowed as in prayer or titled toward an illuminated manuscript. She did not find outside world beautiful nor pleasant as ink on velum. The pastures of sheep terrified her as the reciting of rosaries did not. She said their eyes were slant wise and would twist her mind in evil and unwanted ways. The forest too was filled with terrors only Satin himself could have vomited into the world. Treacherous mushrooms and trees branched out in twisted and obscene angles only to reach out to devour wandering travelers whole. The worst of the hillsides wonders were the little folk. The nuns whispered in their tiny ears that they were demons who donned unholy tattoos and danced around fires every night, singing prayers to their earthly gods. They instructed all students to stay within the nunnery grounds; that the lights in the hills would steel their very souls. Ĺda, who trembled like twigs in the wind at the mention of anything that might come from within the dark, green wood consumed every word of the nuns folktales. 

Mother Lìadan scolded them. She called them fools. She heard their non-sense as she prayed in the little chapel or sat beside the holy well of St. Brigid. She was old, far older than any of the other nuns clothed in brown or gray. Though her hands were roped and her face withered as February apples she still managed to bring in water from the well, tend the herbs, and lift herself after kneeling for many hours without the aid of others. She has seen the faire folk and knew they are neither demons nor evil spirits sent by Satin to spread sin across the green and fair Ireland.

“Those folk are harmless and know the joys of life as you or I never will,” she said with spite. She looked at Sister Marie and Sister Dorianne squarely under her wrinkled brow. “They come to drink from the well just as we do. This is a blessed place. All who come before God, by whatever name they call him, are slacked of thirst here and should be welcomed with open arms.”

With that she says no more but bitterly sips her thin mutton broth. The cross of St. Brigid swung back and forth, like a pendulum. Its reed-woven form kept time in the rarefied air and no one spoke for the rest of the lunch hour. She knew what they said about her in the secrecy of cloister or garden wall. They said she was actually a Druid. They said she called their patron saint by her old name. They said she knows how to make poisons from herbs. The worst she ever heard was that she was in league with the devil himself. 

*** 

Hope you enjoyed this little piece of fiction. I know it sounds a little dogma heavy but it gets far more interesting. I'm nearly done with the first draft. This will be the February Lunacy Project. If you like it then share this post with your friends. If you have $5.00 and want the whole thing, sign up for this month over at my website. I'm so happy to have inspiration once again!  

The Illumination of Queen Bees

Dearest reader,

My situations really have improved since last week. I've received a bit of inspiration and almost have a story done for the open submission for Cross Genera Magazine. I'm really excited cause after being a in a dry spell for the last two months it hasn't been easy. It's not like I'm just pouring out words like they simply can't be contained (though that is really amazing and I love when that happens) but it's not like I'm trying to extract blood from a stone. So that's good. I hope to send out a portion of it it for this months Lunacy Project. Sign up for this month (or for a year?) if you'd like to have a little story to read come this Saturday -which is this months full moon.

For those interested in what its about: it's a story about a woman looking back on her life, the magic she's made, the lives she's impacted, dignity, and choice. Should be a little controversial but hey, I'm not writing for children here. I think we can discuss sticky issues and raw topics through many means and stories (fictional or other-wise) are excellent places with our culture to have these discussions.

In other news Pill Hill Press, the publisher for the anthology I've been published by is no longer in business. This is a sad day. They really gave so many new authors the chance to show their work, myself being one of them. I wish the editors over at PHP the best of luck. I send them my love and luck.

This does mean that I have the rights to my story back. Therefore, instead of attempting to resell the story to another publisher, I have chosen to publish it on my own website and it is free to you. You can read it right off the site or can download a free PDF version. If you are so inclined to throw a few bucks my way I've put up a $1.00 donation button on the page. This will help pay for the website hosting services so it would be greatly appreciated. I really do hope you enjoy the story. I enjoyed writing it and am very proud of it. I really do consider it the first stepping stone to being considered a published author and that is why I'm really happy I'm able to bring it to you. 

Thank you all and have a great week!

The Lunacy Project

I’m so excited to be able to bring this to all you wonderful people. As some of you may know, I’ve been working on this project for a while now. Well today is the day I launch what I’m calling The Lunacy Project. This is a crowd sourcing opportunity to bring you, dear readers, my work.

I’m continuing to submit work to magazines, on-line and other wise, and other publishers but in the mean time I would like to give you a chance to read original works approximately once a month. Every lunar cycle you will receive a piece of short fiction no less than fifteen hundred words in length; some months will be significantly longer. Each full moon you will find a new story in your in-box or your mail box. Subscribers are encouraged to send inspirations, setting ideas, and character descriptions if they so choose to.

Email subscriptions will be sent as a pdf.

Snail mail subscriptions will be sent a few days before the full moon to ensure you will receive it at approximately the same time as the e-mail subscribers. Depending on the speed of the mail, you might even get it before the full moon. These will be printed on high-quality paper, signed, and sealed with wax. This is by far the more impressive and amusing option.

Subscribe at least five days before the full moon in order to receive that cycles story. To make this happen I’m asking for $5.00 for paper subscriptions and $3.00 for the pdf. A full year’s worth of stories –there are about thirteen full moons a year—is $50.00 for paper and $30.00 for the pdf. If you are an e-mail subscriber and wish to get a hard copy of that cycle’s story, I ask for $3.00 to cover paper, wax, and shipping costs. Feel free to e-mail me at grabu004@gmail.com for more information.

Thank you so much for indulging me in this quest. Your participation is greatly appreciated and I’m delighted to be able to make this a reality. If you should chose to sign up now, the first story goes out on the October 29th.

Follow this link to go to the projects main page. 

After the Autumnal Equinox

Hello all you beautiful people.

So I'm going to apologize for being so distant these last few months. The farm has been quite crazy this year and as it was I did not write nearly as much as I would have liked to this summer. The energy for creative writing was just not there. The inspiration was sporadic and the ideas seamed lack luster. What I have written isn’t that good in my opinion and needs a lot work before I submit it to publishers and/or post it to the blog. I have an idea for a novel at the moment and I’m working making the plot all come together. I’ve tried scaling it back to be novelette or novella but each time I try to do so it wants to get bigger and longer. In short it is a work in progress.

Other ideas come and go like clouds. Like the clouds this summer, these literary clouds rarely –if ever—produced rain. I have several documents with half formed ideas, stories that go nowhere, so many characters and settings that are dead ends… for now.

The farm work is slowly coming to an end for year I’m preparing to move on with my life. I’m planning on moving back to Duluth, finding a paying job, becoming a mentor, and continuing to work on my writing. There are many steps to this process and I hope you will be a part of them in one way or another.

The muse is stirring again. I’m finding more energy for writing after work. The story ideas feel better and come out sounding more put together, and for that I am thankful. I’m formulating a project that will hopefully be a step forward in my writing career and you –yes you dear reader-- can be a part of it too. More on this in the near future so stay tuned.

The next few months will be a little hectic for me but I’m excited to grow and see where the threads of fate lead. Where ever I end up, and for whatever period of time, I promise to feed those creative fires more, to make them a more prominent part of my life, and to deliver beautiful stories.

All was not well in fairyland

We are now well into spring and nearly everything has been planted out; though tomatoes and winter squash still have yet to be put in. We haven’t had too much rain which is good for getting things into the ground and bad for seedling that have already been planted. Hopefully it will come with some regularity in the coming months but that’s like asking a bee to fly in a straight line so it’s best not to think about it too much.

And the days are long and the sun is hot and I’m in so much debt and by the time I get home I just don’t have the energy to sit down and pump out 500 words. I don’t know if this will change when the work schedule will have the regularity of harvesting and weeding and less planting. I hope it will. The other interns are great but they are bringing up some issues I have already dealt with and assumed to be a normal part of life here at Red Goose Gardens.

I’ve called the farm Fariyland on more than one occasion. Life here seems so unreal and so different from college or life in Lakeville. The work is hard and tasks can seem insurmountable. But watching seedlings growing in bushes so large and full of fruit can see like magic. The gods bless us with so much summer squash we are literally brought to our knees in their service every day for a good six weeks. An agrarian lifestyle is much like a fairy tale for a suburban kid and though I have lived and worked on this farm for three years now, the abundance of good things the earth gives us still captures my imagination. Maybe fairies really are living in that space off woods between county road 3 and the land in which we work.

So here I am. The world is different this year. It’s not all bad. There are new problems to deal with. I will do my best to try and keep writing. This is a time of transition. Spring is becoming summer. I have new roles and responsibilities on the farm. I’m trying to figure out what kind of adult I am going to be. I am no longer a college student but still feel like I am.

All is not well in Fairyland but even in the most confusing times I still have my friends, the chickens, the growing vegetation, and maybe a fairy or two.

The Verb: to Write

What is a myth

but a creation story told at slant;
a skewed eye speaking through its iris;
all the spectral colors of a rainbow
dancing through a space/time matrix
colliding with a web of well formed
malleable, plastic, electric rope mass
we call a brain.

What is a story
but a tale told over fire;
a groove carved into the earth;
an archetype with a thousand faces;
a goat track that everyone can follow
but is fully traveled by those who really know
the words by head and heart and hoof.

What are words
but A,E,I,O,U,
(and some days Y)
strung together with consonants
fastened with punctuation
meant to pierce the skin
and vibrate the flesh.

What is a plot
but catabasis or anabasis;
a series of descents, accents,
and single points
on paper and on air and on the lips of time,
written on the horizon of space;
an old woman with her old dog
wrapped in an old blanket speaking
I feel that’s all I have to say
               for now.

[2011]

Lord of Shallot

A grasshopper bounces against the road side curb, attempting to reach the tall grasses and the waist high weeds. A cigarette butt is thrown from a red truck and it smolders in the ditch. The tobacco gives of the last puffs of sweet smoke into the breeze, never to a light a single blade of grass. And a young man sits in an apartment attempting to write a story about a fantastical universe. He looks up and sees a small field. Button tansy blossoms wave next rusty brown yarrow dead heads. He remembers they use to be so white when they were first in bloom. He crossed the road and picked a few to add some wild life to his studio. But that was months ago and where the summer had its numerous stories told, his pages remain blank, blank as snow.

Across from the field is a small stand of trees. Pines, beach, bitch and maple so densely grown together they give the illusion that a real forest stretches out from behind them. But the storyteller knows better. Beyond the field and the trees are not more trees and more fields but a subdivision. And behind that, a church, a mall, two gas stations and yet another subdivision.

He contemplates this as a vanilla scented incent stick burns away. Smoke twists and dissipates in front of him and the blinking cursor on the screen, but he is lost in thought and pays no attention to either smoke or computer.  He wants so much more than this repetitious stench of urban, suburban sprawl. And so he attempts to write in the words of his favorite author “I want it all to be true because the world really does need griffins and monopods and unicorns and fire-breathing dinosaurs and rivers of stone and impossible and beautiful stories in it. And so she wrote a book”. And so did he. Or at least he attempted to.

When not writing or attempting to write or thinking of amazing and awful things to write about, he tried to make his world as impossible and beautiful as they are in the fairy tales. He grew his hair long and got an apartment on the top story of a six floor building. Surly with his hair bushing his belt loops and with his desk by the window, this would attract a prince or two to come along and rescue him from the monotony of twenty-first century living. And really, it doesn’t even need to be a prince. The floor length mirror and tapestry would certainly be reminiscent of The Lady of Shallot. Gazing at the city in the distance, his Camelot, the stream two blocks over, the wild flowers and grasses with the amber seed heads. All of these reflected in the pages in books of poetry and prose upon his bookshelf.

And so he works by night and day, weaving stories and sending them to publishers to pay rent and student loan debt. Slowly altering his world to include all the wondrous thing which the pages in his books project into the theater of his mind. Perhaps one day, he will get up from his desk, break his mirror and leave the apartment. He will get a canoe and paddle down the stream, to the river and to a place where the world is new and fresh and renewing. Away from his Camelot and his high towers. If he can over come the curse the lady or all those princess who sleep forever and are incased in glass coffins. He will shatter all the glass and tear up all the pages and truly write something new.

He might find himself in the middle of a wooded glen, alive and not dead. Build a hut and raise chickens and a hog. A summer sun will shine through the canopy and autumnal leaves will church breath feet, cloven or otherwise and he will be happy; the baba yaga before she grew old and wicked. And perhaps he will give shelter to a hunter and will repay him with a stag and with his happily-ever-after love. And ivy will climb up the chimney and he will cut his hair and grow pumpkins, as big and as round as the moon.