A Tale of Two Novels

book

I’ve just finished reading Elena Ferrante’s My Brilliant Friend, Book One: Childhood, Adolescence (Europa Editions, 2012). One sole point of view, that of the narrator, Lenu, furthers the story. Vacillating between admiration, fear, and envy of her first and dearest friend, Lila, she reveals an intimate picture of life in a poor suburb of Naples, Italy, with all its intricate relationships, codes of behavior, and cultural inhibitions. In the end, we learn how Lenu and Lila confront their personal ‘monsters”–Lenu through her own talent, ambition, and courage learned through her friendship with Lila.

While masking actual motivations–although one can guess at them–the narrator describes Lila’s behavior and thoughts so well that we assume she must be the brilliant friend of the novel’s title. The book’s last chapters upend that assumption and a few more.

I’ve written Malevir: Dragons Return with many points of view advancing the narrative and they all contribute to the reader’s assumptions about its eponymous villain. The book ends on a note of uncertainty, raising questions about the Malevir’s true nature. Driving the narrative with his threats and attacks, the beast terrifies the population of the Veiled Valley. As Aindle, he shifts between different shapes to help him achieve his aims; yet, on the last page, all the reader’s assumptions about his essence crumble. As I work on the sequel. I’m enjoying playing with these open questions, just as I enjoyed the plot twist in Ferrante’s last two paragraphs, which, of course, compels me to read the next one, The Story of a New Name.

What I Read, Drew, and Wrote

Alfred E. Neuman

Help for Writer’s Block

An Alfred E. Neuman bobble-head sits on my L-shaped desk, next to my laptop. Having finished one novel, I set up an array of de-stressers: Alfred (as in “What—Me Worry?”), a few quieting yoga stretches, diaphragmatic breathing, and a mellow glass of pinot noir (a fruity zin will work, too). They soothe me as I craft the second follow-up novel to Malevir: Dragons Return, work on my short stories, dare to submit work to journals, or anguish over a future reading at my writers’ group.

Alfred, the iconic cover illustration of nearly every Mad magazine, had his debut in the 1950’s. He signified the kinds of mischief that ‘good’ kids then wouldn’t do but would have loved to have done if they could have gotten away with it. My brother had a copy that I borrowed and read in the teen privacy of my room. Every one of its graphic stories, satires, or pseudo-adventure comic strips felt transgressive. Every page- turn offered innuendos or outright depictions of sex, violence, and mayhem that were unimaginable in my everyday life—and I loved it. Vicarious naughtiness.

Drawing on the Right Side

Even before I first secreted myself away with a copy of Mad, I was creating transgressive art and text of my own. After an incident in fifth grade, however, I hid it. My talent for figurative cartooning and a fascination with all things of Ancient Egypt provided me with the means to attract attention in my crowded public classroom–the attention of cute boys. I drew Egyptian princesses, anatomically correct and clothed in gauzy linen.  The boys sitting around me asked for personal copies and their clamoring attracted the attention of Mrs. Brown, my teacher.  She sent me to the office of Mr. O’Rourke, our otherwise kindly principal. My mother came to school within the hour. Mr. O’Rourke announced that I would be suspended until the end of the Thanksgiving break. This happened early in the week before Thanksgiving.

My mother defended me. She reminded the principal that she was the PTA Poster Chairman (all work was done by hand then) and she exhorted him to respect and nurture artistic talent (she was an accomplished amateur painter herself), but Mr. O’Rourke insisted that I had been inexcusably disruptive and provocative. Period.

Well, fine then, my mother retorted. She told him that we’d be happy to start our vacation early and he ought to be ashamed of himself. She walked me home without reprimand, or at least these many decades later, I don’t remember feeling at all guilty, just amused. The incident stayed with me and I recall it whenever I see work by Jeff Koons or other ostensibly transgressive artists.

Ready to Write

Throughout adolescence, I had an Olivetti portable typewriter, now a design classic, but then my pleasurable tool for concretizing my imaginings. Title #1: Sheena, Girl of the Jungle. Title #2 My Life as a Slave. Clearly, I was not drawing from personal experience.

In the first case, I’d just closed the exquisite covers of my father’s copy of Green Mansions by William Henry Hudson. A man travels to the Guyana jungle of southeastern Venezuela and encounters a forest dwelling girl named Rima. I remembered the girl as a very strange bird-like creature whose provocations fatally stirred the superstitions of the native people living nearby. I thought I could write a better story and I did try but never finished it.

In the second case, my seventh grade classmates and I were assigned to write research papers on injustice in American history. Having also read at that time a biography about George Washington Carver and Uncle Tom’s Cabin, I chose to write about slavery in America.  I wrote in the first person as if I myself were the young man kidnapped in Africa and brought to the American South. Although naïve and arrogant, I did live in the old Hyde Park neighborhood of Chicago and couldn’t help but notice economic and social inequities of the time. A burgeoning indignation spurred me on.

I illustrated the story and every sketch of mine brought me closer to compassion and outrage for the people who suffered the pain and injustice of slavery. I wish I still had that paper, to get into my young adolescent head, to see what I did not know, could not understand.

Over the years I have written creative non-fiction related to the curricula I produced, first as an elementary school art instructor, then for nearly two decades as a museum education curator. While any curriculum I wrote was based on facts as well as best and accepted practices, to add imaginative interest and encourage my students’ engagement I put those facts in the context of stories, situations invented but accurately portrayed that brought to life the remote or unfamiliar.

Once my career in education ended, I set my imagination free, no longer anchoring it on historical facts or art history, but letting it roam in many unconstrained and magical worlds. Hence, my first novel, Malevir: Dragons Return, available to order on this website.

So, Alfred E. Neuman, it’s you and me, kid. On we go, into the world of novel #2.

 

 

Backstory: Rocánonom the Giant

Rocánonom’s Manual of Magic

Before the Forest People settled in the Veiled Valley, before the Orferans, a powerful dragon clan, made their home in a Sunriseside Mountain cave, and well before Malevir threatened the valley, another sort of being lived there. Three very tall and colossally strong giants left their wanderings in the Beyond for the warm seasons and verdant plains of the Veiled Valley. They came from different points: the graying, stooped wood giant Haldoren entered the Coldside Desert from its farthest boundaries; sturdy rock giant Enderfon, a smile always rounding his jagged blue cheeks, trudged up from the shore beyond the Warmside; and rugged Rocánonom, the man giant, came by sea. Many Turnings of the World ago, they agreed to find each other and prepare the land for people they knew would come to build new homes there.  The giants would become guardians, Protectors of the Trace, the Forest, and the Mountains.

Only one giant would survive the journey. Haldoren skirted basilisk pits and nests that pocked the surface of the desert, but a two-headed aiglonax ambushed him. Swooping down from the mountains, it pulled him apart with its beaks, tore the giant in two, and devoured him. Enderfon faced a different menace—the heat. Stifling winds were drying lakes and rivers that crossed the Warmside. Grasses and flowers withered and trees became skeletal. Dust devils danced across the barren expanses and soon the half-rock giant collapsed under a mountain overhang. Before the next Moon-Rising, Enderfon moved no more. The Malevir had turned his heart to stone.

Rocánonom, however, pulled his boat onto the shore of the Coldside Sea, and trekked through mountain passes until he reached low, rolling hills and meadows that would become known as the Anonom Trace.  In his pack, he carried a vellum-paged book, bound in stiff leather—the grimoire he found hiding within a stone wall of the castle that rose from an island of the Coldside Sea.

Invocations filled the pages of the manual of magic, enchantments that gave Rocánonom the power to call on the Great Forces when he needed their help. The sea would have drowned him, but it froze at his command and he trudged across its icy surface to the shore. Mountains might have crushed him, but gusts of wind pushed him gently up the slopes and righted him when he stumbled. He arrived at the Trace and waited for the other giants.

Welcome

The www.malevir.com website is live! Click the URL for excerpts and posts, which introduce many characters and settings that populate the Veiled Valley, the heartland of my Malevir series. Those who like to read epic fantasy genre books, featuring #dragons, #sprites, and their adventures in  other-worldly places, will enjoy Malevir: Dragons Return and so much more that I plan to share with you.

Old Aurykk was the wisest dragon in the flokk
Old Aurykk was the wisest dragon in the flokk