cider and morris dancers

I promised pics. So, from Jan 15, our visit to Sea Cider, for morris dancing and general whoop-di-doo. Though the weather had been uncertain, with threatened rain, when we arrived it was clear and sunny, but COLD. Bravely, Mark and I joined the tour just then going around.

Here you see the proprietor of the family-owned (and run) business, standing in front of the casks, explaining the brewing process. Their Rumrunner cider was aged in barrels that had been used for Newfoundland Screech, but the screech distillery switched to plastic barrels, which Kristen refused to use. Turns out that screech is matured in bourbon casks. So they got the empty bourbon casks, soaked them with screech, and went on from there. It tickles me to think of think of these casks going from booze to booze to booze.
The tour wasn't as visually interesting as Victoria Gin's is, because you can't go into the working area for fear of contaminating the process, and since it isn't distilling, there aren't massive steampunk-type brass and copper vats with fascinating dials and pipes. 

 Next is the view across the orchard, which as you can see is young yet. They also get apples from local farms, orchards, and Lifecycles (I've thought of calling them to take away the Transparents). Mark drew my attention to the degree of pruning, which he thinks I should follow. I am way too tender with pruning our apple trees (not that this is reflected in my revising of my writing, noooo....), but I have promised to be more ruthless (less ruthful?) this spring.

 Anyway. Nice view. We hurried inside for warmth, but the big doors were open to the balcony and winter air. Fortunately a couple of heat lamps had been provided to huddle under, and drink tickets got us generous samples of cider, which does warm the interior.

The Island Thyme Morris Dancers (the women only) performed a series of dances, with a lot of energy and enthusiasm, and I'm a bit peeved with myself that I didn't trot up to the gallery while they were doing the sword dance that ends with the wooden swords interlocked in a star, which is carried off in triumph.







See? I did get some pics of another dance, but it isn't as spiff as the sword dance figures would have looked. 













I did love their musicians, who were straight out of an English or Irish pub. I bet the fellow in the flat cap is a demon darts player. 











And a traditional mummers play by the Quicksbottom Morris Dancers. Nostalgia! I was able to mutter along with several speeches, from the version of the play that we performed, gosh, over twenty years ago. We didn't have a Green Man, though, and he is pretty cool. Nor did we have a hot Witch in tall black boots. 





Yes, I did buy cider, a bottle of the new Wassail, and another of Kings and Spies. 
Closing with a fiddler in concentration.

Twelfth night, ungreening, unemotional

The Christmas tradition I'm used to requires putting up the Christmas tree and other decorations on Christmas Eve, and taking them down on Twelfth Night. To take out the greenery before then invites bad luck. So this afternoon I'll be putting away decorations. Then more packing for the SCA Twelfth Night in Vancouver, where I'll see a third apprentice off into laurelness. I am very proud of all my apprenti.

Writey stuff: Crits of Willow Knot are coming back from my deeply-appreciated beta readers. Those who haven't sent yet, please don't take this as a hint or push! Because of entertaining cross-OS circs, I'm printing the comments out quite slowly, and I won't be sitting down and revising for at least another month. I've had my head so deep in the last 3d of the story for so long that I really need to establish distance before jumping back into it.
Some common threads showing up already. The plot is less incoherent than I feared, though clarification (and possibly simplification) is urgently needed, especially on the political side. Repetition and too much scenery in the first part, which I think is partly a result of the workshop one-chapter-at-a-time format, so that I was re-establishing the setting and the situation with each chapter. I also got obsessive about the drenched style of writing, expecting someone to pop up and say 'hey, what happened to all that evocative description you were doing?' when it would more likely be the reverse.
Footnote: C.S. Lewis allegedly groaned once when JRRT was reading his latest at an Inklings meeting, 'Not another f--ing elf!', and I started to feel that way about trees. It will probably be a relief to start pruning.
One repeat comment has me thinking. That I keep an emotional distance from the characters. I hadn't thought of it that way. I'm not a partisan of any of my characters, and I dislike it when I can tell that a writer is partisan (with exception always for Simon Templar because Charteris does it so damn well, and he does undercut Simon from time to time).
But I'm not sure I understand where my emotional distance lies, or whether it's a style or a fault. Is it a matter of mechanics, like 'filtering', where the writer tells us that the character 'could see', or 'saw' something, instead of showing us what he saw? Or is it something less easily pinned down? I'd describe Tanith Lee as having more emotional distance from her characters than, say, Barbara Hambly, but Lee also uses the authorial voice much of the time, talking to the reader directly, which I've assumed is because she's English.
Footnote: I wonder to what extent the insistence on 'show, don't tell' is North American rather than British or European?
But it's not as if I'm providing ironic commentary, or even commentary, on what's going on for the characters. I'm keeping a fairly close limited 3d, and trying to show emotions by actions rather than telling. Maybe I need more telling?

More personal stuff: Perhaps it's because I try to maintain a distance from my own emotions. I'm not a great fan of emotion, or of sincerity, both of which I've seen used as bludgeons and prybars. People who are 'in touch with their emotions' don't necessarily notice or respect other people's emotions, either because their own emotions are a full-time occupation, or because they can use their emotions to get what they want in a sort of passion-eat-passion world where the most emotive outshouts or outsulks the competition.
Those who encourage others to 'express their emotions' and 'get in touch with their feelings' often have fairly strict (though unspoken) guidelines for what those emotions should be, and are not pleased or welcoming when the wrong or unexpected emotions are expressed.
People who are sincere, or at least describe themselves as sincere, sometimes regard that sincerity as an excuse for what others might call rudeness or selfishness. (Remember that I'm old enough to have encountered 'gut-level communication' in my youth, which I would describe as communication unmediated by consideration.)
Generally I try to keep my emotions out of the way, and to consider how my actions or words will strike other people (obviously not something I always succeed in) or at least to not let my emotions affect my decisions.
I believe I'm perceived as reserved, which is kind of funny from inside, where I know myself to be a seething mass of resentment and vituperative anger. Oh, okay, you're grinning incredulously now, but just go back and read the unseasonal rage post, and consider the triviality of the cause, mm?

"Flora sighed. It was curious that people who lived what the novelists call a rich emotional life always seemed to be a bit slow on the uptake." Cold Comfort Farm, by Stella Gibbon.

So here's a request for a favour from my hypothetical readers, please and thank you. Can you recommend to me a book or author who puts the reader in close emotional touch with the characters, who doesn't have distance? For bonus thanks, any excerpt that shows how it's done.

Twentysixth day of NaNoWriMo, wordcount 27kish

I'm mostly posting so that I can update the tickerfactory counter. Self-indulgent, yes. The wordcount here is the count from a .txt file in OpenOffice. When I transfer the text to the Nano wordcount validator, or, apparently to AbiWord, I lose a substantial number of words by wordcount. The first time it was about 500, but as the text increases, it's up to 800 less, give or take.
Which is kind of disconcerting, even though it's just the count, not actual text gone away.
Anyway, for comparison purposes, here's the counter again.



My cunning plan to write a story that required no research other than checking the Motif Index wasn't all that cunning (big surprise). So far I've had to research Northwest Indian tribes, carny slang and the sharecropping system. All because of my inability to just make things up.
However, I did find a very interesting article on gender bias in the Arne-Thompson Motif Index, which made some telling points. I posted the link on the scribblers thread, and realised that I'd reached some pinnacle of geekery just in saying that.
The article is in JSTOR, if you're the same kind of geek that I am, and it's Folklore Heroines and the Type and Motif Indexes, by Torborg Lundell.
And now I believe I'll go to bed, and read a bit more of The Serpent's Egg, by Caroline Stevermer. And be thankful that the author doesn't feel the need to explain the monarchy system when the prince arrives, nor the physiology of horses whenever someone rides somewhere. (Why yes, I am thinking of the last book I was reading).

Other people's dreams are boring

But one's own dreams are full of mad invention and glowing images, if only one could convey them in words.
Fold was based on a dream, one of those half-awake dreams I have when trying to snatch a little more sleep before morning forces its way in. I dreamed of being able to fold myself up into utter flatness, slide out of the way into some crevice and hide. The ending with the books, that came from another dream, which may be one reason why a couple of readers have felt that the ending didn't quite fit. Oh well.
There was, you may note, very little plot in either of those dreams, not much more than a conceit--the trick of folding yourself, memories torn from books. That made them unusual, since my dreams (those I remember) suffer from an overabundance of plot, not to mention an overstuffed sets-and-effects budget.

A few mornings ago the cat woke me from one of my more plot-laden dreams.
The daughter of field-anthropologists had her apartment wall explode, and there entered a young woman (possibly an angel, at any rate not quite mistakeable for human) who had with her a stunted demon, all head and stumpy legs, carried in her backpack.
The angel and the demon were on the trail of some other being, never clearly described or explained (my dreams could use more info-dumps) but of some malevolent intent. The trail led to the informants who had told folktales and superstitions to the heroine's(?) parents. The daughter had the habit of identifying (seemingly) everyday events by their motif-index numbers, and no, I don't know how I managed to remember those in the dream.
Clearly, it was the fairly-standard structure of racing off to warn people, neck-and-neck with the baddie. This isn't uncommon for my dreams, which often require me or the me-figure to warn people of something or other. An invasion of the undead is a popular favourite, with floods a distant second.
I'm pretty sure this ties in with my personal anxiety-dream. While I may have exams or find myself naked in dreams, that doesn't make me anxious, because I've always tested well (bright but lazy) and was raised without a nudity-taboo. What does leave me moaning and twitching and having to be woken up by my husband and reassured is dreams of not being listened to. Being ignored or talked over.
So of course, the task the Fates of Dreamland recurrently lay on me is of going out and being listened to. Because terrible things will happen if I can't make people listen to me.
Really, couldn't I go and find the Three Obscure References of the Isle of Britain instead?

Striking images from the dream: a standard-issue apartment coated with plaster-dust and lumpy with rubble, a big-headed Flemish-style devil stumping about impatiently; a black man in overalls ploughing a field by night, his eyes glowing red and his wife and son weeping to watch; running down a road towards the round yellow light-patches of fairground rides, old trees draping their branches just overhead, their roots lumping up the cracked pavement; the slatted wooden deck of an old-style ride lifting up like escalator steps, perhaps part of the ride's function, perhaps not, and people staggering as it lifted. There were more, but that was all I could catch hold of when the cat sat on my chest.
The ploughing scene was narrated by the man's son, and laid out like a double-page comic-book spread with jagged panels. The man and horse, both pitched forward with urgency, in the foreground, lightning in the background. The wife and son in a separate panel, word balloon about how the father, desperate, had bargained with the devil, and lost. I could probably name the artist, with a bit of work.

Might be my next 3-day novel plot, if I can keep the dream/nightmare atmosphere. On the other hand, there are commercialish aspects that make me wonder if it would be appropriate for a semi-literary contest.
It could even be a commercial novel, in theory. Two girls and their demon sidekick on the trail of unspeakable evil? The motif-index quoting might get irritating and have to be dropped, which would sadden me.
But I have other books to finish before I can pay attention to plot bunnies, even if they come to me in dreams.

Accomplishments and the alternative, writing.

The Willow Knot hit 65k yesterday, which means I'm within 10-15k of finishing the first draft. Bearing in mind that experience has shown that I'm not very good at estimating the wordage needed for specific plot events. Both the Elfland story and "Fluke" were meant to be regular-length short stories and ended up at 11k each (Elfland later flensed to 9k, and yes, better for it).

Things I'm happy about:
I got to use a classic fairytale motif, and bonus, one that most modern readers will neither be familiar with nor find easy to accept--motif T(2) 1962.2 'sleep by lousing'. Those fairy tales where the ogre or the dragon or the hero puts his head into the maiden's lap and she 'combs his hair' to put him to sleep? Lousing him.
This is the second rescue, which Myl accomplishes by guile, where Tyl accomplished the first rescue by unexpected and resolute action. Myl louses the old woman who keeps house for the robbers (as well as fixing her a restful posset and filling her straw mattress-tick with soothing herbs as well as straw) causing her to fall asleep, so Myl can get at the barred door.
In another part of the forest, whoops, the story, I'm building the threat to Alard. The background needs working out yet, so many details may change, but it looks as if Alard will be aided three times by actions Myl took in the past, each triggered by Tyl.
First he escapes his pursuers by Tyl leading him to the track Myl built in the marsh.
Second, some attackers are done in by being driven into the osier field, linked to Myl through the willow and her use of the osiers, and by Tyl (this is quite pencilly) scratching Alard and flicking his blood into the marsh to pay for its alliance.
Last, the rescued princess, now grown to warrior-queen and hunting outlaws, with her guard does in the remaining attackers, then realises that she has Alard in her power (and her counsellors have been advocating invasion), but as she and Alard discuss this, Tyl comes forward and she recognises him as the deer-companion of the wild girl who rescued her, and who refused reward, asking only for one favour in some time to come.
The really fun part of this is the princess/queen, who is very odd indeed. Jim Macdonald did say to cherish your secondary characters, and certainly Sefina and the princess are blossoming. Or night-blooming, in the latter instance.

Less happy:
The braiding / knotting / basketwork motif arose unexpectedly while I was writing the opening chapters. It's turned out to be quite important. While I don't aim for the Dick Francis ideal of learning a new skill for each book (it was his wife who got her pilot's licence, I think, for one book) I do like to have some slight acquaintance with how it feels to do something.
I can braid my hair, but otherwise I have very little manual dexterity with the fibre arts. My mum tried to teach me how to knit, and I couldn't do it. A couple of accomplished spinners have tried to teach me how to spin, and it didn't take. I can sew on buttons and that sort of thing, but tying a weaver's knot to join two pieces of thread is beyond me.
Working with thread seems to provoke a sort of allergic reaction, where my hands, although they do not change in outward seeming, function with the equivalent grace and skill of cartoon hands, the kind with three fat fingers and fewer joints.
But I must learn. So I took out The Ashley Book of Knots, by Clifford Ashley, chockfull of information and helpful diagrams. Here's an illustrative anecdote:
"Several years ago, from my printed directions in the Sportsman Magazine, and with no other assistance, my cousin, Hope Knowles, tied without error Knot #2217, which has forty-nine crossings, making therewith a covering for the knob of her father's automobile gear-shift lever. She was barely eleven years old at the time."
Can I follow in young Hope Knowles's footsteps (fingermarks?)? No, apparently I can't. I've managed to follow Ashley's diagrams for precisely one (1) knot thus far, and that's the granny knot. Besides the lack of manual dexterity, I seem to lack the ability to make any sense at all of his diagrams. I can do one step, but how the cords get from that one step to the next is a complete mystery to me. In fact, I've done better looking at the diagrams of completed knots and working it out from those.

post-Jacobean interlude

Reminder that the Viable Paradise diary is not current, just in case anyone came in partway through and is confused. The interruptions and intervals are present-day. Thank you.

Currently, The Willow Knot stands at 56k, which doesn't mean all that much but is something to tell people when they ask how it's going. I figure the story breaks roughly into three parts, probably not of equal length:
I. Leaving Midame's house, Tyl's transformation, and accepting the forest.
II. Surviving in the forest, growing up, learning what they lost, up to the arrival of Alard.
III. Surviving in the court, learning to be wife and queen, attacks on Myl and Alard, semi-happy ending.

The middle part is the one that really interests me. "For some time they were alone like this in the wilderness." When I talk about the book, people often expect me to skim over that part, to get to the court again, where things happen. But if they consider some of the difficulties--how does Myl clothe herself, what can she eat if she believes that other animals in the forest may be Christian souls enchanted into beast form, what else is in the forest that might be dangerous--usually they become interested as well.
The appeal of a Robinson Crusoe or My Side of the Mountain story is pretty sturdy. The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, by Stephen King, and Deerskin, by Robin McKinley, very different stories, both use the survival of a girl in the wilderness.
Plus, I'm Canadian, so it's practically my patriotic duty (if west-coast Canadians could say that sort of thing without blushing) to write about Survival. Just ask Margaret Atwood.

Writing the middle also gives me a chance to develop the knotting / weaving / braiding / netting motif that's the unexpected bones of the story. I've just done a first draft of Myl repairing the thatch on the cottage after a winter gale has torn off much of her first, inexpert repairs, and from the writing hindbrain came a thatcher's luck-piece of braided straw, meant to keep the work strong, like the ritual marks carved on certain beams in old timber houses. I don't know whether such a thing was done (and it very likely wasn't recorded, if it was) but it fits. Myl has to fix the damaged luck-piece, and that makes her more consciously aware of her early training.
I'm not sure where this theme is going, quite, but it's a happy thing thus far. Now I think I'll go and poke through English Folk-rhymes for some potential charms.