Tesi

The Barefoot Author

Walking Gently Where This World and Imagination Meet


beautiful boys

Published by Tesi under on Sunday, June 20, 2010

Do you know when they say soul-mates? Everybody uses it in personal ads. "Soul-mate wanted." It doesn't mean too much now. But soul-mates--think about it. When your soul--whatever that is anyway--something so alive when you make music or love and so mysteriously hidden most of the rest of the time, so colorful and big but without color or shape--when your soul finds another soul it can recognize even before the rest of you knows about it. The rest of you just feels sweaty and jumpy at first. And your souls get married without even meaning to--even if you can't be together for some reason in real life, your souls just go ahead and make the wedding plans. A soul's wedding must be too beautiful to even look at. It must be blinding. It must be like all the weddings in the world--gondolas with canopies of doves, champagne glasses shattering, wings of veils, drums beating, flutes and trumpets, showers of roses. And after that happens you know--that's it, this is it. But sometimes you have to let that person go. When you're little, people, movies and fairy tales all tell you that one day you're going to meet this person. So you keep waiting and its a lot harder than they make it sound. Then you meet and you think, okay, now we can just get on with it but you find out that sometimes your soul brother partner lover has other ideas about that. They want to go to New York and write their own songs or whatever. They feel like you don't really love them but the idea of them, the dream you've had since you were a kid about a panther boy to carry out of the forest of your fear or an angel to make love and celestial music with in the clouds or a genie twin to sleep with you inside a lamp. Which doesn't mean they're not the one. It just means you've got to do whatever you have to do for you alone. You've got to believe in your magic and face right up to the mean nasty part of yourself that wants to keep the one you love locked up in a place in you where no one else can touch them or even see them. Just the way when somebody you love dies you don't stop loving them but you don't lock up their souls inside you. You turn that love into something else, give it to somebody else. And sometimes in a weird way when you do that you get closer than ever to the person who died or the one your soul married.

Francesca Lia Block
"beautiful boys"

Autumn

Published by Tesi under on Sunday, June 20, 2010


The rain came slowly; a cold drizzle drawing a wall of clouds behind like an executive, high heels clacking against marble floors, her collection of assistants flurrying around behind, trying to keep up. When they fell, the drops were chill against the ground, descending until the roads were slick and the grass moist, water just beginning to make its way into the ground beneath. Then, its task accomplished, the rain moved on, leaving the befuddled clouds behind. Unsure what to do without the rain, the clouds dispursed slowly as night fell, mourners reluctantly leaving a funeral, dubious about their future.

The morning after dawned bright, but it was clear that change had occured; that in the darkness Autumn had quietly nudged Summer off the love seat, settling in comfortably and taken Winter by the hand, drawing coldness in beside her, to wait for the leaves to finish turning and fall, nestling in the tall grass, to wait for the snow.

(Copyright 2009, Tesi, the Barefoot Author)

Camps 'n' stuff

Published by Tesi under on Sunday, June 13, 2010

So, I'm off to camp. Kids and bugs and dirty swimming pools and late-night conversations about God and boys and life. I'm pretty excited, just wish I could write and be at camp at the same time. We'll have to see what I can come up with. My story is calling...

in a moment

Published by Tesi under on Saturday, June 12, 2010

There's a baby wailing in the distance.
Tires kiss wet asphalt,
then pull away
with a hiss and a roar.
The steady dripping of rain into full gutters
masks the gentle whisper of raindrops
on vivid green leaves.
My windchime hangs silent,
outdone.

Musings on writing...(kind of) boring process stuff.

Published by Tesi under , , on Thursday, June 10, 2010

So, I just finished reading the first draft of "The Broken Collar", the book I wrote 50,000 words on in February. It was a National Novel Writer's Month (NaNoWriMo) adventure (rescheduled to suite my own schedule, of course), and my first experience at writing to a word count.

It's been really interesting, re-reading something I wrote in such a short time. Usually it takes me forever to reach first draft (well...okay. The LAST time it took me forever. I'm not sure once constitutes "usually", but for our purposes...), so to have written 3/4 of a book in 27 days is a really different experience.

When you're writing almost 1800 words a day, your ability to look back on the previous day's writing and tweak it is just about nil. I didn't realize how much time I spend doing that, usually. Playing with the two pages I wrote last time usually takes about half my writing time, which leaves me with less, better, new work. This draft FEELS like it was written in a rush--all it's little errors securely in place ("Did I REALLY have to use "however" FIFTEEN TIMES on this page???"), no time spent filling out the descriptions or lingering over the dialog. Consequently, the pace of the book is really FAST, in a way that makes it feel flat. Too much speed in the pacing, and it all ends up the same speed, you know?

Also, I'm using yWriter as my composing program, and (while I LOVE it) I think that writing scene by scene is making the story excessively choppy. The style I'm looking for is a little choppy, jumping from scene to scene, from past to present, but this just feels disconnected.

So, over the rest of the summer, I'm working on...editing? rewriting? revising?..."The Broken Collar", paying special attention to the following:
-Descriptions should set tone and atmosphere, and build suspense. They are not utilitarian.
-Dialog teaches us about characters. I want to linger, a little, over the dialog. Especially scenes which could be described as "gossiping" where we learn a LOT about a variety of people.
-Transitions from scene to scene, paragraph to paragraph, should be smoother. One shouldn't feel like they missed a scene in the middle.
-Paragraphs should never, EVER start with sentences like "It took a long time for them to get where they were going." It's a bad sentence, to start with, but also serves no purpose, when you're going to spend the next scene SHOWING that it took a long time to get...wherever. I read once, that when you finish a novel, you should go back, delete the first chapter, and write it again. I need to do this with all the first sentences of all my scenes.
-I want the first sentences to grab readers, pull them in to what's going to happen next. Not saying every sentence needs to be a book-opening quality hook, but a little more intriguing would be great. :-)

On the other side of the coin, I'm thrilled with the characters I've met that I didn't expect to meet. I'm excited about how much I know, now, about my main characters (and even the minor ones...who may become main in the sequel.) I think I have a really strong handful of people with a fascinating story to tell. A story that's going to be fun and intriguing and also very real.

I'm surprised at how raw the book has become. How dark. The tone is heavier than I expected, and I think it's really good. (I also think a little more dry humor would benefit...)

I'm really excited about what's going to happen next. What's building. Where the story is going. While I feel like what I ended up with, after my NaNoWriMo, is almost more of an outline than a book, I do think that I learned a LOT more about the story and characters than I could ever have learned in that amount of time any other way. So...I'm glad I did it. Will I do it again...? We'll see...

For now, I have to go figure out what the Goblin village smells like.

--Tesi, the Barefoot Author

From The Watcher's War

Published by Tesi under on Thursday, June 10, 2010
An excerpt, from my first book. Enjoy. :-)

Night crawled across the grounds as Ragal made his way up the path from the stables. Darkness came early here, drawn in by the denseness of the trees which grew closer to the house each year, reaching out grasping branches in hopes of someday overtaking its walls.

The door opened instantly to his knock. The girl before him was pale and thin, like a child only recently recovered from a lingering illness. She was unfamiliar to him, but then so many servants came and went, in this house. The Master never had been able to keep maids. This one dropped a deep curtsy, her skirts brushing the floor, her head lowered so far that her stringy hair hid her face.

“My Lord awaits you.” The girl's voice was soft, her eyes properly downcast behind the veil of hair. Ragal dismissed her with a gesture as he pushed forward, needing no guide here, of all places.

Inside, Ragal’s steps echoed in the stone halls. The great house was even quieter than it had been in his youth. But of course the tutors, linguists and sword masters would have been sent away long ago, and that wouldn't have left much.

Turning the corner at the end of a long hall, Ragal stopped before a heavy wooden door. He stood contemplating it for a moment, angrily ordering his heart to slow, his breathing to deepen. Would he never cease feeling like a child in this house?

Ragal reached for the door latch, but his fingertips had just brushed the cold metal when it opened of its own accord. He was expected. Taking one last breath, Ragal stepped into the room.

“Welcome, my son. It is some time since I have had the pleasure of your company here.” The voice spoke from the dimness of a room which has not yet been lighted against the dark. Ragal felt a presence behind him and the door closed softly. The candles would be burning soon.

“The honor is mine, my Lord.” Ragal bowed respectfully, his face holding no betraying emotion. Thus he had been taught; he had learned well.

The room slowly lightened, the few rich furnishings coming out of the dimness to take their old places. Nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed here; nothing ever would.

“You appear well, my son. Traveling the country agrees with you.” The Master spoke slowly, his voice low; flat and deep as a black pond on a still day.

Ragal only inclined his head in response, waiting for the Master to direct the conversation. He wouldn’t step into the snare of silence which was being so carefully woven for him. The flickering candlelight wavered as the door behind Ragal opened and closed again. They were alone.

The man who called him “son” was seated in a high-backed chair, a small table at his elbow containing a single dinner setting. At Ragal's side was an empty chair which he had not been invited to use. It was like the Master to leave him standing, alone, in the middle of the room.

“And how are your men?”

The Master had little concern for the men, but Ragal knew the game and played along.

“Well, my Lord. And yours?”

“Few enough of them left.” There it was again. The silence. Ragal waited for the Master's next move.

“You have had trouble with your princess again.” It was a statement, not a question.

Ragal declined to respond. The Master knew of the escape, else he wouldn't have been summoned. The Master always knew. It was why he was the Master.

“I hear many things. Many things. Some of which are not to be believed. Perhaps you should tell me who is to blame for this...mishap.” The Master's tone was disinterested, as if he were inquiring about a child's quarrel.

Ragal spoke slowly, weighing each word before allowing it to pass his lips. This must go well, else all was lost. For him, at least.

“It is believed, my Lord, that the fault of this...mishap...lies with Sheld, former leader of the Watchers.” Ragal paused, waiting for the Master to speak. Answering more than was asked was a fatal flaw, like dropping your guard in the middle of a fencing match.

The Master raised one eyebrow imperceptively.

“Sheld? Your hand-picked lieutenant? Whom you trained personally?”

Ragal shifted slightly, transferring his weight to his left foot. Raising his eyes to those of the Master, lest his words admit unaccepted guilt, Ragal answered firmly.

“Yes, my Lord. This same Sheld.”

The silence following this statement was uncomfortably long. When he spoke again, the Master's voice was colder, even, than usual.

“Perhaps you had best explain, Ragal, how you could make such a grievous character misjudgment. And how this treason was allowed to fester under your personal watch.”

“You've missed your strike again, boy.” “Never allow your enemy to even think without your knowledge.” “Never, never permit your opponent to know your next move. You mustn't betray your plans, boy.” The voices echoed in Ragal’s mind; old, dry voices from his childhood. Voices he had heard his entire life.

But never had this much been at stake. And he was no longer a child; he was a man. Chosen son of the Master, second to none but the King.

Yet here, standing before the Master, Ragal felt himself that child again, inept and worthless. Silently swearing at his own weakness, Ragal banished his feelings and willed himself into focus. He knew what he had to say, what he had to do. It would be his only chance.

Copyright, 2009 by Tesi, the Barefoot author

Why we create.

Published by Tesi under , , on Thursday, June 03, 2010
I received a letter, recently, from Linford Detweiler. Half of the husband/wife duo who make up Over the Rhine (if you haven't heard their music before, you should stop reading what I have to say--RIGHT NOW--and go look them up), Linford's letters are something that I look forward to with anticipation, then usually don't read for weeks after they come, because I know they're going to be SO amazing, SO beautiful, SO inspiring, that I have to read them at just the right time.

This one was no different.

Linford and Karin are making a new album soon and, consequently, they've been thinking about why they make music. Why create art at all? Visual, written, melodic--all of us who make art must, I believe, step back every so often and think about WHY we create, WHY we work in our chosen medium, WHY we don't just stop pouring our hearts into an image that will probably be misunderstood anyway and instead spend our days watching Soaps.

This is what Linford had to say about it.

"If we leave our songs alone, they call to us until we come back to where we belong."

Mmmm. How many of us answer the question "Why do you write?" with "Because I have to."? I think this is the best reason for writing, and also (in the worst times) the only reason we have left. Because the writing draws us. Because it calls, Siren-like, and we cannot ignore its voice.

Linford goes on, "When we live in the sweet spot of that calling, it gives others (you?) permission to discover the sweet spot of your own calling and live there."

I write because I have to. Because it calls me. Because when I don't, nothing about my life is quite right. Because I know I'm not living in that sweet spot of my own calling if I'm not crafting Story. Because making story is a part of my own story. And I hope that, somehow, my living in my calling draws someone else to live in theirs.

Also, Linford says, creating can grow from loss.

"When we put loved ones in the ground, we find that we lose interest in acquiring stuff. We know we can't take it with us when we go. No, it's not about acquiring, rather it's about what we are able to leave behind. That's what gives life meaning: doing work that you can leave behind, your personal token of gratitude to the world in return for the gift of getting to be alive in it."

What will you leave behind? What is your token of gratitude? Many people create, love and leave children who become good people. What a beautiful gift. Others leave songs. Music. Photographs. Paintings. Sculpture. Story. A memory of great pie and a listening ear. Whatever it is that you have to give, whatever it is you're called to leave behind--do that until you're done. Leave something beautiful. Leave something real.

And don't forget to ask yourself, from time to time, why it is that you're creating, anyway.
 

Lipsum

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