As I was walking around the fence, checking that it was still intact, I noticed this clearing to my left. It had several lines of deer tracks across it, and a stump amidst the yellow litter of leaves that seemed like it was meant for sitting. So I sat, and I waited.
I’ve been thinking recently about the shift in genre that my ideas and writing have undergone. Spending so much time at Willow Cottage has probably had a very large influence on me, for my most recent ideas are all coloured, lightly or unmistakably, with the light fantasy of folk-tales. There’s ‘Ogle and Creake‘, which I finished last night, and there’s notes for a story about a lumberjack (who’s a very good listener) and more for gardener who has rather more than a green thumb. I’m enjoying this theme, and I hope it continues long enough to form a collection of short stories.
It’s also gotten me thinking about the stories I read and loved as a child: Robin Hood (of course); King Arthur; Sir Gawain and the Green Knight – which was oddly terrifying for a children’s story; Jason & the Argonauts… The list goes on, I’m sure, but those are off the top of my head.
The books I had for Robin Hood and King Arthur (which I think included the story about Gawain’s and the Green Knight) were lovely illustrated books in a style that felt more for grown-ups than children. I’m sure they wouldn’t seem that way now, but hey, I was nine. They were scary and had scary pictures. Therefore, they were cool. I think I miss the excitement of a simple scary tale, set in a real world but that was tinged with fantasy, and that could be read alone or in groups, by a fire, with a flagon of ale. The kind of stories that remain unchanged and adored for generations, passed down by word of mouth or family books.
So I have a question: what were your favourite faerytales as a child? Which fables gave you shivers on Halloween, which myths and legends did you in awe ask to hear again and again? I would really like to hear about your favourites, and I’m sure it’ll bring up some fond memories for you, too!
The thought of Coming Home was, at one point, rather daunting. The student in his final year did not relish the inevitable entry to the ‘real world’, and favoured even less the impending shifts in his rather comfortable life. They are as follows: get a job; pay off the overdraft; pay back the parents; save; move out; and continue to deal with the ever-increasing influx of ‘grown-up’ decisions. My liberty, it was assumed, was about to be apprehended. Graduation day arrived, and, with appropriate ceremonial confusion, passed. This entry is partially a re-entry into the habit of writing (which is a fancy way of saying ‘practise’), and partially something self-exploratory (for I intend to pose to myself the question, ‘so, what the fuck am I doing?’).
So. What the fuck am I doing?
