Peg Kerr's Journal

Sometimes these digital collages come together really easily.

This was not one of those cards. I spent about two hours on an approach that I ended up scrapping altogether and then spent another two hours coming up with this.

This is entirely appropriate because it is about something that has given me fits of agony for more than the last quarter-century: writing.

After I finished The Wild Swans, I made several attempts to start a new novel, without success. One attempt was the Ice Palace Book, and one was a sequel to Emerald House Rising. I agonized and flailed and wrote scads of entries on LiveJournal and Dreamwidth about my writers block, but I never figured it out. It's not surprising, really: I was attempting to work full time, raise a family, and manage a household (of which the three other members all had ADHD). And write. My back brain just didn't have the bandwidth to do anything creative. And so after a lot of grief and self-flagellation, I effectively put my writing away (picture it locked away in a trunk) and didn't attempt again to write anything publishable for almost twenty years.

The Alternity Game helped. That convinced me I could still write. Soul Collage and this digital card project helped, too. That showed me that I still have a creative side.

Several years ago, I extricated from a pile in my office the four chapters I'd written that were meant to be a new Piyanthia novel:

Chapter One

Reynardo was correcting student exercises when Bevan paid an unexpected visit to Freneca Hall and asked to see him. That must have been the reason, he decided later, that he was foolish enough to be glad that his old schoolmate had come.

An apprentice directed him to the south solar, where Bevan had been ushered to wait. It overlooked the garden, and he was standing at the window when Reynardo opened the door. It was a fine clear morning in early summer, and just below the window outside, bees were making a low thrum in the yellow patch of sweet lord’s buttons that Master Lionel tended so faithfully. Whenever Reynardo thought of the interview afterward, that was part of the memory: the warm, heady perfume of the garden in full flower, and the drone of the bees in the background, soporific and faintly menacing.

With some diffidence, I passed them on to Delia to read. "Mom! You should do something with this. It's really good! I want to see you finish it." I thanked her, and didn't do anything about it, but that raw encouragement continued to lurk in the back of my mind.

For the last several years, I have been having coffee every Friday with three other writing friends: Eleanor Arnason, lydamorehouse and naomikritzer. When the pandemic came, we switched to meeting over Zoom every Friday. They have all published more books than me and certainly have had more successful writing careers; we've had different life paths. But they did me the great courtesy of still considering me to be a writer too and gently encouraged me to keep revisiting the idea of writing--for publication or simply for fun. Lyda formed a writing critique group last year and assured me that I would be welcome to join.

And so I did. I dusted off those four chapters and ran them through the critique group, where they were well-received. But I wrote those chapters twenty years ago. How could I pick the book up again, particularly after failing so miserably the last time? I had no idea what happened next.

Then Lyda and Naomi told me that they were getting together an hour a day four days a week, on Zoom, simply to write. No talking. Just showing up and clicking keyboards. Would I like to join? No pressure. Just show up if you want, and if you can't, no sweat. The invitation was out there for several months. I kept making excuses. I got a concussion. I needed to recover. Ack, could I do it?

This past week, for the first time, I showed up.

I have written 1,231 new words on a book I began twenty years ago. Here is the opening of the new chapter I started this week:

Chapter Five

Of course, joining the players involved a certain amount of negotiation—and wrestling with his inner pride—over one issue: money.

“You will share in the profits, of course,” Tavia said briskly, “after a month, once we’ve had a chance to see that you will settle in well with us.” And I’ve had the chance to determine that you’re useful was the clear implication.

Reynardo swallowed. “Am I to eat during that month? I fear my hose will be hanging quite loose if I cannot. Hardly a look that would appeal to the audience.” He offered her his most blinding smile. “And I always make it a point of pride to appeal to the audience.

Tavia’s lips thinned, and he could sense that she was suppressing a sigh. Perhaps profits had been rather low lately. “I will stake your belly during that first month. No alcohol, though,” she added quickly. Drunken louts, clearly, were not useful.

I still have no idea whether I can finish it. I have no idea of my way through. But now I am 1,231 words closer to the end.

You have NO IDEA what a big deal this is.

Image description: Background: a sketchified picture of a pathless forest. A crossroads sign stands to one side, but the markers pointing in various directions are empty. Lower left foreground: an open wooden trunk. A woman (Peg) stands beside it, peering inside. Behind the trunk and the woman, overlaying the forest hovers a semi-transparent image of a woman's hand holding a quill pen, writing. Upper edge: individual thumbnail images of three women on Zoom: Naomi Kritzer (left), Peg (center), Lyda Morehouse (right).

Writing



Click here to see the 2022 52 Card Project gallery.

Click here to see the 2021 gallery.

I grew up reading books voraciously, naturally, and one of my favorites was a retelling of The Wild Swans by Hans Christian Andersen. I loved it and re-read it many times. Of course, you know where this is going. Sometimes, a tale told in childhood can imprint itself on a child's imagination in a way that echoes for years, and it obviously did for me. I drew upon my vivid memory of that story when I was writing my own retelling, which was published the year I turned 40.

But I didn't have THE BOOK. That special, special book that had fired my imagination all those years ago.

Bits of my memory of the illustrations wove itself into the story I wrote. I remembered a picture of Eliza sitting on the ground, peering up at the sun through a hole in a leaf. I remembered the wicked queen spilling the toads into the bath. I remembered Eliza meeting the fairy in the woods, flying through the air in a woven net held by swans, and huddling with her brothers on the rock in the middle of the ocean. I remembered her visiting the room the king had set aside for her with the shirt he'd found her making in the woods--Eliza wore her hair in a snood, which absolutely fascinated me. I remembered her in her prison cell, looking up with longing at her brother's wing, glimpsed through the grated window. I remembered the scene of chaos when the brothers were being changed back into men, the wild look in Eliza's eyes.

My parents sold their house after I left for college and downsized accordingly. Perhaps they'd gotten rid of the book even before that--probably they did, as there were four of us kids growing up, and we didn't have enough storage to keep forever every treasured keepsake.

I knew that the story was by Hans Christian Andersen. But...how could I find it again?

The problem was that while I certainly remembered the illustrations, I couldn't remember the edition itself. I didn't think it was just "The Wild Swans" alone...whatever it was that I read included several of Andersen's tales. But not the entire collection. When I was going to the University of Minnesota for graduate school, I stopped by the Kerlan Collection of Children's Literature, hoping to find my childhood book. But the Kerlan's stacks were closed. "Just check the catalog and write your request on this slip and we'll retrieve it from the stacks," the librarian encouragingly.

Do you know how many HUNDREDS of editions of Hans Christian Andersen's tales there are, especially in a collection devoted to children's literature? It seemed absolutely hopeless.

And then last night, I was thinking with longing of that treasured book from my childhood again, and it suddenly occurred to me to do what I should have done years ago. I actually smacked myself on the side of the head because I felt so stupid.

What I remembered was the illustrations. So obviously, I should do an image search of illustrations for "The Wild Swans."

I found it in five minutes flat. What's more, I found a copy of the edition for sale for around $20, including shipping. It's on its way to me now. The illustrator was Libico Maraja, and the pictures were published in an edition of several of the tales retold by Shirley Goulden. The edition was published in 1966.

Here (page 1) and here (page 2) are the illustrations that drifted, ghostlike through my imagination in my retelling all those years later. It gives me such joy to be able to put at peace that restless, searching part of myself that had longed to see those pictures for so many years.

Just saying. Pick up your copy!

I was a little underwhelmed when I first received it yesterday, but it's definitely grown on me in the last 24 hours, and I've already sent back a message to the editor that I like it:

I think the cover is subtle, elegant and lovely. I must admit to some disappointment that the idea I suggested wasn’t used, but oh well, Warner didn’t use it either al those years ago, and I’ve gotten over that disappointment before.[The idea of quilt swans morphing into real swans flying out of the quilt]. I am impressed at how the way the depiction of the swans suggests a misty morning light. The slight darkening of the frame around the cover is a nice touch. The font for the title looks good.

You know more than I do regarding how cover art suggests the genre of a book. To me, it doesn’t scream “fantasy,” and upon reflection, I think that’s fine, I suppose: there isn’t any fantasy in Elias’ story, and the only fantasy element in Eliza’s is the spell, but there is little else. It could be the cover of a mainstream novel, and that way may draw in some readers who don’t think of themselves as fantasy readers.

I was a little more doubtful yesterday when I first reviewed it. The choice of subject seemed obvious. But it IS obvious; that’s what the book is about. So the bottom line is, I like it. Thank you.

Oh, Rob would have been so happy for me.

I received an email out of the clear blue sky a couple of months ago from Endeavour Media, a U.K. company, which was inquiring whether I had the rights to The Wild Swans. Would I be interested in having them put it out as an ebook?

I was rather stunned by this and had no idea how they found me, but upon consultation with my former agent (who has since retired), I was able to confirm that yes, the rights have reverted to me, and yes, I was interested.

We went back and forth a bit, and I hemmed and hawed a lot, mostly because I don't really have an agent to guide me anymore. But I signed the contract today. Both The Wild Swans and Emerald House Rising will be released as ebooks sometime in the next year.

Hurrah!

I've been talking with a local writing group about auditioning to join them. Also in the last month, a writer that I went to Clarion with reached out to offer me writing coaching services: she's trying to grow her business, and she wants me to join her beta testing group because I was helpful to her with some marketing when I was job hunting.

You see why I need to re-create the pegkerr.com website. Eek.

OMG, Rob would be so happy for me.

Literature's gender gap
Women are underrepresented in literary publishing because men aren't interested in what they have to say.

(Rather a bald, sweeping statement, but the author offers evidence.) I've mentioned the story before about the cover for The Wild Swans, I think. When we were discussing possible covers, my editor said, rather to my surprise, that she expected the audience would be women. When I asked her whether she thought gay men would read it, she said she said something (and I can't remember the exact wording) that she didn't think men read books with...a woman in the cover art? A woman's author's name? Can't remember exactly.

(The author's on Twitter at @magiciansbook.)

listen to this song. It has some interesting similarities to the set up of The Wild Swans (the lover who betrays her is even named John, too)--sexual jealousy is at the root at it, too. Apparently, its inspiration came from the short story "Witch," written by George Mackay Brown. I've done a little work trying to run down the story. Haven't found a copy of it yet, but read a description of it, and, just in my version of The Wild Swans, the suffering of the heroine is clearly meant to echo the Passion of Christ.

Here's an amateur performance that's okay, that gives you the flavor of the song (the lyrics are in the side bar at the YouTube site):




But I really recommend, if you like what you hear, that you get it as sung by the woman who composed it, Karine Polwart, performing with her group, Malinky (buy it on iTunes here. Karine's version is desperate and dramatic and tragic and heart-rending, and beautifully performed.

Minicon was fun, and it was definitely the right decision to go. I was mostly away from the computer over the weekend, which means I'm just finding out about Amazon Fail (#amazonfail) now. For more info, read here, here, here, and a gazillion other places . . .

At least I signed the petition.(Is it weird that I'm almost sorta disappointed that The Wild Swans hasn't been delisted so I can enjoy the outrage personally?)

And yet, while the righteous outrage feels so good, here and here are two alternate explanations for why Amazon might have failed so massively that might give people pause. I'll keep an eye out on this story, but I'll put down the pitchfork and torch for now and wait to see what happens.

ETA: An LJ user claims he is responsible for all this by writing a script that gamed the system. He notes that tehdely -- that's one of "two explanations" links above -- was the only one to figure it out. Sounds very smug about it, too.

ETA again but the claim may be debunked here.

( What I did today to make the world a better place )

elisem said she had something to give me that just seemed made for me. ( here it is )

I think she's right and it's going to be living on my right hand for awhile.

I never ran across this poem while researching The Wild Swans, but I knew the old legend that swans sang only at their death. That was what I was getting at, a little bit, with the scene when Sean and Elias go to see Les Ballets de Trockederos and Sean silently cries while watching "The Dying Swan," the day before he tells Elias the diagnosis.

"The Silver Swan" by Anonymous.

The Silver Swan

The silver swan, who living had no note,
When death approached unlocked her silent throat,
Leaning her breast against the reedy shore,
Thus sung her first and last, and sung no more:
Farewell all joys, O death come close mine eyes,
More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.