fiction | Marie Marshall

August 22, 2013

“Can you write a teen-vampire novel for us?”

If you scroll down through this blog section of my web site, clicking on the older posts as you go (a worthwhile exercise, by the way, as there is some interesting reading there), you’ll come across occasional news updates of whatever my ‘latest project’ happens to be. So what happens to them? Where are the finished products? In most cases they simply aren’t. Finished, I mean. Many of them are little better than ‘good ideas’. Other things get in the way – editorial work, judging a competition, work, food, sleep, and so on. Mainly they run out of steam, or I run out of commitment, and I know that is a personal flaw – ‘successful authors’ don’t have this flaw, if you believe their soundbites. But I feel every project was worth starting, just to see if it would work, just to see if it would carry me along.

Anyhow, now that my second novel, The Everywhen Angels, is about to be published, I have been wondering why it has been so hard to complete a third. And then I was asked “Can you write a teen-vampire novel for us?” That’s as near as damn-it a commission! My instant answer was “Yes. No. Maybe.”

To tackle this I would need to re-think my daily schedule. I have been lazy when it comes to writing. I don’t do what good writers are ‘supposed’ to do, which is to spend a fixed time each day writing. I would have to re-commit to that. I would have to shelve the two novels-in-progress that I have. That wouldn’t be shelving much, I have to confess, because they are in the doldrums anyway; but as I shelved one to write the other and now would be shelving both, well that wouldn’t do much for my confidence in finishing the third. I would have to start turning down requests for my editorial expertise; I wouldn’t be able to start any other projects, I would simply have to focus on this. Then the teen-vampire genre has been flogged as near to death as the undead can be, and is lying there waiting for a stake to be driven through its heart. Stephenie Meyer has seen to that. Is there anything left to say? Is there an unused plot? Is there an unexplored twist, an unusual angle? You can see why I said “Yes. No. Maybe.”

However, it just so happens that I have a pottle of notes, fragments, poems, and short stories about a vampire hunter. Could something be reconstructed from these shards? Let’s see if I can bang a stake in without hitting my thumb, or anyone else’s…

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August 17, 2013

‘My life as a coble’, and other things

poetry life & times2

Poetry Life & Times has published a poem of mine, ‘My life as a coble’. You can read it here. A coble, by the way, is a clinker-built boat common to the east coast of the UK, particularly Yorkshire; its construction is thought to come down directly from the techniques used to build Viking longships.

Meanwhile, P’kaboo Publishers have taken on my second novel, The Everywhen Angels. More news later, including some possible promotional events.

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July 23, 2013

Mabel’s Fables: ‘The Three Blind Men and the Elephant’

elephant fable

Little one, many folk tell the tale of the three blind men who, unaware of each other, came upon the same elephant.

The first blind man, putting out his hands to feel his way, touched the elephant’s mighty trunk, feeling it flex and move, as though it had a life independent. He took it for a great snake.

“Surely,” he thought, “This is the greatest, most magnificent snake ever!”

The second blind man bumped into one of the elephant’s legs and, putting out his arms to try and encompass it, was certain that he had found the bole of a tall tree.

“Surely,” he thought, “There is no tree in all the world like this!”

The third blind man felt the elephant’s tail brush his face, and when he caught it in his hand, he was convinced that it was part of a gigantic vine.

“Surely,” he thought, “A man could live in the shade of this vine and want for nothing.”

Now folk who tell this tale, little one, usually stop at that point, and say it proves that in matters of faith and belief, all men perceive a little bit of the truth, never all of it. But they are not wise, little one, for the tale does not stop there. It goes on…

The first blind man became devoted to his notion of a snake, and began to worship it, singing and chanting.

“O divine Serpent… O divine Serpent…”

The second blind man became devoted to his notion of a tree, and began also to worship it, singing and chanting.

“O ineffable Tree… O ineffable Tree…”

The third blind man became devoted to his notion of a vine, and began also to worship it, singing and chanting.

“O miraculous Vine… O miraculous Vine…”

Then they heard each other, and became angry.

“What fools these other two fellows are,” thought the first blind man. “This is neither a tree nor a vine, but the Holy Serpent!”

“What fools these other two fellows are,” thought the second blind man. “This is neither a snake nor a vine, but the Heavenly Tree!”

“What fools these other two fellows are,” thought the third blind man. “This is neither a snake nor a tree, but the… er… Divine… Vine!”

So they all began to sing and chant more loudly, in order to drown out each other’s voices; and soon there was cacophony.

“… ineffable Tree… divine Serpent… miraculous Vine…”

Then their anger blazed into fury, and they began to shout and scream at each other.

“Heretics!”

“Blasphemers!”

“Infidels!”

Now you are aware, little one, being the wisest of children yourself, that elephants are very patient animals. But even the patience of the most forbearing tusker wears very thin, when such a hullabaloo happens around his feet. For this elephant was perfectly certain in his own mind that he was neither snake, nor tree, nor vine, but an elephant. And indeed he was. Elephant through and through. Elephant right to the core of his being. He knew well enough that each of the blind men did not have some of the truth, part of the truth, or even a little bit of the truth. All three were totally, completely, utterly… wrong!

Eventually he could stand no more. He shook his trunk free of the first blind man’s hands, and trumpeted loudly in his ear.

“Ow!” said the first blind man, his head ringing. “No snake ever did that!”

Next the elephant lifted his leg, and trod on the toes of the second blind man.

“Ow!” yelled the second blind man. “No tree ever moved!”

Next the elephant – I’m afraid – evacuated on the third blind man, who was impudently tugging his tail.

“Ugh!” said the third blind man. “Those are neither grapes nor oranges!”

In that moment, when the elephant manifested himself to them, little one, all three were enlightened, and knew the true nature of what they had worshipped separately.

Little one, foolish though these blind men were, eventually they were enlightened. Not so, I fear, those story-tellers who stop short, and do not themselves wait for the elephant to manifest itself. You see, because our god or our gods are known to be greater than we are, it is often assumed that they are wider and more complicated than we can conceive.

But they might just be simpler, more straightforward.

Like an elephant, little one.

Now be patient. You might dream of an elephant.

Go to sleep.

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June 15, 2013

What will emerge from the fire of inactivity?

Phoenix

I seem to recall, from James A Michener’s Centennial, that twentieth century ranchers with sizeable flocks of sheep deliberately kept a few head of cattle, so that they could legitimately call themselves ‘cattlemen’, in order to benefit from the cachet of that name. Well, I’m an author. The fact that I also cook, clean, and have a paid job – all of which takes up most of my waking day – is neither here nor there. This means that in order to keep the content of this web site fresh, however, I have to manufacture news on a slow news day.

So, what is actually happening in my non-quotidian world? Am I currently authoring? ‘Yes and no’ is the answer to that. My second novel, The Everywhen Angels, is currently with three publishers, two of which actively expressed interest in having the manuscript; I have recently tweaked the content slightly, to reflect how the world has moved on in the handful of years since I completed it. I have plot outlines and chapters-in-progress of two other novels, neither of which has progressed for some time, I have to admit. There are many genuine reasons. However, the more these reasons accumulate the more they seem like a list of excuses – the household chores, the paid work, the fact that for much of 2012 I was working on a new collection of poetry (I am not a fish) for a publisher, the promotion of that published collection and of my first novel Lupa, the editorial work on The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes, the quarterly editorial work on the zen space…

Something had to give, and it has been work on my next novel(s). So what else of note is there? Well, since 2011 I have not been submitting much in the way of poetry to magazines. The exception being that recently I dropped a handful of haiku to Bones Journal and to Blithe Spirit (the poetry magazine of the British Haiku Society) and had one accepted at each, bringing my total of poems published since 2005 to two hundred and thirty-two. I need hardly add that this does not include poems blogged etc., which would take the number into the thousands. Nor does it include an extempore poem recently tweeted to the Scottish Poetry Library, which they instantly re-tweeted to all their followers. Nor, for that matter, does it include the poems that were published but which I’ve forgotten.*

Phoenix2 Work on The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes has reached galley proof stage. I shall be engaged in that over this weekend. Publication is late, but the anthology should be out in July. I am looking forward to that greatly, as is the whole of the editorial team. With all the work mentioned above going on, I rather foolishly proposed to five fellow-poets a small chapbook anthology – I’ll do it, I’ll do it, I promise! Thankfully the next issue of the zen space has a guest editor…

All this makes me realise that what I do not have, and should have, is a schedule detailing what I have to do. It should list tasks as ‘urgent’, ‘important’, and ‘routine’; attention to serious writing should never drop into the ‘routine’ category, even if it is to be tackled routinely, if you see what I mean.

It is 8:15 on Saturday morning. I have been up since 4:15 and have spent most of that time here at the keyboard. Have I written much? No, I’m ashamed to say that I haven’t, but I will admit that it’s a wonderful time of day for it. I really must put ‘making a schedule’ on the list of urgent tasks for today.

__________

*A lot of my records went missing in 2007.

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June 13, 2013

A wee billet doux from the NLS to my agent

©Bookseeker Agency

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June 6, 2013

TOADMEISTER!

Toadmeister

Ratty had been emailing me faster than I could reply, not that I’m all that savvy with electronic communications. Actually I spend most of my time down my hole engrossed in World of Warcraft, deep in the wizard-world of Azeroth – I’m a Night Elf from Outland – currently operating at the fourth level of Cataclysm and on the run from Hakkar the Soulflayer… not relevant, not relevant… but on the other hand not much need for emails either.

Ratty’s emails, they went along these lines… hang on, let me open one up and cut-and-paste it for you, here we go…

“Hey Mole, I’m due to fly out to Cyprus today and go on board the Wildwood Warrior. We’re going to sail for the Gaza strip in a couple of days time with a cargo of humanitarian aid to see if we can get past the blockade. There is still nothing, Moley, absolutely nothing half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats! LOL. Follow me on twitter @riverbankratty.”

That was last week. I can’t look at his tweets, I fear for the dear fellow. The world out there is a big place and a dangerous place. ‘Messing about in boats’ is one thing, messing about in big boats in a sea full of bigger boats bristling with guns is another thing altogether. Oh well, at least he can swim, and he always was an adrenalin-junkie, Pan knows! Like I said, I get my adrenalin rush from virtual wargaming.

Talking of which I bumped into Badger the other day coming out of the Red Lion. Bumped literally. He had his head down and his nose in his Mac Book Air, which was open. As we collided he let it slip and it would have shattered into a thousand very expensive pieces on the cobbles of the pub courtyard if I hadn’t fielded it like Alastair Cook taking a slip catch. Of course I couldn’t help noticing what was on his screen – World of Warcraft! It was an irritated ol’ Badger who snatched the lappie out of my hands.

“Hey Badgie,” I said. “Didn’t realise you were into ‘the Craft’.”

“You make it sound like the confounded Freemasons,” he said with a frown. “Yes I do the odd bit of gaming.”

“Well maybe we have crossed swords at some stage,” I said. “I’m Dalforstin the Night-Elf. Who are you?”

He mumbled something I didn’t catch.

“What was that?”

“I said I’m Kolkhatana, Warrior Princess of the Dwarves. Satisfied?” he snapped, and stalked off in moderately high dudgeon. I was silent – gobsmacked actually – as his hunched figure hurried away. He was cutting quickly round the hedge at the end of the lane when a sudden thought struck me.

“Kolkhatana? Hey, didn’t we…” I called. But he had gone. And it didn’t bear thinking about.

I decided it was time to drop in on Toad Hall. Things had been quiet there for some time. I did know that the upkeep was rather steepish these days and that Toad, bless his silly heart, had been threatening to give it to the National Trust and move into the gamekeeper’s cottage. Presumably that would mean that the gamekeeper would have to move out – Toad wouldn’t have thought of that, of course. Anyhow, I ambled along what had once been a leafy lane… well it was still a leafy lane for most of its length but the here at the village end of it there was a tightly-packed knot of new houses – Toadfields. His Toadfulness had sold a patch of the old estate off to a developer in order to settle a tax bill. So anyhow, like I said, there I was ambling along the lane which led eventually to Toad Hall, when I realised I wasn’t on my own. Stoats and Weasels, rucks of ‘em, were popping out of the trees and hurrying excitedly down the lane. I could see the increasing crowd three hundred yards away funnelling through the lodge-gates and on to Toad’s gravelled driveway*.

Momentarily I paused. I wondered whether it was another invasion such as the one we four – me, Ratty, Badgie, and Toady – had fought off back in the day. But these stoats and weasels seemed in good spirits, not belligerent, as though setting off to have a good time. They were all relatively young ‘uns too.

I accosted a ferret in a cap and shades (incongruous those, because the sun was about to set) and asked him what was afoot.

“Hey bruv,” he said. “It’s ‘im, innit. It’s da beats, bruv, da beats. It’s totally sick, sick as aids, bruv!”

I resisted the temptation to say “No hablo Chav” and let him go on his way. Still I stood and wondered what in Pan’s name my ol’ pal Bufo Bufo was up to this time. We’d been through the camp site, the theme park, the WW2 vehicle museum, the health spa… none of those had attracted a surge of young mustelidae like this and, crucially, none of them had made any money either. I straggled behind the crowd as evening fell.

Toad hall was in darkness, but by the light of the hundreds of glo-sticks the stoats and weasels were carrying, and the luminescent screens of hundreds more iPhones, I could make out some sort of bulky structure in front of it – a stage? A dais?

Suddenly a siren sounded and a great cheer went up from the crowd. Then the cheering itself was drowned by a deafening swell of electronic music at (I guess) one-hundred-and-thirty beats per second – the unmistakeable sound of Euro-Trance. Then fireworks exploded, lasers and strobe lights flashed, the stage was lit up by spotlights and there… there… there behind what could only be a set of decks bristling with controls, screens, sequencer keyboards, all the gubbins of Electro… there in a brilliant white T-shirt, cycling shades, and headphones was Toad! Toad grinning from ear to ear. Toad punching the air in time to the music, while the stoats and weasels danced and bounced and punched the air in response.

“TOADMEISTER! TOADMEISTER!” they yelled in unison.

You could have knocked me down with a wet piece of hedge-sorrel. But as I became swept up in the euphoria, began to bounce, began to dance, began to punch the air, I realised that at last, at last, Toad had got what he had always wanted.

Acclamation!

__________

* I would be grateful to know, by the way, why Americans park on a driveway and drive on a parkway.

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June 1, 2013

‘Reading Corner’ at Balbirnie.

Members of the Balbirnie Collective, ©Bookseeker Agency

I was told that my books – my novel Lupa and my poetry collection I am not a fish – would occupy ‘a corner of a table somewhere’ at Balbirnie Craft Centre. In fact I was delighted to be informed by my agent that I had a whole bookshelf to myself when he arrived there today – see below. A pity I can’t fill it, but there will be more books there shortly…

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May 22, 2013

Before Fifty Shades: ‘The Dying Slave’.

Before Fifty Shades

It almost seems strange to be saying this, but there was life, and lifestyle, before Fifty Shades of Grey, and it made its way into literature. Sacher-Masoch’s Venus in Furs was published over 140 years ago. For some time before I became a ‘legit’ (what does that even mean?) author and poet I wrote about love, sex, domination, and the areas where they did and did not overlap. I wrote the vignette below in a deliberately-mannered and sentimental style, to reflect the formality that often exists within Dominant/submissive relationships; the era in which it is set is not mentioned, but it could belong to any time…

__________

“I have made her as comfortable as I can.” These had been the doctor’s parting words to Greta. Now Greta sat by Leonora’s bedside as the late afternoon sun struck aslant at the covers, through half-closed curtains. The room was almost silent. Outside, absurdly cheerful birds were twittering, oblivious to the sadness inside, where the only sound was the quiet rasping of Leonora’s breath.

“I do not have long,” said Leonora, very quietly. “I know this, Mistress.”

Greta reached out and took her hand, surprised by the strength of the grip she felt. Looking at Leonora’s face, her eyes met the dying woman’s, and held, and locked. She was surprised how bright they were, how much love and happiness they seemed to contain at this time. Leonora was smiling. Greta forced herself to smile in return, though she felt her heart was breaking.

“You will be fine, darling. Very soon you will be well and strong, and you will leave that bed. We’ll take our walks together again, and do all the things we love doing. And just call me Greta for now – there is no need for formality.” To herself she thought, “Why do we always say these absurd things to those whom we love, while life is slipping away? We know they are dying, they know they are dying, and yet we toss bright phrases about as if they are suffering from nothing worse than a slight migraine. Can we not bear the truth, even though we all know it?” She refocused on the sweet, submissive woman in the bed – the loving one who was slipping away from her – and fought hard to keep her composure. It did not break.

At the admonishment to drop her Mistress’s formal title, Leonora shook her head weakly, but with some vehemence. “Please, Mistress, I beg you not to deprive me of that – not now, please. I could not bear it, Mistress.”

There was something bold, almost forward in this petition. Greta’s thoughts rolled back through the decades to the time that Leonora had first come to her. By mutual consent Greta had offered her protection and command, and Leonora had offered herself. Her enthusiasm for being a submissive woman to Greta’s need to dominate had been tempered with a little hesitancy at first, but often the enthusiasm had got the better of her, and she had blundered into many a transgression, for which Greta had not been slow to chastise her pet. Now Greta sat, looking down at Leonora, wondering if she had been domineering rather than dominating, cruel rather than magnificent. But all she could see in Leonora’s eyes was love and devotion. If her slave had ever felt hard-done-by, she did not show it now. She showed only the faithful adoration that Greta had become so used to over the years. Leonora’s willingness to be led down any path of experience had surprised Greta, but to Leonora it had simply been a duty she had been resigned to – no, not resigned, one to which she had come singing with joy. Step by step her Mistress’s will had become second nature to her, as vital as food and drink, and as air, and she had learned to obey almost unbidden, knowing and anticipating Greta’s wishes, reading her needs, and submitting herself to them.

Now it was to end. That perfection of love was to wink out in an instant, a bare moment which seemed to be racing upon the two women as they faced each other now. Greta struggled to find the words she needed to say. In her mind, after all this time, were doubts about the life they had chosen. She asked herself, “What great things might Leonora have done, if she had been free?” And in an unspoken, inner dialogue she seemed to hear Leonora talking back to her, telling her how she had blossomed as a singer, as and artist, as a whole person, in Greta’s service, and how wonderful it had all been.

“Dear Leonora,” said Greta finally. “If I have never succeeded in telling you how grateful I am for your lifelong gift of yourself, please let the action I am about to take be an explanation. Darling, all those years ago you gave yourself to me unreservedly. Today, all debts are cancelled, all pledges redeemed. I give you the only gift I can – yourself. You are free.”

As Greta spoke, Leonora tugged urgently at her hand, in a way that she would hitherto not have dared.

“…And my parting gift is to return yours to you. I wish to die belonging to you, Mistress. It is all I have ever wanted – to serve you all the days of my life, right until my death. I am your slave for life, for my whole life.”

The grip on Greta’s hand was a little weaker now. The tugging seemed to have sapped Leonora of much of her strength.

“Very well, little one,” said Greta, using a term of endearment she had not used to Leonora in a long time. “It is my pleasure to grant your wish. I remain your Mistress to the end, and you my slave. But know this…”

Greta bent low, kissed her slave on the forehead, and the lips, feeling as she did so the barely-perceptible breath on her cheek.

“…in Paradise there is no slavery. In Paradise you will stand by my side as my eternal wife, and only as that. Even you cannot go against a law made in heaven. Be peaceful, my darling little one, be peaceful…” Greta’s commanding voice fell away, and she simply sat, holding Leonora’s hand, looking at the silent devotion and love in her eyes.

She sat and looked into those eyes until all the devotion and love had finally faded away, along with all other light and lustre, and all that was left was the eyes. Leonora’s breath had stilled to nothing, she was free, and her hand lay gently in that of her earthly Mistress.

That was the moment – when she was finally alone – that Greta surrendered her life-long dignity. She bowed her frame over her dead love and, as the birds sang with incessant merriness outside, she wept.

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May 20, 2013

Coming soon

Balbirnie 3

Coming soon to Central Scotland – the opening weekend of Aval-Ballan’s new studio premises in Fife. Aval-Ballan is a creative arts partnership, based in Markinch, Fife. Their new premises will be at the Balbirnie Craft Centre, and they will be unveiled on the 1st and 2nd of June. If you’re in Scotland, do drop in. Their artwork, painting, new-old furniture, sea-glass and sea-pottery jewellery, etc. are wonderful; they run workshops for people who simply want to paint. Vist their web site for details and directions.

I am glad to say that they will be giving space to my books – Lupa and I am not a fish – probably on a permanent basis, so you will be able to get a signed copy at retail price!

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May 9, 2013

‘…but the choicest of our hard wrought poems…’

SPL2

On the glass frontage of the Scottish Poetry Library in Edinburgh are the following lines, translated from Gaelic by poet Derick Thomson:

It is not gold or other treasure
that you will get from me in special;
it is not tribute, or gift of cattle,
but the choicest of our hard-wrought poems.

Amongst the ‘hard-wrought poems’ now deposited there is a signed copy of my new collection, I am not a fish, which I have gifted to the Library. It was delivered there today by my literary agent. On the same trip he also deposited a copy of my novel, Lupa, at the National Library of Scotland. Each is a drop in Scotland’s literary ocean, but it feels like a big deal to me.

NLS3

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Tag: fiction