The Map of Eirie…
NB: The Stumpwork Robe is available as of 1st February at:
I spent time huddled in a corner of the deck, a cloak wrapped round fending off the damp of the ocean. Guy took his share of the watch in the dark hours. Just he, Davey and a skeleton crew whilst the others yawned, snored and filled the spaces around me with their odour.
Cousins? He jests, surely. Whatever he had been going to answer, this was not what I had expected to hear. I thought of Vasey the first time I had met him in Le Mans.
Yesterday, Aimee Salter posted a link to JK Rowling’s speech at Harvard in 2008. Both my husband and I watched it on the computer. It’s a compelling speech on so many levels, and I urge anyone who is interested in ‘LIFE’ to watch it.
Something warmed my back and as I stretched, my shoulder was gently shaken. Through sleepy lids I could see the sun streaming into the chamber. Guy’s voice spoke just loud enough to push the last threads of slumber from my consciousness. ‘Ysabel, wake you. It’s time to dress and break your fast. The boat leaves in an hour.’
I’m having a holiday, friends. Haven’t had one for a year and so I’m off to renew my relationship with the ocean and things nautical. I’ll be in and out through our summer, but Mesmered is taken a small non-post break till January 1st, 2011, when the first post will be the new instalment of The Sheriff’s Collector.
(This next part of The Sheriff’s Collector is especially dedicated to MG, from Fly High, without whose friendship my love of all the series of Robin Hood would have been much less fun.)
The pain I felt as my ruined life rattled around me like a thunderstorm was stupendous, but Guy was there . . . as he had been every step of the way, and once again I let him take the pain away. I lifted my right hand to his and covered it as it lay on my jaw-line. There are times in life when one just wants to forget about concerns and cares. To ignore the shouted whisper of caution in the ear . . .
As I prepare for a holiday, for a break in the day to day grind, I’ve been gathering together a pile of books to read. To be honest, I had already started Ann Swinfen’s Testament of Mariam and finding it to be such a strong narrative and such a different interpretation to the familiar story of Jesus and his followers I had to keep reading and finished it last night. It was a superb read written by an author who has great sensitivity. Ann’s description of Galillee and Judaea, her interpretation of the religious truths, her depiction of Jesus and Judas through the eyes of Jesus’s sister Mariam, was emotive and intensely thought-provoking. I recommend this book to anyone who enjoys historical fiction, especially historical fiction of ancient days.
There are times in life when one just wants to forget about concerns and cares. To ignore the shouted whisper of caution in the ear. To believe that nothing could ever be wrong and that every dream or fantasy one has ever had is about to be fulfilled. This was such a time.
The difference between my world and our world is that Eirie is overlaid, underlaid and woven through with the Other world. At all times and in each of the provinces, Others; enchanted beings like the Færan or Siofra, hobs and merrows (and a thousand others from legends of our own world); merge and mingle, causing malicious mayhem before retreating to their secret places within Eirie. Till now the story of Eirie has shown little of the Other worlds, as though Others dragged at my pen for fear of what I might say. But in the fifth novel, I am fairly sure we shall be meeting a cartographer who shall cross through the cloak that veils those Other worlds and we shall see him taking his chances.
Till now my world-building has shown little geo-politics, something critics have found wanting. My comment is this: this is a story about characters, about what happens to those characters. The arc that the characters follow is never driven by some nebulous Venichese Doge’s political ambition or the Baron of Pymm’s mild mannered management of his archipelago, but by interaction with Others who help and hinder them in their journey. To be frank, life goes on for my characters in one way or another, whether the Doge, the Baron, His Bright Light in the Raj or the Emperor of Han sneezes, scratches himself or passes a law. Such detail which works for many, doesn’t work for me and I prefer not to drag my own characters through it.
What I love about world-building is the freedom to create rivers, forests, mountain ranges, villages, oceans, even celestial byways and to name them the way I wish. I use names that exist, some that might resonate and be familiar. But I never make up names. Again it’s something that works for others but ill-fits me. Tolkein is an icon and he managed it par excellence. Why would I even try? My names are now synonomous with my world, with a toe in the world of fantasy and reality. The most recent editorial report describes the path I’ve taken as magical realism and I’m immensely happy with that. Never have two words meant such a lot.
I admire the many fantasy worlds created by the most highly regarded of our fantasy writers but the ones I love the best come from my childhood, from legend told by heavens knows how many mouths. Tales from the riverbank or from the willows. From the wild oceans. From soaring minarets and ochre deserts. They have names I know, that are familiar, that may even exist . We all write differently, we all have different imaginations. This is just one writer’s view of a world . . .