Theodora Goss

I meant to write a blog post earlier, but I became fascinated by a documentary on the dancer and choreographer Bill T. Jones. It was about his creation of a dance based on the life and impact of Abraham Lincoln. If you want to see what a magnificent dancer he is, here is a YouTube segment that will give you at least a sense for how he moves.

But what fascinated me about the documentary is what always fascinates me about those sorts of things: seeing an artist work. And Jones is an artist with a capital A, brought up on modernism and its sense of the centrality of art and the artist. (The segment will demonstrate, also, something I’ve always believed: that dancers are the most beautiful people. Jones is sixteen years older than I am, and I could never hope to have a body as strong, as limber, as beautiful as his.)

The dance he was choreographing was particularly important because he wanted it to be accessible for a general audience, while not insulting the sort of intellectual audience that usually goes to see modern dance.

And that’s really my subject for today, because I’ve been reading Stories, edited by Neil Gaiman and Al Sarrantonio.

And I’ve noticed something: certain writers are remarkably readable. They just keep you reading. You know what I mean, right? The Harry Potter series are remarkably readable. The Steig Larsson novels are as well. Readability does not mean a novel is great literature. But it’s an important quality to think about.

So I’ve been looking at these stories in terms of their readability. Gaiman himself is always remarkably readable, and I read “The Truth is a Cave in the Black Mountains” in one sitting. I liked how it was structured, the twists and turns. Michael Swanwick’s “Goblin Lake” was readable and humorous. Elizabeth Hand’s “The Maiden Flight of McCauley’s Bellerophon” was readable and classic Hand, meaning simple on one level and intensely complicated on another. And beautiful, and a joy to read. But I expect that from her. I haven’t read many of the other stories, but I’ll confess that I could not get through Joyce Carol Oates’ “Fossil-Figures” (it just kept going on and on, so I skipped to the end), and I’m in the middle of Walter Mosley’s “Juvenal Nyx” and may end up doing the same thing because it’s a vampire story and it too keeps going on and on, as though the technical aspects of life as a vampire were interesting. But Mosley is also a readable writer, as anyone who has read his detective stories knows.

I also recently read “Covehithe” by China Miéville, which is lovely in the way Miéville often is at his best, which is that he turns the grotesque into the lovely. (Who else could give me a vision of oil rigs mating under the sea?) And he, too, is a readable writer. At least in Un Lun Dun and The City and the City, although I confess that I became bogged down in Perdido Street Station.

I know, readability is a strange word to use, because technically all writers should be readable – I mean, we read them. But what I mean is having a sort of narrative pull. This is important to me because I want my writing to have that, to pull the reader along. I want it to be remarkably readable, for the reading experience itself to be a pleasure. (Remember, it doesn’t have to be. There are important writers whose writing is not particularly readable in that sense. Whose writing you have to work at.) I honestly don’t know if my writing has that – I think it does in my best stories, and it’s something I want to work on.

Maybe accessibility is another way to look at it – like the dance on Lincoln, I want my writing to be accessible to everyone, but not to insult an intellectual reader. If that’s possible.

I’ve been thinking a lot about issues like this, reading consciously. Because now that my dissertation is done, I want to be the writer I can become. And I’m not sure what that is yet, exactly.

Recently, several friends have told me about medical problems they’re having, or their family members are having. Hearing about those problems has made me grateful for a number of things.

First, for my own health. I’ve had one medical problem in my life: appendicitis. I still remember the resident telling me that the surgeon was going to make the smallest scar possible, so I could still wear a bikini. (I never wear bikinis.) Otherwise, I’ve been ridiculously healthy. Oh, I’m tired, and over the last few weeks I seem to have gained five pounds, but those are things I can take care of. Blood pressure and cholesterol and those sorts of things are well within normal range.

Second, for my daughter’s health, and for my daughter in general. I wonder, sometimes, how I ended up with such a brilliant, beautiful child. Sometimes, I admit, I worry about that beauty. She’s used to strangers stopping in the street and remarking on how beautiful she is. (Hair the color of copper, and eyes like rain.) But she makes robots and writes stories and wants to be a paleontologist, and she’s most of the way through the Harry Potter series. Those are more important than beauty, I think. (Her rock collection is getting ridiculous.)

Third, for the education that allows me to pursue the profession I love – writing, and teaching about writing. It’s taken me a long time to get my degree, but I’m grateful to have it, and to be able to do work that I find intellectually fulfilling. Even though sometimes I get tired of grading papers. But when you teach, every day is different, and you spend your time talking about ideas, and you interact with students – and I like students very much.

Fourth, to have a life that is opening up in front of me, like a set of double doors opening to a landscape in which you can see woods and fields, and a road running through them, and in the distance mountains. And you don’t know where the road will lead, but you know that at least there will be adventures.

I don’t feel grateful all the time – there are days when I don’t feel grateful at all. When I just feel tired and angry at the world, and I could go around knocking people’s hats off. (If they still wore hats.) So I’m writing this to remind myself, because I know there are friends of mine who have been in much more difficult situations, and I do know, despite any grumbling, how very fortunate I am – to be in a position to make the life I want to live happen. Many people never get that opportunity.

Once, after telling a friend of mine the problems I was having, I said that despite them, I felt very fortunate – that my problems were so much smaller than most people’s. He became angry with me, I suppose because he thought I was somehow avoiding them. But that wasn’t it at all. I was simply being grateful. I think gratitude is a very useful emotion to have. It puts things into perspective.

Another friend of mine and I decided recently that we were going to try to changes our lives, and support each other through that effort. Part of that effort, for me, will be getting back to dance. I haven’t been to a dance class for two weeks now, because I’ve been so incredibly busy. But it’s time to go back.

So I will spend part of the weekend looking like this:

And I will spend another part of it sleeping. And I will spend another part of it trying to catch up, because I’m still terribly behind. Blame it on the defense. But you know, it was worth it – to be Dr. Goss, and to see that road stretching in front of me, even though I have no idea where it will go.

I’ve been thinking about what I really want out of my creative life, my life as a writer. There are all sorts of things I want: to write the stories that come to me, to say the things I want to say. To have people read and enjoy what I write. To participate in a writing life, go to conventions, spend time with writers and editors and publishers. I’d even like (if you’re listening, universe) to make money.

But what I really want is to do cool projects. Yesterday, I saw a link on a facebook post by Ann VanderMeer to this wonderful video:

Below the video on YouTube is this explanatory note:

“Myster Odd: a short film in celebration of the release of the ODD? anthology series from Cheeky Frawg Books, edited by Ann & Jeff VanderMeer. Volume One is available now as an e-book through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Wizard’s Tower Press, and Weightless Books.”

The film is by Gregory Bossert, whom I met at the World Fantasy Convention.

Talk about a cool project, the video and the anthology series and the conjunction of the two. What cool project am I going to be able to work on next? I don’t know. At the moment I’m working on a story that I’ve been asked to write for an anthology, and I need to work on publicity for The Thorn and the Blossom. (Now that was a cool project.) And then I have a poetry anthology to put together, probably over winter break. And then what? I suppose the next step is the novel. So I do have cool projects, don’t I? I mean, more than most people, and I’ve been very lucky to have those opportunities.

I’d like to do more. I’d like to be able to be creative more often, but I do have a job, and a commute, and a child to take care of. The ordinary parts of my life take a lot of time. (If I still owe you something, I’m so sorry. I owe so many people so many things at this point. And I’m getting sick.  I mean really actually sick: I’ve been sneezing all day.)

Oh yes, and I need to turn In the Forest of Forgetting into an ebook. (Would anyone be interested in an ebook version? Would you?) Just in case you don’t remember, that’s my short story collection, published back in 2006:

But what keeps me going, especially when I’m this tired, when the Advil doesn’t seem to get rid of the headaches, when I feel overwhelmed by my ordinary life and have barely any time to devote to the extraordinary one I’m trying to create for myself, is the thought that there are so many cool projects out there. So many things to do. Because in the end, the cool projects are what count. Not the conventions, or how many people asked you to sign books, but what you actually accomplished.

I’m going to go rest, because I need it, desperately. But I have a story waiting to be written, and poetry waiting to be collected, and all sorts of things that I want to do. Those are the things that keep me going.

Yesterday, I had a series of small adventures. I think small adventures are important, when you can’t have large ones. (And I’m far too busy for large ones right now.)

While walking back to my office from my final class of the day, I ran across a book and bake sale, everything $1. So I bought three books and three cookies: a book called Women Artists in History: From Antiquity to the Present, since I know very little about women artists in history and I feel as though I should know more; Huysmans’ Against Nature, since I don’t have a copy; and Ann Patchett’s What Now?, based on a graduation speech she gave at Sarah Lawrence, since that’s exactly the question I’m asking myself nowadays. That was the first adventure. (I told you these are small adventures, right? But even small adventures count for something.)

About a month ago, I had bought a ticket to Boston Ballet‘s Romeo and Juliet. After buying those books and cookies, I went back to my office and finished some work, then went to the bookstore and bought myself a book on writing memoir and a collection of A.S. Byatt short stories. (Little Black Book of Stories, which I’m looking forward to reading.) So by that point I had five more books than I’d had at the beginning of the day. But I was really waiting for time to go to the ballet.

At about 6:30, I took the T to the Common, then walked up Washington Street and stopped in a restaurant called Bina, where I had a brie and apple sandwich, and a cappuccino. I also bought myself a tiramisu truffle for later.

Then, I went to the Boston Opera House, which is one of my favorite theaters. And there it was: Romeo and Juliet, choreographed by John Cranko (who is always amusing), with the gorgeous Prokofiev score. I had a wonderful seat, and the ballet was perfect. And I got to watch people during the intermissions. And I bought myself Pinot Grigio in a plastic cup.

Afterward, I walked back to the T and took it out to the suburbs. But where I changed from the green to the red line, I saw a band playing in the subway station. It was called Me vs. Gravity, and the members were four teenage boys. They looked like this:

And you know what? They were good. Here is their one and only video (so far) from YouTube:

Yes, I want to live in the country. But there are adventures that happen only in cities, and I do appreciate those. I actually missed a train because I wanted to listen to them. Then, I hurtled through the darkness, over the Charles River (which is about where I ate my truffle), past Harvard, out to the last station, and then down the dark highways.

I want the large adventures, and in between them I want rest. And a home to rest in. But in the meantime, I have the small adventures.

(There is nothing quite so clarifying, I find, as spending time with genuinely high art: ballet, opera, the sort of art you see in a museum. I don’t know why that is, or why popular art, which I love, doesn’t give me that sensation of mental clarity.  But high art does it for me: like being in the Alps.)

The first thing I should mention is that at Goodreads, you can enter to win a free copy of The Thorn and the Blossom.   You can enter until November 30th, so go sign up!  Because you never know, and if you don’t sign up, you can’t win.

The second thing I should mention is that I just don’t feel like writing today. This past week I’ve been through one of the worst experiences in the world: being terribly hurt by someone you thought was a good friend. Someone you’d been there for and supported, even when it was incredibly difficult to do so. Someone you’d respected and cared for, until suddenly you couldn’t respect him anymore. And you started wondering if you’d known him at all.

So I’ve been thinking about what you do in a situation like that, how you handle it. Because I think we reveal ourselves most in times of hurt and anger, in times of stress. And I think the only thing we can do, in times like those, is forgive and let go. To forget the hurtful things that were said, to remember the wonderful things. The friendship, the affection, the laughter. The private references that no one else is going to understand. The talking about stories, the trading of music.  What the two of you had together that neither of you will ever have with anyone else.

And you move on and remind yourself how fortunate you are: to have an incredible community of friends all over the world, to be able to pursue the creative work you love, to have a book coming out in January.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the future, and where I want it to take me. And it seems to me that, for the first time in a long time, the future is wide open. I’ve finished the PhD, so I have the credentials I’ll need to teach at the university level, and I’m publishing regularly. It’s scary too because I don’t know where the future will take me yet. I don’t know where to go from here. But I have a feeling, just the beginning of a feeling, that I’m headed somewhere – I don’t know where yet. It’s as though I’m waiting for an indication, some sort of sign. Is that silly? And yet it’s worked for me before.

I do know one thing: I want a magical life. I was thinking about that when I saw an article on this house under a hill in Wales:

Isn’t it beautiful? I don’t necessarily want a house under a hill, but I want to live differently. I don’t know where I’ll find that life yet. I’m not even sure what it’s going to look like – I just know how it feels when the magic happens. But I’m sure I’ll get there.

This is going to be a short post because I’m very, very tired. I still haven’t caught up on the sleep I lost traveling to and from the World Fantasy Convention. But I wanted to mention two nice things I found when I got home.

The first is the October issue of Realms of Fantasy, with my Folkroots column “The Myth and Magic of Narnia.”

The second is a reminder that a story of mine, “Christopher Raven,” will be available in Fantasy Magazine on November 14th.

I feel as though, in the last couple of months, I’ve been through a sort of trial by fire, and the question is, what do I do now? What projects do I go on to? Or to I take some time, watch episodes of Being Human? Just sit? Of course I still have a great deal to do, stories I owe people, a poetry collection to put together, publicity for The Thorn and the Blossom. So I can’t really just sit. But I do need some time to rest, consider where I’m going next.

I do worry, sometimes when I’m so tired, that the world holds no more magic in it. That what lies ahead is just work and more work. But that can’t be true. I refuse to believe that.

So, I’m going to speak to the Powers that Be directly.

Dear Powers that Be:

I know from of old that you’re very, very good at making wonderful things happen. That even when things have seemed all wrong, you have been steering me in the right direction. So I’m asking you now, because I’m so tired – take me to the place I’m supposed to be, all right? And if it’s someplace wonderful, all the better. (I trust you: I think it’s going to be someplace wonderful.)

That’s all for now. Hope all is well in Asgard or Olympus or whatever.

Over and out,
Dora

I promised that I would talk a little about writing The Thorn and the Blossom.

I remember when Stephen first asked me if I would like to work on the project. I was standing outside the Lexington library when my cell phone rang. I sat on one of the walls, talking to him about it. I think we talked for about half an hour. The idea was to write two stories, about 7500 words each, that would fit together like the pieces of a puzzle. Both stories had to work as stories, but together they had to form a larger story, a more complete picture. There are two kinds of stories that can work like that: a mystery, and a love story. I chose to write a love story.

It took a while to iron out the logistics. Stephen and I had talked about the project in the fall, and I did not start writing until the winter. By that time I was also trying to revise the chapters of my dissertation. So my schedule went something like this: revise a chapter, write one story, revise another chapter, write the other story. I think each story took me about a month to write.

The first story was relatively easy, although I had to anticipate the second story while I was writing it. But when I got to the second story, well – it had to be fit around the first story. I had to make sure the pieces fit. So I put the first story in the stand by my computer, and I literally wrote the second story while reading the first story, matching them paragraph by paragraph. Of course, you will get different information in each story. Each is, after all, an individual account, from the point of view of a different person, who knows different things and even perceives the sames things differently. And you won’t get the entire story unless you read both versions.

Writing it was a feat of literary engineering.

But you know, even though the story was a technical challenge, I don’t think it reads like one. It reads like a story: easily, naturally. The characters sound like themselves. At least, they do to me. To me, they come alive, and I hope they will for readers as well. And I got something else into the story: my way of looking at the world. I have a sort of intuition, which I’ve had since I was a child, that the world is filled with pattern and order and beauty, although we often can’t see it. But that’s our fault, not the world’s fault. Our human ignorance hides it from us, our mechanical modern lives often obscure it. Most of us can no longer see the incredible beauty of the world. Which means we can’t understand rightly. Disease and death happen of course, but they’re part of it: they do not negate the underlying meaning.

If we look closely, as an artist or a scientist looks, we can begin to see it. For example, these are monarch butterflies:

Did you know that every fall, they fly 2000 miles south to Mexico, using the sun as a guide? But because the sun changes position throughout the day, they must have something, some sort of mechanism that adjusts for the movement of the sun. And it turns out they do, as scientists have discovered. They have a sort of internal clock – located in their antennae. Isn’t that magnificent? If you look closely enough at a butterfly, an ordinary butterfly fluttering from flower to flower in your garden on a summer day, you’ll see that it’s more wonderful than you could possibly have imagined.

That’s my philosophy, my way of looking at the world, and I think it got into the book. I think it gets into my best work. Indeed, I don’t think I write well unless there’s something of my philosophy in the story, the poem. It’s part of what makes for good writing.

It won’t interfere with the story, I promise.

After I had finished both stories, Stephen and I began the editing process. The second story was close to done, but the first story needed a few rounds of editing. I added, altered. I made motivations clearer. The character became both more sympathetic and more troubled. When I was finished, we had two stories of about 10,000 words each. One is slightly shorter than the other, but I think that discrepancy works, it fits thematically.

So that’s it, that’s how I wrote it. I’ve been showing it off today, and I will have a copy at the World Fantasy Convention, so if you want to see it, come find me. I’m looking forward to seeing what people think about it . . .