tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11201173219897685742024-02-19T22:42:37.057-08:00Write On The Fringes'A book must be an axe for the frozen sea within us.' Franz KafkaDr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-85462304980086295582014-01-31T03:22:00.000-08:002014-02-16T21:56:21.711-08:00A New Website<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: small;"> It’s been some months since I have posted on this blog.
Much has happened during those months: financial meltdowns, a house move, work
on my novel and a non-fiction book, work with my students, research seminars,
talks . . . much of it designed it seems, to take me out of my comfort zone.
Well the result is that the paramaters of my comfort zone have broadened, and
this finally gave me the determination to overcome ignorance and an economic
downturn and design a new website and blog, the <i>Centre
for Story</i>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Here I will build on the explorations I have undertaken in <i>Write on the Fringes</i>, as well as offer
resources and my services as a mentor, editor, speaker and workshop
facilitator. </span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Thank you to everyone who has followed <i>Write on the Fringes</i> and I do hope you continue the journey by crossing
over to the <a href="https://www.blogger.com/goog_334594475" target="_blank"><i>Centre for Story</i></a><a href="http://www.centreforstory.com/blog/">.</a> You can
also follow the <i>Centre for Story</i> on
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/centreforstory" target="_blank">facebook</a> and on <a href="https://twitter.com/Centre4Story" target="_blank">twitter</a>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">For anyone new to <i>Write
on the Fringes</i>, there is much material here about story, creativity and the
art and craft of writing, so please have an explore, but I would love it if you
also took a look at the Centre. </span></div>
</div>
Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-91156657191292749422013-05-01T03:30:00.001-07:002013-06-28T02:29:51.870-07:00A Creative Pact - Honouring The Muse<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Australian Aborigines say that the big stories—the
stories worth telling and retelling, the ones in which you may find the meaning
of your life—are forever stalking the right teller, sniffing and tracking like
predators hunting their prey in the bush.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Robert Moss, <i>Dreamgates</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Ideas come and go, flitting in and out of our minds.
In order to realise these ideas they must be grounded. As Julie Cameron
explains, ‘art is not about thinking something up. It is the opposite - getting
something down.’</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">For me, it is usually
enough to keep a journal in which to note a dream, a connection, a description,
a quote. . .</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">anything to provide an
anchor for my fleeting inspirations. But I have been guilty of neglecting my
journal, believing that I would remember the ideas that came through the dreams
that permeated my restless nights, or while walking on the promenade here in
Aberystwyth, listening to the crash of the waves and the cries of the gulls.
For a time the ideas came as they always have but I didn’t ground them and
after a while they stopped coming because I had stopped listening. I forced
myself to keep writing, not my novel, but other projects that demanded my
attention. However, the flow had stopped, so that I was giving without
receiving and in so doing, depleting myself. At first I just felt drained of
enthusiasm which should have been a clear warning signal because enthusiasm, a
term that originally meant an inspired connection to God, is a vital part of
creativity. After a while I became fatigued and emptied of vitality. Instead of
joy and vigour I found myself caught up in a deadening and monotonous
day-to-day routine. And finally I began questioning my calling as a writer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There have been a number of times in my life when
I’ve questioned my reasons for writing but until recently I have never doubted
that writing is my path in life, the form of expression best suited to me. This
doubt proved to be a wake-up call, alerting me to the process that had been
subtly eroding my creativity over many months. Since then, I have followed the
advice I gave myself in my previous post and found a way to re-engage with my
novel-in-progress. It is a tentative return though, a fragile agreement between
me and my muse, and one that could be broken again at any time if I don’t keep
my end of the bargain. And a bargain it is. For in turning my back on this
novel I have, in a sense, betrayed the responsibility I carry as a creator of
stories, a responsibility that entails being present for the creative process.
. . listening. . . trusting. . . making notes. . . following the clues. . .
asking questions. . . and looking at the world through seeing eyes. As Julie
Cameron explains, ‘in dance, in composition, in sculpture, the experience is
the same: we are more the conduit than the creator of what we express.’ To a
certain extent then, our creative expressions are gifts but in order to receive
them we must remain open (see <a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/2011/12/giving-and-receiving.html" target="_blank">Giving and Receiving</a>). If we turn away we lose
our connection and break our agreement. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At certain stages of the creative process, solitude
and silence are vital. We descend into a quiet place within ourselves where we
take stock and gather our energy, all the time listening and watching, waiting
for our inspiration. I am reading a good deal now, both fiction and non-fiction,
nourishing myself with the creations and ideas of others. I am walking too,
more slowly, relishing the quiet and taking time to notice everything around
me, to wonder at the mysteries of life, pausing joyfully in front of a bed of
flowers, and watching intrigued as a bird gathers twigs for its nest. It will
take time to refuel but I am on the way. Once again I am carrying my journal
with me and already I can feel the excitement of unexpected links and the
rewarding back and forth movement between my journal and the novel, as one
inspiration inspires another. As the
process continues, a sense of playfulness grows, a tuning in to the imagination
and a willingness to let go of expectations and allow surprises. Creativity
demands this playfulness, allowing us to make the necessary leap into the
unknown and retrieve our story (see <a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/2012/01/coming-unstuck.html" target="_blank">Coming Unstuck</a>). Ben Okri speaks of the ‘marriage between play
and discipline, purpose and mastery,’ a marriage that produces ‘the wonders of
literature’. For me this 'marriage' represents a perpetual movement between the heart and the head
and the intuitive and the rational as I seek to maintain a harmonious balance between
the art and the craft of writing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Storytelling is a sacred skill and sometimes it is
hard to meet its demands. The process is one of alchemy, taking the raw
material and transmuting it into gold, finding the essence of meaning,
exploring truth through metaphor and building bridges with words that will
paradoxically enable us to escape the very limitations of words. As in alchemy, the process is not purely
technical. There is something else, a tremendous change that must be brought
about within the alchemist or the story teller. In <i>The Philosopher’s Stone</i>, Peter Marshall writes that ‘at all times
an inextricable link was recognised between the personal growth of the
alchemist and the development of his experiments. Ultimately the alchemist is
the subject and object of his own experiment.’ As with alchemy, a story always
leaves its mark on the teller. Both writers and readers emerge changed but for
writers that change is usually fundamental and the process sometimes frightening.
For as novelist, Maria Szepes writes in <i>The
Red Lion</i>, ‘by the laws of alchemy something has to die and decay before it
can rise.’ If we deny the creative process, then we deny change and in so doing
we deaden ourselves to life. But if we accept change we step into the unknown
and while ultimately rewarding, it is not a safe journey and it is rarely easy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In his essay, <i>The
Joys of Storytelling</i>, Ben Okri describes ‘two essential joys. . . the joy
of the telling, which is to say of the artistic discovery. And the joy of
listening, which is to say of the imaginative identification . . . The first
involves exploration and suffering and love. The second involves silence and
openness and thought.’ As I make small forays into my novel, reacquainting
myself with the characters, building scenes and developing themes, I find
myself immersed once again in ‘the joy of the telling’. I can only hope that I
am have been stalked by a ‘big story’, one that is ‘worth telling and
retelling’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2013 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/" style="line-height: 24px;">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
</div>
Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-69167782306926644522013-03-18T08:21:00.000-07:002013-06-28T02:30:02.875-07:00Following The Clues - Research And Reflection<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">As for my next
book, I am going to hold myself from writing it till I have it impending in
me:</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">grown heavy in my mind like a ripe
pear; pendant, gravid, asking to be cut or it will fall.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span><br />
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: right;">
<span lang="EN-US">Virginia Woolf</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: .75pt;">
<span lang="EN-US">When I began this blog sixteen months ago, I was just about to start
work on a new novel. The blog was intended to map this journey I was
undertaking in my writing and to begin with it did. However, life got in the
way as it so often does and a different but parallel journey began to unfold
with its own plot line, turning points and character arc. My life underwent one
upheaval after another, and I found myself on a roller coaster of change.
During this time I stopped work on the novel but despite this the blog found
its own voice, always linking back to story and the creative process yet drawing
from experience and the philosophies of esoteric traditions to explore revelations
of self and individual growth. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Now that the dust
has settled I find myself in a very different place, physically,
psychologically and spiritually. I have worked through a backlog of projects and
been awarded a literature grant to assist with the writing of this new novel, <i>Falling Between Worlds</i>, so I can no
longer avoid it. Indeed, as Virginia Woolf describes so beautifully above, this
novel has ‘grown heavy in my mind; pendant, gravid, asking to be cut or it will
fall’. Yet now that I am here I am afraid all over again. What if it has become
overripe, has already fallen and now lies rotting on the ground, irretrievable?
What if I have grown out of this novel in some way? Alternatively, what if I
have not yet grown into it? I am suddenly overwhelmed with all the potential
novels I might write. Ideas flicker in and out of my mind, different
approaches, styles, points of view. . . Then again perhaps I am following the
wrong path altogether and there is another novel out there waiting for me to
stumble over it and bring it to life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Filled with all
these doubts, I have sat in front of my five thousand words and read them over
and over, seeing the faults (only the faults), even seeing where I might go
next, but the words are not coming. I can’t continue exactly where I left off
because I am not the same person I was sixteen months ago. It is always
dangerous to stop and start a project like this because it becomes stale and we
lose the magic and excitement of telling a story that is in part telling
itself. I’m trying to find my way back in. I have been through my journal, marking
all my old ideas, quotes, research notes, anything that might lead me back to my
story. But I am detached from these ideas now.
Before I left Tasmania, as part of my field research I visited the
forest protest site that will feature in the early part of <i>Falling Between Worlds</i>. Welcomed by the protesters, I was given the
opportunity to see how it worked and to imbibe the atmosphere of the camp and
the old growth forest surrounding it. An arsonist has since burnt down this
encampment, though I imagine it will be rebuilt because these protesters are
patient and committed in a way that is a joy to see. In the upheaval of the
past year, this visit to the Upper Florentine Valley has become a distant memory
and I have almost forgotten the intense stillness of the forest, the rich
smells of damp hummus. . . Perhaps given time I can sit with the memory of it,
re-inhabiting the experience and weaving it into my story. But I’m not yet
still enough to sit with my memories, quietly waiting for a breakthrough. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">I wanted to sit
down at my computer and just start writing where I had left off but that has
proven impossible. The commitment isn’t there yet and the words I need are
missing. Somehow I have to find a way to step through my fear and immerse
myself in the story again, reacquainting myself with the characters and their
needs. To do this, I must engage in more research. In <i>Story</i>, Robert McKee wrote that ‘research not only wins the war on cliché,
it’s the key to victory over fear and its cousin, depression.’ Research,
enables us to find our way out of writer’s block and into our stories, helping
us to establish a convincing setting, characters and plot. However, research is
not an alternative to the creative process, a way of avoiding an engagement
with the story. Ideally we fuse fact based research with our imaginations and
our memories, drawing on what we know and what might be. This new knowledge
allows us to step into the shoes of our characters and understand how they will
respond to the story in which they are situated. As McKee wrote, ‘creation and
investigation go back and forth, making demands on each other, pushing and
pulling this way or that until the story shakes itself out, complete and alive.’
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">At its best,
research will feed the story and the story will guide the research, a symbiotic
process that is quite magical. At its worst, research will halt the creative
process indefinitely, or take over the story; in the process squeezing it dry
and leaving it wooden and formulaic. Nearly every story needs some factual
research in order to construct convincing settings, characters and plot but the
skill is in finding the right balance. When I was immersed in writing <i>Gathering Storm</i> I suddenly came to an
abrupt halt and could go no further. Realising that in order to know my protagonist,
Storm, I had to learn more about the Romany world from which she was descended,
I reluctantly began researching Romany customs, history, language. . . making
notes from books and the internet. Then just as suddenly the writing began
again and my characters were enriched by my new knowledge, the information
feeding into and motivating their actions, ultimately helping me to create a
story that was convincing on many levels. During the writing of <i>Flight</i>, I also came to an abrupt halt just
as I was introducing a major character in the story. He needed to talk but I
couldn’t hear him. In this case factual research was no use; instead I had to
stop and consider who this character was and imagine what motivated him. In the
end I discovered a good deal about his past, simply by asking him questions. In
listening to his answers I also discovered how he talked and once again I found
a way forward. Remembering these examples of blocks and solutions reminds me
that I have solved these problems in the past so it is likely that I will do so
again with <i>Falling Between Worlds</i>. With
that knowledge I can feel the fear receding. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">Agatha Christie
once said that ‘the best time for planning a book is while you're doing the
dishes.’ The same goes for ironing, knitting, swimming (none of which I can do),
walking. . . or anything that occupies our bodies and yet is relatively mindless,
leaving us free and open for inspiration and mental planning. For me it is
walking that provides insights into my writing. As Robert Macfarlane writes in <i>The Old Ways</i>, ‘the compact between
writing and walking is almost as old as literature – a walk is only a step away
from a story, and every path tells.’ When I am writing, walking helps me to
find my way through the maze of potential pathways in my stories. It helps me
to understand what I am writing, to solve problems and to make links between
theme and plot, or plot and character development or motifs and theme. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US">What I am just
beginning to understand is that I am trying too hard to reengage with <i>Falling Between Worlds.</i> Instead I need
to slow down and read, muse, dream, make notes and walk, all the activities that
in my new and busier lifestyle, I had begun to see as self-indulgent, as
non-work rather than as research. I had almost forgotten that everything in
life feeds us. We aren’t machines that can crank out stories on demand. If we
don’t allow ourselves the time to meander and meditate, to read and to ponder, it
won’t be possible to create anything that is not simply mechanical. So, I will slow
my racing thoughts and begin listening once again to my intuition. And I will amble
along the maze of pathways in this beautiful Welsh countryside, climbing over
stiles and marching through the clinging mud, savouring the scent of gorse and
sheep manure and wild garlic, as I follow the clues that will lead me back to
my novel. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2013 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></span></div>
</div>
Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-29997952917997094992013-02-12T05:06:00.001-08:002013-06-28T02:30:14.433-07:00Describing Place and Self<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken
glass.’</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: 0.75pt; text-align: right;">
Anton Chekhov</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: .75pt;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: .75pt;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">Despite the fact that I had always carried the knowledge within me that
I would one day become a writer, for many years I also believed that I couldn’t
write, or at least that I was incapable of producing any writing of value. Not
surprisingly, this caused a deep conflict within me and some confusion. Looking
for the reasons behind this fundamental lack of faith in my own ability, I
could cite low self-confidence or even low self-worth, and to a certain extent
this was true. However, the real reason can be found in the word ‘value’. I
believed that I could not produce anything of ‘value’ because I was quick to
measure my abilities against those authors I read and often loved in high
school. My schooling had given me a clear sense of what was valuable and what
wasn’t. Maths and Science were valuable, while Art and English were not. And in
English, the subject I was most drawn to, some authors were valuable while
others were not. At the time I didn’t question these hierarchical constructions.
I reveled in the glorious language of the authors I was studying, and in the
process became deeply engaged in exploring the underlying meanings of texts and
excited by their philosophical and spiritual explorations. Yet, while enjoying these
texts I also came to believe that I was not a good writer because I couldn’t match
D H Lawrence’s vocabulary, the intensity of his passion or the richness of his descriptions;
Shakespeare’s depth of understanding was beyond me, and while the philosophy of
Euripides was tantalisingly wise, I was too young to embrace it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: .75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I was only able to liberate
myself from this belief when I began to understand that the depth of meaning I
was seeking was not found in language itself but in the spells we cast with words,
spells which create stories that reflect our experience and in the process
enable us to access a deeper knowledge. During the long process of letting go
of my expectations, I discovered that sometimes the simplest writing speaks the
most profoundly and that crafting a story is as valuable as writing vivid
descriptions. As Robert McKee wrote, in <i>Story</i>,
‘y</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">ou
may have the insight of a Buddha, but if you cannot tell a story, your ideas
turn dry as chalk’. </span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Over time I found my own voice as a
writer and with that, my own place in the spectrum of storysmith versus
wordsmith. Right in the middle. This has proved to be both a blessing and a
curse, as my writing bridges commercial and literary genres, leaving publishers
at a loss when deciding their marketing approach. Yet despite having liberated
myself from the misguided belief that for novel writers, description is more
important than story, and despite having my novels published, I am still astounded
when reviewers and readers comment (as they sometimes do) on the powerful
evocation of landscape in my novels or the vivid depictions of characters. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: .75pt;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Description is one of the fundamental elements in storytelling. It is a
tool or a technique and over time I have learned how to use it. As with any
technique of writing, description is both a craft which can be learned and an
art which can only be discovered. Description has a function or a number of
functions and should be used purposefully. It grounds and sets the story in place and
time, builds character, mood, tension and suspense, shifts pace, adds
plausibility, provides metaphors and deepens thematic exploration. In any story
there is also a balance that should be sought, between action, reflection and
description. Too little description and the story remains floating, ungrounded.
Too much description and the story threads become lost. As Stephen King wrote
in, <i>On Writing</i>, ‘description begins
in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.’ When and how
to use description, and how much to use, is something we can only learn through
trial and error.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: .75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: .75pt;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It is not always possible or even desirable to separate the art and the
craft of description, as the art is fed by an understanding of the craft. We
can only access the art of description by inhabiting the scene we are writing,
by living, breathing and tasting it, and by grasping its subtleties. What more
is this scene trying to tell us? How might it act as metaphor, as an expression
of a universal truth, a human emotion, a philosophical idea? The art of
description lies in what we make of a scene rather than what we observe.
Powerful description suggests so much more than the words themselves. Powerful
description layers and deepens our stories and their themes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: .75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: .75pt;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">V. S Naipul once wrote, ‘Land is not land alone, something that simply
is itself. Land partakes of what we breathe into it, is touched by our moods
and memories.’ A reminder perhaps, that it is not possible to be objective in
our descriptions when even the decision to include or exclude information is a
subjective one. What we see inevitably changes according to our mood and our
memory. We see what we feel and we interpret what we see through our emotions,
our memory and the ideology which frames us and forms us. The way we describe
the world is a political act, always subjective yet more often than not,
heralding itself as objective. Yet most of the time it is unconscious. Most of
us can only see the world in the way we expect to see it, limited and framed by
our ideology, by our personal and cultural history, by our understandings. Perhaps
it is enough to be aware of the restrictions within which we interpret and
describe the world, in order to begin breaking free of these restrictions. In
any case, it is certainly useful to be aware of these restrictions in order to
make use of them when we describe the world through the eyes of our
character/s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: .75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: .75pt;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">If we describe how ugly someone is but neglect to notice the beauty of
their expression, then we have missed an opportunity to deepen a character and
extend our understanding further. If we describe
walking into a beautiful landscape that is filled with the stench of death or
sewerage, we would most certainly need to call on our other senses in order to
explore the contradictions and build tension into our story. We see, feel, touch, taste, smell and intuit the
world around us (see <i><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/writing-between-worlds-describing.html" target="_blank">Writing Between Worlds – Describing the Indescribable</a></i>), and recording these sensations
helps us to bring our stories to life on the page. We also react to our
environment, and those reactions are personal as well as cultural. Stepping out
into the cold may be exhilarating for one person and terrifying for another, particularly
if that person carries a traumatic memory that relates to the cold, or is being
exiled from home, or simply, doesn’t have warm clothes. Returning to a
childhood home or an old school will arouse different emotions in us, according
to the memories we carry from our earlier time in these places. One person sitting
on an outcrop of rocks, high up on a hill, might experience a peaceful summer’s
day, the warm air sitting calmly in the valleys below, friendly voices calling
out to each other, the smell of cut hay, sheep dung. . . yet another person
sitting on that same rocky outcrop, might experience a day full of sinister
overtones, the shadows in the valley too dark, the voices of others harsh and
unfriendly, the sun burning. . . Through considering emotion, reaction and
memory as well as the physical characteristics of a place, we can begin to
build the tensions, the conflicts and the contradictions that will feed out
story and make our characters plausible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: .75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: .75pt;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In <i>Bird by Bird</i>, Anne Lamott
wrote that ‘metaphors are a great language tool, because they explain the
unknown in terms of the known.’ With metaphor
we find ways of stepping beyond the limitations of language, of expressing
meaning without reverting to cliché or telling the reader what really needs to
be shown. If we describe a tiny plant struggling to grow through a crack in a
concrete pavement in a busy city street, it tells us something about the power
of nature over what is man-made. It also tells us about persistence and reminds
us that strength doesn’t always lie in might. Perhaps too, it might tell us
about a child growing up in a loveless family. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: .75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: .75pt;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Nature acts as a powerful metaphor in storytelling. As Jung wrote in <i>The Integration of the Personality,</i> ‘all
the mythological occurrences of nature, such as summer and winter, the phases
of the moon, the rainy seasons. . . are symbolic expressions for the inner and
unconscious psychic drama that becomes accessible to human consciousness by way
of projection – that is, mirrored in the events of nature.’ In my novel, <i>Flight,</i> a journey into the wilderness in Tasmania is a metaphor for a journey inwards into the labyrinthine depths of the unconscious. Describing natures seasons in our stories also provides a deeper layer of meaning that links the cycles
of nature to human experience, a link that reminds us of our connection to all
life, and allows us to access and express universal truths.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: .75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: .75pt;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We use description to provide information, to slow the pace, to build
tensions, to provide texture, to break up monotony, to establish mood, ambiance
and theme. But most importantly, description is a powerful tool that when used
well, enhances and deepens our writing, helping us to create a convincing
setting that transports the reader into the world of the story, enabling them
to suspend disbelief until the end. Description isn’t easy but mastering it is worthwhile
and rewarding. And the key to that mastery is in capturing detail, seeking
simile or metaphor and avoiding self-indulgence. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2013 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/" style="line-height: 24px;">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></span></div>
</div>
Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-86212782477559775472012-12-20T01:56:00.000-08:002013-06-28T02:30:24.646-07:002012 - Revelations<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">'The world as we have created it is a process of our thinking. It cannot
be changed without changing our thinking.'</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Albert Einstein<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Earlier this year I wrote a post called <i>Writing Through 2012</i>. It arose as a
response to the predominantly negative interpretation of the significance of 2012, and from asking myself if creativity is possible without hope? At the
time, like many others, I had become focused on all that is wrong with the
world in which we live, and as a result had sunk into a sense of bleakness and a dark depression.
I had not understood the way our thoughts form what we fear
and the way our fears become the focus of our thoughts – a powerful catch 22 that traps us in a psychological prison that creates self-fulfilling
prophecies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This has not been an easy year for many. Globally there
have been heart breaking tragedies, injustices, betrayals and disappointments, but there
have also been huge outpourings of compassion, peaceful demonstrations against
violence, greater demands for transparency, integrity and honesty in government
and the media. Humanity is beginning to change, beginning to seek a new and saner path and
we are lucky enough to be a part of this change. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">‘The
world is changing and the time has come to let go of the old ways, the ones
that ensure the repetitions of history. Peace is a gentle thing that can no
longer be fought for. Instead it will enter our hearts and spread from there
like the ripples of a pebble dropped into a pond.' These words form part of the epilogue to my novel,
<i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-ebook/dp/B005WEZZFY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1355997274&sr=8-1&keywords=Rosie+Dub+flight" target="_blank">Flight</a></i>. They are a cry of hope, a
small force against the fearfulness that inhabits humanity’s collective
consciousness, a fearfulness that is consistently fed by the negative focus of
the media. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The original post still speaks to the times we find
ourselves in so I thought this a timely moment to repost it below. I wish you
all a fearless, hopeful and joy filled festive season. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Writing
Through 2012<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">'The world is changing and we are changing with it. It
is too soon perhaps to see how.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: right;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Rosie Dub, <i>Flight<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It's only early March and I have already had a
significant birthday, a new novel published and I've become a Doctor of
Philosophy. There have been school holidays and guests, colds and overgrown
gardens to attend to. Time seems to be speeding up, it's difficult (well
actually impossible), to fit everything in each day. And not least of all, it's
2012; there are murmurings of dread in the air whispers of prophecies and predictions,
the end of the world, wars, earthquakes, social disruption. . . . The news is
full of injustice and upheaval, insane violence and corruption. 'The
Apocalypse,' people are saying. 'The Mayans predicted it for 2012. It is
coming.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Needless to say, so far this year I've found it
difficult to settle down and write, difficult sometimes to even credit the
value of writing or to focus on anything positive. Because hope is what keeps
us moving forward, it's what keeps us creating when around us is destruction.
Without hope, we find ourselves sinking into a mire of helplessness and with
that comes a shadowy inertness that becomes stronger and darker each time it is
fed. Caught in this helpless spiral I found myself sinking quickly, and seeking
more fuel to feed this hopelessness. I stared at the blank screen on my
computer and found nothing to say, stopped writing in my journal, forgot I had
a new novel to write, a new story to tell, something that sought harmony
through chaos and beauty through ugliness, something that just might help
provide a little nudge towards making this world we have created into a better
place. I forgot why I had written <i>Flight</i>,
what gifts it had given me and a growing number of readers. In short, I forgot
the power of hope. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">'We
do not inherit the earth from our parents, we borrow it from our children.' I
read this anonymous quote many years ago and at the time it shifted something
within me, helping me to see from a different perspective, one that is not so
much 'me' centred but rather 'world' centred, a perspective that reveals a
bigger picture and a sense of responsibility. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When I read this again
recently, I realised that with three children growing into an uncertain world,
it is vital for me to keep the flame of hope burning. In fact, it is my
responsibility. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">'Enough,' I said to myself and set about making a few
changes. Firstly, I made the decision not to watch the news for a while, or
anything else for that matter; no ruthless elimination shows, no violent
dramas, no historical war documentaries and no flashy, inane celebrity shows. I
went for a walk, then another, took up yoga again, made myself a vegetable
juice, all the things I couldn't do when I was filled with hopelessness.
Quickly I began feeling better. I looked at my journal again, went over what I
had already written and once again began getting flashes of insights that I
hoped would lead me back to my new novel. But all the time I kept wondering
about this apocalypse business, wondering if it would be more useful to grow
vegetables, put in a water tank, get off the grid, protect my children from the
inevitable. . . <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Frustrated, I looked up the word 'apocalypse' a term
we associate with widespread destruction, with the end of the world as we know
it. But in the definition I found something quite different. Apocalypse comes
from the Greek word, apocalypsis, meaning a 'lifting of the veil' or
'revelation'. According to Wikipedia it means 'a disclosure of something hidden
from the majority of mankind in an era dominated by falsehood and
misconception'. Not an end then, far from it. Rather a time of change and a
seeing through. A time perhaps when truth will be harder to hide. When humanity
will look for different qualities in their leaders; integrity perhaps,
compassion and honesty. Looking at it in this way, it is not an end but a
possibility of a new beginning. With this definition in mind I can sit in front
of my computer screen and find the words needed to create something new. Once
again I have found hope and optimism and with it the possibility of action. And
with that, the key to my new novel, <i>Walking
Between Worlds</i>. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2013 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-13924347843165948982012-12-10T04:02:00.000-08:002013-06-28T02:30:33.933-07:00Exploring Landscape and Belonging Through Story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">‘Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.’</span><br />
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: 0.75pt; text-align: right;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">James Baldwin <i>Giovanni’s Room</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 150%;">Recently I attended a storytelling festival in Aberystwyth and as I sat
mesmerized by the unfolding story of Pryderi, the ruler of Dyfed, I realized
once again the power of the ancient stories and the oral tradition of storytelling
to connect us to history, to each other and to the land. In </span><i style="line-height: 150%;">Women Who Run
With The Wolves</i><span style="line-height: 150%;">, Clarissa Pinkola Estes wrote that, ‘telling or hearing
stories draws its power from a towering column of humanity joined one to the
other across time and space, elaborately dressed in the rags or robes or
nakedness of their time.’ Listening to this spine tingling retelling of stories
from the Welsh </span><i style="line-height: 150%;">Mabinogion</i><span style="line-height: 150%;">, for a moment I felt myself balanced on this
towering column and understood what it must mean for someone to feel rooted to
the earth, to grow and develop in a country with stories that feed the soul
with the wisdom of mythic times, and a landscape that is steeped in these
stories.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: 0.75pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">While the stories we tell about ourselves form our individual identity,
the stories we tell about our country form our national identity and for better
or worse, these narratives act as roots to ground us to place, providing a
sense of belonging and a definition of nationhood. I don’t pretend to be Welsh
but my ancestral roots are closer to Britain than they are to Australia where
my ancestors are not the indigenous Aboriginal people whose land was taken from
them. It’s not always comfortable being a white Australian. We have no ancient claim
to the land and no traditional stories to draw from, except the stories of
conquering and overcoming the odds, and the legends of mateship and a ‘fair go’
that came with colonization and a persistent white Australian policy. These are
stories that have become mythologized in Australia, forming a national
character that often marginalizes the indigenous population and ignores the
fact that Australia is now a multi-cultural nation and the majority of its
population are or once were, immigrants. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: 0.75pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">There are a number of contradictions inherent in white Australians’ relationship
to the land. Many of us are at once drawn to, and repelled by the outback, awed
by its beauty and frightened by its dangers. We carry the guilt of the
conqueror, a guilt that often stops us from claiming a real connection to the
land. Our legendary heroes are the men who cleared fields of rocks, who dug
canals to drain marshy land, who made the harsh land work for them. The Aussie
battler has become part of our national character. Yet, despite this reverence
for the outback, more than ninety percent of Australians live in urban
environments, for the most part clustered around the edges of this continent,
turned away from the centre which carries such a mystique. We romanticise the
wilderness, but most rarely, if ever, experience it. Yet, deep within us
there's such a longing for wildness, for wilderness and for the sense of real
connection with place. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: 0.75pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">When I began writing my first novel, <i>Gathering Storm</i>, I had no
idea how important a role landscape would play in it or how confused I was
about my own relationship to the land. The story moves from the snow covered
Malvern Hills in England to the harsh heat of the Australian outback, a
dramatic contrast in itself, but then there are the contradictions that are
deeply embedded in the relationship the characters have with the places in
which they live, or once lived, or never lived, but still dream of. These are
contradictions which I feel strongly, having grown up in the suburban
wilderness of Adelaide, with its manicured lawns, neat fences and garden beds
filled with roses and hydrangeas, all cowering under well placed umbrellas to
avoid the worst of the baking sun. At school I learned European history in an
education system that was still clinging to the comforting notion of a
homeland. The only things reminding me that there was more to Australia, were
the throaty laugh of the kookaburra, the eucalyptus scent of the gums trees,
the fierce summer heat and the frequent dust storms that blew in from 'out
back', turning the sky orange and clogging our lungs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: 0.75pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">The word nostalgia comes from two Greek roots, <i>nostos</i> (returning
home) and <i>algos</i> (pain). For most of my life I suffered from this
affliction; a yearning to return home but no idea of where that home might be. This
sense of alienation I felt goes some way towards explaining why I decided to
make my main character English in <i>Gathering Storm</i>. This gave me the
freedom to describe Australia through the eyes of a stranger, someone who
doesn't belong. Storm is also part Romany – partly imbued with the blood of a
nomadic people, and although her family have lived in England for nearly
seventy years, she still doesn't fully belong there either. Storm belongs
nowhere. She is torn between movement and stillness, restless but afraid,
wanting to settle, but eager to move. Her sense of self is scattered between
the cottage in the Malvern Hills, her boyfriend’s apartment, her art studio and
her Kombi van. Then there's her romantic notion of a Bohemia she has never visited, her nostalgia for the
Malvern of her childhood and her fearful retracing of her mother's footsteps in
the Australian outback. And finally there's the traumatic cultural legacy of the past
that plays havoc with her sense of self. Storm’s childhood is filled with
secrets and silences embedded in the spaces between the stories her family
reluctantly tell. Speaking of her childhood need for stories, Storm says, ‘I
consumed them as if there were a great hollow inside me that needed filling and
that once filled, their weight, the weight of my ancestors, would act as an
anchor. . .’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: 0.75pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">For me, a sense of belonging is linked very closely to place and to the
stories we tell that connect us to place. I was an adopted child and grew up steeped
in a sense of my own illegitimacy. Like Storm, I felt I belonged nowhere, that
no place was truly mine. And because this lack of belonging was a strong
central theme in my own life, it inevitably demanded to be explored in the
stories I told. Woven through both <i>Gathering Storm</i> and <i>Flight</i>, is
this sense of dislocation and statelessness that can be felt and experienced
personally, but also within a family a culture and a nation. Place gives us
identity, a passport to belonging. But time does it too. In a sense, space and
time cross when a family or a people have been anchored in one place for
generations. Ancestors provide us with roots and so does place. As Storm asks:
How long does it take? How many generations? Do we inherit place? Do we earn
it? Or is belonging simply a state of mind? Exploring these questions through
writing has helped me to resolve issues of belonging and identity within my own
life. Like Storm I have begun to suspect that belonging is ultimately something
we carry inside of ourselves. It is a realisation that comes when we are on the
right path in our lives. Until then nowhere is ours, but when this realisation arrives,
the world becomes ours. For as Joseph Campbell wrote, ‘our true reality is in
our identity and unity with all life’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2013 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
</div>
Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-614504328295558462012-11-12T03:27:00.002-08:002013-06-28T02:30:44.391-07:00Writing Between Worlds – Describing the Indescribable<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">‘The frontier of our
world is not far away; it doesn't run along the horizon or in the depths. It
glimmers faintly close by, in the twilight of our nearest surroundings; out of
the corner of our eye we can always glimpse another world, without realizing it.’ </span><br />
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Michel Adjvaz</span></div>
<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif;">Two months ago I arrived in Wales, a place of great beauty and wildness,
a place laden with mystery and layered with history. Here it seems as if the
veil between worlds is thinner than elsewhere, so that from the corner of my
eye I see glimpses of other times - a flash of a man on horseback, the swish of
long skirts. . . There are glimpses of other worlds too, as I discovered
driving home one evening along a narrow country lane with a forest lining each
side of the road. Ahead of me, I clearly saw a figure the size of a man yet not
a man, moving across the road but high up, almost level with the canopies of
the trees. Not wanting to make my children nervous, I decided not to mention
it. Despite my precautions my son went strangely quiet and we drove home in
silence. The next morning as we retraced the road through the same forest, I
told my children that I had seen something the night before. My son stated that
he had seen something too in this spot, but by the side of the road, just a
little above the ground, a figure the size of a man yet not a man . . .</span><span style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif;">Real and yet not real. Imagination? Fantasy? It’s generally easy for
others to rationalise these things away, as a trick of the light, a flight of
the imagination, wishful thinking even. . . and yet when we experience
something outside of the realms of what we consider normal or possible, then we
know it with a deep and protective certainty. In my experience many people have
seen or experienced something they cannot explain, yet most of them keep it to
themselves in the knowledge that putting it to words generally reduces the
experience, and in the fear that they will be ridiculed. In <i>Weight</i>,
Jeanette Winterson wrote, </span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif;">'Right now, human beings as a mass, have a gruesome
appetite for what they call 'real'. . . Such a phenomenon points to a terror of
the inner life, of the sublime, of the poetic, of the non-material, of the
contemplative.' </span><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif;">Perhaps we carry this fear in our genes, stamped by
the horrors of history into our ancestors and passed down generation after
generation. This has been reinforced by the successes of scientific materialism
and the relegation of the non-rational to the status of superstition. Inevitably,
over time we have become detached from the natural world around us and lost our
own connection with the magic and mystery of life, handing control of the
spiritual experience to the priests of organised religion and handing
validation of our own experience, to their modern equivalent, the technocrats
of science. We have been taught to hold the fear at bay by seeking certainty in the rational,
the measurable, the flesh and blood physical world of the five senses, and in
so doing we have passively watched the colour seep out of life. Perhaps it is
fear that has led so many of us to consider as virtues the deadening qualities
of scepticism and cynicism.</span><span style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif;">The best of religion is not blinkered and nor is the best of science.
One of our greatest scientists, Albert Einstein, once said that ‘the intuitive
mind is a sacred gift and the rational mind is a faithful servant,’ then went
on to warn that ‘we have created a society that honors the servant and has
forgotten the gift.’ In so doing we have found ourselves limited by the
constraints of the five-senses which have come to define the physical world,
and yet there is so much more beyond these restrictions, so many more threads
which connect all things and such a thin membrane separating the physical world
from the invisible world. I have always been interested in treading the line
between worlds in my writing, of finding ways to transcend the boundaries of
time and space. Not by creating fantastical other worlds but rather by slipping
back and forth between our everyday world and the worlds which sit beyond or
within. Yet I know from personal experience just how difficult it is to
translate extrasensory experience onto paper without losing its vitality, and
for a time this difficulty led me to stay closer to the ‘real’ in my writing
than I wished.</span><span style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif;">Stories themselves are not ‘of this world’. As Haruki Murakami wrote in<i>Sputnik
Sweetheart,</i> ‘a</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif;"> real story requires a kind of magical baptism
to link the world on this side with the world on the other side.' With this in
mind, I finally took the plunge and </span><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif;">began breaking the rules of
realism, playing with space and time, with cause and effect and with the line
between life and death. In <i>Eva Luna</i>, Isabel Allende wrote that ‘reality
is not only what we see on the surface; it has a magical dimension as well and,
if we so desire, it is legitimate to enhance it and color it to make our
journey through life less trying.” In a sense this is what I have done in <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-ebook/dp/B005WEZZFY" target="_blank"><span style="color: #660000; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Flight</span></a></i> –
taken my own experiences, many of which I hadn’t fully understood, and thrown
them into the winds, letting them settle into place and form a story, whilst
giving my imagination free reign to fill in the gaps. What eventually emerged
was something more truthful than any material fact I could cite.</span><span style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU" style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif;">Writing that explores these boundaries between the visible and invisible
worlds tends to be called magical realist but more often than not this title is
applied to or claimed by only South American writers such as Isabel Allende and
Gabriel Garcia Marquez. In truth, its roots are much broader, including among
others, Angela Carter, Toni Morrison, Salmon Rushdie, Franz Kafka, and
Haruki Murakami. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif;">For want of a better word, I will label my latest
novel, <i>Flight</i> as magical realist, a genre I am drawn to for a
number of reasons. Firstly, magical realism has a strong affinity with Jungian
psychology, encouraging a sense of connectedness between all things and often
drawing on ancient esoteric beliefs. Secondly, I believe that magical realism
is a subversive genre. </span><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif;">Whether or not we write directly about politics,
our writing is always a political act because depending on our approach it
defines, reinforces or rewrites our understanding of the world in which we
live. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif;">To
re-introduce magic into realism is a necessary political act, pushing back
against the restrictive socially constructed boundaries of what is ‘real’.</span><span lang="EN-AU" style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif;">And finally, as Lois Zamora
and Wendy Faris wrote in <i>Magical Realism</i>, ‘the supernatural . . .
[becomes] an ordinary matter, an everyday occurrence – admitted, accepted and
integrated into the rationality and materiality of literary realism’. In this
genre, magic is a fundamental part of life, as ordinary and as necessary as the
air we breathe. This gives us the space to write about our experiences without
fear of ridicule, drawing on symbolism and metaphor to create the necessary
bridges between one world and the other. In so doing we are finally able to
describe the indescribable. </span><span style="color: #3b3b3b; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2013 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></span></div>
</div>
Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-45613727086230042872012-10-09T03:29:00.003-07:002013-06-28T02:31:06.887-07:00The Alchemy of Story: Initiation, Transformation, Revelation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">'The journey into
the Underworld is nothing less than a voyage into the heart of Being.’<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Peter Marshall, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Philosopher’s
Stone<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0.75pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When I finished
my PhD last year, along with the expected sense of completion, came a building
excitement because already I could feel the tug of future journeys; new
directions in my research were piling up, luring me to explore ever more widely
and deeply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt as if I had only just
begun my research journey and this is a feeling I still carry with me; constant
and tantalizing it speaks of knowledge just out of my reach, of further
personal journeys I must take in my writing and my life, revelations that will
transform my perceptions and my self. For the knowledge gained through reading
isn’t enough. It must also be ‘realised’ in some way, taken in and understood
in our hearts and through experience. Research is a fusion of reading and
experience, it is something we must live. As Paolo Coehlo wrote in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Alchemist</i>, ‘There is only one way to
learn. . . It’s through action. Everything you need to know you have learned
through your journey.’ Each of us is on a personal journey that links to but
doesn’t follow exactly, the paths of those who have come before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And each journey is an initiation of sorts,
the plunging into darkness that is necessary in order to find the light. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0.75pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I have been
reading Lindsay Clarke’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Water
Theatre</i>, a beautiful and profound novel that explores this initiatory
process. In it, Clarke refers to the Way of the Fool, a way that is sometimes
hard and dangerous because it is a spiritual quest undertaken ‘without the
protection and discipline that comes from membership of an order’. ‘On such a
way one can get lost very easily. One can come to harm,’ warns a priest in the
novel. Despite the difficulties and dangers of this path, for many of us this
is the only way. With this choice comes an understanding that there is never
just one journey, that each initiation leads us to another place from which we
must plunge again into the depths as we seek the light. As Clarke writes, ‘though
the journey is always inward, the outer journey – down and through and out
again – is indispensable, for it is down there, in the darkness of the underworld
that the sun at midnight shines.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0.75pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Although I’ve
already mentioned this in some of my earlier posts, I want to explore a little
further the way in which mystical initiation can be mirrored in the structure
of story and the inner journey of character. Initially it was my interest in
the therapeutic nature of story that led me to explore the roots of and nature
of shamanism. Unexpectedly, threads of my research began to appear in my novel
in the form of references to shamanism and to the process of initiation that
candidates are forced to undertake in order to become shamans. However, it
wasn't until much later that I began to understand the shamanic journey as a
metaphor for something that was reflected in the very shape of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Flight-ebook/dp/B005WEZZFY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1349778313&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Flight</a></i>, as well as in my own personal
journey during the writing of it. </span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0.75pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">According to
Jungian analyst, </span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Donald F Sandner in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sacred Heritage: The Influence of Shamanism
on Analytical Psychology, </i>'t</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">he basic shamanic pattern is not a manifestation of a
certain culture but rather an archetype, a constant and universal part of the
human psyche'. </span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Anthropologist, Joan Halifax refers
to shamanic initiation as a metaphysical voyage, while Jung saw the patterns in
shamanism as a metaphor for the process of individuation. These patterns are implicit
in the structure of most stories: the symbolism of death and mystical
resurrection, descent to the underworld, followed by magical flight. It is a
turning away from what is known and a stepping into the unknown. It is a call
to change and to adventure. To deny the opportunity for adventure is to deny
life and in so doing to restrict the growth of the soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0.75pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Religious historian Mercea Eliade, studied shamanism and myth and drew strong
parallels across many cultures, parallels which are useful for exploring the
relationship between shamanism and story. Of particular interest is his map of
the structure of the shaman's world and the way in which shamanic journeying
mirrors the structure of narrative. In shamanism there is usually an upper,
middle and lower world, which mirrors the selves or the layers of the psyche.
The middle world is the world we recognise, the world of ordinary events. The
lower world or underworld is associated with death and shadow, as well as
dangerous spirits and in Christianity is generally considered hell. The upper
world is associated with light and ascension, it is 'the realm of transcendent
consciousness' a realm that Christianity refers to as heaven. Crucially,
however, one can only access the higher world through the lower world. We
cannot ignore or bury what lurks in our depths without becoming weighed down,
too heavy for the required ascent. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is
possible then, to extend this idea of an upper, middle and lower world to the
structure of narrative, with the protagonist beginning in the middle world,
journeying into the underworld, then, if the necessary lessons are learned,
ascending to the upper world, before returning once again to the middle world
to share his or her rewards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0.75pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-ebook/dp/B005WEZZFY" target="_blank">Flight</a></i>, Fern's journey is
an initiation. I used the term shamanism and indeed, Fern's initiation pattern
is very similar: a sickening, followed by a loss of self, then a journey into
the underworld to face one's demons, followed by a regaining of power and
flight. However, this is the journey of the soul and does not need to be
labelled as a shamanic journey. When Fern expresses a discomfort about
shamanism, Cassie tells her that it is just one of many paths, all of which
bring you to the same place, your self. 'A shaman,' she says, 'is just someone
who has healed themselves and because of this, they can heal others.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0.75pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Following my instincts and the needs of the novel I am currently
writing, my research has led me to begin exploring mystical initiation through
the ages, in particular alchemy which can be interpreted on both a literal
(physical) level and a metaphorical (spiritual) level. In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Philosopher’s Stone</i>, Peter Marshall explains that ‘first and
foremost alchemy is the art of transformation’ and goes on to describe the
alchemical process as mirroring ‘the stages of the integration and realisation
of the self’, something which Jung identified in his own studies of the art of
alchemy. The parallels between shamanism and alchemy were immediately clear, as
were the parallels between alchemy and story. In story, the external plot
mirrors the inward transformation of character; in alchemy ‘the transmutation
of external matter mirrors the inward transformation of the soul.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0.75pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Initiation,
Transformation, Revelation is a fundamental part of the alchemical process and
something that is repeated again and again in our lives and our stories</span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">. The writing of a novel can also be an initiation of sorts, changing us
fundamentally, as has happened to me with each of my books. In the preface to
his novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Chymical Wedding</i>, Lindsay
Clarke describes the writing process as a discovery that a book about alchemy
also needed to be a ‘work of alchemy’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
writes, ‘I soon found myself getting lost again and again, like the alchemists
before me, inside a bewildering labyrinth of images, as both the book and the
author underwent a sometimes gruelling process of transformation.’ There are
many ways to self, just as there are many paths to writing a novel. For each
there are a multitude of guides, mentors and techniques acting as the threads
to help us find our way blindly through the labyrinth, following the Way of the
Fool in order to become ourselves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2013 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/" style="line-height: 24px;">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-31570476864988593622012-09-17T07:22:00.002-07:002013-06-28T02:32:30.799-07:00The Heroine's Journey<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">'The journey of
the Heroine is about saying 'yes' to the true self and, in so doing, to become
more fully alive and effective in the world.'</span><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Maureen Murdock<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">For the past few
weeks I have been writing about Joseph Campbell’s model of the Hero’s Journey
and how it translates to the stages within story. However, many women are
concerned that this </span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">model of the heroic journey excludes
women, or at least doesn't allow for gender differences. Maureen Murdock, in
her book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Heroine's Journey</i> goes
some way towards addressing this problem by suggesting a useful alternative
model for women which is similar to but in a sense more layered than Campbell’s
model. I won’t go into the details of each stage in this post but they include:
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Separation from feminine; identification with Masculine and gathering
allies <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Road of trials, meeting ogres and dragons <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Finding the (illusory) boon of success <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Awakening to feelings of spiritual aridity: death <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Initiation and Descent to the Goddess <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Urgent yearning to reconnect with the feminine <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Healing the mother/daughter split <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Healing the wounded masculine <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Integration of the masculine and feminine<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Unlike Campbell's linear structure for story, Murdock proposes a
circular structure more appropriate to the inward seeking nature of the woman's
journey. While, I agree with and appreciate the stages Murdoch lists in her
model, I am not drawn to its circular nature. In some ways a circle might
symbolically represent completion but it also represents the potential for
nightmarish repetition; to end where you began is not what stories seek to do.
As psychologist, Roger Woolger writes, 'psychologically, circles can represent
every kind of self-perpetuating torment’. I prefer to imagine the journey as a
double spiral structure, one that ensures a descent but also a return to a new
position, expressing the symbolic death of the body and its spiritual rebirth
through initiation. As a double spiral we are also left with the suggestion
that there will be new journeys, taking us into new adventures, both internal
and external. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0.75pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Heroine’s Journey</i>,
Murdock calls one of the stages, 'Initiation and Descent to the Goddess',
describing the Babylonian myth of Inanna's descent into the underworld, to
visit her sister Ereshkigal who has been raped by the gods and exiled to the
underworld. On her way, Inanna must pass seven gates, at each of which she
surrenders more of her identity, until naked she arrives in the Underworld
where she is stripped of her life and left to rot, before being released once
again, reborn. </span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The myth of Inanna, is a beautiful story, a metaphor for initiation into
the mystery of life and like many of the more masculine heroic stories, it also
recognises the need to confront the darkness in our psyches. In my novel,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-ebook/dp/B005WEZZFY" target="_blank">Flight</a></i>, this darkness is represented by
the malevolence invading the protagonist’s dreams and threatening her life, as
well as the surfacing of old memories, particularly of herself as a baby. There
are parallels between the myth of Inanna and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Flight</i>, with Fern's stay in the psychiatric ward acting as a
metaphor for the underworld. It is here that Fern begins to experience the
malevolence attacking her. And here that Fern begins to surrender her identity,
when in the mirror she comes face to face with her skeleton self. Later she
dreams of her skeleton self, collapsing into pieces, symbolising the death of
her old self. From there she must face the darkness in order to begin the
restructuring process and eventually give birth to a new self. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0.75pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Whilst accepting that there are essential gender differences and that it
is useful to identify them, I believe, like Vogler, that despite a clear
historical bias in determining the content of stories and the gender of its
heroes, the structure of heroic myth maps a human process of evolution towards
a potential that exists beyond these differences. Most stories involve a
character's descent into their psyche in some way with their ultimate goal the
balancing of the masculine and the feminine. Certainly some of the markers
along the way are different, as Murdock identifies. In many respects, men and
women do have different journeys: the masculine journey is usually an active,
goal oriented quest, whilst the feminine journey is more internal, like the
story of Inanna, a descent into ones depths. Yet, as Bruno Bettelheim points
out in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Uses of Enchantment</i>, 'even
when the girl is depicted as turning inward in her struggle to become herself,
and a boy as aggressively dealing with the external world, these two together
symbolize the two ways in which one has to gain selfhood: through learning to
understand and master the inner as well as the outer world.' While the plot in
stories usually represents an external active adventure of some sort, the
character arc generally represents an inner journey. So a protagonist might
embark on an adventure in order to learn how to be active in the world but in
so doing also be forced to confront his or her inner demons. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0.75pt 0pt 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Perhaps ultimately both journeys are a metaphor for the same goal, hence
the 'active' and 'masculine' slaying of a dragon is a metaphor for inner
change, for facing those things within us that we are most afraid of and for
reclaiming our treasure. So while we should not deny the rich differences
between genders, it is in these journeys that we reclaim our power, seeking to
recognise and in a sense move beyond duality by balancing the masculine and
feminine elements within ourselves.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0.75pt 0pt 0cm; tab-stops: 0cm 36.0pt;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/" style="line-height: 24px;">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
</div>
Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-30786986225991833222012-09-06T01:45:00.000-07:002013-06-28T02:32:21.483-07:00The Hero's Journey - Stages of the Adventure<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">‘We must be
willing to get rid of the life we've planned, so as to have the life that is
waiting for us.’<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Joseph Campbell<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It
seems appropriate to be writing about the Hero’s Journey right now, as I’m immersed
in my own journey; moving to a new country, a new job and ultimately, no doubt,
a new way of living. Journeys are always confronting and no matter how well
planned, any adventure will be filled with both joy and terror, moments when
everything slips into harmony and we know all is as it should be, and other
moments when we feel we simply can’t go on, or we’re certain we’ve made a
terrible mistake setting off at all. But there’s no turning back, so all we can
do is deal with each new challenge as it arises, riding the wave of change and
hoping we’re not dumped too often. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In
my last post I wrote more generally about the Hero’s Journey. This post I want
to explore the stages of the journey more deeply. According to mythologist,
Joseph Campbell, the three stages of story, Separation, Initiation and Return,
can be found in most heroic myths, many contemporary stories, and in the
journeys of mystics, shamans and sages throughout time and space. Within each
major stage Campbell identified a number of common elements: </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Separation</span></b><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> includes: the Call to Adventure; Refusal of the Call; Supernatural Aid;
the Crossing of the First Threshold; and the Belly of the Whale. </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Initiation</span></b><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> includes: The Road of Trials; the Meeting with the Goddess; Woman as
Temptress; Atonement with the Father; Apotheosis; and the Ultimate Boon. </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Return</span></b><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> includes: Refusal of Return; the Magic Flight; Rescue from Without; the
Crossing of the Return Threshold; Master of Two Worlds; and Freedom to Live.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Writer's Journey</i>, Christopher Vogler
describes a simpler three-part, twelve-stage structure in stories, which
incorporates and occasionally develops the stages Campbell identified. </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Act One or Preparation</span></b><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> includes: The Ordinary World, The Call to Adventure, Refusal of the
Call, Meeting the Mentor and Crossing The Threshold. </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Act Two or Journey</span></b><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">, includes: Test, Allies and Enemies, Approaching the Inmost Cave,
Ordeal and Reward. </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Act Three or Return</span></b><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">, includes: The Road Back, Resurrection and Return with the Elixir. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Although
Vogler concentrates on film, his theories can be applied just as easily to a
wide range of novels as there is a great deal of commonality in the structure
of films and novels. Indeed many films are direct adaptations of novels.
According to Vogler, all or most of these twelve stages are evident in a broad
range of stories and genres, which he then goes on to analyse, applying his
theories to films as diverse as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Star Wars</i>,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Wizard of Oz</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Titanic</i>,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> The Full Monty</i> and even Quentin Tarantino's post structuralist
film, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pulp Fiction</i>. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Critics
have accused Vogler of concentrating on Hollywood films and creating a
formulaic method for writing narrative and developing characters. Vogler does
warn of the dangers inherent in following the twelve stages as a formula,
stating that for the writer, 'the conscious awareness of its patterns may be a
mixed blessing, for it's easy to generate thoughtless cliché and stereotypes
from this matrix'. He then goes on to answer his critics by demonstrating the
vastly diverse array of factors that can be applied to each stage, creating endless
possibilities for stories. Like Vogler, I believe that all good writing is
informed by, but steps beyond technique or craft. If we write from our heart,
if we allow our stories to lead us into the depths of ourselves, if we
emotionally engage with our writing, then what emerges are living, vital
stories, not clichéd market driven formulas.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As a
writer, I found Vogler's theories fascinating because when I applied them to my
own work, I could see that unconsciously I had created stories that fitted
closely with his model. And when I applied his structure to my own writing
life, I could identify the stages and the parallels between the story, the
writing of the story and the themes in my own life, expressing themselves
through <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Flight</i>.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">During
the writing of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-ebook/dp/B005WEZZFY" target="_blank">Flight</a></i>, I was already
familiar with Vogler's twelve part structure but did not use it as a framework
for my story as I didn't want my novel to feel formulaic or to be weakened by
forcing it into an external shape. Vogler suggested that there are a number of
variations on the order of the stages. 'The stages,' he wrote, 'can be deleted,
added to, and drastically shuffled without losing any of their power'. I
decided to write without a plan and it is only in retrospect that I can see
where Vogler's structure does and does not fit in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Flight</i>.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Flight</span></i><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> begins with a depressed Fern, self-imprisoned in her attic. She has
been there for some months and this has become her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ordinary World</i>, the world that is generally portrayed at the
beginning of a story, and one in which there is often some form of stagnation
that needs to be addressed. There are a number of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Calls to Adventure</i>, which are refused. Change is not something most
people choose willingly, so more often than not the hero is not inclined to
accept the call. When this occurs then inevitably the call will become
stronger, and life as the hero knows it will collapse, forcing him or her to
accept change.</span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Twice, Fern's flat mate, Claire, asks
Fern to come out of her room as they are moving out of their rental house.
Shamesh appearing on the pavement below her room is also a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Call to Adventure</i>, but not one that Fern understands. Even when
Fern escapes through the window and into Cassie's house, she is still a reluctant
hero, choosing to react rather than act.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There are crucial moments in every story, moments of decision that change
everything: Billie Elliot puts on a pair of ballet shoes and steps into his
first dance class; in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Da Vinci Code, </i>Robert
Langdon decides to make a run for it with a strange woman; and James Frey, the
author of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Million Little Pieces</i>,
enters a rehabilitation clinic. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crossing
the Threshold</i> is that moment in a story when there is no turning back: a
plane takes off; the hero shuts the door behind her and is thrust into a new
world; a crime is committed. . .</span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Flight</i>, Fern <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crosses the
First Threshold</i> when she leaves her attic room and steps out onto the
street, knowing there is no turning back.</span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">According
to Steven Jones, 'the threshold crossing is a crossing from the conscious,
rational realm to a fictional representation of the unconscious, non-rational
domain of the individual's psyche'. Indeed, once Fern steps out of her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ordinary World</i>, she is confronted with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tests, Allies and Enemies</i> and finds that
the rules and regulations in this ‘new’ world are different. Reality is not
what it seems and the adventures she experiences are to test her readiness for
the task ahead of her. Along the way every hero must learn new rules, collect
allies and inevitably make some enemies, either in the form of other characters
or in the form of self doubt, destructive behaviour etc. These adventures test the
hero’s readiness for the task ahead.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Approach to the Inmost Cave</i>
the hero makes final preparations for the central ordeal of the adventure, says
Vogler, who then goes on to use the analogy of the mountaineer who has reached base camp and is preparing to climb the highest peak.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> The subsequent </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Ordeal</span></i><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> occurs in this metaphoric inmost cave in which the hero faces their
greatest fear/s. This can be physical, psychological or emotional, and can be
represented by anything from fighting a monster, to standing up to a parent.
But in some way the hero must die and be reborn. In Vogler's terms, this is the
crisis, not the climax of the story, which comes towards the end. Success at
this crisis point enables the hero to develop and change.</span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Flight</i>, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ordeal</i> comes early in the novel, when
Fern is put into a psychiatric ward. It is here that she finds her power and
undergoes a symbolic initiation; a death and a resurrection. She emerges from
the cave, not having vanquished her enemy but having gathered her strength, and
is now fully equipped to complete the journey. This is Fern’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Reward</i>. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Inmost Cave</i> is the equivalent of Campbell's, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Belly of the Whale</i>, in that it is symbolic of the hero's immersion
in the unconscious.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Soon
after Fern escapes from the psychiatric ward she makes the decision to turn
around and face her enemy, a decision that she acts upon by seeking him out.
But it is only later, when the enemy that is attacking her, steps through her
dreams and into life, nearly killing her, that Fern understands what is at
stake and senses she has reached a turning point. Perhaps this is a second <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Inmost Cave</i>, a moment of realisation,
when Fern is more afraid than she has ever been but has to act anyway. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There
are many <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Trials and Tribulations </i>in
the hero’s journey, occurring both before and after the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Inmost Cave</i>. These trials occur in the dream world where Fern must
fight battles she doesn't understand. And they occur in the physical world
where the rules are generally clear, such as her meeting with her birth mother
and the confrontation with the Bloodhound. However, her meeting with her father
does not have clear rules because in the centre of the labyrinth the rules are
different. Here the physical world and the dream world meet and Fern finds
herself fighting with her father on both planes at once.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The Road Back</span></i><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> is a turning point, another threshold to cross and it generally occurs
after the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Inmost Cave</i>. The hero must
either decide to return or be forced to return to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ordinary World</i>. And he or she must take with them what has been
earned, gained, stolen, or granted in the Special World. In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Flight,</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Road Back</i> is the trek through the wilderness with Adam, seeking
the centre of the labyrinth and in it, her father. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Resurrection</i> is the climax of the plot, and it is also the climax
of the hero’s development as a character, making it apparent in some way that
the hero really has changed. It may come as a test or a sacrifice of some sort
and generally there is more at stake than personal happiness. In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Flight</i>, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Resurrection</i> comes during the final showdown that Fern has with her
father, the results of which I won’t reveal, for those who haven’t yet read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Flight.</i> </span><br />
<span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And finally, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Return with the Elixir</i>, occurs when the
hero returns, bringing with him or her a new love, medicine, wisdom, fame,
wealth. . . <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>though, </span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">as Vogler states, the 'best Elixirs are those that bring hero and
audience greater awareness'. A few days ago we arrived in lovely Aberystwyth;
shaken and shocked but not too bruised. However, our journey is by no means
over; in fact I feel as if I’m still immersed in the inmost cave, that stage in
a story where we are forced to confront our deepest fears. But slowly and
surely, the journey is becoming smoother and I’m sure we will ultimately emerge
stronger and wiser, having reaped the rewards of embarking on this adventure. For
as Campbell explains so beautifully, 'the effect of the successful adventure of
the hero is the unlocking and release again of the flow of life into the body
of the world'. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/" style="line-height: 24px;">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
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Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-66701738414817601712012-08-18T13:50:00.002-07:002013-06-28T02:32:41.589-07:00The Hero's Journey - On Story Structure<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">The Hero's Journey is not an invention but an observation. It is a recognition of a beautiful design, a set of principles that govern the conduct of life and the world of storytelling the way physics and chemistry govern the physical world.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Christopher Vogler, </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>The Writer's Journey</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">In the past few posts I've discussed the themes and motifs that are prevalent in mythic stories. This time I want to discuss something even more fundamental, though inextricably linked - mythic structure. <span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">As mythologist, Joseph Campbell asserted, stories wear countless costumes yet there is a fundamental commonality between them. Over time the costumes of stories have changed and certainly in western culture, stories are presented in a more complicated way than they once were. Frequent jumping between scenes and characters, and the juggling of time elements in plots presupposes a sophisticated audience with highly developed decoding skills. However, according to Christopher Vogler in </span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-AU"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">The Writer's Journey</span></i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">, the fundamental structure of stories hasn't changed. Though sometimes more difficult to identify, there is still a three-fold structure in story, as well as the basic components of change and conflict. No matter then, how sophisticated our storytelling has become there remains a basic structure to storytelling that can be traced right back to the earliest stories - and by implication, to blueprints of humanity's common psychology.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU">Although the terms they use are different, many analysts of story refer to a three-part structure: beginning, middle and end; set-up, confrontation, resolution; and Tristan Todorov's, status quo, change, new status quo. Jung's</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU">theory of the process of individuation; ego, soul, self, mirrors in many ways the basic structure of narrative, as does anthropologist, Mercea Eliade's map of shamanic journeying; middle world, underworld, upper world.. In </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><i>The Hero with a Thousand Faces</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU">, Campbell identified three major stages within the structure of stories - Separation, Initiation and Return - </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">'</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU">separation from the world, a penetration to some source of power, and a life-enhancing return'. Campbell linked these stages closely to the world of spirit and ritual, while Vogler labelled them Preparation, Journey, Return, recognising the potential for these stages to include a broader and more contemporary range of stories. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU">According to Vogler, most narratives mirror the heroic journey, in that the protagonist is forced out or willingly leaves their ordinary world and must undergo a series of adventures in order to attain a new status. The second stage of the journey involves accepting change, stepping into the abyss with no idea what lies ahead. Risks are taken and if successful there is a reward of some kind. The third stage involves returning to the ordinary world understanding and integrating the reward and using it as is appropriate. A new status quo is reached and the hero has changed in some way. I'll look more closely at Vogler's and Campbell's story stages in a later post. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-GB"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The plot of </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-GB"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_888390662">Flight</a></span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-GB"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-ebook/dp/B005WEZZFY" target="_blank">,</a> is a linear one, the time line covering the space of a few weeks. There is a clear three-fold structure within the novel. In the beginning Fern has trapped herself in the attic and in so doing, separated herself from the world. The middle is an initiation of sorts, with Fern forced to undergo a journey and to confront her demons. The end is a resolution or a return but it is not circular. Fern is a different person than she was at the beginning and she will never return to the physical or psychological space that she left in order to undertake her journey. Instead she returns to the potential of a life well lived.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-GB"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">However, the structure in </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-GB"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Flight</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-GB"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> is not as simple as the linear unfolding of the outer plot would suggest. The story reaches back across lifetimes and there are layers of themes and patterns that motivate both the plot and the characters. Information is fed into the story in the form of flashbacks and musings that explain Fern's early life and provide motivation for her actions as well as triggers for her development. There are also visions and dreams which are triggered mainly from past life memories and provide a building undercurrent of tension, as well as providing flashes of insight to guide Fern in her journey to release herself from the past and learn how to live again. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">There are few stories in which change does not occur. If a character ends in the same physical or psychological situation in which they began it is usually: an existential story which shows a protagonist tossed about by fate, endlessly repeating negative patterns and unable to take control of their destiny; or a comedy (often a satire) in which the protagonist is revealed as a buffoon or a trickster, living outside the rules of society and thus making them visible; or a tragedy, which occurs when a character refuses to accept their call to adventure, is not strong enough to survive the journey, or chooses not to return and share their rewards with others. According to Campbell, 'tragedy is the shattering of the forms and of our attachment to the forms; comedy, the wild and careless, inexhaustible joy of life invincible'. These genres usefully reveal the dangers of becoming stuck caught consciously or unconsciously in negative patterns, just as a fly is caught in a spider's</span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-GB"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">web. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU">Within the three part structure of story there is inevitably a theory of progress towards a goal, but this is not a closure or end itself, rather it is only one of an endless series of journeys in a perpetual evolutionary process. </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">In the novel, Fern progresses towards a goal, or more accurately, towards a number of goals. Fern is seeking her father, seeking to hunt the hunter and survive. That is the external story, the plot. But she is also seeking to heal herself, to find her place and to live well. These are inner goals, relating to her own development. At the beginning she is unaware of her inner goals, knowing only that she is unwell and that things cannot continue as they have been. It is only through the outer journey that she is able to understand and achieve her inner goals. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">At the end, Fern has finished an adventure but is about to start another, the adventure of childbirth and of living within a loving relationship. But eventually the wheel of fortune will turn once again and reluctantly or not, in the sequel to </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Flight</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">, Fern will undertake another adventure. The universal theme of death and resurrection, of the natural ever-changing cycles of life, does not allow for stagnation. As Carol Pearson writes in </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Awakening The Heroes Within</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">, 'as soon as we return from one journey and enter a new phase of our lives, we are immediately propelled into a new sort of journey; the pattern is not linear or circular but spiral'. The ability to accept and adapt to change is fundamental to all evolutionary processes, and thus this theme not only appears in the content of stories and myths throughout history and across cultures, but is written into their very structure. And this structure provides a map for each of us as we seek to understand who we truly are. As Vogler wrote, </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU">'I came looking for the design principles of storytelling, but on the road I found something more: a set of principles for living. I came to believe that the Hero's Journey is nothing less than a handbook for life, a complete instruction manual in the art of being human.' </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
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Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-30762091399775018272012-08-06T18:14:00.000-07:002013-06-28T02:32:53.635-07:00Stepping Into The Future<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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'Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage.'</div>
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Anaïs Nin, <i>Diary</i>, 1969</div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">This is a shorter post than usual because I'm on the move, or at least I'm about to be. Good news is that my publisher has lifted the geographical restrictions from my new novel, </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-ebook/dp/B005WEZZFY" target="_blank">Flight</a></i></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">, so if you are outside of Australia or New Zealand, you can now buy the ebook through Amazon. Unfortunately these restrictions haven't yet been lifted on my earlier novel, </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gathering-Storm-ebook/dp/B006ONJL8E" target="_blank">Gathering Storm</a></i></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">, so that might still be difficult to obtain. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Over the past week or two I've begun packing my study into boxes, sorting my books and notes into three categories: those I no longer need, those I want but can be parted with for a few years, and those that I will need with me in Wales. This last category will take three months to reach me, and as I pack them away I feel more and more bereft, cut off from the knowledge within their pages and afraid that there isn't enough knowledge within me to draw on in their place. I've become reliant on the knowledge of others, subsumed into the academic way of thinking that demands arguments are supported by the weight of history not personal experience. Now, or at least for a few months, I will need to draw on my own reserves. Perhaps this will be good for me. But nevertheless I feel a surge of trepidation as I tape up the last of the boxes and wait for the removal company to collect them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I look around my empty writing room. I have written novels here, completed my PhD, written numerous blog posts and essays. . . This space and I have got along together, understood each others needs and over time become an effective writing team. But now the comfortable writing space that I have constructed over a number of years is gone. The atmosphere has changed beyond recognition. Noises bounce around the bare walls; it feels colder, less friendly, a room that awaits a new occupant, a new stage in its history. Perhaps I will come back to it one day, perhaps not. Either way, for the next few months I will be writing in strange places: motel rooms, airports, planes, trains, the homes of friends and relatives, a caravan . . . Until I find a new home, I will have to make do, be less precious about shutting the door to the rest of the world, less precious about my <a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.com.au/2011/12/writing-rituals.html" target="_blank">writing rituals</a>, and instead carry my creativity with me, drawing on it as and when I get the opportunity. I think back to all the excuses I've used in the past for not writing (see <a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.com.au/2012/03/writing-space-and-time.html" target="_blank">Writing Space and Time</a>) no space (physical or mental), no time, no focus, no confidence. . . all of the excuses inspired by fear: fear of failure, fear of success, fear of confronting what is inside me that needs to be written, fear of writing what I have confronted inside myself. . . I have forced myself to overcome so many fears, rarely understanding their source, only recognising the danger of the paralysis they create. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">All this time spent cocooned inside my writing room has meant a good deal of looking inwards, numerous terrifying and exhilarating descents into the psyche to dig up the shadows within. No doubt there will be many more of these descents because life was never intended to be static. And who would want it that way? But for now it feels as if I am suddenly being turned inside out. Forced to emerge blinking into the light. A butterfly? Perhaps not, but transformed nevertheless. And ready to live well in the world. Now I will write wherever I find myself, drawing on that reserve of strength and confidence which we all carry within ourselves. There will always be fear but this time, instead of overcoming it, I will take its hand and together we will step into the future. </span></div>
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Posts on Writer's Block:</div>
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<a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.com.au/2012/01/sticking-points.html" target="_blank">Sticking Points</a></div>
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<a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.com.au/2012/01/coming-unstuck.html" target="_blank">Coming Unstuck</a><br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
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Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-57832961139592107172012-07-22T18:25:00.001-07:002013-06-28T02:34:11.252-07:00Breaking The Curse: Making Myth Our Own<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">'All we can do is keep telling the stories, hoping that someone will hear. Hoping that in the noisy echoing nightmare of endlessly breaking news and celebrity gossip, other voices might be heard, speaking of the life of the mind and the soul's journey.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Jeanette Winterson, </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Weight</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">In previous posts I have discussed the ways in which myth enables us to reconnect with a different form of knowing, one that is more intuitive and that embraces mystery rather than fact. Using mythic tools/elements in our writing helps us to create timeless and universal stories, living stories that are steeped in authenticity and that encourage us to grow into individuals. In this post I want to look more specifically at ways myth might be used in story, by rewriting old stories, taking specific elements from myth or even simply using the themes that are predominant in myth. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">We can use myth overtly in story by taking the structure and storyline of ancient myth and translating it into a contemporary setting or even a different point of view. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">In the Myth series </span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Margaret Atwood wrote </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Penelopoid</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">, the story of Odysseus from the perspective of Penelope and her maids, Alexander McCall Smith rewrote a Celtic myth in </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Dream Angus </span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">and Jeanette Winterson</span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">wrote</span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> Weight</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">, her own version of the Atlas myth. In the introduction, Winterson wrote, 'the Myth series is a marvelous way of telling stories, re-telling stories for their own sakes, and finding in them permanent truths about human nature.' Winterson wrote </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Weight</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> from her own situation, stating that 'there is no other way'. So </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Weight</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> became a 'personal story broken against the bigger story of the myth we know'. When we rewrite myth in this way, we inevitably make it ours and we also see how easily any story can carry the timeless themes of myth. The ancient stories of the battles amongst the Norse Gods might be translated into contemporary stories about the battles between the heads of powerful corporations, or the story of Theseus entering the labyrinth to kill the minotaur can be written as a modern day story set in war torn Vietnam where Captain Willard is given the assignment to journey deep into the jungle (psyche) and capture Kurtz (a renegade Colonel). This is of course, </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Apocalypse Now</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">, a story that was drawn from Conrad's, earlier novel, </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Heart of Darkness</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">, but whose themes reflect the mythic journey of Theseus to kill the beast. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">While </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Flight </span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">is not based on a single myth, it does contain a number of mythic references: to Theseus slaying the Minotaur in the labyrinth; to Orpheus returning from the underworld with Eurydice but unable to resist looking back; to the Babylonian myth of Gilgamesh and Enkidu; to the Greek myth of Cassandra. . . The characters Cassie and Hector represent Cassandra and her twin brother Helenus who as children were left overnight at Apollo's temple, where serpents licked their ears, endowing them with the power of prophecy. Cursed by Apollo for not returning his love, Cassandra found that although her prophecies were true, they were not believed. Cassandra and Helenus share the power of prophecy, but their skills and methods are different. For Cassandra the prophecy is received intuitively, while Helenus reads signs and portents in the things around him in the natural world, for example, the shape of clouds or the flight of a bird. In </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Flight</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">, Cassie (like her namesake) is overcome by the knowledge she receives intuitively and is disbelieved by others, whilst Hector is a meteorologist, using computers and satellites to forecast the weather. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">In a sense, Cassie and Hector represent the extremes of the right and left brain modes, or intuitive and intellectual thought. Together they maintain a vital balance. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Curses, or inherited patterns of behaviour are themes that appear in all three of my novels, and again and again in ancient myth. In </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Nowhere Man</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">, Ivan is psychologically trapped within patterns that he unconsciously repeats over and over. In </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gathering-Storm-ebook/dp/B006ONJL8E" target="_blank"><span id="goog_1533275393"></span>Gathering Storm<span id="goog_1533275394"></span></a></span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">, four generations of women have been trapped by a Romany curse, though in actual terms they are trapped in inherited patterns of behaviour. In </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-ebook/dp/B005WEZZFY" target="_blank">Flight,</a></span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> the idea of the curse is explored in mythic terms, in relation to the classic pattern of heroic myths, identified by Otto Rank (see <a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.com.au/2012/06/writing-myth.html" target="_blank">Writing Myth</a>). I did not set out with the idea of writing about a curse, instead it arose about halfway through the novel when I stopped what I was writing and wrote the prologue in a different voice and with an explanation of Fern's origins. Fern</span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> is born to a powerful man, her birth is accompanied by a prophecy, she is abandoned and brought up by strangers, unaware of her identity. Myths such as Oedipus and Perseus explore the journey of the child to the father. This is generally an arduous journey, involving great dangers, but the greatest danger lies in the meeting with the father, who may or may not deem the child fit to accept. In myth, the child, if ready for the confrontation, generally brings about the death of the father, often without being aware of their father's identity. This is retribution for the father's unnatural desire to halt change. It is only natural for the child to step into the father's shoes in adulthood, or on a cultural scale, for a new king to step into the shoes of the old king. When this potential is denied by the father then the cycles of life have been denied and stagnation sets in. It is the child's role to force change. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">For the most part, </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Flight</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> follows Ranks pattern of heroic myth. In the opening pages, Simple Simon, a gardener in the Botanical Gardens, utters a prophecy, saying that Fern would cause the death of her father. The prophecy quickly becomes a curse as Fern's father, Eric, responds by trying unsuccessfully to kill his unborn daughter, the prophecy 'eating away at him, turning him into its slave'.</span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Although the curse is delivered to Fern and her mother, it is directed at the father. Fern is the arrow, charged with delivering the curse. Eric is a powerful man, born with great gifts, but he has abused these gifts and this is a crime for which he must pay. There is no humility in Eric, no respect for life, no compassion and no humanity. But there is pride. As always it is hubris which activates the curse.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Psychologist, Liz Greene identifies a number of features that appear consistently in myths about family curses. According to her, the curse is usually linked with the abuse of children in a pattern that repeats itself through generations. 'Each generation has the opportunity to reverse or transform the curse by perceiving and acknowledging the pattern of destructiveness and transcending it, but fails to do so because the individual cannot resist indulging in fear, greed, anger, or the desire for personal vengeance'. Instead, the individual responds instinctively, refusing to acknowledge the pattern or take responsibility and transform it. So, as Greene states, a curse can run its patterns through generations, both inherited genetically and taught through the behaviour of the parents. This is something I had already explored in </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Gathering Storm,</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> but in </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Flight</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> I looked at patterns of behaviour that have been repeated through many lives, ideas that are expounded by Jungian psychotherapist, Roger Woolger, who suggests that childbirth triggers karmic residue and the choice of parents reinforces the patterns from one life to the next until the person is finally able to break free of that pattern.. This is exactly what happens to Fern who finds herself abandoned at birth, threatened fundamentally by her birth father and psychologically abused by her adopted father, so that she carries a heavy burden of guilt and grief that parallels the burdens she carries from past lives.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Woolger wrote of 'patterns in remembered lives', explaining that they can become compounded into a repetitive cycle of hatred and revenge, the players 'drawn to each other karmicly' in roles from which they cannot escape'. Fern and Eric are caught in a destructive pattern that has persisted for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years, and which always involves an abuse of power and some form of injury to a child. In this life, Fern is once again given the opportunity to break free of that pattern. Through the course of the story, Fern is forced to face memories from a number of lives, but it is not the stories of these lives that are important for Fern's transformation. As the Bear Handler tells her, 'only the patterns matter, for it is in those that you will see the places that you are caught, repeating yourself, lifetime after lifetime'.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">A good friend and editor, Teresita White, surprised me by pointing out the parallels between Greene's analysis of the family curse and the events in </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Flight</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">. 'Paradoxically,' she wrote, 'any attempt to cheat the prophecy usually results in its fulfilment'. Eric tries to destroy his own daughter, which results in her mother hiding Fern from him, by having her adopted and not putting his name on her birth certificate. His violent attempt to kill Fern, results in the shutting down of her psyche, so she does not know who she really is. When Eric seeks Fern out he unwittingly awakens her spirit and bit by bit, her memory. When he attempts to frighten her, he awakens her courage. When he draws Fern to himself he unwittingly invites destruction into what he believes is impregnable. When Eric shows contempt for Adam and his qualities, he sabotages his seduction of Fern. And when he causes another's death, believing he can sabotage the prophecy, he provokes the final confrontation in which he is destroyed. Although Eric does not die, he is left hovering on the border of life and death and his power is spent. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">In the end, following Ranks patterns of heroic myth, Eric is crushed and Fern is liberated. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Myths remind us that life is all about change, that the wheel of fortune turns and we must flow with it. For Eric the prophecy is a warning. He has become corrupted by power and he must let go of it in order to restore the natural flow of life. Instead, he holds onto his power and the result is a living death. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">For Fern, the prophecy is a blessing as it gives her an opportunity to free herself from a pattern of behaviour she has become enmeshed in, to find the courage to become a fully conscious individual and rediscover the gifts she had turned away from. But myths also remind us that there are no 'happy ever after endings'. Whatever position we find ourselves in, it is wise to remember that 'this too shall pass', that at any moment the wheel may turn and we will be called yet again, to adventure. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
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Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-1322584281062391062012-07-09T15:53:00.000-07:002013-06-28T02:33:06.281-07:00Seeking The Paradox Within Story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">'Most fables contain at least some truth, and they often enable people to absorb ideas which the ordinary patterns of their thinking would prevent them from digesting.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Idries Shah, </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>The Sufis</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU">As I have mentioned in other posts on this blog, I am fascinated by the fundamental paradox that I see within story, in that while it encourages us to conform to society, it also encourages us to become true individuals by shedding mindless conformity. And it is this aspect of story that I keep returning to, asking myself how a narrative can enable us to evolve as individuals. I believe there is an alternative knowledge structure deeply embedded within story, a structure that enables and encourages personal transformation, and that echoes thousands of years back to the first stories of the shamans and the ancient myths of indigenous peoples around the world, as well as being evident in many contemporary narratives. People write, read and listen to stories, not because they wish to escape from themselves, but because they wish to </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><i>find</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU"> themselves. So perhaps then, a key to self transformation is embedded within story. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU">The idea that stories might contain hidden meanings is not a new one, stretching back to the interpretation of early religious texts across many faiths and persisting to the current day through continued scholarly analysis of literature. These theories are also rooted in mystical knowledge associated with Sufism and other esoteric groups, some of this knowledge dating back thousands of years. The ancient Aesops Fables which are popular in the West, are an example of stories that are designed to jolt us out of the boundaries that restrict our thinking. In his book, </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><i>The Sufis</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU">, Idries Shah writes that the popular and humorous Nasrudin Stories which date from around the thirteenth century, 'may be understood at any one of many depths. . . and the experiencing of each story will contribute towards the 'homecoming' of the mystic'. Perhaps then, rather than reinforcing blind acceptance of society's constructed realities, stories might use hidden meanings in order to innately question them. Idries Shah goes on to explain the use of humour in the Nasrudin tales, saying that 'humour cannot be prevented from spreading: it has a way of slipping through the patterns of thought which are imposed upon mankind by pattern and design.' While humour is not a strong element in my writing at present, I agree that it has great power, encouraging us to question and laugh at what we hold sacred or simply take for granted. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU">Much of our interpretation of a text relies on how we read. Joseph Campbell emphasised the importance of poetic interpretation, as compared to literal reading, warning that 'wherever the poetry of myth is interpreted as biography, history or science, it is killed.' Karen Armstrong too, wrote passionately of the need to re-engage with story, using 'intuitive, mythical modes of thought' instead of the 'more pragmatic, logical spirit of scientific rationality.' When I was writing </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><i>Flight</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU">, I began to wonder how I could layer the story in order to encourage different interpretations on the part of the reader. I wanted my readers to read intuitively, to find a story a that spoke to them in unexpected ways. In the end though I found myself unable to plan a novel in this way and decided instead to trust my unconscious to do this for me through the use of symbols and metaphor, as well as through the way in which the story structure formed itself around the character arc. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU">While it is clear that stories can and do contain hidden meanings, Campbell went further than this in his analysis of heroic myth, by suggesting that the very structure of story has a hidden meaning, that it is a metaphor for Jung's individuation process or the journey to self. </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Now that </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Flight </span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">is complete and published, and there has been time to receive reader feedback, it has become clear that the novel does act on a number of levels: as entertainment, as a psychological study and as a document of </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-weight: normal;">a spiritual journey, one in which readers can</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> find</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> themselves. I have always felt strongly that in my writing I am holding a mirror up to readers and helping them remember who they are, perhaps because this is what I seek from my own reading. However, my motives are not entirely altruistic, because first and foremost it is myself I am finding, both through the process of writing and through the mysteries of the unfolding story. It is my own past I am exploring and my own scars I am acknowledging and releasing, as I seek to uncover the treasure within me, the essence of self, by breaking down my fixed thinking patterns. Perhaps ultimately this is what stories are for.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
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Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-20771238735353127022012-07-02T20:34:00.000-07:002013-06-28T02:33:32.218-07:00Writing Character: Uncovering The Wound<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">'To release the full potential of the treasure, the wound must be uncovered, delved into, healed to some degree, as if coated with loving layers of lustrous deposits.'</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Bill Plotkin,</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i> Soulcraft</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Earlier this year an astrologer friend looked at my birth chart and winced. When I asked, she explained that my year was full of major transits, meaning major upheavals. Well she wasn't wrong. Until a few weeks ago I thought I'd been through enough upheavals for a year a significant birthday, awarded a PhD, a new novel published. . . but no, there was more to come in the form of an interview in Wales for a position as Creative Writing Fellow at Aberystwyth University. When I was offered the position, I gulped and said yes, then sat down suddenly and began to consider the implications. Moving from Hobart in Tasmania, across the world to Aberystwyth in Wales is a major upheaval, paling all else that has happened this year into insignificance. A new home, new schools, a new job, a new country to become familiar with. . . there's no doubt these are exciting times. Exciting, but frightening too, because like many of us, I am afraid of change. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Change is something we tend to yearn for and then fear as it approaches. It's a natural part of life but not easy to allow. Change is also the major catalyst for story, in fact without it we wouldn't have story, or at least our stories would be extremely dull. Major upheavals tend to signal those moments when a new story begins and are often linked to characters who are afraid to embrace this change - the reluctant Hero, as Vogler calls them. The nature of the change tends to depend on what wounds our characters (or ourselves) are carrying, as often the unfolding drama involves a healing of those wounds. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">We all love wounded characters. A wound adds mystery, back story, tension and most importantly, the potential for healing, for as psychologist Jean Houston writes, a wound can be 'an invitation to our renaissance'. A character's wound may be a physical one in the form of a scar or a limp perhaps. Or it may be a psychological wound, a memory of an event that has isolated the character from the world, making him or her an outsider; perhaps the loss of a child or a spouse or some other injustice that is indigestible. This is something that is often evident in the cowboy story or detective genre where the protagonists are outsiders, running on the edge of law, isolated from society and family, and generally carrying a heavy chip on their shoulders. The isolation and pain is revealed through a bad habit, perhaps a drinking problem or perhaps an abrupt manner towards other characters. In more complex stories that carry a good deal of psychological exploration, the wound may be less clear, revealing itself through a number of memories fused together, the scar tissue creating a filter between the character and the world so that each action a character takes is really only a programmed reaction to the past. In story, the character arc often provides an opportunity to change or unravel one or more of these programmed reactions, and if not, it generally reveals the tragedy that occurs when we are unable to do this. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">'In many cases in psychiatry,' wrote Jung, 'the patient who comes to us has a story that is not told, and which as a rule no one knows of. To my mind, therapy only really begins after the investigation of that wholly personal story. It is the patient's</span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">secret, the rock against which he is shattered. If I know his secret story, I have a key to the treatment</span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-weight: normal;">.' </span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US">The story that Jung refers to is one that even the patient may not be consciously aware of. It often resides deep in the unconscious, buried under layers of scar tissue. The process of uncovering this wound can be long and arduous, but it is necessary, for it is the clue, or as Jung says, 'the key' to psychic health. In </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><i>Soulcraft</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US">, psychologist, Bill Plotkin writes that 'the wound does not necessarily stem from a single traumatic incident. Often, the wound consists of a pattern of hurtful events or a disturbing dynamic or theme in one or more important relationships.' This is the case with the two main characters in </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-ebook/dp/B005WEZZFY" target="_blank">Flight</a> </i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;">which explores complex psychological patterns within the main character, Fern, and the man she learns to love, Adam. </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">For Adam, one aspect of his wound lies in the birth of his brother and the guilt Adam feels for being normal. Another aspect lies in the death of the father and the guilt Adam feels for his part in that tragedy, as well as the loss he felt, growing up without a father. Both of these wounds have created a series of reactions in Adam, sending him away from Tasmania and into the army, where he has tried to follow in his father's footsteps. And it is in the army that Adam wounds himself so deeply he can only withdraw from society and from his family, hiding in a basement in Sydney and attempting to drink himself into oblivion.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Adam's healing begins when he meets Fern who takes his attention away from himself. The healing continues with his return to Tasmania and his family, and then with his return to nature. Adam is of the earth, the wilderness feeds his soul and it is only in the wilderness when he has been brought back from the brink of death by Fern, that he can tell his story. In the telling, Adam makes it conscious and begins to live again, bit by bit, releasing the guilt that he is holding. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Fern's wounds are even more deeply layered. The story opens with her having retreated to an attic room where, like Adam, she is hiding from life. Fern is damaged by her childhood, by the callous treatment of her adoptive family and by the guilt she feels at being accused of trying to kill her father. Through the course of the story, Fern also uncovers pre-verbal wounds that occurred while she was in the womb and just after birth, the trauma of her birth father's violence towards her in his two attempts to kill her, and also the trauma of being abandoned by her birth mother. Then, as the story unfolds, Fern discovers that she has another connection to her birth father, one that reaches back through many past lives and involves a repeating pattern of abuse.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Psychologist and physical healer, Jean Achterberg, writes that 'in traditional shamanic cultures, healing bears little relationship to the remission of physical symptoms. It refers, rather, to becoming whole or in harmony with the community, the planet and certainly ones private circumstances.' This attitude differs greatly from allopathic medicine, where symptoms are almost always treated before causes, and for which healing generally means, a 'return to normal where normal is culturally defined by some measuring standard created by society's members.' Achterberg cites a remark made by an Indian Medicine Man: 'With white man's medicine you only get back to the way you were before; with Indian medicine, you can get even better.' In a sense then, the writing of </span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Flight</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> was an exploration of Indian medicine, an attempt to truly heal a condition (Fern's depression), rather than treat the symptoms. </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">At the beginning of the novel, Fern has lost most of her self, something that in shamanic tradition is considered a serious illness, leading eventually to depression, damage to the immune system, cancer and many other disorders. Soul retrieval is a major element in shamanic healing. In order to retrieve a fragment of the soul, shamans must travel into the upper world or underworld with the help of their power animal/s and find it, sometimes having to coax it back, sometimes having to fight for it. These fragments may have left the soul in shock at a violent action or been taken by another person. As the story progresses, Fern is able to retrieve a number of parts of her self, and in the process realises how much she had lost. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">In Greek myth, the wise and gentle Chiron the centaur is a wounded healer. When he is wounded by a poisoned arrow he is forced to live the rest of his life in great pain. Because of this he studies the healing arts, finding many remedies that heal others but none that take away his own suffering. In shamanic culture, prospective shamans generally become very ill, and then must agree to become shamans before they can heal. It is only in experiencing pain that we are able to heal others. </span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Joan Halifax writes that 'the true attainment of the shaman's</span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">vocation as healer, seer, and visionary comes about through the experience of self-wounding, death and rebirth</span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">.' This is the process that Fern must undergo. In the novel, Shamesh tells Fern about the initiation process, which is a process of clearing the dense parts of the self. When Fern asks why the process is so slow he tells her that she will become a healer but must first experience the process herself. Fern only accepts the possibility of becoming a healer towards the end of the story, when she uses her hands to heal Adam and remembers that she had done this before. Towards the end of </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Flight</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">, Fern studies homeopathy and herbalism, 'trying to understand the patterns of illness, trying to see its source which is so often beyond the physical'. She says, 'I have understood that true healing is not something you can do with a closed heart. It must reach deep into the spirit and work its magic from within. True healing changes a person, clears scar tissue and the patterns of reaction that have formed their character. It is not an easy path to choose. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">According to Houston, we must be 'willing to release our old stories and to become the vehicles through which the new story may emerge into time.' When Fern tries to tell her story to Adam, she realises that each story is linked to another and she feels weighed down by back stories, wishing she could sever them all. Through the course of </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Flight</span></i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span lang="en-AU"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">, both Fern and Adam reluctantly and painfully release their own stories. By the end of the novel, they are creating a new story, both together and individually. Accepting change provides us with the opportunity to let go of an old story and create something new. It enables us to learn something new, integrate that knowledge, and in the process heal an old wound or wounds. No doubt I will need to repeatedly remind myself of this over the next few months, as change picks me (and my family) up and hurls us across the world to beautiful Wales and to a new story. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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For other posts on characterisation see:</div>
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<a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.com.au/2012/04/digging-deep-writing-character.html" target="_blank">Digging Deep: Writing Character</a></div>
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<a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.com.au/2012/05/catharsis-and-transformation-in-writing.html" target="_blank">Catharsis and Transformation in Story</a></div>
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<a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.com.au/2012/05/motivating-character.html" target="_blank">Motivating Character</a></div>
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<a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.com.au/2012/05/juggling-archetypes-heroes-villains-and.html" target="_blank">Juggling Archetypes: Heroes, Villains and Tricksters</a></div>
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And there is more on The Wound in <a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.com.au/2012/03/story-as-therapy-healing-wound.html" target="_blank">Story as Therapy: Healing the Wound</a><br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
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Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-90382903381515218112012-06-24T09:38:00.001-07:002013-06-28T02:34:46.676-07:00Telling Tales – Exploring Elements of the Fairy Story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: small;">'If you don't know the trees you may be lost in the forest, but if you don't know the stories you may be lost in life.' Siberian Elder<br /> <br />Once upon a time. . . <br />These familiar words have such power. They evoke a stillness, a bating of breath, an eager air of expectation as we gather around them, waiting for their magic to transport our imaginations to far off worlds, and their wisdom to help us understand the world in which we live. In <i>The Uses of Enchantment</i>, Bruno Bettelheim wrote, 'for those who immerse themselves in what the fairytale has to communicate, it becomes a deep, quiet pool which at first seems to reflect only our own image; but behind it we soon discover the inner turmoils of our soul – its depths, and ways to gain peace within ourselves and with the world, which is the reward for our struggles.' Fairy tales are timeless stories, traditionally passed down orally from one generation to the next. It is only relatively recently that they have been written down, reinterpreted through the moral filters of those who recorded them, and consequently changed, sometimes almost beyond recognition. <br /><br />Myth and fairytale are a rich source of material for authors and their form and content resonate with readers; both adults and children. Some writers, such as Angela Carter, have rewritten existing fairy tales applying their own personal interpretations. Recently in <i>Bitter Greens</i>, Kate Forsyth rewrote the Rapunzel story, enriching it with a historical setting and vivid characters. Other writers take elements from fairy tales and/or write their own tales that mirror the structure of older stories. This is what I have done in <i>Flight</i> in which there are a number of references to both myth and fairy tale, most of which were not consciously intended on my part, only recognised by me when they appeared, revealing that like most of us, my personal history is steeped in the stories and religion of my childhood. In the first draft of <i>Flight</i>, I signaled the use of these references as they arose but during a later edit, decided it would be better to cut out these signals, allowing the reader to identify the references themselves. As I write <i>Falling Between Worlds</i>, I can seen that fairy tale and myth will also play a role in this novel, though I seem to be incapable of planning the inclusion of these elements or planning the structure of my stories. Instead I ask questions and leave myself open to whatever answers arise, letting them find their place on the page and within the story. For me and for many writers, asking questions is an important part of the process of writing. In so doing we discover what our story is and why we are writing it. As Clarissa Pinkola Estes says, 'asking the proper question is the central action of transformation – in fairy tales, in analysis and in individuation. Questions are the keys that cause the secret doors of the psyche to swing open.' <br /><br />Initiation is a common element in both myths and fairy tales and a major part of novels which we call 'coming of age'. Jones writes that in the myth, the initiation is a spiritual one, whilst in the fairytale, the initiation is 'into a greater awareness of ones own desires and fears'. I'm not sure it's necessary to distinguish between them in this way, as the fairytale initiation is a necessary part of the spiritual initiation. In <i>Flight</i>, Fern must face her fears in order to be initiated into the spiritual world. And indeed, Bettleheim writes that myths and fairy tales 'derive from or give symbolic expression to initiation rites or other rites de passage such as a metaphoric death of an old, inadequate self, in order to be born on a higher plane of existence'. In <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-ebook/dp/B005WEZZFY" target="_blank"><i>Flight</i></a>, Fern is undergoing an initiation as she is forced to let go of her old way of being, in a sense dying to her old self, in order to find a new way of living. This is an initiation of the soul but it can also be read as simply a rite of passage from one stage of life to the next, a coming of age or perhaps a 'coming to self'.<br /><br />In <i>The Beast to the Blonde: On Fairy Tales and their Tellers</i>, Marina Warner writes that 'shape shifting is one of fairy tale's dominant and characteristic wonders'. There is much slippage between fairy tale and myth where shape shifting is a common element, the gods and goddesses frequently shifting form in order to confuse and dazzle humanity. Shape shifting is also an integral part of shamanism, with shamans sometimes transforming themselves into creatures in order to traverse the underworld. Shape shifting plays a role in <i>Flight</i>, with Fern at one stage slipping inside the skin of a bear, then later, growing wings and perceiving herself flying. The novel also contains shape shifting in the form of slippage between lifetimes, with both Fern and Eric maintaining their essence and their enmity whilst regularly shifting costumes. <br /><br />Aside from these general themes of initiation and shape shifting, there are also references to some well known fairy tales. There are some parallels between Fern and Rapunzel. Fern is a reluctant soul, not wishing to inhabit her body or this world, so in a sense, the tower, or attic in her case, is Fern's attempt to escape. Paradoxically, Fern is also a prisoner. She might have chosen to stay in the attic but she is still trapped, held prisoner by herself. Rapunzel must literally let her hair down in order to find a new life. Fern is chased from her attic but she too must embrace life, and it is Adam, her true prince, who helps ground Fern and teaches her to live. In a sense, Adam too is blinded in the novel. He can't see what Fern can see, he can't look into minds or enter her dreams. Instead he must trust her and his own role in the story. <br /><br />In Fern's penchant for sleep, there is a reference to Perrault's 'Sleeping Beauty'. Bettelheim writes that Sleeping Beauty is the classic coming of age story, reminding us 'that a long period of quiescence, of contemplation, of concentration on the self, can and often does lead to the highest achievement'. In our modern world this has largely been forgotten and withdrawal from life is viewed with suspicion. After spending months in solitude, Fern prematurely re-enters the world only to be forced into solitude again, this time in the psychiatric ward where she has been placed because her mother and society in general, misguidedly interpret her symptoms as an illness that must be treated, rather than as the welcome first steps in an initiatory process. Sleeping Beauty is a tale of sexual awakening, while <i>Flight</i> is a tale of awakening. Fern has been asleep all her life and her awakening doesn't come at puberty but when she is called to an adventure. Fern must reawaken sexually, as she does with Adam, but it is her whole libido that must awaken, not just its sexual aspect. It isn't a man that Fern needs to bring her back to life, but it is the masculine. Fern is out of balance, overtaken by the shadow side of her feminine aspect and terrified of the masculine. Her journey is to seek balance. In a sense the prince is simply a part of herself, the active masculine side that she must embrace. <br /><br />There are other, more minor references to fairy tales in the novel. Early in the story, Fern falls down some steps and descends into the underworld, just as the shamans do in order to retrieve souls, and as Lewis Carroll's Alice did when she fell down a rabbit hole and found herself in Wonderland. Like Alice, Fern finds that this world is very different from her own, with a new set of rules that are not entirely rational and which she must learn in order to find her way. Later there's a reference to Cinderella when Fern is dressing for dinner in her father's house and slips on the stiletto shoes her father has selected for her. I have used the shoe as a symbol of power, the power of a man over a woman. Fern tries the shoes on and to her surprise they fit almost perfectly. This suggests that Fern's father, Eric is her prince, something that almost becomes the case, when he later attempts to seduce her. Fern obediently wears the shoes but can hardly walk in them. The stiletto heels are crippling for her, sending her off balance, which is exactly what Eric hopes to achieve. Later, after rejecting her father, Fern kicks the shoes off and frees herself from his influence. <br /><br />In our writing we can make specific references to known fairy tales and myths, we can mirror their structure (something I will explore in a later post), and we can also draw on their themes which are often powerful explorations of life and its necessary transitions. According to Steven Swann Jones in <i>The Fairytale: The Magic Mirror of Imagination</i>, 'the objective of the myth is oneness with the divine . . .The objective of the legendary quest is social harmony. . . and the objective of the fairytale quest is personal happiness'. So if, on one level, myths are the mega stories that societies tell about themselves, then fairy tales are the micro stories. Fairy tales address everyday problems in a fantastical way, giving a nudge to a child unwilling to move on to the next stage of life, providing guidelines for understanding the dangers one faces in life (Red Riding Hood) and exploring notions of good and evil. With their emphasis on moral behaviour and rewards, fairy tales both define the world and hint at the possibilities of breaking free of those definitions. Characters, such as Bluebeard's wife are both punished and rewarded for breaking the rules. Warner writes that fairy tales 'offer a way of putting questions, of testing the structure as well as guaranteeing its safety, of thinking up alternatives as well as living daily reality in an examined way'. Perhaps then, fairy tales are a way for us to understand and accept the paradoxes of life; pointers to the lessons which are able to be learned through myth. As Hans Christian Anderson once said, 'life itself is the most wonderful fairytale of them all'. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/" style="line-height: 24px;">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-12109750618638629182012-06-16T06:49:00.001-07:002013-06-28T02:33:46.060-07:00Writing Myth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
'A myth is a story that is true on the inside but not the outside.' <br />
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As my new novel begins to form I'm wondering how I might use myth to enrich the story and deepen the themes - something I did extensively in my previous novel, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-ebook/dp/B005WEZZFY" target="_blank"><i>Flight</i></a>. This has inspired me to consider once again what it is about myth that is so fundamental to humanity and whether or not it is still relevant in our world today. It is myth that forms the basis of most cultures' storytelling, so it has a number of functions that are above and beyond simple entertainment. Myth is an intuitive way of interpreting the world around us but to a large extent it has now been superseded by the current rational method of understanding and measuring reality. For me, myth contains vital truths and yet in our modern world, it has come to be defined as something untrue, as seen in our phrase, 'exploding the myth'. As Karen Armstrong writes, 'we have developed a scientific view of history; we are concerned with what actually happened. But in the pre-modern world, when people wrote about the past they were more concerned with what an event had meant.' So it seems to me that in our modern tendency to confuse fact with truth we are in danger of losing meaning. 'A myth is true,' says Armstrong, 'because it is effective, not because it gives us factual information. If it does not give us new insight into the deeper meaning of life, it has failed.' <br />
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Jung wrote that 'myth is more individual and expresses life more precisely than does science.' In <i>The Mythic Journey</i>, Jungian psychologists, Liz Greene and Juliet Sharman-Burke wrote that 'myths have the mysterious capacity to contain and communicate paradoxes, allowing us to see through, around and over the dilemma to the heart of the matter.' Mythologist, Joseph Campbell wrote that 'myth is the secret opening through which the inexhaustible energies of the cosmos pour into human cultural manifestation.' While Christopher Vogler applied definitions of myth to contemporary stories, insisting that all stories are sacred, all have the capacity to heal and all mirror the structure of their larger counterparts, the mythic heroic stories.<br />
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In <i>The Artists Way</i>, Julie Cameron writes that 'creativity cannot be comfortably quantified in intellectual terms', while Catherine Ann Jones believes that 'to write from one part of your self, the logical mind, results in a fragmented story as well as a fragmented life'. Certainly for me the writing of <i>Flight</i> was not an simply an intellectual process but one which intuitively drew upon the mystery behind creativity. A few years ago as I was writing <i>Flight</i>, I found to my surprise, that I had been unconsciously using mythic elements, drawing from both the content and the patterns of ancient stories. Once I had recognised that this was happening I was able to make the process conscious and develop certain elements in order to explore the themes that were important to me. In the end it was myth that gave shape and depth to my novel and it was myth that helped me to understand what I was writing about and why I needed to write it. Consequently, <i>Flight</i> is heavily laden with references to myth and fairytale; from Sleeping Beauty to the myth of Cassandra, something I will explore more further in a later post. It's themes and plot were drawn from common elements in myth such as the curse or prophecy, mirroring in many ways the classic patterns of heroic myth as identified by Otto Rank. Fern is born to a powerful man, her birth is accompanied by a prophecy, she is abandoned and brought up by strangers, unaware of her identity. As an adult she must seek her father and confront him, potentially bringing about his death in order for the natural cycles of change to continue unimpeded. And finally, the structure of <i>Flight</i> mirrors in many ways the stages of story that Joseph Campbell identified, something I discuss briefly below but will explore further in a later post. <br />
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Campbell not only identified a common pattern in the structure of mythic stories but also interpreted what this pattern meant, socially, psychologically and to a certain extent, spiritually. Of all stories, Campbell believes it is the myth that speaks to us most strongly. And of all myths it is the universal story of the quest to find the essence of self, that appeals most to a modern day humanity in search of meaning in a world where meaning and identity has moved its focus from the group to the individual. In the past, and primarily for survival purposes, the individual was first and foremost a part of society. Exile was a life-threatening break with existence and therefore the worst possible punishment. Yet exile (physical or psychological), is also the necessary first step on the heroic quest, a breaking free of the known or ordinary world and a stepping into the unknown. In the opening to <i>Flight</i>, Fern has unknowingly taken the first step in the quest, exiling herself from family and society <br />
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The reward for this quest is self-knowledge, but the true hero will also ultimately return to society bringing back that which he/she has learned, and thus enriching the community. However, unlike fairy tales, which almost invariably finish with a version of 'and they lived happily ever after', myths embrace the possibility of tragedy and change. In myth, endings are not fixed and new quests are often necessary, the hero may die on his quest, or like Gilgamesh, return triumphant from the Underworld, only to have the elixir for eternal life slip through his fingers. Sometimes the hero may find that the metaphorical gold he or she found, has turned to dust, or like Buddha, he or she may return with their treasure, only to be faced with the difficult task of telling a story that is beyond words. In <i>Flight</i>, Fern is given information, allies and tools that she must integrate and begin to use, in order to overcome the obstacles and dangers. In the end, Fern uses these rewards well and returns to society carrying this metaphorical gold. <br />
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Campbell emphasised the importance of metaphoric and poetic readings of myth, which allow for psychological and metaphysical interpretations that help us to map our development. Purely literal or rational interpretations of story create a dangerous black and white world in which dogma rules. So do our contemporary stories fill the spaces that myth once filled or have they lost something fundamental? Is it the stories that are depleted or simply the way that we read (see<a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/2012_03_01_archive.html" target="_blank"> Reading Between The Lines</a>)? I don't know the answers to these questions but I do know that if we simply skate over the surface of stories we will forget how to measure them in anything but rational terms – the terms of logos. It is in the depths of story that the true lessons lie and it us up to us as writers to include the hidden truths of mythos in our stories in order to feed our readers and our selves on living stories that speak to us on many levels.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/" style="line-height: 24px;">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-10919902008436721442012-06-02T14:49:00.000-07:002013-06-28T02:35:12.961-07:00Where Truth Lies: Fact versus Fiction<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: small;">'Truth is so hard to tell, it sometimes needs fiction to make it plausible.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Francis Bacon</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">In a novel, the reader is often interested in how much is true, while in a memoir, the reader wants to know how much is untrue. The line between fact and fiction is much finer than we imagine. When we assert the factual validity of our memories we often discover that a sibling, a friend or a parent remembers the same event quite differently. A few years ago, a mother and her adult daughter enrolled in one of my life writing classes in order to write a memoir about the daughter's turbulent teenage years. Both described the same events but from a different perspective. At one stage the daughter referred to a formative experience that had occurred in her early childhood when her mother had left her. The mother was shocked, because in reality she had only been away for one night, but in the daughter's mind it was an eternity. Of course, factually it is correct to call it one night, but the emotional truth lies elsewhere. There's a world of difference between truth and fact,' writes Maya Angelou. 'Fact tells us the data. . . but facts can obscure the truth'.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Psychotherapists also recognise the complexities of truth. In <i>Other Lives, Other Selves</i>, Roger Woolger states that 'for the therapist there is another kind of truth, psychic truth: that which is real for the patient.' Jung also maintained that clinical material does not have to be historically true so long as it is subjectively true and filled with meaning for the patient. For Jung, harmony is not achieved by realigning an individual to society, which is itself a human construct, but instead from realigning them to their self and hence, to life. It is in the inner or psychological journeys that we take and on which we send our characters, that an emotional, and perhaps a universal truth can be found.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">In his memoir, <i>Memories, Dreams, Reflections</i>, Jung writes about his his inner experiences, including his dreams and visions, referring to his life as one that he could only map or understand through recording its 'inner happenings', his encounters with the unconscious. 'In the end,' he says, 'the only events in my life worth telling are those when the imperishable world irrupted into this transitory one.' Like Jung, when I sat down to write, I discovered that I had embarked on my own inner journey, a journey of the soul. As I worked on my novel, I was surprised to discover that I was unconsciously writing about myself, drawing on my own past, my dreams and my numinous experiences and weaving them into a plot-driven fictional story. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">John Singleton, in <i>The Creative Writing Handbook</i>, explores the relationship between memory and imagination and between autobiography and fiction. The autobiography he says, 'only translates the past' while fiction 'transforms' it. 'The vital force in this re-creative process is the imagination.' Autobiography, 'describes the self as already known, or explains the self as presently understood. While fiction, on the other hand explores the self as yet hidden, in the dark. . . Something secret is hitherto revealed which you sense you've known unconsciously all the time.' Transformation, then, is made more possible by stepping into fiction, if only because the writer then gives their imagination permission to work with memory and transform it, thereby allowing true self reflection, that which comes as a revelation and not simply an intellectual construct. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">'All fiction is autobiography in disguise', wrote Catherine Anne Jones, in <i>The Way of Story</i>. This is certainly the case with <i>Flight</i>, though if I had written it as a memoir I would not have been able to grant myself permission to explore my own past and thus transform it, at least not with the freedom I found in fiction. It is difficult to say exactly how much of <i>Flight</i> is true in the factual sense of the word. Like Fern, I was born in Adelaide and adopted by a religious couple. The house I grew up in is the same as I depict in the novel. The adopted father, Richard, is almost identical to my own adopted father. I too lived in Sydney in an attic room and toyed with the idea of studying fashion design. The house Fern visits in Kettering, Tasmania, is a house I lived in for six years. These are factual truths and easily identified by those who know. There are other true events in the story that are not so easily identified as fact. The memories of childhood that I give Fern are all my own, as are the dreams and visions she has. Otherwise, the characters and events are fictional. Although fact and fiction are woven together throughout <i>Flight</i>, the themes are personal to me, as is Fern's psychological and spiritual journey. These are my truths, but they are also universal truths, referring back to a long tradition of storytelling that begins with humanity's first storytellers, the unnamed shamans, as well as to ancient myth, to Dante's <i>Inferno</i>, Goethe's <i>Faus</i>t, Hesse's, <i>Steppenwolf</i>, Le Guin's <i>Earthsea</i> novels and Murakami's <i>Kafka On The Shore</i>, to name but a few. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">In <i>The Western Dreaming</i>, John Carroll, in asking what truth is, looks at the roots of the word. 'When the Greeks designated truth by their word aleitheia, they built in a narrative. Truth is that which is a-lethe, not lethe, Lethe being the place of oblivion or forgetfulnes, and later the river running through the underworld. To drink the waters of this river was to extinguish memory. Oblivion is thus the natural human state, one in which individuals have forgotten what they know.' Carroll then makes a further connection, one that is vital in an age where post-modernism would deny the validity of truth. 'Moreover,' he writes, 'as English has picked up, to be without Truth is lethal, death in life, its condition that of lethargy, a weariness of spirit in which all vitality has drained away.' This is the condition of Fern as my novel, <i>Flight</i> opens. She has forgotten so much and lost so much of herself, that there is very little vitality left and she is told: 'If you do not take this journey you will die,' </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">A post modernist might say that it isn't possible to define truth, or at least that there are multiple truths. That truth is not fixed, but instead changes according to who is telling it and the context in which it is told. It changes too, according to the unique collection of filters each individual applies to their reading of a text. As Walter Truett-Anderson writes in <i>The Truth About Truth</i>, 'truth is made rather than found.' Yet below this slippery world of relative readings, I believe, like Joseph Campbell, that there is another world, a more stable one of universal truths and themes. Not tribal or dogmatic 'truths' that are socially constructed and create divisions but truths which are beyond divisions, beyond polarities. This, for me, is where truth lies. As a writer I can only approach it through metaphor, story itself being a metaphor for the journey of the soul, the journey to that truth which is beyond language. It is a journey that must be taken over and over. Factual truth has little bearing on this journey, which involves a seeing through of ideology, as well as the acceptance and subsequent release of constructed psychological truths, in order to receive a remembering of something deeper and more sustaining. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">If there are truths which are absolute, there are also an indefinite number and colourful variety of paths to these truths. As Campbell warned, it is dangerous to believe in the paths as truths in themselves, creating dogmatic 'isms' that limit our perception and more often than not, cause great divisions. Dogma insists that the path itself is the only way to an inaccessible truth, establishing twists and turns and dead ends to keep the masses away from this profound realisation that the path is constructed, it is a map, not the truth itself. In contrast, the journey of the soul is an individual and a universal journey, each person finding their own way, with their own unique signposts to guide them. The path is not important, as Fern discovers in <i>Flight</i>. Fern's journey is not one any other character could take because like each of us, she has her own individual stories to deconstruct; stories that have arisen from a multitude of factors: genetic, experiential, environmental, historical and cultural. At the end of her journey, Fern is able to step beyond constructed truths and perceive once again a vital universal truth that enables connection and harmony and the innate knowledge that everything is one. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
</div>
Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-67203491615105619862012-05-27T20:01:00.004-07:002013-06-28T02:35:28.721-07:00Juggling Archetypes: Heroes, Villains and Shapeshifters<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="line-height: 0.64cm;">'Archetypes
are part of the universal language of storytelling, and a command of
their energy is as essential to the writer as breathing.'</span><br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<div align="RIGHT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Christopher
Vogler, The Writer's Journey</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">An
understanding of archetypes is a useful tool for writers. Perhaps
because archetypal characters have always inhabited our myths and
fairy stories, they resonate deeply within our psyches. As Catherine
Anne Jones writes in The Way of Story, 'if you can create a
character which conveys a universal archetype, the collective will
identify and respond more deeply to your story.' It is important,
however, to ensure that what is produced is a character not a
caricature. In fairy tales, which generally don't seek subtlety,
archetypes are easy to identify and are often called by their
archetypal names, such as Threshold Guardian or Wicked Step Mother.
However in a novel our characters need to be more complex and often
their role/s change as the story progresses, so it's generally best
to develop our characters complexities before considering their
archetypal roles. Psychologist, Robert Johnson describes real human
beings as 'combinations of many types that join together to form one
rich, inconsistent, many-faceted human personality.' To avoid
creating one-dimensional caricatures, Christopher Vogler suggests
in The Writer's Journey, that we look at the archetypes as
'flexible character functions rather than as rigid character types.'
This way it is possible to see that a single character can encompass
a range of archetypes through the course of the story, donning and
changing masks as the story evolves.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The
word archetype comes from the Greek roots, arche, meaning the first,
and type, meaning imprint or pattern. According to mythologist, Joseph Campbell, each one of
us embodies a range of archetypes and the pantheons of gods and
goddesses found in ancient cultures, and in the myths and fairy tales
passed down through history, are an expression of these archetypes,
forming a kind of dynamic and ever changing map of the psyche. The
post modernist idea that each of us is constructed of a number of
selves interpreting the world and expressing themselves in many
forms, is in a sense, a much older concept, drawn from esoteric
theory which suggests that the unevolved human (most of us) is a
mechanical being comprised of programmed conflicting selves. Campbell
calls these selves archetypes and suggests that they express facets
of the human personality. As with esoteric theory, this position is
easy to differentiate from post modernism because he believes that
within the harmonious balance of these archetypes lies a central
archetype, or archetype of wholeness, a true or essential Self which
is the goal or outcome of the individuation process.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">In Awakening
The Hero Within, Carol S Pearson refers to archetypes as 'inner
guides' on our journey to Self. There are many archetypes but for the
purpose of discussing the journey of the Hero (ourselves) she limits
herself to listing twelve major archetypes: the Innocent, the Orphan,
the Warrior, the Caregiver, the Seeker, the Destroyer, the Lover, the
Creator, the Ruler, the Magician, the Sage and the Fool. Each, she
says 'has a lesson to teach us and each presides over a stage of the
journey'. While Pearson's archetypes are useful for a deep analysis
of our characters and ourselves, Vogler's are probably more useful
for understanding the dynamics of story. He lists the archetypes that
are most frequently found in stories: Hero, Mentor, Threshold
Guardian, Herald, Shapeshifter, Shadow/Villain, Ally and Trickster.
Of these archetypes it is probably the hero that we are most familiar
with. Drawing on Jung's idea of a true or essential Self, Vogler
suggested that 'the Hero archetype represents the ego's search for
identity and wholeness. In the process of becoming complete,
integrated human beings, we are all Heroes facing internal guardians,
monsters and helpers. . . All the villains, tricksters, lovers,
friends and foes of the Hero can be found inside ourselves. The
psychological task we all face is to integrate these separate parts
into one complete, balanced entity.'</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">In
order to illustrate how it is possible to explore archetypes through
our characters, I'll use a few abbreviated examples from my recent
novel, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-ebook/dp/B005WEZZFY" target="_blank">Flight</a>,
which contains complex archetypal characters with clear character
arcs, while drawing heavily on myth and fairytale. For those who
haven't yet read it the information on archetypes should be useful
anyway. Also, the geographical restrictions on Flight will
be lifted soon, so readers outside of Australia and New Zealand will
be able to access it. </span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.64cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The
Mentor is a guide or teacher and a giver of gifts, sometimes of this
world, sometimes not. Vogler writes that 'mentor figures stand for
the hero's highest aspirations . . . In the anatomy of the human
psyche, Mentors represent the Self, the God within us, the aspect of
personality that is connected with all things.' Fern has a number of
Mentors who give her guidance and sometimes tools she can use to
protect herself and to learn more. Ultimately though, in her journey
of remembering, Fern becomes her own mentor, re-integrating that
aspect of herself, so that in the end, she knows intuitively how to
defeat her father.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">According
to Vogler, 'Herald characters issue challenges and announce the
coming of significant change'. In Flight, there are a number of
characters who at various times act as Heralds, delivering the Call
to Adventure, while in a sense another Herald is simply the
impossible situation Fern finds herself in, stuck in an attic while
her house mates move out. In the end though, it is Shamesh who is the
most important Herald, bridging both the physical and metaphysical
worlds and compelling the reluctant Fern to begin her journey.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Threshold
Guardians are like the demonic figures found around the doors of
cathedrals that act as obstacles for those unworthy to enter.
According to Vogler, their function is to test the heroes
preparedness for the journey. There are a number of thresholds
guardians in Flight who attempt to stop Fern from continuing her
journey, but the most effective Threshold Guardian is Fern herself.
It is her own fear, depression and uncertainty that stops Fern so she
find a way of sneaking past, outwitting or overcoming these internal
guardians.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">An
Ally usually travels with the hero. Vogler writes that they 'do
mundane tasks but also serve the important function of humanizing the
heroes, adding extra dimensions to their personalities, or
challenging them to be more open and balanced'. One of the most
memorable allies in film is Shrek's irritating but beloved friend,
Donkey. In Flight, it is Adam who is Fern's major ally. He
travels with her, providing his physical strength, his knowledge of
the wilderness, and ultimately his love, which sustains Fern and
gives her the strength to face down her father.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Vogler
writes that 'Shapeshifters change appearance or mood, and are
difficult for the hero and the audience to pin down. They may mislead
the hero or keep her guessing, and their loyalty or sincerity is
often in question.' There are a number of minor shapeshifters
in Flight, including Adam, but it is Fern's father Eric who is
the main Shapeshifter, with his frequently changing character and
moods. Impossible to pin down, he confuses Fern, who knows he is
dangerous yet wants to trust him. Eric's shapeshifting goes beyond
his physical manifestation, into the metaphysical world, where Fern
is confronted with some of his manifestations in past lives. As the
story progresses, Fern discovers that she is also a Shapeshifter, in
the sense that she too moves between worlds and like Eric, has many
manifestations of the same soul.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">According
to Jungian psychologists, we deny archetypes at our peril, for if one
aspect of ourselves is buried or pushed aside, its power grows, and
it becomes a Shadow. Often the journey of a character is to
reintegrate or rebalance one or more of the shadow aspects within
them. In Flight, it is Eric who is the Shadow, representing what
Vogler describes as the 'energy of the dark side, the unexpressed,
unrealized, or rejected aspects of something'. Eric represents the
masculine, but in its shadow form. He is a successful businessman,
immensely powerful but ruthless, arrogant and greedy. In a sense Eric
is Fern's shadow self, as is often the case with villains in stories.
The Shadow is the monster in the centre of the labyrinth, that which
we fear and deny, but it can also represent positive qualities within
us that we also deny. Fern has closed her heart to life in order not
to be hurt, so lives in a shadow world, frightened and passive,
immobile and shut down. She must reclaim her feminine power and
access her intuitive self. But she has also rejected the masculine,
represented in its more positive form by Adam, and in its shadow
form, by her father, Eric. Unconsciously, Fern is seeking the balance
that Jung referred to as Mysterium Coniunctionais, the inner marriage
of the anima (feminine element of a man) and the animus (masculine
element of a woman). In order to find harmony, a balance must be
sought, and more often than not this means a confrontation with the
shadow self, which is exactly what Fern is faced with in Flight.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">While
archetypes are useful to apply to our characters they are also easily
applied to our own lives. According to Vogler, we are all the Heroes
(albeit often reluctantly) of our lives, acting as characters in
stories whose plot points we may not even be aware of. As writers, we
all recognise the archetypes that help us and hinder us along the
way: the Mentors, the Allies, the Villains and of course the
Threshold Guardians, in the form of publishers, agents, a lack of
time perhaps, fear of failure, or simply the certain knowledge that
we're in for a long haul with no certainty of success. Recognising
these archetypes within ourselves helps us to use them well, to trick
them when necessary and ultimately to overcome our limitations as
writers.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
</div>
</div>
Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-74099381146225170222012-05-20T19:00:00.000-07:002013-06-28T02:36:52.178-07:00Imagination And Memory: A Creative Tension<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">'Imagination
is the voice of daring. If there is anything Godlike about God it is
that. He dared to imagine everything.'</span></div>
<div align="RIGHT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Henry
Miller</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I don't
plan before I write. Instead I start with an image that haunts me and
perhaps a theme or two then see what emerges. The word imagination
comes from the Latin word imago, which means image. According to
psychologist, Robert Johnson, in his book, <i>Inner Work</i>, 'the
imagination is the image-forming faculty in the mind. . .it generates
the symbols the unconscious uses to express itself' Imagination is
vital for creative life, for abstract thought, for the development of
the sciences, philosophy, religion and even language. As Catherine
Ann Jones wrote in <i>The Way of Story</i>, 'images are the language
of the soul', yet in popular modern terms the role of the imagination
has been denigrated, coming to mean something fictitious or a
daydream and often labelled as mere fantasy. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The
word fantasy is derived from the Greek word phantasia which meant 'a
making visible'. For the Greeks, phantasia was much more than a
daydream, it was, as Johnson wrote, 'the organ by which the divine
world spoke to the human mind'. For me too, the image making faculty
is far more than mere fantasy. Einstein believed that 'imagination is
more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited to all we now
know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and
all there ever will be to know and understand'. I too believe that
the imagination is perhaps the greatest gift humanity has been given.
Its only limits are the ones we place upon it and ourselves. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Imagination
is what makes us human, enabling us to experience events and emotions
we might not normally experience, to reflect, to find commonality
with others and thus understand ourselves. As writers we can imagine
fictional characters and in so doing, reveal and discover something
about ourselves and others, for as Lousie DeSalvo explained in <i>The
Healing Power of Story</i>, 'storytelling teaches us or reteaches us
empathy. This trait is a prerequisite for treating others well but it
depends upon our ability to imagine what it feels like to be another
person. We do this through storytelling.'</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Imagination
is like the trickster gods of old - a powerful liberating force,
cutting through what has been established, making strange what is
normal, allowing us to step into the shoes of another, to break free
of what we know and to fly. And yet, Carmel Bird says in <i>Dear Writer</i>,
'the worlds of the imagination are constructed from the things we
find in the everyday world'. Bird distinguishes between this everyday
world and the imaginative world of 'other possibilities' but says
there is no conflict between them, that the writer must give
permission to the imagination to 'rearrange the building blocks of
everyday reality'. Therefore the writing process is about taking the
familiar and making it strange, letting the imagination create
something new from what is known and thus venture into the realms of
the unknown.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Imagination
is not solely responsible for the mystery and magic of writing.
Memory too, plays an important role. The word memory, comes from the
Greek word Mnemosyne. Born from the marriage of Uranus and Gaia,
heaven and earth, Mnemosyne was personified as the mother of the nine
muses and the patron goddesses of poets. Fiction writers spend a
great deal of time inhabiting the world of the imagination, but also
draw heavily on memory, for as Jones writes, 'memory is one of the
primal sources for creative images'. I am fascinated by the memories
we carry (often unconsciously) and the way they arise in the process
of storytelling, make links between seemingly disparate ideas and
provide significance and revelation. In the process of writing, a
tension is created between the grounding nature of memory and the
flightiness of the imagination. For me, the vitality of that tension
creates meaning. It is the source of my stories. Trusting it, is an
act of faith in the unfolding mystery of story. In <i>The Creative
Writing Coursebook</i>, Lesley Glaister writes that 'memory is
refracted through imagination, often unconsciously, into something
new.' That, she says, is 'the real stuff of fiction memory blended,
refracted, transformed.' </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">As I
write, I work closely with the unconscious; In the process I take my
own memories and recreate them, usually in a fictional way, finding
links and themes and connoting meaning through metaphor. 'Memory is a
poet, explains Patti Miller in <i>Writing Your Life</i>, it stores
'experiences in imaginative patterns. . . connections are made
through imaginative association rather than logic.' Miller goes on
to distinguish between the left and right sides of the brain,
suggesting that when people try to write from the logical left part
of their mind, their stories become dull and flat, whereas the right
side of the brain is where the imagination and poetry lie. As
Einstein once said, 'logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will
take you everywhere.' </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">In her
novel, <i>Fugitive Pieces</i>, Anne Michaels writes that 'the
memories we elude catch up to us, overtake us like a shadow. A truth
appears suddenly in the middle of a thought, a hair on a lens'. This
is how my memories arose while I was writing <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-ebook/dp/B005WEZZFY" target="_blank">Flight</a></i>;
spontaneously, from the right side of the brain, overtaking me with
sudden revelations. At first the memories seemed random and out of
context, so I was tempted to ignore them. Instead I decided to trust
the creative process, so I took the bare facts and used my
imagination to expand each memory and link it with my protagonist,
Fern. Only then did I receive the gift that always comes with this
connection, the hidden revelation, an understanding of its
significance. For it is memory that helps us identify the patterns in
our lives and imagination that helps us to interpret them. 'How we
remember,' writes Jones 'is how we give meaning to a life lived.'.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">As more
of my memories arose and were given to Fern, I wondered if by giving
my memories away I was in a sense emptying myself and in so doing,
might in some way lose myself. In his book, <i>Creativity</i>, Osho
distinguishes between psychological and factual memory, stating that
factual memory is necessary but psychological memory is not. 'Factual
memory,' he says, 'is not a problem, it is pure remembrance. When you
become psychologically affected by it, then the problem arises'. I
realised then, that this was the essence of the journeys many of us
take when writing, particularly about trauma or pain. The result is a
clearing of our emotional attachment to these memories. We still have
them, and yet in writing them we release ourselves from their spell
or 'curse' and thus the identity they had constructed. In writing
about memories in this way, we evoke our imaginations to transform
them and thus liberate ourselves from them, not lose ourselves in
them. In the end though, whether it be fiction or memoir and no
matter what reasons we draw on memory in our writing, memory is a
rich and authentic source of material for writers, helping us to
create credible characters, settings and back story. It is memory
that grounds our stories, while imagination gives our stories the
wings they need to soar.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
</div>
Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-71861426648619323862012-05-13T19:42:00.000-07:002013-06-28T02:36:01.799-07:00Motivating Character<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">'We
must look at the intentionality of the characters and where they are
heading, for they are the main influence upon the shape of stories.</span></div>
<div align="RIGHT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">James
Hillman, <i>Healing Fictions</i></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">For
many of us (myself included), life consists of a series of reactions
to the past, reactions which exist in the present and hence form our
future. Unless we consciously seek to unravel the tangle of
influences within us, we remain mechanical creatures, programmed by
past events, by the people in our lives, and by the ideologies that
we embrace, often unconsciously. The first step to unraveling this
tangle is to see that there is a tangle in the first place. After
that we can begin exploring what motivates our actions, what lies
beneath the stories we tell ourselves about who we are. Perhaps this
is why strong, plausible characterisation is so fundamental to story.
</span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">To
write stories well we need to understand character; not just what
characters looks like, or how they act, but what motivates them. Why
do they do what we do? What drives them? Why are they driven? What
has formed them? These are basic questions that often reveal
unexpected and richly rewarding answers. According to Jung, it is
character that drives plot, not plot that drives character. And in
<i>The Way of Story</i>, Catherine Anne Jones writes that 'it is the
inner psychological state of the main character which fuels and
drives the external plot'. Plot then, is secondary to character.
Certainly in my own writing process this is the case; this is how I
have always written, allowing the story to form around the
characters. It is where I find the links with my own life and
development, and where I attempt to write a 'living' story. I have
found it vital to surrender to the process of writing and trust that
a story will emerge; rich with character and complexity. To plot a
story before it is written and then force the characters to act like
puppets within the plot, is more often than not a recipe for
unmotivated action and 'dead' implausible stories. As a writer it is
playing it safe, refusing to respond to the call of adventure that
signals the journey of story. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The
source of a character's motivation often lies hidden within the early
patterns of childhood, in the wounds and blessings that have formed a
person. In <i>The Writing Book</i>, Kate Grenville warns against an
over emphasis on motivation, saying that it can create characters
that are 'too neatly motivated and too one-dimensional'. I don't
agree. As in life, a three-dimensional, plausible character should be
motivated, not by a single factor but by a number of factors, not all
of them conscious. He or she should not only act, but also react to
people, places and events, and these actions and reactions should
have a convincing weight that carries and directs the story. When
creating a three-dimensional character, I look for the factors and
sometimes the patterns that motivate that character, and at the
psychological reasons for that motivation (why they are motivated). I
ask myself questions. What does my character want? What is stopping
him or her from getting it? The answers to these questions can be
found both externally (a character might want a new job) and
internally (a character might want to be understood, or want to make
a difference). Fusing the answers to these questions with the factors
that motivate a character, helps to create conflict, a fundamental
element in story. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Conflict
is found on three levels. Firstly, from something unavoidable in the
external world; an earthquake, for example, or the loss of a job.
Secondly, from tension between characters, a disagreement with an
employer or a power struggle between father and son. And lastly, from
internal tensions within a major character, such as the fear of
change, a deep sense of self loathing, or an unexpressed love.
Internal tension is a strong generator of conflict and without it all
the external tension in the world will feel hollow. As Robert McKee
writes in <i>Story</i>, 'the closest circle of antagonism in the
world of a character is his own being: feelings and emotions, mind
and body, all or any of which may or may not react from one moment to
the next the way he expects. As often as not, we are our own worst
enemies.' Conflict generates story and within story lies the keys to
the change and development needed to create a satisfying character
arc. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">As
mentioned in a previous post, the outer passage of a story is the
plot, while the inner passage of a story is the character arc. The
outer passage the costume, the inner passage the essence. It is in
the inner journey that the character uncovers the fragments that
motivate him or her. This is the case in <i>Flight</i>, as Fern must
search the past in order to find the motivating factors that have
forced her to act in certain ways. It is within the flashbacks to her
childhood and the visions of past lives, that the clues and
motivations to Fern's character are provided. While not all stories
involve a character arc, most do (more on this in a later post).
Readers generally want to see the protagonist learning something
about themselves. It is not a new self that is sought but a
healthier, more knowledgeable self. Perhaps a self who can come to
some acceptance of his or her circumstances, or a self who is able to
reintegrate into society because of what he or she has learned. A
short story might simply show a moment of epiphany or self
realisation and leave the reader to imagine its potential, but in a
novel there is generally a longer time line, so when a character
learns something about themselves there is the opportunity to reveal
to the reader the change that this knowledge brings. However, this
change should come about gradually, otherwise the characterisation
will necessarily be weak and the story formulaic. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Jung
defines individuation as a coming to self hood or self realisation.
In <i>The Undiscovered Self</i>, he writes passionately and urgently
of the need for individuals to resist the collective forces of
society, saying that to do this we must face our fear of the duality
of the human psyche, in other words we must accept our shadow selves.
It is in the inner structure of the story, the character arc, that we
can see the process of individuation at work. Individuation, or the
Hero's Journey, as Campbell would call it (more on this in a later
post), is simply another word for a process that is as old as
humanity - a journey of the soul or, as some would prefer to call it,
a psychological journey. As writers and readers, perhaps we are
seeking through story an experience of connection, a sense of
commonality that can be discovered beneath the surface differences
that appear to divide us from each other. Perhaps in some ways we use
story to explore our own lives and the themes that move us. And
ultimately, perhaps following the arc of a character in a story
enables us to identify and understand the motivating factors in our
own reactions and from this knowledge ultimately begin to act in more
conscious manner. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
</div>
Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-34414591717704480412012-05-06T19:00:00.001-07:002013-06-28T02:37:12.371-07:00Catharsis And Transformation In Writing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">'Through
writing, suffering can be transmuted into art.'</span></div>
<div align="RIGHT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Louise
de Salvo, <i>Writing as a Way of Healing</i> </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">My
father, like many of us, was afraid of death. So much so, in fact,
that he refused to live. He was a sick man with a weak heart and a
fear of almost every aspect of life. After surviving six or so heart
attacks and an anuerism in his brain, he still clung to life, even
joining a second church in the final years. 'Double indemnity,' I
used to joke. Needless to say, we didn't get on too well. In fact,
fathers - cruel, absent and sick, have been a major theme in my
writing to date. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">When
Christian theologian, Parker Palmer wrote, 'the greatest paradox of
all: that to live we have to die', he was most likely referring to
the obvious scientific fact that death is an inescapable part of
life; in a sense it is the only certainty we have in life. Life is
full of paradox. That is part of its beauty. But Parker Palmer's
statement isn't simply about the certainty of death; within it we can
also find the ancient idea that in order to live well one must
symbolically die to one's self and be reborn into a new self. This is
found in religious stories and myths across many cultures, such as
the death and resurrection of Jesus and the Babylonian story of the
goddess, Innana's descent into the underworld. This idea is also
deeply embedded within more contemporary story, within the arc of
character and the transformation that may or may not occur in the
course of the character's physical and/or psychological journey
through the story.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">As I
wrote in an earlier post <i><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.com.au/2012/04/digging-deep-writing-character.html" target="_blank">Digging Deep – Writing Character</a>,</i>
there are a number of metaphors for this journey of transformation
and they are powerful reminders that each of us is meant to evolve,
to embrace change and to learn from our experiences. There are key
moments of change in the journey of major characters – turning
points or moments of catharsis. These are moments when a character is
forced, or chooses to turn away from what is familiar and face the
unknown, and in so doing comes to a realisation of some sort. In a
sense they are a purging of an old way and an opening to the new.
They occur at various points in a story and thus relate to the
movement of plot but importantly they also relate to character
development. In <i>Flight</i>, each of Fern's emotional breakthroughs
represent a reclaiming of a fragment of self, providing her with the
opportunity to become whole again and discover a new way of living
(more on the character arc in a later post).</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Catharsis
is a word that means vomiting up or purging, and is a term that was
originally associated with Aristotle and Greek drama, which was,
according to Christopher Vogler, 'constructed with the intent of
triggering a vomiting up of emotions by the audience'. During the
nineteenth century Franz Mesmer began to use hypnotherapy with his
patients and discovered that part of the cure often involved a
healing crisis in which blocked emotions rise to the surface. A
century later, Freud began provoking catharsis in his patients, and
now the concept is widely used in psychotherapy. While catharsis is a
common element in story, writing too, can be a cathartic process for
many people, a way of expelling or simply becoming acquainted with,
the demons that haunt them, or as Jung would call them, the shadow
aspects of our selves that we bury deeply within us. As a teacher of
creative writing I have seen many times how the simple act of framing
a story or of understanding the motivations behind a character's
actions can challenge the foundations on which a person has lived
their lives, forcing them to question the stories that they have told
themselves about who they are. In <i>Writing as a Way of Healing</i>,
Louise DeSalvo explains that we are the accumulation of the stories
we tell ourselves about who we are. So changing our stories. . . can
change our personal history, can change us. Through writing we often
revisit our past and review and revise it. What we thought happened,
what we believed happened to us, shifts and changes as we discover
deeper and more complex truths.' So in separating a story from
ourselves, in writing it down, we are changing our perspective on it
and are therefore able to see it differently, without the burden of
emotions. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">In the
writing of <i>Flight</i>, I could feel the cathartic process working
its magic on me as I purged and released myself from a good deal of
the past, just as Fern, my protagonist did. The process of writing,
of weaving fact and fiction, memory and imagination into a story,
helped me to learn lessons from the past, thereby enabling me to
evolve as a human being. Writing about my own parents (albeit in
fictional form) enabled me to step into their shoes and thus begin to
feel empathy for them. In so doing, I began the process of
forgiveness. According to psychologist, Jean Houston, forgiveness can
have 'a momentous and evolutionary potency' and its roots are located
in the discovery of the Larger Story. This is a process I have
frequently observed with students when I run character workshops. The
most profound exercises are always the ones in which I ask students
to shift their perspective and step into the shoes of another
character, usually someone to whom their main character is opposed.
It is an excellent exercise in empathy and in developing an
understanding of the often unconscious motivations behind human
behaviour (more on character motivation in a later post). </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">In a
sense catharsis underpins the transformative potential of the process
of writing and of story itself. While catharsis provides an emotional
clearing the character must then take the next step and integrate
what they have learned, in order for change or transformation to be
possible. Karen Armstrong wrote that 'a novel, like a myth or any
great work of art, can become an initiation that helps us to make a
painful rite of passage from one phase of life, one state of mind, to
another.' Story then can be transformative, helping us on our journey
towards individuation, as Jung describes it, a journey that is not
taken automatically when someone reaches a certain age, but rather is
dependent on our willingness to comprehend the nature of self and
become true individuals. <i>Flight</i> started out as a story of
alienation and anger, but it became instead a story of love and
forgiveness, and in the process I liberated myself from much of the
past and from the weight of unresolved memories.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
</div>
Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-89698862643663947522012-04-29T18:02:00.000-07:002013-06-28T02:37:26.948-07:00Famous First Words<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">'The
last thing one discovers in composing a work is what to put first.'</span></div>
<div align="RIGHT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Blaise
Pascal, Pensees</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">As I've
been struggling a little with the opening of my new novel and because
openings are so important, I've decided to do another post on first
pages. This set me wondering why we choose to buy one book and not
another. There are a number of factors for me: the author's name, the
title, the cover design, the back cover blurb and the opening
paragraph. I take all these things into account but in the end, it is
the opening paragraph that is usually the deciding factor for me, and
recently I surprised myself by buying Anna Funder's new novel, <i>All
That I Am</i>, simply because of its intriguing opening line, 'When
Hitler came to power I was in the bath.' The opening lines that go
down in history are ones that arrest the reader in some way, or tell
us something universal about life. Anna Funder's opening line is is
already famous and deservedly so, as it is an arresting one,
providing a startling contrast between the warm comfort of a bath and
the cold shock of the associations we now have about Hitler. Then
there's Jane Austen's famous line from <i>Pride and Prejudice</i>,
'It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in
possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.' This
humorously asserts a 'so called' universal truth and in doing so,
beautifully establishes the narrative voice of the novel. Although
the opening line for my novel, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-ebook/dp/B005WEZZFY" target="_blank">Flight</a></i> is not profound or particularly
startling it does raise a question or two and build an element of
suspense, so in that sense it has worked. Initially <i>Flight</i>
opened with 'It had been days, possibly weeks, since Fern had
ventured out of her attic.' However, about halfway through the novel
I went back and wrote a prologue which begins with, 'I came early,
slithering into the outside world and into safety, or so I hoped.'
The prologue and Chapter One are clearly distinct in tone and voice
so in a sense these are both opening lines (more on the functions of
prologue in a future post).</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Every
writer wants a great opening line but it isn't always possible to
achieve, sometimes we have to settle for a great opening paragraph or
chapter or just a great novel overall! Openings need to be
intriguing, they need to seduce us, startle us, make our spirits lift
with anticipation or make us sigh with the beauty of their
description. In short, they need to draw us into the story, in
whatever way they can. We can start with a narrative description, as
in Arundhati Roy's, <i>The God of Small Things</i>, or with a
shocking action scene, as in Dan Brown's <i>Da Vinci Code</i>, or
with a profound philosophical statement, as in Charles Dickens, <i>A
Tale of Two Cities</i>. We might start with a strong character voice
in the form of a monologue, as in J D Salinger's <i>Catcher in the
Rye</i>, or with a narrative summary as in <i>The Shipping News</i>
by E Annie Proulx. Regardless of our individual taste as readers and
writers, these are all superb examples (in their respective genres),
of opening pages that raise questions and draw the reader in. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Strong
openings have always been important but they are becoming even more
necessary as publishers and agents are inundated with manuscripts and
in response are quicker to reject a book just on its opening page/s.
And there's no point asking a publisher to skip the early pages and
just read from Chapter Five on. A few weeks ago, in '<a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.com.au/2012/03/reading-between-lines.html" target="_blank">Reading BetweenThe Lines</a>', I wrote with regret about the way society has sped up and
with it, the way we read. However, there's little point resisting an
established trend and denying the fact that most of us have become
more impatient readers than we once were. We have also become more
story savvy and need less explanation than in the past. So whether we
like it or not, there is little room in today's market for novels
that start slowly. A weak first page or first chapter means that an
agent or a publisher might not bother to read on. Even when a book is
published, the opening plays an important role in its success. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Although
in the case of <i>Flight</i>, I found my opening lines early in the
writing process, it was only after six or seven drafts that I was
able to get the opening pages right. This is a common problem for a
number of reasons. When we start a novel we tend not to know where
we're going, so it is only in retrospect that we can go back and see
what it is we were trying to achieve. In the opening pages we haven't
yet found our voice or the style and tone of the piece, or even got
to know our characters, so the writing is often more wooden than
later pages. There are so many elements that need fine tuning in the
early pages: pace, style, establishment of character, setting, plot,
motives. . . We often give too much away, or conversely, say too
little. We might meander towards the story or plunge in without
giving the reader time to commit to the story. And finally, for some
reason we usually become most sentimentally attached to our early
pages – probably because it feels so miraculous just to have
started! It's always hardest to 'kill your darlings'.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">When my
publisher at HarperCollins first read <i>Flight</i>, she loved it but
she also knew that she couldn't successfully pitch it to her
colleagues because the opening was too slow and by that she meant the
first quarter of the novel. I was lucky that she gave me a chance to
solve the problem, though at the time I didn't believe there was
anything more to do as I had already cut it back by 20,000 words and
was certain that every remaining word was necessary. Reluctantly (and
a little impatiently), I went back to my desk, where to my surprise I
quickly discovered that much of the early material was superfluous
because I had written it as an exploration, a kind of getting to know
my story, while I was still '<a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.com.au/2012/04/finding-way-in.html" target="_blank">finding a way in</a>' (see earlier post). In
the end I reduced the first four chapters to a single chapter and cut
a further 20,000 words from the first third of the novel. It felt
surprisingly good doing it, like a particularly satisfying spring
clean. In the process no thematic depth was lost, nor was the
richness of setting or the credibility of the characters reduced. In
fact, the novel was far better for being pruned in this way. Instead
of slowly meandering towards the beginning of action it began at the
point where action was imminent, which increased the pace and made
the story more compelling. My publisher took my new draft to an
acquisitions meeting where it was approved and a year later <i>Flight</i>
was published. Hopefully I have learned enough from this experience
to be more ruthless with the early pages of my new novel. I've
certainly learned enough to know that I should stop worrying about
the problematic opening and just get on with writing it because
there's no doubt I'll have to come back to these pages in the end.
For as John Irving once said, 'half my life is an act of revision'.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/" style="line-height: 24px;">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
</div>
Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-73993120305783295842012-04-22T18:27:00.002-07:002013-06-28T02:38:18.964-07:00Buried Treasure - Symbolism In Story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">'Reason,
science and technology pin us down to the literal fact, but symbols
nourish the soul by pointing to something beyond what is known.
Symbols quicken reality with meaning.'</span></div>
<div align="RIGHT" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Carl
Jung</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Today I
buried Clown. The ceremony was poignant, though slightly incongruous.
It was a finishing off, a letting go of sorts and it needed doing.
You see, Clown was a stuffed toy from my childhood. He wasn't
attractive; in fact he was grossly misproportioned, with an enormous
torso, long thick legs and tiny arms. He was torn and filthy and his
face was macabre, with an array of mismatching features and one eye
missing. In short, Clown had been well loved. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">For
many years I had forgotten about Clown but a couple of years ago when
my mother went into aged care, I went back to my childhood home to
help pack it up, and there in the cupboard I found him. My mother had
made this oversized stuffed toy for me; sitting up late one Christmas
Eve so that Father Christmas could bring me a present, and I saw no
contradiction in this, believing in my childhood way that they were
working in cahoots. We weren't well off. Christmas meant treats, like
chicken and tinned asparagus, pudding laced with an occasional coin
and real cream, not the dreadful sort skimmed from the top of the
boiled milk that we had for the rest of the year. There were few
presents; undies from an Aunty, an occasional book or board game, and
this particular year, Clown. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">From
the moment I clapped eyes on Clown, I fell in love. He became my
friend and confidante, my ally, my comforter and my security. I
poured into Clown all my angst and pain, the injustices I
encountered, my sense of being different, of being misunderstood and
unwanted. Seeing him again so many years later, I was torn between
love and repulsion. I had moved on. I didn't need or want Clown
anymore. He needed to go in the garbage bin but I couldn't do it, so
in the end I stuffed him in my suitcase and brought him home. Since
then he has been languishing in a cupboard awaiting his fate. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Today I
had intended to write a post about characterisation but this episode
with Clown made me think about symbolism instead. Clown symbolised a
great deal for me. As an early much loved toy, he was a substitute
for the absent mother. But as I said above, he was also a vessel for
my unwanted emotions, an outlet that enabled me to get through
difficult times. I don't know why my mother fashioned a clown for me
to love rather than a teddy bear. Perhaps she wanted to help me see
the funny side of life. Traditionally clowns represent a parody of
kingship – irreverence, absurdity, ridicule. . . but there was
nothing funny about my clown. He was sad but only because I had
filled him with sadness. And while he was my protector he was also
something for me to protect. Hence he deserved (and belatedly
received) a better ending than the garbage bin. Symbols are both
universal and individual, specific to a culture and a historical
context, yet also transcending these things. They cannot be pinned
down to a single meaning because they are able to be interpreted
according to the cultural, historical and personal context in which
they are placed. Clown meant something to me that was unique and yet
in a story, a child clinging to a ragged stuffed toy tells every
reader something about the character and needs of that child. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">While
many words are needed to express an idea, a symbol combines many
ideas into a single word. As Anthony Stevens writes in his book,
<i>Ariadne's Clue: A Guide to the Symbols of Humankind</i>, 'symbols
tolerate paradox and can combine contradictory ideas; words are about
one thing or another. Symbols awake intimations; words explain. Like
musical compositions, symbolic forms are psychologically more
athletic than words: they leap across national barriers'. In short,
symbols inhabit the world of poetry. However, this doesn't limit them
to poetic forms. As story tellers we can enrich and add greater depth
to our work by consciously exploring the use of symbols. and as such,
they are an important element in writing; one which we can use either
consciously or unconsciously. </span>
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<span style="font-size: small;">According
to Stevens, 'the conjunction of sym (together) and ballein (to throw)
emphasises the idea that the strange must be thrown together with the
familiar to construct a bridge between the known and the unknown. . .
. resulting in the experience of a new meaning.' In a sense then,
symbols and metaphors are bridges to the unconscious, ways of
explaining what cannot be explained, expressing what cannot be
expressed. They provide us with access to essential truths, those
that are felt but not measurable or possibly even visible. </span>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My
novel, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-ebook/dp/B005WEZZFY" target="_blank">Flight</a></i>, is laden with symbols. Even the story itself is
a symbol, or at least a metaphor for the journey to self, to an
understanding and a remembering of who we are, to what Jung calls
Individuation. Fern's story documents the journey from a mechanistic,
conditioned life to one that is lived freely as a true individual. In
the novel, the labyrinth is a strong symbol, and one that I
consciously used. It has a two-fold reading. On a metaphoric level it
is the story itself, the path Fern must follow in order to free
herself. On a symbolic level it is the wilderness that Fern and Adam
must find their way through in order to complete Fern's journey.
There are other symbols in the novel, the snake, the bear, the eagle,
the spiral, the cave. . . most of which I was unaware of at the time
of writing. It was only later, in the editing process that I
identified these elements and in understanding their meaning, was
able to further develop them, adding a greater richness and depth to
the story. </span>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Symbols
are not literal, they are not the language of the head, but rather of
the heart. As a writer my goal is to find a synthesis between this
language of the head and the heart; a synthesis that would create a
more balanced means of interpreting the natural world and the human
structures we have created. According to Stevens, symbolism is a
language that transcends race, geography and time. It is the natural
Esperanto of humanity'. This is a language that is fundamental for
'living stories' and one that is in danger of being lost in a world
that tends more and more to a literal reading of story, rather than a
metaphoric reading which allows for the transcending of difference
and an embracing of the sacred.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
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Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120117321989768574.post-32324187421121762142012-04-15T15:45:00.001-07:002013-06-28T02:38:28.177-07:00Seeking Legitimacy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 150%;">'The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.'</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sylvia Plath </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 150%;">For the first few months of writing this blog, the posts came with ease and clarity as if they were a gift. I looked forward to sitting down each week and discovering what I wanted to say. But for the past few weeks I've been struggling to find words, finding myself moving from one idea to the next, not satisfied with anything. Instead of an hour or two, my posts were taking a day of struggle and even then I wasn't certain of the result. I was fretting and irritable and losing confidence, and like a virus, this was spreading into my other writing as well, leaving me unable to settle to my novel or any other project.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">My problems were exacerbated when a week ago my new novel, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flight-ebook/dp/B005WEZZFY" target="_blank">Flight</a></i>, received a vitriolic review in a major newspaper. At some stage in their publishing career all writers get a bad review, so I knew it had to come. <i>Flight</i> had already received reviews; some excellent, others more measured, weighing the good with the bad, but this was the first time I had experienced anything cruel. I tried to be rational about it, tried to tell myself I was bigger than this, that it didn't matter, that everyone has a right to an opinion, that reading is a subjective enterprise and the reader is bringing themselves to the process, along with their own baggage. But no matter how hard I tried, I simply couldn't move on from the cruelty of it. Instead I fretted and felt sorry for myself and in the end my back went into spasm and I caught a cold, sure signs that time out was needed for me to take a good long look at myself. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">My husband sat me down and told me to stop struggling against it. 'You're worrying about your readers,' he said. 'Stop thinking about their expectations and write from your heart again.' His words hit me with the force of truth. Even before this review, I had begun to worry about disappointing my readers, and I had begun questioning my legitimacy as a writer and even a teacher. This may sound strange to many readers. After all, I can list my credentials: two published novels, many years experience as a teacher of creative writing and as an editor and mentor, as well as a completed PhD exploring the nature and purpose of story. On paper I am highly qualified but for some reason a good CV isn't enough. Nothing is enough because I (like many others), carry such a lot of self doubt, which leaves me prone to concentrating on what I haven't got rather than being grateful for what I have. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">This review pressed a number of buttons within me, all related to emotional memories of illegitimacy. For the past few days, while I have been immobilised with a sore back and a cold, memories of childhood have been bubbling up, snapshots that have been stored as scar tissue. My adoptive father pulling out his account book yet again to show me the column of numbers in red ink that flowed page after page. 'Expenses,' he'd say. 'This is what you owe me.' At my grandmother's wake, the will being read to a long list of recipients and my ten year old self waiting expectantly for my windfall; a bed perhaps (no, my sister got that), or a set of china, even a lounge chair or a vase. Then the disbelief, the anger and the despair when my name wasn't there. Memory after memory. . . A childhood full of accusations - adopted, illegitimate, bad blood. . . A childhood full of threats - reform school, sickness, hell. . . A childhood full of fear. . . A childhood I thought I had recovered from. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">No matter how great our recovery from emotional wounds, scar tissue always remains and we will occasionally stumble into situations that will reopen old wounds. Perhaps the best we can do is recognise this and in so doing, not allow ourselves to place unconscious limitations on our lives.</span> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 150%;">I have met many students who have decided not to publish because they are too sensitive, too afraid of the responses from readers and reviewers. And I have also met many talented would-be writers who have decided not to write again because they have received hurtful criticism. Over the years I have assessed thousands of manuscripts and reviewed a number of published novels. I know that each person whose writing I engage with has put themselves into their work and I know that this makes them vulnerable because their manuscript has become an extension of themselves. When we look at and comment on the work of another we have a great deal of influence and should approach it with a sense of responsibility. For an editor or reviewer, the distinction between reaction and assessment is crucial, as is the balance between flattery and constructive criticism. Many writers suffer from this process of sharing because the reader is dismissive, cruel, or simply without the skills to articulate their thoughts clearly.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">So, how can we share our writing with others and emerge unscathed? Perhaps we can't. Perhaps we have to take that risk because we need to remain open to constructive criticism. It's vital to be honest enough with our work and with ourselves to see where improvement is required or where we have gone wrong, otherwise we simply stagnate. If we write to please, then we won't write from our hearts and consequently we will have lost something of great value. In a sense this review was a gift because it forced me to see an area in my life where I was still reacting and gave me the opportunity to explore my own issues around legitimacy. Hopefully next time I will be able to stand my ground and not react so dramatically to the cutting words of another. I have understood that if we seek legitimacy outside of ourselves we will not find it, because we leave ourselves vulnerable and in fear, at the mercy of the indifference or cruelty of individuals or even of society, which validates some while denigrating others. No matter how hard we struggle we cannot control the reactions of others but with work we can control our own reactions. So we have to look inside for our sense of self worth, a sturdy sense that will keep us grounded through the ups and downs of life. It's not easy but if we try, then our lives will be richer for it. As Ernest Hemingway once said (along these lines): 'If you believe them when they tell you you're great then you've got to believe them when they tell you you're crap.' </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 19px;"><span style="background-color: #fafff8; line-height: normal;">Copyright (c) 2012 by Rosie Dub. All rights reserved. You may translate, link to or quote this article, in its entirety, as long as you include the author name and a working link back to this website:</span></span><a href="http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/">http://writeonthefringes.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
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Dr Rosie Dubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13988518840376585225noreply@blogger.com6