Hang on to your hats, because Belphagor and Vasily will soon be at large in the world of Man. (And Anazakia, too...of course Anazakia; she's the star, but really...Belphagor and Vasily, can I hear a w00t??) Yes, I'm rambling. I'll try to be clear: My awesome agent, Sara Megibow, has just sold my House of Arkhangel'sk trilogy to Entangled Publishing. Look, it's even in Publisher's Marketplace and everything (click to see the whole thing):
Numfar, do the dance of joy!
Researching the landscape and the layout of the city of Arkhangel'sk for my latest WIP, I came across this photo via Google Earth that just took my breath away:
This is actually near Mezen, but still in Arkhangel'sk Oblast, and perfectly fits the setting of the middle of The House of Arkhangel'sk. The photographer, Andrey Larin, has a number of photos up on Panoramio that are tagged to Google Maps, and I find myself browsing them for hours whenever I come across them. Googling "Arkhangelsk" in images rarely turns up much for some reason, but on Google Maps, there are a wealth of them.
Here are some others from Arkhangel'sk proper:
I love to imagine Anazakia and Vasily wandering here.
I've marked this post "Character inspiration" because Arkhangel'sk is as much a character as any angel or demon in my books. It's also one Russian setting I've used (along with the nearby Solovetsky islands) where I've never actually been. Clicking through Andrey's pictures makes me feel like I have. So, thanks, Andrey; hope you don't mind a little promotion.
So I've gotten to that point in my latest work in progress where all the pieces have fallen into place, and I know exactly what's going to happen from here to the end...except for One. Little. Thing. It's a fairly crucial thing. My demon character Belphagor is supposed to have a plan that he unveils at the last minute to save the day in a certain situation. And now it's time for me to write that scene. But he won't tell me what it is. And people wonder why writers drink.
In lieu of actual writing getting done, I will now post some random tattooed males. This first one definitely has something young-Belphagorian going on:
Is this a cute boy or a hot dyke? Oh, who cares!
This one's just plain easy on the eyes:
And you may thank me for this one later:
Skill, as you can clearly see, is not something I have when it comes to photographing tarot cards, but after a search for images turned up nothing, I was forced to make the attempt. ;)
Today's fortune is one I have pulled many times when asking questions about my writing career, along with the Eight of Coins, "Apprenticeship." Whenever I get these cards, I figure I'm on the right track. Maybe not there yet, but certainly on the way to one of my favorites: the Nine of Coins, "Security." I'd like to be that mature woman depicted on the Nine of Coins, confident in her achievement. (And since "mature" is becoming increasingly an adjective I get to use next to the word "woman" when I describe myself, I think it's time I started moving in the direction of the Nine.)
I like the RToSP's Three of Coins, because it shows a wealthy boyar patron beside the artist. Skill may be something a writer seems to come by naturally, or something she acquires through long practice, or a combination of the two, but it sure helps to have an interested patron to encourage and support you along the way.
What's also different about this deck's Three of Coins is that instead of the usual stonemason, it shows a man playing a balalaika. The stonemason is building his skill brick by brick, which is all well and good, but there's something more freeing and artistic about an image of a musician. A musician's skill, like a writer's, is more individual and less practical, perhaps, than someone who's handy with a trowel. Writing is work, but it is also art, and when work and art come together, it is in a sense the very definition of skill.
There are other artistic touches in this scene, typical of Russian folk art, in the painting and sculpting on the column, and the woven tapestry on the floor. It speaks of the skilled laborers behind the scenes who are also artists in their own right. Perhaps, like these artists, we have not yet reached the Nine of completion, but the Three is something to celebrate all the same. It's a recognition of one's skill, no matter how great or how small, and its contribution to the greater world, as opposed to the personal pleasure in achievement that success brings with the Nine. And that's okay. Maybe "quitting the day job" is no longer a reality in this brave new world of publishing, but being recognized and appreciated is still pretty awesome.
I've been kicking around possible titles that might be more...pronounceable...than The House of Arkhangel'sk. While I'm kicking, I thought I'd share some imagery of various places and events that occur in the book. First, the current title: The House of Arkhangel'sk represents both the family name of the celestial Supernal Family and stands for the house in the city of Arkhangel'sk in which an important part of the story takes place. Below is a dacha similar to the one I had in mind for this second "house of Arkhangel'sk," along with some interior views of an Arkhangel'sk dacha.
And here are some possible alternative titles I've come up with:
City of Archangel – the former English name of the city of Arkhangel'sk. At left is a photo of Arkhangel'sk at night.
The Malachite Room – after an infamous room in the Winter Palace in which Russia's provisional government set up its administrative headquarters in 1917 and from which they briefly held off the Bolsheviks who stormed the Winter Palace to overthrow them during the October Revolution. It's also the scene of a bloody massacre and a crucial part of the climax in the celestial version of the Winter Palace.
Flower of the Fern – the mythical tsvetok paporotnika, a fiery flower that blooms only at midnight on the eve of Ivan Kupala (Midsummer Night), and which my heroine stumbles upon. I can't, of course, provide a picture of a fern flower, but at right is an image of one of the Ivan Kupala traditions in which my heroine takes part. Girls wear garlands of flowers in their hair and then float them out to sea with a candle in the center to carry their wishes. (It's after this that young men and women traipse off into the woods to, ahem, "look for the flower.")
And the last option, Prince of Tricks, simply refers to Belphagor's nickname. ;)
Which do you prefer? Have another suggestion?
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Just because...
Yeah, baby...Thor.
There was not enough of this in this movie and there is not enough of it on the Internet:
And Sif's wearing way too many clothes, but still hot:
And there was a distinct lack of this:
Now for some random hotness:
Well, this is an appropriate card for a fantasy writer to pull. :)
In the Russian Tarot of St. Petersburg's Seven of Cups, the central figure is that of a serf observing cups overflowing with a wide array of fantastical objects: what might be imperial jewels; an unlikely dragon; the severed head of a despot, perhaps; the golden cupolas of an Orthodox cathedral; a viper ready to strike; a wreath of flowers; and a burst of fantastical stars floating off into the ether.
I think it's interesting to note (and you'll have to take my word for it, since you can only see it up close in these fabulously painted miniatures by Yuri Shakov) that his gaze is on the flowers: the essence of the Russian spirit, beauty from the land itself that a price cannot be put on, and something the poorest peasant might have for the taking. The serf seems least of all interested in the imperial jewels.
The general meaning of the Seven of Cups is about dreaming of what might be, and not focusing on what is. This isn't always a bad thing. Without our fantastical dreams, what would we writers be?
I think what the Russian Tarot of St. Petersburg's Seven of Cups is saying is that the wildly out-of-reach dreams and the dark and frightening fantasies are irrelevant. Each of the other cups contain something the serf can never attain, or need never worry about. He keeps his eyes on the one thing he knows is within his grasp, a creation he can take pleasure in and one he can cultivate to bring beauty and joy to others.
When I first arrived in St. Petersburg in 2006 for my summer study abroad, this lovely sight greeted me on the balcony of my room:
They were just a few simple flowers, but it was a touching gesture and made me feel instantly at home. In Russia, it's important to give a gift to someone when you visit, as well as when someone comes to visit you. The people we met there shared with us happily though they had little to give. When it was time to return to the States at the end of this enchanting trip, my roommate and I wanted to give something to our "khaziayka," Yelena Volfovna, to thank her for her hospitality. Andi and I had both given Yelena chocolates when we arrived, and she laughed and showed us the cupboard full of chocolates from other students she'd hosted; she set them out every night with tea before bed to try to get us to eat them so she wouldn't get fat.
We ended up buying her flowers for our thank-you gift, and we didn't have much money left by the end of the trip, so it was a very small bouquet (you can just barely see them in the bottom left in the picture, and you can also see the typical painting of flowers on the wall behind Yelena). Yet she was moved when we gave them to her, as if we'd brought her two dozen red roses.
The lesson of the Seven of Cups is something I needed a particular reminder of right now. Today I received the official ebook copy of The Devil's Garden, and while it ought to have made me jump for joy, instead I focused on the imperfections of the words that are now permanently set in type, and on the pieces of my dream that I haven't yet attained. I have to try to remember that it's just a little story I put down in words to entertain someone. It doesn't have to be perfect. It can't be perfect. I'm never going to have the imperial jewels of literary talent, nor do I need them. I just need to keep cultivating what I do have and enjoy sharing the simple pleasures of my gift.
So much more easily said than done.
Another Jane I admire posted on her blog some time back about the importance of professional headshots for authors. I bookmarked that post, and promised myself I'd get professional photos done one of these days. But I put it off as long as possible because I hate having my picture taken almost as much as I hate getting my hair cut. It always seems to change how I see myself, and makes me self-conscious about the way others see me. In short, it messes with my proprioception in a big way. (Yes, I'm sure I'm using that word incorrectly, but it's one of my favorite words to misuse.)
But I finally bit the bullet and suffered the indignity and angst of soul-stealing fancy-magic, because my most recent pictures were so old I was beginning to feel like a liar whenever I used one.
I chose the fabulous Patty Nason of Gåvaphoto to steal my soul this time, appropriately enough at the San Francisco Columbarium where I hope to leave my ashes one day in the distant future. (Look! There's dead people right next to me in the photo on the left!)
These are my favorites from the photo shoot, along with the new official author photo I've added to my bio page. Maybe these will make up for the lack of words on the blog last week. (I just knew saying I had a blog posting schedule out loud would derail the whole thing.)
Say what, now? Well, I have this deck, the Osho Zen Tarot...which I bought in St. Petersburg. It was the only Russian-language tarot deck that Dom Knigi carried, and I really wanted a Russian deck, so I bought it. But it's been nearly impossible to use. Not only are the cards different from the traditional tarot deck, but the commentary in the companion book is both Russian and zen. Even after I've translated to the best of my ability, I have to sit and stare at it and ponder what the heck it's trying to say. So...
Card of the day: Loneliness
(Odinochestvo)The level of Russian in this book is far beyond my ability, so I resort to Google Translate. It takes me quite a while to type my transliteration of the Russian text from the companion book into Google and try to get it to re-transliterate into Cyrillic, and then get the translation itself. Invariably, the translation comes out rather mangled. As near as I can figure, this card is about recognizing the difference between the negative state of feeling alone (loneliness) and the positive state of being alone with oneself (solitude).
Then it says this, the one paragraph I was able to get clearly:
When we don't find support from others in the truths that we feel deeply, we can either choose bitterness and isolation, or realize that our vision is strong enough to overcome the core human need for approval of family, friends, and colleagues.
Wow. This is totally for writers. Writing is a very solitary pursuit, and even when we do have supportive people in our lives, they can't totally get how immersed we become in a world of our own making—that drive to make the story as true as we can. So the Zen Tarot is telling us that it's up to us to believe in the story we're compelled to tell without expecting or relying on external validation. That's a really hard one for me, and it hits home with what I was thinking about in my last post: how to believe in the good stuff people say about my work as much as the bad. In the end, no one can tell me if I've told the right story. I have to believe in it whether anyone else does or not.
So it took me several hours to get this post out and it's no longer Friday, but there it is: your Friday fortune, a day late.
Lately I've been noticing a trend of mine when it comes to my writing: I believe every negative word someone says about it. I have no problem taking criticism; rejection notes and editing notes all ring true to me—unless it's something that really feels fundamentally wrong, like a rejection I got once saying Belphagor and Vasily's love story was a distraction that weakened The House of Arkhangel'sk. That kind of note I can look at objectively and realize the reader was simply the wrong reader for me. But if the criticism is that I didn't create strong enough goals, or a character's motivations aren't clear, or the writing isn't captivating enough, or a character is too passive, or any of those reasonable sounding, justifiable criticisms, I take them straight to heart. Because who am I to read such criticism and decide it doesn't apply to me? It seems like the height of arrogance for me to dismiss any of it, particularly if it's coming from a professional in the industry. They know their business. If they didn't love my story, it's because I failed.
Then there's praise. I've received it from critique partners and beta readers. I receive it in abundance from my wonderful agent. But I tend to think these people are a bit prejudiced. I mean, yes, they'll tell me when reading a draft if something doesn't work, but they like my work and I already know that going into it. Still, for the most part, I can accept that praise, though there is a point where I begin to dissociate from it. Sure, sure, I tell myself. They liked it. Maybe they even liked it a lot. But they know me and they know I need external validation to keep going. And if it's particularly high praise, I start to feel like I'd be a conceited jerk if I actually take it to heart.
And then there's praise from people who don't have a vested interest in boosting my ego. As much as I crave it, that really wigs me out. I recently received a blurb from one of my favorite writers that knocked my socks off. It didn't come out of the blue; I asked if she would consider reading the manuscript and giving it a blurb. Obviously, I was hoping she would like it and say nice things.
But here's the thing: I find myself cringing just posting that link. I'm not sure I can even complete this blog post. I don't think I have the right to believe that praise, let alone tell someone else about it.
Now, I'm not totally crazy. A more reasonable part of me is smacking the back of my head in frustration. Do I honestly think everyone who says anything positive about my writing is blowing smoke up my ass? Of course not. But who am I to read such praise and believe it applies to me?
Clearly, I have a strange relationship with my writing. It means everything to me, and I long to be good at it and to have others think so too. And at the same time I get physically ill at the thought of sharing my work with someone for the first time. The conversation between my loony personalities goes something like this:
Self 1: What if they hate it?
Self 2: Shut up. Why would they hate it? It's a good story!
Self 1: Oh, so now you're the arbiter of good fiction? You can't possibly know if it's any good. That's for them to say. And they'll probably hate it.
Self 3: Oh my God. I hate you both.
Yeah, I didn't say it was pretty.
Okay, writer friends: tell me I'm not alone. This is normal-crazy, right? Right?? Anyone? Beuller?
Jane Kindred is the author of the Harlequin Nocturne series Sisters in Sin and of epic fantasy series The House of Arkhangel’sk, Demons of Elysium, and Looking Glass Gods. She spent her formative years ruining her eyes reading romance novels in the Tucson sun and watching Star Trek marathons in the dark. She now writes to the sound of San Francisco foghorns while her cat slowly but surely edges her off the side of the bed.
