Navigating the rewritten rewrites...

          There are tides in the affairs of blogs, and the tide for this one

The Sterkarm Handshake

has been far out for a couple of weeks.
          Partly I've been very busy with selling my late parents' house, clearing it of all their stuff, and redistributing heirlooms. I've made so many trip to the local dump that the blokes down there - a very friendly, helpful lot - have given me my own parking space and put me on their Christmas card list.
          But somewhere in all this, I actually finished Sterkarm 3. Again.
          I was rewriting it because my agent wanted me to make a clearer distinction between the two - yes, count 'em - two gangs of Sterkarms. "We only have one bite at this cherry," she said. "I don't want to offer it until it's right."
          To help me keep track of 147,000 words, I've used Word's 'navigation pane', which is immensely useful. If you've never used it, it's a quick, simply way of putting a hyperlink into a file. A side-panel, or pane, opens down the left-hand side of the screen. When I highlighted a chapter heading, and then clicked on 'Heading 1', that heading appeared in the side-panel.

         If I wanted to be able to find a particular scene, I gave it a sub-heading, highlighted it and clicked 'Heading 2'. It then appeared in the side-panel under the chapter heading, but in less heavy type, and inset - so I could easily see the difference between the start of a chapter, and the beginning of scenes within it.
          As the words, and 50-odd chapter mounted up, so the chapter headings and subheading appeared down the left-hand side.
If I was suddenly reminded, as I worked on chapter 47, of some detail I should have added to chapter 9, then all I had to do was click on the heading 'Chapter 9' in the side-panel, and the hyperlink would jump me straight back there. If I knew the scene I wanted, I could jump straight to that scene. It's made rewriting a hell of a lot easier.
          But only so far. This must be the fourth or fifth rewrite. I thought I would be nipping through and doing nothing more than knocking out the sub-headings, to make a nice, tidy typescript for my agent to read. Instead I've been reading passages and thinking, 'Why on earth did I write that? How can I ever have thought that made sense? Or was good enough?'
          And so I'm cutting - slashing, sometimes - and changing and re-ordering. But I am intent on finishing this spruce-up in as short a time as possible, and will then email it to my agent. I promise.

 My sketch map of Sterkarm country, made of two pieces of scrap paper taped together and scribbled on.

          And this is where Blott has gone. He's out the back somewhere, chasing paranormal rodents round the bins.

 

Another Old (Book) Friend

          Does anybody else have this book? Has anyone ever heard of

it? 'Kallee and Other Stories' by F. G. Turnbull, and illustrated rather beautifully by Lunt Roberts. (An unfortunate name, but beautiful drawings.)
          I ask because I've just found this old friend during the great turning out of my parents' house before selling it. I seized it with a cry of rage at having found it in a box intended to be given away to charity, and carried it away to the safety of my own overcrowded bookcases.
          'Kallee' was a great favourite of my Dad's, became a favourite of mine almost in infancy, and yet I've never seen it mentioned anywhere, or heard of the writer in any other context.
          I searched on Google, and found out nothing.
          The publisher is given as 'London, Sampson Low, Marston & Co, Ltd.' I've just a Google search on this firm, and came on this rather interesting site.
          The book itself can be found on sale online, for £14 or $21, used, but not a word about the author, or any reviews.
          My copy doesn't give much away. The copyright page is blank, except for this: 'This book is produced in complete conformity with the Authorised Economy Standards. Made and printed in Great Britain by Purnell and Sons, Ltd., Paulton (Somerset) and London.'
          My Dad loved it because all the stories are about animals and birds, and he loved them. He began reading me the stories when I was quite small - certainly not much older than seven. He used to read me a story and then put the book away in the bookcase. I would sneak it out, feeling I was doing something very daring in filching one of my Dad's books, and read it for myself. (And I can hear a yodelling from Switzerland as I write this. If you're curious as to why, here's a blog I made earlier, that will explain.

           This is how the title story, KALLEE, begins:

          I will never shoot a partridge again; that is a vow I have sworn. I still hope to use my gun through many years to come; but when the coveys rise before me in root or stubble field hereafter, I will keep my weapon at 'trail' and let them go. My spaniel, Roy, will gaze at me, with wonder in his dear old eyes, but he will soon understand that the brown birds are not our game - now that we have known Kallee, that great cock partridge.

          They're not really children's stories, as you can see; and yet, over several years, I read them all, returning to the book again and again. Looking through them now, I wonder how I coped with the Scots dialect of the keepers, and with phrases such as, 'As the stoat continued to haunt the field day after day...' Did I think the story meant the ghost of a stoat?
          I know I used to guess at the meaning of a lot of words, and also that, if completely defeated, I used to trail off to the nearest of my parents and ask them, 'What does this mean?' Once they'd explained, I'd take the book away again and continue reading. (Calm down, Switzerland!)
          You can tell that I loved the book, because inside the front cover I've drawn this. The '77' in the shield refers to the number of

our house. It says: 'Susan Lucy Price By Claim' - so I was laying claim to this book, even though it belonged to my Dad. And if I find out who put it in that charity bag... 

          My Dad often read me the story 'Grumphie' which is about three boys entering their pet pig into a competition. Grumphie has a straight tail, and therefore has no chance of winning - but as they're trying to spruce him up, he eats the cake of perfumed soap they're washing him with - and his tail curls! So now they know how to win. 'Wullie; bolt oot an' get a cake o' scented soap.' All the stories are set in Scotland: I wonder if that has anything to do with my tendency to head north whenever possible?
          Dad was probably trying to find the lighter, funnier stories, as being more suitable to my age - but when I started reading them for myself, the harsher stories quickly became my favourites. I particularly loved 'Crossed Trails'. This tells of a fox and a stag. The fox, as a cub, is charged and trampled by the stag, and his hind-leg shattered. The story tells how the lame fox grows up and struggles to survive in a hard Highland winter. During a blizzard, the fox and stag find themselves on the same trail, struggling through heavy snow and strong winds. The fox cringes away whenever he glimpses the stag - what he doesn't realise is that the stag is terrified of the fox on his trail. The stag  races away in panic, falls into a

crevasse and is killed. Shortly afterwards, the snow-blinded fox falls into the same hole - and finds himself lying on top of all the food he'll need to survive the winter.
          Another great favourite was 'The Rebel of Glenlee.' This tells of, as Monty Python might have put it, 'that most dangerous of all things, an intelligent, rebellious sheep.' She's a trial to her owners, is Birkie, the black-faced ewe. She was a spoilt, pet lamb, but felt herself thrown out of paradise when she was demoted to a mere sheep, and from that day hated all men and collies. She charges the dogs, refuses to return quietly to the home meadows, and leads the other sheep astray.
          But she redeems herself one terrible winter, when the flock is lost in the deep snow. Birkie is harried by a fox, but deals with it as she does with collies. Then, as she struggles in deep snow, ravens blind her. In such dire trouble, Birkie starts to hanker for the safety of home, and makes tracks for it, regardless of any obstacles in her way. She happens on the rest of the flock, and they follow her. She guides them all home - and becomes the farmer's pet once again.

          
          How I loved this book! I'm going to enjoy reading it again. My guess is that the stories originally appeared in a newspaper or magazine, as they're all the same length. But I really know nothing about F G Turnbull at all. Do the initials, perhaps, disguise a woman writer?
          Does anybody out there know anything more, about writer or artist? 

          May 9th 2013. I'm adding a line, and a link, to this blog, at Carole's request (see comments below.) I recommend her blog to book lovers! Here's the link.

          And for those of you wondering where Blott has wandered off to...

A Post Funereal

          A friend of mine was recently at a funeral. Fortunately, he

'Overheard In A Graveyard'

wasn't one of the bereaved. He was kindly giving a lift to some neighbours of his who had been friends of the deceased. The opinion of most present, my friend said, reported, was that the whole funeral had been something of an insult to all concerned, alive and dead.
          There was an expensive coffin, a hearse and several funeral cars. There were floral tributes, and a chapel had been hired. There was a service which, my friend said, was embarrassing. The priest obviously had no idea who the person in the coffin had been, and spoke in the most general platitudes. The only thing of interest was the race between the priest and the organist, to see who get through the thing fastest. The speed with which they took corners was quite exhilarating.
          It would have been much more satisfying all round, said my  friend - a Christian, as it happens - if they hadn't bothered with a funeral at all but, instead, everyone had gone down the local pub, (a great favourite of the deceased), had eaten a meal together, had a few drinks, and just talked.
          This account pretty much describes every funeral I've ever attended. I'm always left wondering, 'Why did we bother with that?' Whatever it is we hope to get from a funeral, none of them, in my experience, actually provide it - and yet they are very expensive. The money could be better spent.
          Why pay for the coffin, the hearse, the cars, the flowers, the chapel, the service, take days off work, find baby-sitters and so on, when it leaves most of the attendees feeling cheated?
          Well, people feel it's expected of them. They fear they'll be accused of being monetary, and that neighbours and in-laws will think they didn't care for the dead person unless they hold a funeral. 
          Personally, at family funerals, I've felt almost the opposite - that this meaningless nod to convention didn't begin to express what I felt about the person who'd died - that it was an irrelevance, a distraction, even an interruption to my grieving.
          I have this idea - which I will get around to doing something about one day, honest - that I will arrange and pay for my own funeral while I'm still here. I will say to the undertaker, "All I want you to do is collect the beef from wherever it is, cart it to the nearest crem, and dispose of it legally. No coffin, no hearse, no service, no chapel, no urn, no flowers, no nothing that isn't legally required, or absolutely necessary to move the corpse from one place to another." If anyone surviving me wants to mark my leaving, they can get together down the pub, or at one of their homes, have a meal and a few drinks, and talk. The bill will be much smaller than that for the average funeral, and the experience much more satisfying.
          I apologise to any of my close relatives who may be reading, and may think otherwise, but I honestly wish that's what we'd done when my parents died. Neither of them had ever hankered after 'a good send off.' Indeed, my mother often told us, "Send me flowers when I'm alive and can enjoy them. When I die, put me in a black plastic bin-bag and chuck me in the cut."
          I wish we'd obeyed her - or, as near as the law would have allowed. And then have gathered together somewhere, with a few drinks, and told stories of them, and retold the stories they told us. That would have celebrated my parents and marked their passing in a way that would have gone far beyond the empty ritual that we did endure. I didn't say so, because I didn't think it was the time to have that discussion - my father had just lost his wife, and my sibs had lost their father.

          Of course, my family were, and are, all godless atheists, and might be expected to say things like that - but my friend is a Christian, and he feels just the same about funerals.
          I know this is a sensitive area, and I am not suggesting, at all, that everyone should think as I do. I'm only saying that 'the funeral' is such a strong convention that people are a little shy of defying it, and perhaps people should feel less bound by the idea that they have to go along with it, even when they find the whole performance hollow, even annoying.
          I'd be interested to know what others think. Do you find the conventional funeral comforting or helpful? 

PERIOD PIECE by Gwen Raverat

          I've been sorting out my book-shelves recently and - horror -

'Period Piece, Gwen Raverat

throwing some away. Part of this job, of course, is sitting down on the floor with a book you've just rediscovered, and reading it for three hours, while others step over you.

          One rediscovered book, which distracted me for more than three hours, was PERIOD PIECE: A CAMBRIDGE CHILDHOOD, by Gwen Raverat, my copy of which is an old Faber paperback from the 1960s, pale pink, with a black stripe down the opening edge.   Its original price was '6s 6d, net.'

Gwen Raverat

            Now Gwen Raverat was one of Charles Darwin's granddaughters, (though he died before she was born.) The eccentric Darwin family certainly gave her plenty of material, but it's not the Darwin gossip, nor even the vivid, child's-eye view of life in a wealthy family of the late nineteeth and early twentieth centuries that make this book a treasure.  The book's immense charm, which doesn't diminish with re-reading (even when sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a bookcase), is entirely due to the personality of its writer.  Reading the book is like visiting a much-loved friend, and listening to her tell stories of her childhood with warmth, affection, perception, great humour, and even, yes, wisdom.  And just as, if you're lucky enough to have a friend like that, you go back again and again, so you return to this book.

 

Gwen Raverat: self-portrait

           As Raverat says herself, in her preface, '..it does not matter which chapter is read first or last.'  Some chapter titles are: Theories, Propriety, Aunt Etty, Ghosts and Horrors, Religion...I find it hard to choose a favourite.

            'Theories' is not about anything like the Theory of Evolution, but her mother's theories about how children should be raised : 'I was...born into the trying position of being the eldest of the family, so that the full force of my mother's theories about education were brought to bear upon me; and it fell to me to blaze a path to freedom for my juniors, through the forest of her good intentions.' As an eldest child - though from quite a different kind of family - I can identify with that.

             For those who may have theories and children of their own, Raverat has these soothing words: 'Dear Reader, you may take it from me, that however hard you try – or don't try; whatever you do – or don't do; for better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; every way and every day:

THE PARENT IS ALWAYS WRONG.

So it is no good bothering about it.  When the little pests grow up they will certainly tell you exactly what you did wrong in their case.  But never mind; they will be just as wrong themselves in their turn.  So take things easily; and above all, eschew good intentions.'

Illustration: Gwen Raverat

            In 'Propriety' she dissects the odd notions of good behaviour which held sway during her childhood, and which she seems to have found odd even then; and tells us of some things which actually did shock her.  '...I once saw, through the banisters at Down, one of my Darwin uncles give a friendly conjugal kiss to... his wife.  I rushed away in absolute horror from this unprecedented orgy...  And then there was 'Charley's Aunt'.  This was the first real play we ever saw.  It did not seem to me at all funny, only tremendous and exciting and, at one point, most dangerously improper...  [One] of the young men dressed up as Charley's Aunt, and ran across the stage, lifting up his petticoats, and showing his trousers underneath.  Nothing since then has ever shocked me so much.'

            The chapter on Aunt Etty was, I think, worth the 6s 6d alone, and Aunt Etty in full cry after the stinkhorns has made me laugh out loud, as has the short, illustrated passage on 'The Habitat of the British Tiger', and its sad suffering from 'canopy cramp'.  (The tiger is shown lurking on top of a bed's tiny canopy, the better to eat the child within the bed.) The tiger comes in another chapter, Ghosts and Horrors, some of which is genuinely disturbing.

            'Religion' opens, 'The first religious experience I can remember is getting under the nursery table to pray that the dancing class mistress might be dead before we got to Dancing Class.'  A little later she describes God for us: '[He] had a smooth oval face, with no hair and no beard and no ears.  I imagine that He was not descended, as most Gods are, from Father Christmas, but rather from the Sun Insurance Office sign.  Even now this hairless, earless, eggshaped face... gives me a sort of holy feeling in my stomach.'

            It's a hard book to sum up.  It's a lively, vivid memoir of a particular time and place, and a wonderful recreation of the way a child sees and thinks about the world.  Since Raverat ends the book as a young woman, it could be called 'a coming of age story.'  She closes the book with the words: 'When I look back on those years when I was neither fish nor flesh, between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two, I remember them as an uncomfortable time, and sometimes a very unhappy one.  Now I have certainly attained the status of Good Red Herring, I may at last be allowed to say: Oh dear, how horrid it was being young, and how nice it is being old and not having to mind what people think.'

            However it might be classified, it's a book I would never willingly part with, and I value it for its humour, its charm, its perception and wisdom - all expressed with great elegance.

Another example of Gwen Raverat's work. She was one of the first women to be trained at the Slade.

 

          I thought 'Period Piece' would be available on Kindle, but it isn't. However, here is the copy that I own, and here is a newer edition, with many rave reviews.

The Brothers Grimm and the Internet

          This was sent to me recently, as one of those email jokes which are forever being circulated: -

          Everyone of you will laugh at this!  I said so.....

                             On the first day, God created the dog and

said, "Sit all day by the door of your house and bark at anyone who comes in or walks past. For this, I will give you a life span of twenty years."
              The dog said, "That's a long time to be barking. How about only ten years and I'll give you back the other ten?"
             And God saw it was good.
             On the second day, God created the monkey and said, "Entertain people, do tricks, and make them laugh. For this, I'll give you a twenty-year life span."
            The monkey said, "Monkey tricks for twenty years? That's a pretty long time to perform. How about I give you back ten like the dog did?"
           And God, again saw it was good.
           On the third day, God created the cow and said, "You must go into the field with the farmer all day long and suffer under the sun, have calves and give milk to support the farmer's family. For this, I will give you a life span of sixty years."
           The cow said, "That's kind of a tough life you want me to live for sixty years. How about twenty and I'll give back the other forty?"
          And God agreed it was good.
          On the fourth day, God created humans and said, "Eat, sleep, play, marry and enjoy your life. For this, I'll give you twenty years."
         But the human said, "Only twenty years? Could you possibly give me my twenty, the forty the cow gave back, the ten the monkey gave back, and the ten the dog gave back; that makes eighty, okay?"
         "Okay," said God, "You asked for it."
          So that is why for our first twenty years, we eat, sleep, play and enjoy ourselves. For the next forty years, we slave in the sun to support our family. For the next ten years, we do monkey tricks to entertain the grandchildren. And for the last ten years, we sit on the front porch and bark at everyone.
         Life has now been explained to you.
         There is no need to thank me for this valuable information. I'm doing it as a public service. If you are looking for me I will be on the front porch.

          Over twenty years ago, I wrote this, in my book Ghost Song: -

Ghost Song

Kuzma said to him, 'Syngva, listen. I shall tell you a story:-

          In the beginning the Shaman who made the world called all his creatures before him, and he gave to them all thirty years of life.

          'But,' said the donkey to him, 'my life is to be spent bending my back under heavy loads. I am to be kicked and beaten to make me go fast when the load on my back makes me go slow. If that is to be my life, so be it - but thirty years is too long, Grandfather.'

          The Shaman pulled his beard thoughtfully, and saw that the donkey was right. So he took eighteen years of life from the donkey, and left him only twelve. The donkey was grateful.

          Next came the dog. 'Grandfather,' said the dog, 'my life is all running and biting and barking, and it is a good life. But how shall I live it for thirty years? Long before then my legs will be weak and lame, my teeth will be broken and worn, my bark will be unheard. Spare me this life without life.'

         So the Shaman was kind, and he took twelve years of life from the dog.

         Then came the monkey, and the monkey said, 'Don't make me live thirty years, Grandfather. I am only liked when I am funny. How can I be funny for thirty years? And though it pleases people to laugh at me, it is no pleasure to me to be jeered at and called fool. Take some of these years from me.'

        So the Shaman took ten years of life from the monkey.

        Then came man and woman, and they said, 'Grandfather, how long are we to live?'

        'Thirty years,' said the Shaman.

        'Oh, Grandfather,' said man and woman, 'at the end of thirty years, we shall have come to our full strength, we shall have built ourselves a house, we shall have planted a field, and we shall have children. Are we to die then, and leave all that? Thirty years, Grandfather - it's not long enough. Give us some more years.'

        The Shaman was pleased that one of his creatures wanted more of the life he had created. Gladly, he gave man and woman the eighteen years he had taken from the donkey.

        'Give us more, Grandfather.'

        So the Shaman gave them the twelve years he had taken from the dog.

        'Give us more, Grandfather.' The Shaman gave them the ten years he had taken from the monkey.

        And so men and women live seventy years in this world.

        And now you see, Syngva, what human life is. For the first thirty years, men and women live as the Shaman intended men and women to live. But then they must endure the eighteen years meant for the donkey: eighteen years of hard labour, of drudgery, of heavy loads. Then come the twelve years taken from the dog: twelve years lived weak and lame, toothless and aching, snapping and snarling. And, at the end, come the ten years from the monkey: ten years chattering and gibbering to themselves, while others point, and laugh and mock.

        ‘Syngva; is this what you choose?'

       '[My father] is in his dog-years,' Ambrosi said. 'I am still living as the Shaman intended men to live. It would be wicked to leave him now. Even when he's an old monkey, I shall try not to make fun of him. And when he is dead, I shall come with you.'

       'You must choose now,' Kuzma said. 'Three hundred years of life as a shaman, and power, and rebirth. Or thirty years of human life, followed by the years the donkey, the dog and the monkey are too proud to endure. Now choose, choose! Once and for all!'

      'Grandfather,' Ambrosi said, 'I can make no choice until my father dies.'

       Kuzma reached out his hand, and touched Ambrosi over his heart. From Ambrosi's shirt he drew a long, white thread. He said, 'You think that all these years I have been tormenting you.' Again his hand reached out and drew from Ambrosi's shirt a long, long black thread. 'You think that if you never saw me again, in dreams or awake, you would be at peace.' A third time Kuzma reached out, and drew from Ambrosi's shirt a thread of bright scarlet. 'But I have been protecting you, Syngva, from the spirits who marked you for a shaman, and who will not allow you to refuse.' He reached out and pushed Ambrosi backwards, so he fell back into the snow. 'Go and live the life you choose.'

          And Ambrosi fell out of his dream and into sleep on the floor of the tent, and from that sleep he awoke mad.'

          I invented Ambrosi and Kuzma, but I didn’t invent the story Kuzma tells. I adapted it from one of the Grimm Brothers’ less well-known stories. It had stuck in my head when I read it, and it suited my purpose (although, of course, in Grimm, the god of the story is the Christian god.)

         The Grimm Brothers first published their collection in 1812, over two hundred years ago. They collected their stories from the people around them, so presumably these stories were commonly known then. At a rough estimate, the story was probably a hundred years old when the brothers wrote it down.

         So a 300 year old folk-story is circulating as an internet joke.

          I would assume that some other reader of Grimm, like myself, had turned it into the email - except that my uncle once told me a story about how a cat pulled a loaded barge along a canal (he came from a bargee-family.) I later came across that story in a foot-note to a Ben Jonson play, explaining an obscure reference in the text. I am pretty sure my uncle had no interest in Ben Jonson's plays.
           I love the way these old stories circle the world like currents in the ocean - sometimes sinking down deep, sometimes rising to the surface.
          You may think that's a rare gem of philisophy you've just found in some forgotten book unearthed from a junk-shop and unread for a hundred years - but someone, somewhere, is sitting in a bar and telling the same story as a joke.

          Stories. Harder to kill than dandelions.

Picture credits: Collie dog, Canada Hky, via Wikimedia Commons.

The Ghost World Sequence can be found here.