Come away, O human child!

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand

I think these lines from W. B. Yeats, taken from his long poem, The Stolen Child, capture one of the most beautiful reasons why authors throughout the ages have written faerie tales. That deep-rooted desire to catch at something bigger, broader, more terrifying and more beautiful, than the natural world can hold. That longing for the Other, that nameless Other, that finds its breath in the unhindered imagination.

Yeats is one of my favorite poets, but I had not read this poem until just yesterday. I love discovering those who can say in a few lines what I try to say in whole novels! Yeats, my dear, you humble and move me.

Fairy Tales

I feel it is time to continue this blog, perhaps with rather more faithfulness than before. So I am going to tell you, my (few) faithful readers, a little fairy tale. Except this one is true.

As you know, I've been taking fencing classes.

Toward the end of my first term as a fencer, I was not what you'd call the most brilliant student in the class. But I enjoy the sport, and my enthusiasm can carry me where talent cannot. Thus when the time drew near for our end-of-term tournament, I approached the event with little confidence in success but plenty of verve!

When I realized I was being paired off to fight Rohan first.

Let me try to express to you how unfair this fight was. For one thing, he is significantly more athletic than I (I am more the . . . artistic sort, we'll say). For another, he'd been taking lessons for at least a year longer than I.

I was doomed.

Nevertheless, upon being informed that such was my fate, I made the best of it by sidling up to this gentleman (with whom I had exchanged no more than two words perhaps all term) and proceeded as such.

AE: "I want your blood."

Rohan: "Pardon?"

AE: "You need to be afraid now. I'm scheduled to fight you first, and I just want you to know that I intend to eat you for lunch, metaphorically speaking. You should be afraid."

Rohan (grinning): "They'll have to duct tape my sword to my hand, I'll be trembling so hard!"

The call to suit up and salute was given, and a few minutes later, I stood across from my opponent, ready to die, but determined not to show it.

Imagine my surprise, dear readers, when I actually won the match!

Yes, you read that right. I won that first match of the tournament, a match I could not have hoped to succeed in. It didn't matter that I was creamed in all subsequent battles . . . I actually carried the day in my first!

(To be fair, it was a short match to five, not a full match to fifteen . . . and Rohan went on to beat everyone else he fought that night, because he really is that much better than me. But don't tell anyone I admitted that.)

Following our fight, and his gracious acknowledgement of defeat, this young man and I sat to watch the next few matches, chatting lightly about fencing and art and a little about literature. And I thought to myself, What a pleasant young man I have just defeated in cold blood.

The next week, he asked me to go to an art gallery with him.

The week after that, he took me to hear live jazz.

The week after that, he treated me to Belgian baked goods.

The week after that, we went dancing.

Do you see where this is going?

All that to say, I am now officially "stepping out" with a young man handsome enough to have stepped out of a romance novel, adventurous enough to have stepped out of one of my novels . . . and most of all, he is the kindest man I have ever met.

So there you have a fairy tale, better composed and written than any one of mine! And now I must get back to my official noveling . . . .

Who knew that fencing would be quite so much fun?

Swashbuckling

Tonight I went to my very first fencing lesson. I am very excited about this! We'll call it research for now . . . I mean, how can a self-respecting fantasy author not make every effort to learn at least something of swordplay?

Tonight I learned to stand en garde, to advance, and to lunge with a yellow foam noodle. I was supposed to learn to retreat as well, but I cannot honestly say that lesson has sunken in. I wasn't born to retreat! But I jolly well better learn, and fast, if I want to make any progress in this sport . . . .

My friend April, from Barnes and Noble, is taking the class with me, and it is actually being taught by one of our managers. See, didn't you always know there was something extra-wonderful about Barnes and Noble? The meek little booksellers you see scurrying around at your service by day are fencing masters by night! Or wanna-be fencing masters, like April and yours truly, which has to count for something.

Anyhow, April was matched up as my opponent for the evening, so we learned to "cut" each other on the head in proper fencing style. We are excited and planning to go purchase our own yellow foam noodles so we can practice outside of class!

And we've decided on our swashbuckler names for the time being. She is Louis Jourdan, the dashing Frenchman. I am Basil Rathbone, the long-nosed, somber villain. Tonight, I manage to tap her with the noodle more often than she tapped me . . . but I explained to her that it's the whole dichotomy of the Villain and Hero at work. The Villain always must appear to be winning at first so that the Hero has greater odds to overcome when at last he triumphs. Which means I, as Basil Rathbone, am bound for a dismal fate. Unless, for once, the tables are turned and destiny smiles upon my evil plan! Mwaaaa haaaa haaaa haaaa!

So what do you think, dear reader? Stay tuned for further swashbuckling adventures!

The Forms of Things Unknown

Allow me to commence the keeping of my new blog with a quote from the great Bard himself:

The poet’s eye, in fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And, as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.

From William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream—Act 5, Scene 1

I would never style myself a poet. But I am a storyteller. These lines, to me, describe the work of all storytellers . . . . and who but Shakespeare could describe it so eloquently?

Anyway, to celebrate the advent of my very first book cover--as pictured above and to the side--I thought I should begin a literary blog of some sorts. And I promise, I won't quote Shakespeare every time! I'll primarily be writing up reviews of my current reads, details of my progressing projects, and whatever else might suit my fancy on any given day. Hope you enjoy it!

And don't forget to look for my first title, Heartless, coming out July 2010. Click the little picture on the sidebar to see it on Amazon.