Making Some Headway

For the past little while I have been,..well for one,...reading my story from front to back. This was the first time I had ever done so. I was encouraged to pretend that this story was just one I pulled off the book shelf. I was only allowed to make obvious spelling and grammatical corrections. I must confess that I couldn't help but play with the story and juggle things around from time to time. I'm sure it has been improved by my effort.
One of the major errors I was forced to deal with late, had to do with the Swedish habit of identifying grand-parents specifically maternal or paternal. Thanks Google Translate for that mistake. Oh I see they have better options now!

I would like to send the manuscipt to a professional reader selected by the Alberta Writers Guild, which I am a member of but it is still not cheap. I have therefore decided to break the story down into three parts. The first six chapters are entitled: "Heathen Hearts Part One: The King's Grave". While only 284 pages,...there is 88,528 words according to the computer word count. I have also decided to put this fiction into the "Fantasy" genre mainly because I really don't know where it belongs exactly.

I know that every time I read a section I find things wrong,...mostly typo errors thankfully. Did I mention that I am having to reread almost the whole story to change Anja's Grandma from The Mormor to The Farmor as she is Anja's FaderModer not ModerModer,...if you follow. At some point I will have to stop worrying the story to death I know and send this first part to,...somebody to proof read etc. In the meantime, I will continue to prepare the next third for a similar journey.

THE END,...or just another begining

"It's not finished,....(but) It's finshed!"

I finished the story last night and by finished I mean I have typed out, printed and saved to the end of Chapter sixteen. I typed out the words,...THE END  and kind of just sat there. I want to do an epiloge but I haven't decided the style or how brief to make it. There is a lot of work to do before the whole thing is ready to be presented to a publisher but that's just part of the process.
My first task may be to just sit down and read the story,...from start to the end,...just to see what it reads like! It's been years since I've seen Chapter One!
Thanks to my family for putting up with me hogging the kitchen table all this time,...

Oh, a strange thing happened. Just after I transfered the last of it over to the main computor to print and save. My laptop wouldn't shut down! It just sat there with the screen off,...running. A couple of hours later it was still running and now very warm. I tried various buttons,...blind as it wouldn't turn back on,...and it shut down finally! I'll try it today and see if it is toast or was just being crankie after these three years.

Character Models - Deedee Hanlon

Many writers use models or images to be able to easily remember or recognise their story characters as they work. I've known some people who will go through magazines and catalogues and snip out someone who reminds them of a particular character. They might cut out some cardboard and glue the picture on and put the character's name across it or a the bottom. Some writers who can draw, may sketch what they think their character looks like themselves or do a story board. In the end it is the reader who will use their own imagination and the writer's descriptions to create the image in their mind's eye.


In some ways Deirdre Hanlon was one of the hardest to find a model for. I had an image in my head that worked pretty well but I thought I should find something as I had the others. Try as I might I could not find an Irish face that looked like Deedee. For a while I was tempted to use Avril Lavigne but I wasn't quite satisfied.
Deedee is quite short, only 5'2" in stocking feet. She has a turned up nose with a band of freckles and green eyes. Her hair is usually a sandy reddish blond but she often dyes it and cuts it to spice things up. Though the drummer for the bands in the story, being raised in Belfast, Ireland she also plays the Uilleann pipes, the Scottish War pipes, Tin whistle, Recorder, besides the Bodhran drum and singing lead vocals on many tracks.

At long last I just happened to think of an old friend of my daughter's and also happened to find some photos of her on a social networking site. I've decided not to mention her name but as soon as I saw the photos,...she became my model for Deedee Hanlon. I hope she won't mind.  :)

Character Models - Anja Lindstrom

Many writers use models or images to be able to easily remember or recognise their story characters as they work. I've known some people who will go through magazines and catalogues and snip out someone who reminds them of a particular character. They might cut out some cardboard and glue the picture on and put the character's name across it or a the bottom. Some writers who can draw, may sketch what they think their character looks like themselves or do a story board. In the end it is the reader who will use their own imagination and the writer's descriptions to create the image in their mind's eye.

Today I thought I might show you the "models" I used for my characters and tell you a little about each character as well. Let us start with,...

Anja Lindstrom

We meet Anja when she is approx 53 yrs as well as when she is about 23 yrs. In both cases she is 5' 11" and skinny as a rake! She has thin blond hair and dazzling blue eyes. Her instruments in the bands are the Electric Bass, the cello, the viola, the violin and various percussion instruments.

When she first came to me I had this image of the Norse Goddess/giantess, Skadi in mind.

One day the thought came to me to try the web and see if Anja might be there. I basically typed in "Swedish female faces" and low and behold, "Anja" was there waiting for me.

For those in the know yes, these turned out to be photos of Elsa Sylvan the Swedish super model taken at her first photo test when she was eighteen. http://www.supermodels.nl/elsasylvan

But like I'm saying, Elsa is not Anja nor the other way round either. Anja just happens to look very much like Elsa.

450,000 Words

In my opening remarks I said that when I sat down to write a novel it was a completely different story. These characters came to me and asked that I write theirs instead. Since then they have become my "imaginary" friends and we've spent a lot of time together.

I was doing a rough calculation based on the computer word count. Now just the way I have chapters saved, etc. this is not 100% accurate. That is why it is a rough calculation.

If each chapter is approx. 30,000 words and I have 15 chapters,...that makes 450,000 words so far. I am guessing that I have one more,...maybe two chapters left and then an epilogue. For most of this first rewrite I have kept pretty close to the original, changing only minor things. There has been a lot added in dealing with the earliest phase of the story but the main has basically been complete. This "back to the present" section of the story I have done a lot of editing,...sorry guys. My "friends" talk too much! I think there were parts that were getting repetitive, perhaps the information was covered better somewhere else,...or it really wasn't necessary. In a way it was a case of "Get on with It!" I hope this editing will move the story along at a better pace toward the conclusion.

Anyway,...as I am not a professional writer, I'm not sure what publishers will think of such a wordy apical. I'll worry about that once I get to that stage of the project!

Another Sample

CHAPTER TWELVE: “CLIMBING BACK ON THE HORSE”

Sitting on the new baled hay stacked in the loft Mac retreated into his music. He dusted off a song he had started quite some time before during a previous crisis. The words and music came to him anew and somehow they seemed much more poignant. Being busy with his own solace, he failed to notice Gette withdrawing more and more into herself as well. For the first week or so she along with Deedee and Anja would go down to the bend in the Red Deer River. They would strip down and wade or swim across to the deeper channel on the far side. Returning, they would lay under the cottonwoods while they dried.

As of late Gette started staying after the others were finished or go alone to swim. She said it reminded her of when she was a child and they used to swim in the nearby Tisza River. Sometimes she would immerse herself in the cooling flow but more often she would sit and try to be soothed by the lapping sound of the water and the sunlight playing on the ripples. Other times singing, Gette would wander barefoot along the shore. She thought a lot about home and her life and wondered if it was all worth it. Gette remembered as she walked alone the guys warning her about dangerous quicksand that would “swallow up a horse and rider in seconds”. She wondered what that would be like. In reality it sounded horrible but if it was quick and if she was never found,...

Maybe she could be like Shakespeare’s Ophelia and float down the river in madness until the water filled her voluminous clothes and pulled her under. It might be pretty watching the sun on rippling water only from underneath! If only she had some voluminous clothing! Why did dying have to be so complicated?

The thing that always stopped her in the end was not so much the world going on without her, though that too made her sad. It was the pain and heartbreak her death would cause Anja, Deedee and most of all Mac. He had worked so hard to keep her alive. Her happiness always seemed his first concern. Mac would be devastated if she were to kill herself. He did have Anja though, and Anja would always pull him through. She on the other hand,...had no one!

Another day and another night went by without so much as a word from Lorne. Soon another week had passed. If he would even call to say that he had thought it over but could not bring himself to love her anymore, it wouldn’t be any easier but at least she would know. As it was, it seemed he had driven her from his thoughts, boarded over the memories they shared and hardening his heart, was getting on with his life without her. This was too much!

That morning Gette made up her mind. Avoiding Deedee and especially Anja she made her way down to the shore. It was another glorious summer day with high wispy mare’s tail clouds in an azure sky. Sunlight sparkled on the greenish river as it in turn reflected the dancing leaves of the cottonwoods in the warm gentle breeze. She had on one of her favourite short dresses and held her best high heels in one hand. Around her neck was a silver heart shaped locket that her brother Peter had given her a very long time ago. This was so if they ever did find her body,… they would know whose it was.

The water was clear and cool as it rose up her leg to mid thigh. Clouds of river silt swirled up around her feet with each step like dust storms on the Puszta only in miniature. Looking up at the sky for one last time Gette lay back in the water and let the current lift her off the bottom.

On Magic

All my stories are a little,...quirky, it seems I have no say in the matter. The only reason I can think of is that as children we were raised on fairytales with witches and wizards and magic. Then we grow up,...and there is no magic. What a shame!

So in my stories there is always a little magic at least. Sometimes it is so subtle the characters are not even aware of it. There is usually one character who does know and so uses either  the little they have or has the ability to draw on "a greater power".
The lives and the fates of my "actors" are shaped by the ebb and flow of natures magic no matter what I try and write about.

For example, in one of my "unfinished novels" there is a character who always knows what is happening in the village. Birds, trees, animals, even the breeze keep her informed.

In "Anulfes Saga" there is a "slave" Anulf and his boat crew take upon themselves to protect. She is obviously high born by her clothes and bearing but like the rest of the "cargo", is bound for the slave markets of Sirkland. She never speaks but has a way about her that attracts all the children taken as slaves as well. She looks after them and they her as if they have a special connection. A small boy speaks for her when necessary otherwise her will or desire is just,...known.

In Heathen Hearts Mac has this ability to know what horses are thinking and respond correctly. Then there is the "Mormor", Anja's Grandma. Is she really a witch or just a crazy old lady? What does that make Anja?!

Heathen Hearts Chapter One (SAMPLE)

CHAPTER ONE: ONE OF THOSE DAYS

Torkel “MAC” Macleod opened his eyes on a dark room.  Outside the wind was howling as usual for this time of year. It fingered along the eaves, tugging at anything that might squeak or rattle. He thought it was strange the way he would be sound asleep and then instantly awake. The moon that brief hours ago had been so bright that it lit up the curtain with shards of silver flame had moved on, leaving his bedroom in shadows of blue and grey.

 “Where am I now and how did I get here?”  This seemed to be the ‘universal question’ and sometimes it wasn’t easily answered. With the room so dark and being unable to see its features, he could be anywhere. Often he dreamed though these dreams seemed so life like, that he was in places he had never been. It was disturbing in a way because though the locations changed in the dreams, they always seemed so familiar. Maybe it was because he dreamed about them so often or had anyway. Those dreams had reoccurred less and less over the years, even the dreams where he was back in Africa. Now he knew he had been there, his wife could vouch for it. That is where they had met and married. Still he didn’t feel at ease until he could finally identify familiar items in their proper places about the room. The one thing that he knew was missing was his wife. She was not with him most nights but at work.     He looked across her empty half of the bed at the clock.

 “Shit!”

 It was already seven minutes after six.  He tossed back the thick blankets and stood straight up out of bed.  He hated it when he slept in.  Elf would be home from the Pincher Creek Hospital where she was the night Nurse, at six thirty and he liked to have the door unlocked, the kettle on and be finished with the bathroom by the time she drove into the yard. “Elf” of course was his nickname for her. He thought she looked like an elf, especially when she smiled. The fact that her first name was actually Elfrida might have had something to do with it. It was an Old English name she had explained which meant “Elf-Advice” or advised by Elves. Mac said that is why she always knew what he was up to even when he didn’t!

In the dark he pulled off his pajama bottoms, dropping them on the bed before folding the blankets back.  In the dark he pulled his work shirt on over his head the same way he’d taken it off, without undoing the buttons.  In the dark he scooped up the rest of his clothing and padded in his sheep-skin slippers around the bed, through the doorway and into the bathroom.  As usual, he peered out the bathroom window to see the stars that winked down over the old house, sheds and corrals of the former farm where they lived.  Only this morning the moon, in the western sky obliterated the fragile starlight with its silver flare and lit the place up like a flood light.  He could see the horses munching at the bale of hay in the lea of the Caragana and Ash tree wind-break where the bare branches tossed back and forth as the wind roared over top.

Before dressing Mac left the bathroom turning on the light as he did so.  Now as per his routine, he switched on the porch light, unlocked the front door, hit the button on the TV remote for the morning news and then fed the gold fish in the tank beside the entertainment center.  Next he passed through the kitchen turning on the light at the far side before going into the back porch to feed Koko the cat.  Only after he had filled the kettle and readied the tea pot did he return to the bathroom.  He sat on the toilet with his head in his hands and his eyes closed for a moment.  Everyday seemed the same lately, nothing changed.  Work was the only thing the two of them ever did these days.  It seemed that they owed the bank for everything they had. So Mac worked as a pen rider at the big Feedlot halfway to town during the day and Elf worked at night making rounds ready to respond in the E.R. if necessary.  She also had a part time job two days a week as well. Her “hobby” was working as a cook at the seniors’ home.  They always seemed to be passing each other at the door.

It hadn’t always been like this. When they were younger they did things together. Hell, they had met during the bush war in what was then Rhodesia. Those were exciting times. When they were forced to leave, after Mugabe came to power, they brought their little family home to Alberta. There seemed to be time then, when the kids were growing up for hiking and riding in the mountains or swimming in the river. They had even taken a trip as a family to England where Elf’s people had ended up after fleeing Zimbabwe. Now with just the two of them there never seemed to be time for anything but work.

Mac ran the hot water into a face cloth and soaked the sleep out of his eyes.  Fifty six years, this month he had been looking into this face. He recognized those eyes as his own but the face they were in, belonged to some old guy he really didn’t like the look of.  Where was the head of flaming red hair, the hallmark of his branch of the Macleod clan?  The red had all turned traitor and surrendered into white while the blonde strands had become grey highlights.  His forehead seemed have extended a fair ways up as well.  The scar from his old horse accident, sort of in the shape of a check mark and slightly dented in seemed more obvious there, where he combed his part above the left temple.  Mac found himself seeking it out feeling it with the tips of his fingers more often these days.  He didn’t remember the accident, something about a wreck involving a cougar attack while riding lease on the eastern slopes, but it was so long ago in his ‘Cowboy’ days, it didn’t matter anyway.

The tea was wet when Elf pulled into the driveway, the car lights reflecting through the window onto the mirror in the living room.  Mac put his cereal bowl down and met his wife at the door.  They chatted back and forth about the various events and happenings she had heard about in town as they made their way to the kitchen.  Reaching out Mac caught Elf as she bustled about putting away the shopping she had picked up the evening before.  They leaned against each other both holding on tight.  The only sound was the ticking of the wall clock.  Mac kissed her softly on the neck before they found each other’s lips.

“I have to take my pills” Elf still had the ghost of her Rhodesian accent after all these years. She released herself from his arms, “I am so sore and tired.  I have to get to bed.  What time are you home from work today?” She called as she moved back and forth between the bathroom and the bedroom. “I’ll have supper ready for you when you get home”.

As the bedroom door closed Elf called out “Good night!”

“Love yah later, Elf!” Mac gave his usual response.

“Later,… always later!” Came her standard reply from behind the door.

Pulling on his coat and cap Mac stepped out into the crisp November morning.  The eastern sky was fairly bright by now so he had no fear of stepping on the kittens that scampered about his feet as he poured out fresh cat food into one dish and water into another.  Escaping from the kittens he walked toward the corrals.  The horses nickered. He answered back, talking to the two animals with his “Mr. Ed” voice that brought them to the fence. From here they followed along as he made his way to the feed shed.  Drawing back the bolt and swinging open the door, more kittens scurried into hiding in the dark corners.

“Okay you Hillbillies” he sighed as he reached for more cat food and water on a shelf, “Keep your fur on, you’ll get fed too”.  Next he used a cup to scoop rolled oats into two rubber tubs for the horses.  He carried the tubs out to the corral talking then scolding the two horses until they had sorted themselves out into their proper positions before placing one tub in front of each animal.  On the way to fill the water trough Mac stopped to listen to the quiet.  It was funny how the wind could be raging all night but it always seemed to calm in time for him to do his chores.  This time of year, or in the spring, a flight of geese or even swans would drift over, almost within reach, to land in the dugout across the fence on the neighbors land.  Coyotes would often start their yipping this time of day and if he saw them Mac would yell at them to leave his cats alone.  Today there were Hungarian Partridge clucking and squawking from the Caragana hedge along the south side of the yard.  Off to the west the full moon, now much paler in the morning light settled between the peaks of the front range of the Rocky Mountains.  Slowly the snow, airbrushed onto the mountain crags and faces, blushed from pink to orange as the sun’s rays stabbed over the prairie and hills along the eastern skyline.  This was the time of day that made him love living in Alberta. He had lived in the Pincher Creek area all his life.  Except for those years when his parents had moved them as kids to Calgary and of course, the two and a half years he lived in Rhodesia. Soon enough the wind would come back up, usually by the time he was in the saddle at the feedlot. Tears would stream down from under his glasses as the west wind tried to tear off his skin. At times like that he would try and remember moments like this.

“Pincher Creekers are tougher than most folk”.  Reluctantly, Mac gathered the empty horse tubs and made his way back up the front steps, through the tumbling kittens and into the house.

There was still a bit of time before he had to go to work, so Mac wandered into the back porch which had become his “office”.  Piles of paper littered every flat surface and some of the floor.  His many attempted novels, stories, poems and songs sat in heaps waiting for the time and attention Mac had so little of these days. He flipped over a sheet of paper and recognized one such song. “If only he knew how to really play that old guitar buried under the paper instead of just bang away, if only he could write the music”, he mused, “Some of this stuff wasn’t half bad”. Mac sighed at the thought of the lost opportunities as he turned on the computer to check his e-mails.  Mac had felt that he could not justify the expense of a broadband high speed connection and satellite T.V.so he went through the routine of connecting through “Dial-up”.  Slowly his emails loaded onto the screen.  Mac and Elf had three children and both daughters and his son had left messages. He clicked the first and saw a link appear with the short message from darling daughter number one,

“Is there something you’re not telling us??”

He wondered what that was supposed to mean.  The link was to a video on Youtube and Mac knew from experience that it takes forever to download a video on Dial-up. He decided to look later and clicked on the next message.

Here too he found a link to Youtube, although a different one.  His Son’s message was also brief, “Did your computer geek friend in Calgary, do this for you?”  Again, Mac was confused but for the second time he wasn’t going to waste the time waiting for a video to download so, click, next email.

Once more a link and a message, this time from Darling Daughter Number two, “You have a doppelganger!”

“What the,…”, he murmured.

This time he did click on the link and waited as slowly the web site put itself together on his screen.  At length the tell tale black box came up with the spinning wheel. Mac looked at the clock, it was time to go. ”Damn” he swore, “no time!”   He closed out before shutting the computer down.

Mac hated his job.  He hated every minute that his job took from “something he’s rather be doing”.  Unfortunately that “something” usually meant puttering around the acreage, riding his horses, or trying to write something in his office, and that wasn’t going to help pay the bills.  There was a time right after they’d come back from Africa that he had a chance at a place of his own. His Aunt Lucy had died and his cousin Tom was ready to pull the plug on ranching. Mac and Elf didn’t have the money, even to put a down payment on the ranch and Cousin Tom wasn’t interested in a partnership. So the ranch in the Gladstone valley was sold and Mac had to go to work for other people to make a living.

As he drove his old 4x4 out of the yard, his only pleasure was singing along with the radio tuned in to the Rock station.  He loved the tunes with the heavy beat and crunching guitars. No tapping on the snare drum or plinka-plinking quietly on the guitar for him.  The singer too had to be putting his heart into the words, even if they were obscure or repetitive as they often were these days. Mac would join right in belting it out if he could make out the words or sing harmonies if he could only understand the chorus.

This morning was crap though.  The wind came back up as expected blowing pea-gravel off the drive like it was fired out of a shotgun. His job, along with about a half dozen other cowboys, was to ride his horse through fifty pens containing approximately 20,000 head of calves in total, all being fattened for market or ‘Back-grounded’ to be fattened later. He was to look for the lame, the sick and the injured. Any animal that was doing “poorly” he would pull from that pen and guide the “patient” to a metal clad building known as “the Hospital”. Now-a-days he would be called an “Animal Health Technician” but few of his generation had ever taken the courses or gone to the college. Their “school” had been years in the saddle and thousands of head of cattle passing under their care.  The new generation wore the blue coveralls and waited in the “Hospital” to render assistance to those Mac felt were in need. Some days it seemed like he had been doing this in rain and snow, wind and heat for far too long.  This was one of those days.

Genesis of Heathen Hearts

The genesis of the story "Heathen Hearts" basically comes from my desire to write a story or a novel. I have written historical based articles for local newspapers but wanted to something,...bigger, more important. I tried a radio play once but never heard back,...I spent some years researching a novel that took place during the South African War(1899-1902) but left it idle long enough for Fred Stenson to produce a much better job of my idea.

I  had been writing a story with some success about seventeen years ago. I set up a routine of writing every evening after the kids went to bed and it was working well. Life came along and changed things enough that I have let that story slide. I may revive it one day but it was getting weird and the possible outcome was disturbing to me.

More recently I have been working on a "Viking Saga" and I'll post some of it here. I should have been working on it as a screenplay as there are so many Viking reenactors here in Alberta. The whole "gist" behind the story is something that could be filmed in Alberta and believably pass for Europe and Asia.

While working on the above story, the premise came into my head: what if you found out that in your younger days you had actually had a completely different life that had somehow been suppressed and blotted from your memory? Almost at once a series of characters clamored into my thoughts and demanded that I write their story. My wife calls these people my "imaginary friends" and they have been with me for over a year and a half.

The story of their life in the mid 1970s and thirty years later has been written. It took a year to write and I do mean write. I filled eight scribbler/notebooks before the telling was told. I am now in the process of typing a "first" rewrite, getting it onto computer and saving it in print and on disc.

I hope to use this Blog to share some of the details and perhaps a few excerpts in the hopes of not only creating some interest but keeping me interested hopefully long enough to get this thing publish! Actually I see a prequel, I see a multimedia thing with an accompanying music disc and pictures in graphic novel style.

Anyway, this is my first post so I will stop now as I still have a lot to learn about blogging,....