Writing – Page 2 – Brian Fence

Pink Bolognese

So, I dyed my hair pink because… why not? We’re in a pandemic and (1) there’s nowhere to go and (2) if someone says, “Hey, bro! Your hair is pink!” I’m going respond with deuces and quip, “No shite, Sherlock.”

MOVING ON. During the quarantine we wanted something hearty, so we decided on pasta with a bolognese. There’s the traditional method that takes four hours (Anne Burrell, I’m looking at you and still love my Littlepon plushie nested in your cleavage); there’s also Giada’s recipe that only takes a half of an hour. I combined bits from both and made m’own; the next day, I added heavy cream to reconstitute it, and got pink bolognese. Recipe follows!

TO MAKE THE GREAT BAO’S BOLOGNESE:

1 carrot
1 stalk celery
1 onion
2 cloves garlic
1 pound ground beef (I used 80/20, if anybody cares)
1/2 cup tomato paste
1 cup (as much as you drink in a cup…) hearty red wine
1, 28-oz can crushed tomatoes
8 fresh basil leaves, julienned
1/4 cup parsley, chopped
Kosher salt
1/4 cup Pecorino Romano cheese
8 ounces fresh pasta (or dry, but yes, fresh is best)
A good dousing of heavy cream (for tomorrow’s leftovers, and hence the pink)

(1) In a food processor, pulse the carrot, celery, onion, and garlic into a paste. In a pan over medium-high heat, cook the concoction for 15-20 minutes, liberally seasoning with salt. Stir frequently and scrape up the brown bits — as Anne would say, “Brown food tastes good!”

(2) And the ground beef and season (again) liberally with salt. Cook for another 15 minutes, scraping it frequently to work up a fond.

(3) Add the tomato paste and cook for five minutes, stirring frequently until it’s nice and browned. You want the rawness to go away.

(4) DEGLAZE! Pour in the wine and scrape up all the goodness, then let it reduce to almost nothing, about five minutes.

(5) Add the crushed tomatoes, herbs, and a generous amount of salt — they take a lot of it, like a hooker in Atlantic City. Simmer for thirty minutes until the sauce is nice and thick. Add the cheese.

(6) Meanwhile, boil your pasta. I don’t need to tell you how to do that. When it’s al dente, toss it in the sauce. Serve it with more cheese sprinkled on top and a drizzle of olive oil. You’re welcome.

THE NEXT DAY:

Half and half or heavy cream

(1) Reconstitute the pasta in a skillet over medium heat and, once it’s properly hot, add the cream. Cook at a nice simmer until everything looks nice and glossy.

The end.

PS — I’m still in writing mode! Another Jacob Orange story is coming soon!

Breaking the Fourth Wall

Breaking the Fourth Wall:
The Chidings of E. Nesbit in Five Children and It

E. Nesbit was already a successful novelist by the time she turned her hand to crafting works for children. Growing up in numerous towns dotting England and France, she led a relatively happy childhood until ultimately moving back to London. A socialist and partaker in a rocky marriage, Nesbit continued writing children’s books over the course of her lifetime, creating worlds of the fantastic that would inspire authors such C.S. Lewis. She wrote at least 40 novels and collaborated on many more until her death in 1924.

As a writer, I, too, deal primarily deal with the world of the fantastic, where mundane life is peppered with a little magic here and there. Nesbit was the same, taking inspiration from the reality that surrounded her and bringing in snippets of fantasy into her imagined realms. As a child one of my favorite books was Five Children and It, the tale of five young children who discover a Psammead – referred to as a sand-fairy – who, once a day would grant the children a wish. This, of course, becomes the ultimate conflict of the novel: the wishes never go quite as planned, such as when the children ask to be able to fly only to become trapped on a church steeple (all of wishes granted by Psammead ended at sundown).

What I found particularly fascinating about the novel was Nesbit’s propensity to “break the fourth wall,” or rather, have the narrator break narration to make some comment or social remark. While slightly jarring at times, Nesbit becomes something of a forceful Hans Christian Anderson – her work has moral lessons and some questionable asides – but rather than let the narrative always convey that moral, Nesbit at times might just tell the reader what to think:

This is why so many children who live in towns are so extremely naughty. They do not know what is the matter with them, and no more do their fathers and mothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, tutors, governesses, and nurses; but I know. And so do you now.

It is moments such as those that show a shift in narrative voice, one from that of the passive observer to authoritarian. Nesbit is at once informing us of the order of the world, but directly doing so by addressing the reader as though he or she was a child needed scolding. At times, it can be light-hearted information:

“’Humph!’ said the Sand-fairy. (If you read this story aloud, please pronounce ‘humph’ exactly as it is spelt, for that is how he said it).”

There are times, of course, that Nesbit seems to be aware of the extent of her voice. For example, she states “[l]ending ears was common in Roman times, as we learn from Shakespeare; but I fear I am becoming far too instructive.” This style of breaking the fourth wall has been mimicked by authors such Lewis, Carroll, and others.

This style and acknowledgement of occurrences of a magical nature by the other lends itself to creating a liminal space for the reader between the story and the storyteller. Nesbit embraces the concept of the uncanny, a type of fantasy described by Tzvetan Todorov in his classification of the genre. The uncanny, in this instance, is in the moments in which Nesbit breaks the fourth wall and confronts her readers; when readers realize there are magical explanations for the goings-on of the five children, and accept that the mechanics by which the world operates – fairy magic is real – [the work] becomes the opposite classification of the genre, known as the marvelous.

Is this style successful in Five Children and It, or does it break immersion for the reader and take away from the work? For me, it is a question of “telling” versus “showing;” Nesbit at times reveals perhaps too much information rather than give the reader an image with which to work:

I shall not tell you whether anyone cried, nor, if so, how many cried, nor who cried. You will be better employed in making up your minds what you would have done if you had been in their place.

On a personal level, this style did in fact put me off at times. One could certainly read these quips as a series of mere cheeky asides, but there were moments when I felt as though the book should have been titled Five Children, One Adult, and It. I wonder if her tone would remain the same had book been written not in 1902 but in 2018.

Ultimately, Five Children and It is playful romp that delivers a lively – albeit with a slightly forgettable cast of characters – story and, with the help Nesbit herself, some critique of her time period as well. Lines such as “You can always make girls believe things much easier than boys” give the reader a glimpse into what Nesbit’s society believed. I doubt strongly a sentence such as the previous quotation would make the cut for the contemporary children’s novel. These lines distract from the wonder and consequences of the children’s wishes: they are an interruption into a fairly simple narrative that could do without a chiding from its creator.

Still, E. Nesbit remains to this day a beloved author, cherished for her fantastical worlds; I appreciate her contribution to the field of children’s literature. She possessed the ability to straddle both the marvelous and uncanny as described by Todorov, even if her direct addressing of facts to the reader could sometimes detract from greater narrative. As a writer, I find myself avoiding this style, but nonetheless respect the story she was able to create in Five Children and It.

Poetry Review: I hope this reaches her in time

I hope this reaches her in time:

Truncation for Effect

r.h. Sin’s collection of poetry, I hope this reaches her in time, is the journey of a broken heart, of grief, and of rebuilding one’s self. Its poems are terse and to the point, charged with an almost typical angst and “you’ll be okay” sentiment. However, its staccato pacing ties the narrative together through Sin’s truncation of sentences: there are brief spurts of emotion and pared fragments that – albeit briskly – make the collection cohesive.

While not uncommon, this short, fast-punch style suits the arcs of the narrative: being left by a loved one, grieving, anger, and moving on to self-confidence are all emotions delivered with a flow of consciousness voice. The opening poem “good women are tired of giving” sets the tone with a brevity that permeates each piece in the work, cutting through it with short verses such as “the girl who deserves the sun / is tired of being rained on.”

Much like Sin’s book a beautiful composition of broken, I hope this reaches her in time relies heavily on these truncated sentences to produce dramatic juxtapositions: often existing as fragments of sentences, the individual lines punctuate the narrative. These snippets serve as tiny dagger pricks that help convey the poignancy of emotion of the narrator: “aren’t you tired of this shit / the constant struggle / the feeling of loneliness.”

The majority of the poems in the collection, also, evade the usage of proper punctuation full stops, leaving each line on the page hovering in its own space without a sense of stopping. The lack of punctuation permits the reader to string these snippets together, even when they might not necessarily scan as a joint phrase and render a more complex meaning, creating a Joycean effect that reflects the narrator’s state of mind: “and so the loneliness / will grow from the emptiness / you feel / those nights will be the toughest / those mornings, even tougher / it’ll hurt, you should have loved her.”

One key technique throughout the poems seems to lie in the composition of the stanzas themselves; many of the poems start and end with lines that could be taken together, paired on their own. One could cut out the middle lines and glean the entirety of the individual poem. Take, for example, this eleven-line stanza:

and all of this for a love
that turned out to be hatred
all of this for a heart
that never deserved yours
all of this hurt
for a relationship
that would never work
all of yourself
all of everything
invested into something
that now feels like nothing

The efficaciousness of this poem lies in its repetitive nature [of fragmented thoughts], but is ultimately completed by combining the first and last line of the verse: “and all of this for a love / that now feels like nothing.” This technique is employed throughout the work as another form of truncation; the two opening and closing lines package up the meaning in a brief scanning of the poem. While there is some variation to this affectation – obviously notable in the shorter verses – this technique remains consistent throughout and produces a unique, curt effect that propels the narrative forward at a swift, almost frantic, pace: “we become content / deepening the bruises” and “i needed to find myself / while trying to keep you” are two such examples of the proactive nature of the narrator demonstrated through this curtailing of the verse.

Ultimately, the truncation of the lines in I hope this reaches her in time creates a staccato pace throughout the work. It successfully builds up momentum to express the spiraling emotions of the narrator up until the final poem, which is the most truncated of all: “until next time, talk to you soon… / (call ends…).” This ending creates a sense of the narrator experiencing short bursts of emotions and ties together the clipped speech throughout the work; I hope this reaches her in time becomes, in essence, a one-sided telephone conversation with the one who broke your heart.

Poetry Review

Form and Function in
the princess saves herself in this one

Amanda Lovelace is a local author whose poetry went from online popularity and self-publishing to traditional publication with already three editions of the princess saves herself in this one in print. It is a tale of grief, survival, and healing: empowerment of the self and a reminder to “practice self-care before, during & after reading.” The poetry is straightforward and poignant, with most effect coming not from more common poetic devices but by a manipulation of the text itself to achieve a purpose.

The first striking piece of technique that Lovelace employs is in the juxtaposition of her titles; the majority of the collection titles the poem at the end of the piece, rather than in the beginning. This leads the reader directly into the raw emotion of Lovelace – be the subject abuse, alcoholism, or recovery – without any preparation, so each delivery packs a metaphorical punch. For example, consider the following poem:

when i had

no friends

i reached inside

my beloved books

& sculpted some

out of

12 pt

times new roman

& it was almost good enough

Here, the title “& it was almost good enough” not only befits the nature of the poem, but serves as a final closing line as though the title were a part of the poem itself. This technique is employed copiously throughout the collection and provides a unique take on the structure of poetry. Albeit one, short line, the punctuation of the title as a final line is reminiscent of the final couplet of a sonnet; it serves to both summarize the poem and provide an impactful delivery.

Lovelace also enjoys the shape of her poetry: verses themselves are typographically modified to enhance the theme of individual poems. Although not an unfamiliar technique, the restraint and deftness with which Lovelace employs shaping her words allows for multiple readings of each and furthers the narrative:

the princess woke

to feel her castle rocking

back & forth

This structure repeats but softly gives a cadence of rocking that gradually increases until the climax of the poem: “at first / she thought / a hurricane / must be brewing, / but she was / wrong.” The wavering nature of the poem ending on the word “wrong” substantiates a sense of imbalance or something amiss in Lovelace’s psyche as she crafts the poem.

Lovelace, at points, goes quite literal in the shaping of her poetry, letting the physicality of a word dominate a poem in a picture:

there

was never

enough alcohol

to keep my mother warm

in a house

as cold as

t h i s.

With this poem, the imagery is overt – as to whether it is too literal is subject to debate – but the poem still manages to backload panache by the stinging expansion of the word “this” in the final line. Due to its spacing, one is drawn immediately to the word. “This,” Lovelace is saying, “This is my point,” referring to the text before it, shaped as a house supported by a weak pillar of gapping between the foundation of the house-structure itself. The spaces, then, represent the cracks in a house ruled by this, the mother’s insatiable desire to keep herself from the “cold” by indulging her alcoholism.

This gapping is further employed in words like “s h a t t e r e d” or the scattering of words in the shape of a spiral: “death / wound / itself / around /her / bones / like / a / piece / of / red / ribbon.” There is a certain calculated playfulness – despite the serious subject matter – in the construction of these poems that harkens back to the title, the princess saves herself in this one. By manipulating the words into the shapes she desires, Lovelace is ultimately taking control of the power of the written word on both a physical and spiritual level.

Form and function in Lovelace’s collection subvert the reader’s expectations of free verse by subverting and reshaping the text itself. The juxtaposition of the title at the end of the verse rather than the beginning places a period and stamp of force on the individual poems, while manipulation of individual letters or words similarly compels the reader to look at the poem from a different perspective. Each piece could certainly stand alone as free verse with no fiddling, but there is a thoughtfulness in the structure of the shape of words that conveys emotion and image with poignancy. In this manner, Lovelace’s poetry successfully transcends the confines of language. To further cap off her fancy, flipping to the back cover of the book one can find the ending line of the series, emblazoned in bold, large font just as the front cover, the alternate title (or perhaps, as many of her other poems, the actual title) of the book itself:

the story of

a princess

turned

damsel

turned queen

It’s that time of year again…

Taxes, taxes, taxes. I know I’ve been MIA for a solid two months or so, but work and family have kept me away from the best part of my life — writing!

The Janet Project is currently still a WIP, but doesn’t have much more to go. Then I get to go through the joy of query letters! *shudder* If anyone has suggestions on a good way to write one, I’m more open than an Atlantic City hooker. Too crass? Too bad. Query letters stink.

As my day-job is in the financial field, I wanted to explain to those who write exclusively as their source of income that you might not have tax withheld from your advances and royalties. If you don’t want to owe a lump sum in April, you should pay estimated tax (April, June, September, January [of the next year]). This is more or less the same concept of withholding, as here in the US we’re required to PRE-PAY our taxes. So, to avoid any penalties… fork over some of your tax liability during the year and don’t get whammied up the rear end in April. 😉

This is perhaps the most boring post I’ve ever written, so I’ll link to a great music video by a group Chris and I are going to see live on Tuesday. It’s Snow Halation, by μ’s. It’ll be a nice diversion from all the stress going on right now. Definitely check out the vid and TODOKETE!! with Honoka.

Have a Happy Helen Christmas

It’s this time of year that we truly think of our loved ones. As we decorate, I remember back to the days when my grandmother was alive; cooky, faux-fur coat, fake earrings; her Scotch, and her cigarettes.

I still relive some of her traditions, and it’s having pieces of her that really enlivens my holiday. It’s not just that: even though she passed when I was fourteen, to this day she still informs my writing and my life. This post is to celebrate her.

I hope everyone has something special from a loved one to put out this year. Be it my great-grandmother’s ugly Christmas tree ornaments to the newest, sparkly bulbs, make a new tradition to celebrate the season.

Happy holidays, everyone.

xoxo

PS — to all those sending well wishes, thank you! I embrace them all and am truly humbled.

Riot Blade Thanksgiving

Happy early Thanksgiving! I hope everyone has something to be thankful for tomorrow.

I’m feeling grateful for many things, especially the love of my friends and husband. I’m also thankful that Terra is close to mastering her Ifrit summoning board. RIOT BLADE!!

As random as that is, I wanted to give a general update: my mother is ill and hospitalized, so I haven’t had has much leisure to write as I’d like. I hope this Thanksgiving anyone who actually reads this blogs sends her warm thoughts of healing. 🙂

I’ll talk to you all after the holiday with updates on The Janet Project.

xoxo

“UGH!” said Ugh — Some More D&D Action

When we last met our heroes, Trojan Aziz was dodging Niveus Hare’s fireballs as they came upon a goblin camp. Since then, Trojan, only mildly singed, and an ever-inebriated Niveus were separated from their friend, Ped Xing, and had made new acquaintances in Ugh and Doria, a half-orc and a human — a human who died in battle and was put in a bag of holding for a week before resurrection.

“Ugh,” said Ugh, the half-orc barbarian, as he hauled a catatonic cleric like a sack of resurrected potatoes off the back of Nivvy’s horse.

“Maybe we can find some sort of thaumaturge to stop the drooling,” Niveus offered.

The four of them — Ugh, Niveus, Trojan the elven rogue, and the not-so-present Doria had been traveling for several days, to a town Ugh knew as Dunwich. They would be able to stock up on some necessary healing potions — Nivvy’s staff of healing unfortunately bamfed out of existence after some gratuitous misuse — and hopefully a keg or three of good ale.

Dunwich wasn’t unfamiliar to Ugh, as he’d been a resident of Fel’way since his birth. Niveus and Trojan, on the other hand, had been rather unhappily transported from Faerûn by otherworldly magic along with their missing friend, Ped Xing. Every new town, so far, was turning out to be something of a surprise.

The settlement crept up upon with the smell of burnt flesh and the sight of rising smoke. Trojan was the first to scuttle up the main road, ready to stab and slash and cause general mayhem: the village was in danger; that much was obvious. Niveus, gingerly alighting from his horse — he didn’t want to sully his fancy lavender ensemble — took up the middle on account of being “squishy,” and Ugh lugged Doria behind him with a hand that could use a good manicure.

“This isn’t a normal goblin raid,” he said. “The city guard is too used to that.”

“Let’s go cut ’em up,” Trojan said.

“I don’t have that healing staff anymore,” Niveus said. “And Doria is still a bit… touched.” Nivvy daintily took a handkerchief and wiped her chin before polishing off some potables from his hip flask. “Just try to stay the way out of my fireballs.”

“Wizards,” grumbled Ugh.

“You didn’t mind when I charmed the barkeep into lowering the cost of the port,” Niveus said. “However dubious that transaction was.”

Ugh just grunted.

“C’mon, you two,” said Trojan. “Let’s go do this hero stuff!”

“And maybe get some remains for sausage filling while we’re at it?” Niveus’ voice was all too hopeful.

Ugh rolled his eyes. “Gross. And I’m a half-orc. Gross is my thing.”

Done with the bantering, Trojan gripped both his companions by the hand and proceeded to march the group up the slight slope toward Dunwich. The town’s gates had been smashed open; that much was obvious as the group approached. Upon broaching Dunwich proper, the residencies on the outskirts were barred shut: townsfolk, nowhere to be seen.

“I hear something to the north,” said Trojan. A cacophonous thumping like a gigantic drum rang out from the center of the town, where, according to Ugh, the mayor resided and governed.

“After the brass, eh?” said Niveus. “Time for the saviors to step in.”

“I’ll stealth up and gather some intel,” said Trojan. Ugh grunted in acknowledgement and stood protectively in front of his party’s magic-wielder and slightly enfeebled healer.

“Gobbies?” Doria asked.

“Hush,” said Niveus.

Trojan slinked behind the town’s pub — hoping Nivvy and Ugh wouldn’t try to peruse the goods while he was off working — and headed toward the town hall. It was a sturdy building, surrounded by a wooden wall. A wooden wall currently being crushed by an ogre with a battering ram.

“Well, shit,” Trojan swore. He was tempted to nock an arrow into his longbow and distract the creature, but he noticed off to the side a second, lumbering hulk of an ogre littered with goblins riding its back. This would be too much for him alone. He counted four goblins atop the beast.

“Sleep,” whispered a voice behind Trojan’s back. Despite his cool demeanor Trojan jumped. Liquid syllables too hard to remember swept past his ears, and one by one the goblins dropped off the ogre’s back, falling into a deep slumber on the ground.

Trojan turned around to see Niveus and Ugh behind him, surprised that they so sneakily crept up behind him. Doria huddled back in the corner, chanting something about making things glow.

The sleep spell was effective, but not without its caveats: both ogres turned around to face the party and roared with exasperation.

“I thought we were going in quietly,” Trojan said.

“I got bored.” Niveus shrugged and took another slug from his flask.

Both ogres began stamping toward the group, and Niveus shrank back toward Doria. “Did my job!” he quipped.

Ugh pulled the straps off his great axe and hefted it with two meaty hands, his eyes glazing over. Let the anger well up inside, he thought, and within seconds he was filled with rage. The half-orc charged toward the goblin-free ogre and swung mightily, opening a razor-sharp, red wound from shoulder to belly on the beast.

“So much for stealth,” muttered Trojan, before a chaotic flicker gleamed in his eyes. “It’s stabbing time!”

He rushed forward, unsheathing and hurling a softly glowing dagger from his belt. The blade flew toward the ogre with the battering ram, digging deep into its shoulder and whipping out in a trail of blood as the dagger magically boomeranged back into Trojan’s hand. The ogre howled and dropped the ram to the ground, cursing loudly.

“I guess it’s my turn again,” Niveus said from the background. More harsh sounding words escaped his lips as he extended his left hand. Gathering green light extended from his fingertips and coagulated into a ball of vitriolic sludge. Niveus flung a dart of pure acid at the howling ogre, flask in one hand, and smiled as there was the heavy sizzling of evil flesh melting by the power of his magic.

“Don’t get cocky!” raged Ugh. He had leapt onto to the other ogre’s back, careful not to disturb the sleeping goblins scattered about his surroundings and with a loud clang crashed his great axe into the trapezoid of the beast, crippling its right arm. The ogre, eyes bloody, reached up with his left hand and swiftly threw Ugh into a pile of rubbish from the crumbling wall.

“Cocky my ass,” Trojan said. He sprinted forward, drawing his rapier as he ran.

“Do I have to use another spell?” called Niveus, cheeks slightly flushed.

Ugh’s ogre was staggering, looking worse for wear, so Trojan focused an elegant stroke of his blade against the underbelly of the other, whose face was distorted, rendered even more hideous by Niveus’ evocation. A deft slash — one and a sneak attack for good measure — gutted the monstrosity and Trojan was covered in ogre offal.

“One left,” growled Ugh, picking himself up out of the pile of debris. He could feel the frenzy overtake him, and without restraint launched himself toward the remaining ogre and began hacking away, chucking bits of monster flesh left and right with a perverse relish.

Immediately the ogre was bombarded by three bolts of pure arcane energy, pummeling its wounds open further and exposing some green, fleshy bones. The ogre dropped to its knees beneath Ugh’s weight and ultimately collapsed as the half-orc slit it neatly down its back with his axe.

Trojan took it upon himself to drop his rapier and slip two more daggers out of his belt. He drove them both into the throat of the blinded ogre and whipped them out, now completely covered in blood but rewarded with a thud as it dropped to the ground.

“If it was only this easy all the time,” said Niveus. He had begun casually slitting the throats of the sleeping goblins with his athamé, careful to preserve the bodies. “Sausage, anyone?”

“Ugh!” said Ugh, his stream of adrenaline slowly tapering off.

Trojan looked around for something to wipe himself off with, considering he was covered in ogre blood. He was interrupted by calls in Dwarvish, which he could barely parse, from ahead toward the manse.

Our heroes’ adventure continues soon, with missing children and hags, oh my!

Of Ponies and Books

JP’s pony is well on its way to completion; he’s even got his soul patch going on! We just have to do the eyes and Cutie Mark. (The pony’s name is Critical Roller, by the by.) If any Bronies out there want a custom poneh, let me know! We paint them for free. It’s very cathartic, seeing how the end of MLP: Friendship is Magic wrecked me like Geena Davis in A League of Their Own.

As an aside, on Monday we’re stopping by the local Keyport library to talk about my books. Exciting! It’ll be nice to see my work stocked in my go-to book purveyor.

It’s also freezing today, which makes it the perfect time to make Ina Garten’s lentil sausage soup, although it serves about 300 people and we’re only two (the cats don’t eat lentils).

Just a small update. xoxo

An October Update

Howdy. Is everyone ready for Halloween? I’ve been obsessed with Dissidia: Final Fantasy Opera Omnia (see the pic of me as Aerith!) for the month, so things have slowed down a little.

We had a blast at our Halloween party:

I was Deadpool, and we had friends from all over come to join in the festivities. (I didn’t kill anyone with my katanas, much to my husband’s chagrin.)

Work continues on The Janet Project, and I’m looking for an agent. I’m also pleased to say that our local Keyport library will be hosting my first two novels, Librarian and Apprentice, so if you’re local… well, check it out! Literally. Ha ha. That pun works on so many levels.

xoxo