On Writing II





TheT-shirt above from  www.signals.com proudly states, "Careful, you'll end up in my novel"   isn't terribly far from the truth.  More accurately, I think threads of people we observe, meet and know may end up in stories and novels than the actual person.  When I look at people or spend time 'people watching,'  I enjoy the pastime of placing them in a story or reimagining them in another time period, place and costume. 

I am surprised when friends confess that they do not have stories in their heads running 24/7.  I have more stories to write than lifetimes to live. 

The Green Man Mask

When Sylvia first encounters the Green Man, she originally finds a wooden mask in a small grove of trees beside the property:

"She walked slowly through the yard, continually kicking a leaf or two away until she reached a small stand of trees where her grandmother had long ago planted spring bulbs. The damp, matted leaves covered the ground like a blanket and the yellow green spiky leaves of long gone daffodils lay prostrate on the ground. No one had bothered to clean up the old leaves or tie up the daffodils’ greens the way Gran used to so that they looked like little dolls standing in a row. Sylvia scuffled through them and breathed in their rich scent of decay as well as the scent of the newly warmed spring earth.
Gran had been chipper in her phone conversation to Sylvia even two weeks ago telling Sylvia not to worry about her and how she hoped Sylvia could spend a few days with her after the big event and that she was trying to get strong enough to manage the ride to the college. Sylvia now knew that her mother and Gran had purposely not told her how ill Gran was nor the fact that Gran was in hospice the last few weeks. She kept telling herself it was good that Gran wasn’t in great pain and went quietly in her sleep. Yet Sylvia still felt guilty and resented not being able to say good-bye. She felt cheated and empty without this closure. One of Gran’s last wishes was to see Sylvia graduate from college and she never had the chance. Sylvia forced herself to go through the ceremony for Gran more than herself because of Gran’s wish that the funeral to be delayed if needed so that Sylvia could participate in the graduation.
She continued to scuffle along through the grass and leaves still wet with dew uncovering the ripe smell of damp earth and grass. Her shoes went from damp to the chilling feeling of wet on her stocking toes. She didn’t care. She kicked sharply at a bit of particularly matted leaves when her foot hit something solid. She looked down at the pile of leaves and persistently kicked away at them to uncover an oddly shaped bit of wood. It was something that wind, water or insects had created and it almost looked like a mask with holes for eyes and a mouth.
Suddenly the zephyr kicked up the leaves as well and Sylvia saw something like a great, green angel. Sylvia stood frozen to the spot watching as a face of living wood took shape from the mask like object and rose over six feet with leaves flowing over limbs. Her mouth dropped open as the being spoke.
“Sylvia,” a rich baritone came from the creature’s lips. “Do not be afraid. You are part of the pattern.”
Her mouth hung slightly open. Sylvia didn’t know whether or not she should be afraid. Deep down, as surreal as this experience was, she was not afraid. But the figure faded as quickly as it had come."
The Greening, Chapter 1

Sylvia's neighborhood

            "Sylvia Ash was a quiet, unassuming person and she liked it that way.  She had skated her way through college keeping up decent grades but, not really being prepared for anything with her liberal arts degree. She would admit to most people that college was fun, yet seven months ago when her beloved grandmother had died after a brief, but intense bout with cancer, she was jolted into reality.  Sylvia had inherited her house that perched at the upper edge of the Chesapeake Bay in a small community that had grown from summer homes in the 1940’to the year round homes that dotted the shoreline.  Many of the homes were inhabited year round by the summer people of years ago.  It was an aging neighborhood.  As the original owners passed away usually a child took the home over to retire along the bay.  A few of the homes had been sold and later knocked down by young entrepreneurs with nouveau riches to build spectacular homes of unusual architecture on small lots.  Still the majority were modest cottages overlooking the Chesapeake with beautiful full grown trees and decent sized yards where neighbors led quiet and serene lives."
The Leafing, Chapter 1
Syvia's Ash's neighborhood of Bayside is based on Hances Point, Maryland, a small community south of North East, Maryland. Sylvia's home originally was based on a Sears and Roebuck house that used to stand in the neighborhood. Unfortunately, it has since been demolished and replaced with a newer home.

The majority of the homes in this neighborhood were built in the 1920's -1930's as summer cottages.  One resident refers to them as "weekend and case of beer cottages" as the neighborhood was originaly a hunting and fishing camp.  The neighborhood grew to be summer cottages along the upper portion of the Chesapeake Bay.  Further renovations ensued over the years and the neighborhood became a mixture of summer homes and year round homes.  The majority of the residents  have unique views on the Chesapeake.  The youtube videos below provide Sylvia's view of the neighborhood:

and

 

And so it begins...

Sylvia Ash is the main character in the fictional novels:  The Greening, The Leafing and the future The Blossoming.  Per fan request, this blog has been created to give a tour of Sylvia's world.

On writing

My husband shared this quote that was posted on www.refdesk.com today:

THOUGHT OF THE DAY:

"Writing is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as the headlights, but you make the whole trip that way. - E.L. Doctorow

How true.  A fan of the books The Greening and The Leafing told me she was awed at how a writer can make characters, plot and stories to create a novel.  I am always so surprised at this.  I jokingly say that writing is like a private schizophrenia, but as I joke, I know I would be terribly lonely without the stories that live in my head.  Writing, for me, is an odd, wonderful and magical process.  I know the characters and the books even before they are written.  They are loosely woven and become richer and richer and richer when I think of them.  There is always a point where the story bangs away in my head until I don't really have much control and I need to write it down somewhere, some way or tell it over and over in my head.  Arnold Lobel, children's author of the "Frog and Toad" series said that a 'muse' would come in through his open window and help him write the stories. I have often said that sometimes I think the stories are channeled from someone / somewhere else.  It's not a problem, it's a wonderful, magical thing.