MAGIC AT CHRISTMAS EVE

There is a magic to Christmas Eve

that transforms even the grumpiest into children again.

The cold night winds seem to carry the faint chiming of bells as reindeer fly high in the black sky.

So it is not too surprising that the magical couple, the Victorian ghoul, Alice Wentworth, and the street gypsy, Victor Standish

have more than their share of Christmas adventures.

Some of my new friends may not know of the history of Victor and his ghoul friend, Alice.

Here is the link to their first meeting, told from both of their perspectives :

http://rolandyeomans.blogspot.com/2010/11/i-am-hungrymy-entry-for-blogfest-retold.html

Here is a re-telling of one of their Christmas adventures that I have fallen in love with. I hope, that like viewing again THE CHRISTMAS CAROL, this tale will make you smile once or twice :

Alice and I stumbled through the mirror. Elu, that Apache Trickster, had surprised us both by grabbing and pulling us into his mirror world.

His Christmas present he laughed.

We came out in the middle of a roaring fireplace. We jumped right out of that blasted inferno. Lucky for us it was big enough to roast a buffalo.

"Oh, my!," gasped Alice as she looked all around.

"What you said, " I whispered.

We were in a humongous great hall. Three gleaming tables ran down the length of it. Twelve giant Christmas trees lined the stone walls.

And it was snowing.

Snowing! Snowing inside this enormous hall. Each flake seemed to be singing. And glowing with a tiny gleam of winter laughter.

I looked up, and my mouth dropped down.

Dozens upon dozens of tall candles were floating high above us, right below a vaulted ceiling painted to look like a night's sky.

I went a little cold. The fluffy clouds were moving. One slowly covered the spectral full moon.

Alice gasped, "Oh my, where are we?"

I smiled crooked, "We're not in Kansas any more, Toto."

"You are so not funny!"

An old man's voice rumbled behind us. "And you are in so much trouble."

I sighed, "Oh, crap -- ah, merde."

The man laughed. "It still means the same thing."

I turned around slowly. "Yeah, but when you're in the company of a beautiful .... Oh, wow."

The man was tall, thin and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt.

He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak which swept the ground and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles.

And his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice.

"Merlin?," I croaked.

He smiled like Santa Claus and said, "Albus Dumbledore. And you?"

I smiled back. "I'm Victor Standish, and this is ..."

His smile turned impish, "Your ... ghoul friend, Alice Wentworth."

Alice looked like she was about to kick a shin, but he chuckled so good-naturedly that she relaxed smooth as you please. I just had to learn how to chuckle like that.

Alice looked shocked. "Y-You do not mind that I am a ghoul?"

He reached out and gently patted her head. "It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities. And your choices have always come from a good heart."

Alice's neon-blue eyes widened. "How do you know that?"

Dumbledore laughed softly. "Because I am quite possibly the most powerful wizard of my time."

"And humble, too," I snorted.

Alice slapped my left arm. "Hush! We are uninvited guests. Show some manners."

I grinned sheepish. "We didn't mean to barge into ...."

"Hogwarts."

I frantically searched my face with flying fingers. "Where?"

He smiled amused and sad all at once. "Where you're standing."

I leapt back, looking at the spot I just left. "I don't see anything."

Alice rolled her eyes. "He means the place we are standing, this great hall, genius."

"Oh, I knew tha ...."

I suddenly heard a whispery, dirty-silk voice inside my head. "Kill. Kill. Kill!"

Dumbledore saw my look and tapped my arm. "You heard the basilisk?"

I brightened up considerably. I could pay my way here. Perhaps even get one of those roast turkeys on the tables.

Maybe they would be magic, and Alice could actually eat it without getting sick. Now, that would be a great Christmas present.

"Hey, I'm no Perseus, mind you, but I could fight that monster for you."

Alice frowned, "That is the Medusa you are thinking about!"

Dumbledore smiled like a forgiving grandfather. "You meant well. But this challenge is for someone else's growth."

I heard a thunder of footfalls, and three voices arguing like good friends will at the other end of this enormous hall.

"Speaking of which," Dumbledore said. "Here he comes now with his two friends of legend."

"Legend?," I asked.

Dumbledore nodded with such a sad look to his wise face. "Yes, but the legend will come at great price."

I nodded back. "Yeah, that's the sucky, ah, bad thing about being a legend : the price tag that goes with it."

Dumbledore gestured, and a silver platter filled to overflowing with a roasted bird appeared in his hands. He gave it to a stunned Alice.

"It is roasted goose."

His blue eyes twinkled as he nodded to me. "I saw you already had your Christmas turkey."

"But, sir," gasped Alice, "I am a ... ghoul. I cannot eat this without becoming ill."

He mussed my hair. "You were right, Victor, it is magic. Your Alice can eat her full of this."

He turned to her seriously. "But only on Christmas Night."

Alice look troubled. "Oh, tell me that I can share."

Dumbledore's eyes sparkled with eyes both happy and sad. "Alice, that is the real truth of Christmas. There is no joy unless you share."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Dumbledore."

He smiled at some private joke it seemed, and shook his head. "Your champion thought of it as payment for slaying the basilisk."

"But I didn't kill it," I protested.

He sighed, "Just this once I wanted intent to be worthy of merit. But I cannot let you be seen by my approaching three young legends. Off with you!"

The world exploded in stars. A ghostly music filled the air. I heard Dumbledore's whisper in my ear, though all I saw was a rainbow showering all around me.

"Tell Elu to shepherd his own legends."

I felt my hair mussed again. "And tell him thank you for giving me the opportunity to share joy."

Then, Alice and I were back in the real world. Or as real as it ever got for me.
***

STORY FOR LENNY LEE_VICTOR STANDISH INVADES HOGWARTS

As my old friend, Donna, pointed out :

there are some of my new friends that may not know of the history of Victor and his ghoul friend, Alice.

Here is the link to their first meeting, told from both perspectives :

http://rolandyeomans.blogspot.com/2010/11/i-am-hungrymy-entry-for-blogfest-retold.html

But now, Lenny, for your story told by Victor Standish himself :

{Since it is 110 degrees in my apartment, I asked Victor to make it a nice chilly Christmas story! LOL.}

Alice and I stumbled through the mirror. Elu, that Apache Trickster, had surprised us both by grabbing and pulling us into his mirror world.

His Christmas present he laughed.

We came out in the middle of a roaring fireplace. We jumped right out of that blasted inferno. Lucky for us it was big enough to roast a buffalo.

"Oh, my!," gasped Alice as she looked all around.

"What you said, " I whispered.

We were in a humongous great hall. Three gleaming tables ran down the length of it. Twelve giant Christmas trees lined the stone walls.

And it was snowing.

Snowing! Snowing inside this enormous hall. Each flake seemed to be singing. And glowing with a tiny gleam of winter laughter.

I looked up, and my mouth dropped down.

Dozens upon dozens of tall candles were floating high above us, right below a vaulted ceiling painted to look like a night's sky.

I went a little cold. The fluffy clouds were moving. One slowly covered the spectral full moon.

Alice gasped, "Oh my, where are we?"

I smiled crooked, "We're not in Kansas any more, Toto."

"You are so not funny!"

An old man's voice rumbled behind us. "And you are in so much trouble."

I sighed, "Oh, crap -- ah, merde."

The man laughed. "It still means the same thing."

I turned around slowly. "Yeah, but when you're in the company of a beautiful .... Oh, wow."

The man was tall, thin and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt.

He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak which swept the ground and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles.

And his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice.

"Merlin?," I croaked.

He smiled like Santa Claus and said, "Albus Dumbledore. And you?"

I smiled back. "I'm Victor Standish, and this is ..."

His smile turned impish, "Your ... ghoul friend, Alice Wentworth."

Alice looked like she was about to kick a shin, but he chuckled so good-naturedly that she relaxed smooth as you please. I just had to learn how to chuckle like that.

Alice looked shocked. "Y-You do not mind that I am a ghoul?"

He reached out and gently patted her head. "It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities. And your choices have always come from a good heart."

Alice's neon-blue eyes widened. "How do you know that?"

Dumbledore laughed softly. "Because I am quite possibly the most powerful wizard of my time."

"And humble, too," I snorted.

Alice slapped my left arm. "Hush! We are uninvited guests. Show some manners."

I grinned sheepish. "We didn't mean to barge into ...."

"Hogwarts."

I frantically searched my face with flying fingers. "Where?"

He smiled amused and sad all at once. "Where you're standing."

I leapt back, looking at the spot I just left. "I don't see anything."

Alice rolled her eyes. "He means the place we are standing, this great hall, genius."

"Oh, I knew tha ...."

I suddenly heard a whispery, dirty-silk voice inside my head. "Kill. Kill. Kill!"

Dumbledore saw my look and tapped my arm. "You heard the basilisk?"

I brightened up considerably. I could pay my way here. Perhaps even get one of those roast turkeys on the tables.

Maybe they would be magic, and Alice could actually eat it without getting sick. Now, that would be a great Christmas present.

"Hey, I'm no Perseus, mind you, but I could fight that monster for you."

Alice frowned, "That is the Medusa you are thinking about!"

Dumbledore smiled like a forgiving grandfather. "You meant well. But this challenge is for someone else's growth."

I heard a thunder of footfalls, and three voices arguing like good friends will at the other end of this enormous hall.

"Speaking of which," Dumbledore said. "Here he comes now with his two friends of legend."

"Legend?," I asked.

Dumbledore nodded with such a sad look to his wise face. "Yes, but the legend will come at great price."

I nodded back. "Yeah, that's the sucky, ah, bad thing about being a legend : the price tag that goes with it."

Dumbledore gestured, and a silver platter filled to overflowing with a roast turkey appeared in his hands. He gave it to a stunned Alice.

"But, sir, I cannot eat this without becoming ill."

He mussed my hair. "You were right, Victor, it is magic. Your Alice can eat her full of this."

He turned to her seriously. "But only on Christmas Night."

Alice look troubled. "Oh, tell me that I can share."

Dumbledore's eyes sparkled with eyes both happy and sad. "Alice, that is the truth of Christmas. There is no joy unless you share."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Dumbledore."

He smiled at some private joke it seemed, and shook his head. "Your champion thought of it as payment for slaying the basilisk."

"But I didn't kill it," I protested.

He sighed, "Just this once I wanted intent to be worthy of merit. But I cannot let you be seen by my approaching three young legends. Off with you!"

The world exploded in stars. A ghostly music filled the air. I heard Dumbledore's whisper in my ear, though all I saw was a rainbow showering all around me.

"Tell Elu to shepherd his own legends."

I felt my hair mussed again. "And tell him thank you for giving me the opportunity to share joy."

Then, Alice and I were back in the real world. Or as real as it ever got for me.
***

G is for G.A.S._what every C.A.R. needs

We talked about C.A.R. a few days ago ...

C ..... Conflict

A ..... Action

R ..... Resolution

Using C.A.R. will get you a good story.

But you don't want a good story ...

You want a GREAT story.

To get that great story, your C.A.R. needs G.A.S.

G ..... Goal

A ..... Adversary

S ..... Sex

GOAL :

1.) Goals in great stories are not anemic ...

A.) Primal

Any goal in a great story is primal, high stakes, CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT!

Love to a loveless man. Food for children to a mother in a world turned upside down. Revenge to a man robbed unjustly of everything that made life worth living.

B.) IDENTIFIABLE

The reader must see herself in that goal. We all yearn to belong. We all have been mocked and snubbed. We all feel alone in some form or fashion.

Once you have the reader looking out of the MC's eyes, you have her hooked into rooting for her to win ... because if the MC wins, a part of your reader wins, too.

In becoming the MC, the readers become more than they are, experiencing things in a way they might never experience any other way. Each of us is an on-going equation striving to answer itself. Reading is one way we do that.

C.) POSSIBLE

You're switching channels on the TV and stumble across an announcer going crazy. You pause. The horse in the back of the race has just pulled ahead ... one horse ... three horses at a gallop ... two more. Now, there is only the lead horse.

The runt pulls ahead only to fall behind. The runt closes just a bit. The jockey on the lead horse spurs his mount ahead. The runt stumbles. Your heart goes into your mouth. Then, somehow, the runt reaches into its last strength and pulls even. The two race like that for long, agonizing moments.

Then, the runt pulls ahead by a nose, winning the race.

You had no money on the race, but you feel like cheering. Maybe you do cheer. We all root for the underdog ... remember that in your writing.


ADVERSARY :

1.) "Oh," you say, "you mean antagonist."

Pardon me? Did I say antagonist? Antagonist is for ivory tower discussions of Jame Fennimore Cooper.

I'm talking Adversay, buddy!

Eric Northman, who, when you try to escape his cellar, tears out your throat with his teeth. Then, when your spurting blood ruins his highlighting dye job, repeatedly kicks your corpse for good measure.

We don't need no stinking antagonists! "You wanna mess with me? Here, let me introduce you to my little friend!"

2.) IMPOSSIBLE ODDS : (Remember the Underdog Principle)

Remember Jodie Foster going to interview Hannibal Lector for the first time? Then, he escapes. Who would you have bet cash money on in the real world?

Little Harry Potter versus Lord Voldemort :

Hagrid to Harry: "Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die."

"We bow to each other, Harry," said Voldemort, bending a little, but keeping his snakelike face upturned to Harry. "Come, the niceties will be observed.... Dumbledore would like you to show manners.... Bow to death, Harry...."

3.) ROADBLOCK

The best adversary directly roadblocks your MC from her/his goal in a way that is threatening and nearly unbeatable.

He/She is always one step ahead of your MC. Your heroine is swimming against the current, getting nowhere ... but at the end, the reader realizes the MC has also been getting stronger, wiser. The adversary has learned nothing because everything seems to be in her/his corner, necessitating no growth.

SEX :

1.) Romance is all very well and good. But come on. Picture Eric Northman from TRUE BLOOD. Romance or sex?

For most readers, romance is just good table manners for sex. Witty talk is all fine. Flirting is fun because it delays the pleasure. But the goal is always in the backs of the minds of the readers in the exchange of words and actions.

I get around that somewhat with Samuel McCord because he is from both the era of the Revolutionary War and the Old West. And Victor Standish, for all his bluster and brass, is a 13 year old boy, struggling with his first love.

2.) Tension is the key to making music with violins and smitten hearts.

You have happy characters? Look around. You have no readers. Angst is the magnet for readers.

Tension is everything. Look at Bella and Edward ... who are the King and Queen of delayed gratification. A goal easily gotten is cheaply held.

Remember the underdog runt of a racehorse?

Victor Standish loves Alice Wentworth, the ghoul. And she loves him. She also has almost surrendered to her hunger for his flesh three times in the first novel. He knows she hungers for his flesh nearly as much as his heart.

But Victor, who in the past has so often bet his life for food and shelter, has no problem betting it for love ... something he has been without all his days.

Victor knows. Alice knows. All who care for them know : Alice will one day lose the battle to keep from eating Victor alive.

To lose his life for the love he never had? "Fair trade," Victor thinks.

And who are we to say different -- we who throw our lives away for so much less?

Whatever the tension ... it must be for most of the novel. Only at the end may it be released ... but only for a time. For in real life, there is no "happy ever after."
***

WHAT EVERY C.A.R. NEEDS_GAS

We talked about C.A.R. yesterday ...

C ..... Conflict

A ..... Action

R ..... Resolution

Using C.A.R. will get you a good story.

But you don't want a good story ... You want a GREAT story.

To get that great story, your C.A.R. needs G.A.S.

G ..... Goal

A ..... Adversary

S ..... Sex

GOAL :

1.) Goals in great stories are not anemic ...

A.) Primal

Any goal in a great story is primal, high stakes, CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT!

Love to a loveless man. Food for children to a mother in a world turned upside down. Revenge to a man robbed unjustly of everything that made life worth living.

B.) IDENTIFIABLE

The reader must see herself in that goal. We all yearn to belong. We all have been mocked and snubbed. We all feel alone in some form or fashion.

Once you have the reader looking out of the MC's eyes, you have her hooked into rooting for her to win ... because if the MC wins, a part of your reader wins, too.

In becoming the MC, the readers become more than they are, experiencing things in a way they might never experience any other way. Each of us is an on-going equation striving to answer itself. Reading is one way we do that.

C.) POSSIBLE

You're switching channels on the TV and stumble across an announcer going crazy. You pause. The horse in the back of the race has just pulled ahead ... one horse ... three horses at a gallop ... two more. Now, there is only the lead horse.

The runt pulls ahead only to fall behind. The runt closes just a bit. The jockey on the lead horse spurs his mount ahead. The runt stumbles. Your heart goes into your mouth. Then, somehow, the runt reaches into its last strength and pulls even. The two race like that for long, agonizing moments.

Then, the runt pulls ahead by a nose, winning the race.

You had no money on the race, but you feel like cheering. Maybe you do cheer. We all root for the underdog ... remember that in your writing.


ADVERSARY :

1.) "Oh," you say, "you mean antagonist."

Pardon me? Did I say antagonist? Antagonist is for ivory tower discussions of Jame Fennimore Cooper.

I'm talking Adversay, buddy!

Eric Northman, who, when you try to escape his cellar, tears out your throat with his teeth. Then, when your spurting blood ruins his highlighting dye job, repeatedly kicks your corpse for good measure.

We don't need no stinking antagonists! "You wanna mess with me? Here, let me introduce you to my little friend!"

2.) IMPOSSIBLE ODDS : (Remember the Underdog Principle)

Remember Jodie Foster going to interview Hannibal Lector for the first time? Then, he escapes. Who would you have bet cash money on in the real world?

Little Harry Potter versus Lord Voldemort :

Hagrid to Harry: "Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die."

"We bow to each other, Harry," said Voldemort, bending a little, but keeping his snakelike face upturned to Harry. "Come, the niceties will be observed.... Dumbledore would like you to show manners.... Bow to death, Harry...."

3.) ROADBLOCK

The best adversary directly roadblocks your MC from her/his goal in a way that is threatening and nearly unbeatable.

He/She is always one step ahead of your MC. Your heroine is swimming against the current, getting nowhere ... but at the end, the reader realizes the MC has also been getting stronger, wiser. The adversary has learned nothing because everything seems to be in her/his corner, necessitating no growth.

SEX :

1.) Romance is all very well and good. But come on. Picture Eric Northman from TRUE BLOOD. Romance or sex?

For most readers, romance is just good table manners for sex. Witty talk is all fine. Flirting is fun because it delays the pleasure. But the goal is always in the backs of the minds of the readers in the exchange of words and actions.

I get around that somewhat with Samuel McCord because he is from both the era of the Revolutionary War and the Old West. And Victor Standish, for all his bluster and brass, is a 13 year old boy, struggling with his first love.

2.) Tension is the key to making music with violins and smitten hearts.

You have happy characters? Look around. You have no readers. Angst is the magnet for readers.

Tension is everything. Look at Bella and Edward ... who are the King and Queen of delayed gratification. A goal easily gotten is cheaply held.

Remember the underdog runt of a racehorse?

Victor Standish loves Alice Wentworth, the ghoul. And she loves him. She also has almost surrendered to her hunger for his flesh three times in the first novel. He knows she hungers for his flesh nearly as much as his heart.

But Victor, who in the past has so often bet his life for food and shelter, has no problem betting it for love ... something he has been without all his days.

Victor knows. Alice knows. All who care for them know : Alice will one day lose the battle to keep from eating Victor alive.

To lose his life for the love he never had? "Fair trade," Victor thinks.

And who are we to say different -- we who throw our lives away for so much less?

Whatever the tension ... it must be for most of the novel. Only at the end may it be released ... but only for a time. For in real life, there is no "happy ever after."
***

THE NEXT BIG TREND WILL BE ...

If you knew what the next sizzling trend would be ...

would you write your next novel accordingly?

If you could become the next J K Rowling or Stephanie Meyers in writing it,
would you?

Even if it meant writing something alien to you?

1.) Hauntings?

Been done right? But not without explaining everything to death (pun intended.}

Evocative visits by nearly invisible intruders, doing strange things to your eyes, making you see in spectrums you never even suspected existed? Why are they doing this to you?

And do you want them to stop?

2.) Rules, Limitations to your adversaries or turn-on's?

I used revenants, instead of vampires, who cannot cross water. Why? They are no longer physical matter. They are electrical bio-constructs ...

which is why they can change shape, think without pumping oxygen to their brains. And their weaknesses stem from that ...
silver breaks the circuit of their existence.

Accupuncture works against them because basically they are beings of visible pure chi.

3.) Strange Days?

What are the boundaries of what is possible anymore? What if we are like ants in the jungle, bustling unaware of terrors that dwarf us and ignore us because we just don't matter? What if one of our idiot science experiments to unlock the Big Bang stings them?

What if the universe has different areas that operates by different rules of science? What if our moving
solar system is slowly entering a new area of space with frightening new rules?

4.) BrothersGrimmPunk -

The Brothers Grimm were writing reality. It exists today. The Dwellers In Sidhe observe our modern society as if it was a zoo. They stroll down our streets as if through a petting zoo/buffet.

5.) There is no Death -

You die. You are buried. Some grieve. Then, one night, you are dug up and awakened, discovering that the spirit world is alive and well.

It looks like nothing the myths have promised. The rules of this spirit world are bizarre and incomprehensible. And you've been selected to be the main course for its rulers. Time to run because you really don't want to know what happens to the eaten.

6.) Old West Punk -

Trends fall back into the forgotten. There is a new movie coming out, COWBOYS AND ALIENS. It may hit big, starting a new trend.

My Samuel McCord, the Texas Ranger with the blood of Death in his veins, battles the supernatural as a Western hero with the Old West code firmly in his actions.

7.) What do you think the new Big Trend will be?

***
And for what could happen to you as a writer ...


And what do you think of this featurette?

KID LIT TO THE RESCUE?

Publishers of children's books are unbelievably important to the survival of publishing as a whole.

If you think about the long-term future of the industry,

the people who are reading 'The Very Hungry Caterpillar' today

will hopefully be reading a thick piece of literature in a few years.

Children's publishing is often viewed as a stable segment of the industry,

thanks to reliable sales to parents and school libraries.

Suzanne Murphy, vice president of Scholastic's trade division, said children's publishers "have fared well during a very tough economic time.

I think parents may -- especially during the holiday time --

cut back in other ways but are willing to spend money on something they think is valuable to childhood and education."

Nielsen BookScan reported

that sales of juvenile books were the strongest of any category in 2008, rising 6 percent from 2007.

In 2009, Nielsen reported, sales held mostly even.

By contrast,

last year adult hardcover and mass market paperbacks both declined nearly 4 percent,

and trade paperbacks fell 2 percent.

Sales of juvenile books may be skewed because many adults are buying young adult titles such as "Harry Potter" and "Twilight."

But the savior of publishing has an uncertain future :

Entertaining the kids with the printed page seems to grow more difficult by the year.

Children's appetite for cell phones, computers, video games and television far exceeds that for books.

In January, a Kaiser Family Foundation report found that the time spent on all entertainment by kids from 8 to 18 rose from 6.5 hours a day five years ago

to 7.5 hours a day.

But only 25 minutes were typically spent reading a book.

The Department of Education found that in 1984 only 8 percent of 13-year-olds

and 9 percent of 17-year-olds reported that they "never or hardly ever" read for fun on their own.

By 2008, the percentage had jumped to 24 percent for both groups.

But publishers are not giving up without a fight :

Last fall, HarperCollins published a missing-girl mystery, "The Amanda Project," with a major online social networking component.


And Simon & Schuster is getting into the game this June with its multimedia venture "Spaceheadz."

Written by Jon Scieszka, author of "The Stinky Cheese Man" and the former Library of Congress National Ambassador for Young People's Literature,

"Spaceheadz" is centered on aliens who come to Earth disguised as fifth-graders.

Simon & Schuster also plans to release it as an e-book. Sill, without color, e-books do not appeal to most children.

The question remains whether all these multimedia add-ons to the reading experience will pay off.

"At the heart, you still have to have good storytelling," Kinney said. "You can't resort to gimmickry and hope to retain an audience."

What do you think? Is Kid Lit our savior? Or is it simply a breath-taking story that will save declining readership of books?
***
What does Hollywood think of struggling writers :

HARRY POTTER BLOGFEST_THE CHRISTMAS CRASHERS

Don't forget to vote for my entry in Tessa's OUTSIDE THE BOX blogfest :
http://tessasblurb.blogspot.com/

Also join in Michael's Harry Potter fun :
http://writing-art-and-design.blogspot.com/p/harry-potter-blogfest-my-first.html

As my new friend, Dominic, pointed out : there are some of my new friends that may not know of the history of Victor and his ghoul friend, Alice. Here is the link to their first meeting, told from both perspectives :

http://rolandyeomans.blogspot.com/2010/11/i-am-hungrymy-entry-for-blogfest-retold.html


Alice and I stumbled through the mirror. Elu, that Apache Trickster, had surprised us both by grabbing and pulling us into his mirror world.

His Christmas present he laughed.

We came out in the middle of a roaring fireplace. We jumped right out of that blasted inferno. Lucky for us it was big enough to roast a buffalo.

"Oh, my!," gasped Alice as she looked all around.

"What you said, " I whispered.

We were in a humongous great hall. Three gleaming tables ran down the length of it. Twelve giant Christmas trees lined the stone walls.

And it was snowing.

Snowing! Snowing inside this enormous hall. Each flake seemed to be singing. And glowing with a tiny gleam of winter laughter.

I looked up, and my mouth dropped down.

Dozens upon dozens of tall candles were floating high above us, right below a vaulted ceiling painted to look like a night's sky.

I went a little cold. The fluffy clouds were moving. One slowly covered the spectral full moon.

Alice gasped, "Oh my, where are we?"

I smiled crooked, "We're not in Kansas any more, Toto."

"You are so not funny!"

An old man's voice rumbled behind us. "And you are in so much trouble."

I sighed, "Oh, crap -- ah, merde."

The man laughed. "It still means the same thing."

I turned around slowly. "Yeah, but when you're in the company of a beautiful .... Oh, wow."

The man was tall, thin and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt.

He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak which swept the ground and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles.

And his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice.

"Merlin?," I croaked.

He smiled like Santa Claus and said, "Albus Dumbledore. And you?"

I smiled back. "I'm Victor Standish, and this is ..."

His smile turned impish, "Your ... ghoul friend, Alice Wentworth."

Alice looked like she was about to kick a shin, but he chuckled so good-naturedly that she relaxed smooth as you please. I just had to learn how to chuckle like that.

Alice looked shocked. "Y-You do not mind that I am a ghoul?"

He reached out and gently patted her head. "It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities. And your choices have always come from a good heart."

Alice's neon-blue eyes widened. "How do you know that?"

Dumbledore laughed softly. "Because I am quite possibly the most powerful wizard of my time."

"And humble, too," I snorted.

Alice slapped my left arm. "Hush! We are uninvited guests. Show some manners."

I grinned sheepish. "We didn't mean to barge into ...."

"Hogwarts."

I frantically searched my face with flying fingers. "Where?"

He smiled amused and sad all at once. "Where you're standing."

I leapt back, looking at the spot I just left. "I don't see anything."

Alice rolled her eyes. "He means the place we are standing, this great hall, genius."

"Oh, I knew tha ...."

I suddenly heard a whispery, dirty-silk voice inside my head. "Kill. Kill. Kill!"

Dumbledore saw my look and tapped my arm. "You heard the basilisk?"

I brightened up considerably. I could pay my way here. Perhaps even get one of those roast turkeys on the tables.

Maybe they would be magic, and Alice could actually eat it without getting sick. Now, that would be a great Christmas present.

"Hey, I'm no Perseus, mind you, but I could fight that monster for you."

Alice frowned, "That is the Medusa you are thinking about!"

Dumbledore smiled like a forgiving grandfather. "You meant well. But this challenge is for someone else's growth."

I heard a thunder of footfalls, and three voices arguing like good friends will at the other end of this enormous hall.

"Speaking of which," Dumbledore said. "Here he comes now with his two friends of legend."

"Legend?," I asked.

Dumbledore nodded with such a sad look to his wise face. "Yes, but the legend will come at great price."

I nodded back. "Yeah, that's the sucky, ah, bad thing about being a legend : the price tag that goes with it."

Dumbledore gestured, and a silver platter filled to overflowing with a roast turkey appeared in his hands. He gave it to a stunned Alice.

"But, sir, I cannot eat this without becoming ill."

He mussed my hair. "You were right, Victor, it is magic. Your Alice can eat her full of this."

He turned to her seriously. "But only on Christmas Night."

Alice look troubled. "Oh, tell me that I can share."

Dumbledore's eyes sparkled with eyes both happy and sad. "Alice, that is the truth of Christmas. There is no joy unless you share."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Dumbledore."

He smiled at some private joke it seemed, and shook his head. "Your champion thought of it as payment for slaying the basilisk."

"But I didn't kill it," I protested.

He sighed, "Just this once I wanted intent to be worthy of merit. But I cannot let you be seen by my approaching three young legends. Off with you!"

The world exploded in stars. A ghostly music filled the air. I heard Dumbledore's whisper in my ear, though all I saw was a rainbow showering all around me.

"Tell Elu to shepherd his own legends."

I felt my hair mussed again. "And tell him thank you for giving me the opportunity to share joy."

Then, Alice and I were back in the real world. Or as real as it ever got for me.
***

STRANGER IN A FAMILIAR LAND

{Don't forget to puchase Talli Roland's ebook, THE HATING GAME!
Amazon.com: http://amzn.to/hX2ieD }


Have we become obsolete?

We as writers,

as thinkers,

as empathic observers of the human condition?


Have we become strangers in a familiar land?


"He whom God has touched will always be a being apart: he is, whatever he may do, a stranger among men; he is marked by a sign."
Ernest Renan


Those who read books are becoming fewer and fewer, causing the publishing world to become tense observers of trends and profit margins.

And thus, they have become stoic, ruthless guardians of the portals of publishing which are emblazoned with :


"You Enter Only If You Bring Us Certain Profits."


Children equate reading with boring, agonizing homework assignments.

They want quick, easy thrills offered by video games and movies : no mental assembly required.

Just blood, action, and sex (not love.)

But are the viewing children and adults like the husband who roars at his wife to just shut up. He gets what he asks for but not what he truly wants.

He wants the love of his life back. The sweetheart who thought the world of him and whose sight made the breath catch in his chest.


“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious.

It is the source of all true art and all science.

He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead:

his eyes are closed.”
Albert Einstein



We need the magic back.

Not the Harry Potter kind of magic exactly. But the magic that can take a day of remembrance of Rosa Park's courage and cast a spell with these words by former American poet laureate Rita Dove :


How she sat there,
the time right inside a place
so wrong it was ready.

That trim name with
its dream of a bench
to rest on. Her sensible coat.

Doing nothing was the doing:
the clean flame of her gaze
carved by a camera flash.

How she stood up
when they bent down to retrieve
her purse. That courtesy.


But the world is too much with us :

its clamor, its demands, its cliched entertainments that cause our minds to slumber, our souls to slowly wither.

We forget the dreams and hopes of our childhood. We forget to listen to the lament of our starving hearts.

We think it is a conditon of the 21st century. It is not.

On this day in 1821 Percy Shelley's "Adonais," his elegy to John Keats, was published in England.

A cornerstone of both Romantic poetry and the myth of the Romantic, the poem paints Keats as Adonis in pursuit of Beauty and Truth, brought down by those less noble and talented.

This was a fate Shelley predicted for himself,

and he died before Keats's gravestone had been erected.

He had one eye upwards on the pursuit of Beauty and Truth, and one downwards on all that was in pursuit of him.

Could that be said of us as we pursue our publishing dreams? Are we selling truth in a marketplace that wishes only affirmations that the moment is all there is?

That there is no tomorrow, no place for nourishing kindness in an unkind world, that success is the product of the manipulation of the masses?

Keats wanted his gravestone in Rome to read "Here lies one whose name was writ in water."

Are we writing in water?

Perhaps. But the world and we, humans, are three-fourths water. Water is the key to life.

If, in our writing, we touch only one heart that finds strength for the next step in a harsh, dark world, have we not made our striving worthwhile?

We, as authors, do not think of masses. We think of the individual : the solitary protagonist -- the solitary reader. I do not think of many reading my book. I see one reader reading my book at a time:

A lonely young boy emboldened by the plucky courage and wit of Victor Standish.

A thinking man nodding at the reflective compassion and courage of Samuel McCord.

An intelligent lesbian finding worthwhile role models in Ada Byron and Margaret Fuller.

A struggling married couple finding empathic connection with Renfield and Magda, making an impossible situation forced upon them somehow work with love and courage.

The British writer and naturalist, Henry Williamson was born on this day in 1895.

Although Williamson’s reputation now survives only in connection to Tarka the Otter, his beloved 1927 children’s book, he wrote a series of autobiographical books.

One such was entitled, A SOLITARY WAR.

We, as writers, as empathic thinkers ... we, too, are engaged in a solitary war whether we are married or single.

No one truly sees into our minds, our hearts, our dreams. Nor do we see truly the depth of those things in others.

It is an external war. It is also a perpetual inner warfare as well.

As we go about the hustle and bustle of our holiday activities and our routine work grind,

let us stop for a moment to see if someone by us is one of the walking wounded of their solitary war.

And if so, soldiers fight better together, having one another's back.
***

IS YOUR NOVEL ONE OF THE WALKING DEAD?

Does your story languish like a becalmed ship upon a lifeless ocean of prose?

Homer, Shakespeare, Poe, Twain --

the immortals of fiction knew it was the key to fiction :

The heart draws the eyes --

if you want your novel read, it must have love and action.

Characterization is great,

but Edgar Rice Burroughs (the father of all cardboard heroes)

was the most translated author of the 1900's. He took exotic locales, a man of action, and love in jeopardy, mixing them in a stew millions and millions bought.

J K Rowling? Where's the love there? What heart doesn't go out to a mistreated boy? Oliver Twist. Wart, young Arthur. Harry Potter is a meld of those two icons. And Harry's adventures certainly don't lack for action.

The heart draws the eyes. The action, tension, and danger keeps the pages turning.

Your dream is to be a professional.

Yet, only the big name authors can keep to their genre of choice.

The rest of us must be adaptable enough to go from genre to genre, depending upon the demands of the market. If we are professionals, we can cross genres because we know the core skeleton of a good story :

The heart draws the eyes. Action and dread turns the pages.

We all know the core plot :

The underdog hero/heroine is pulled into a problem beyond his/her capacity to handle.

He attempts to solve it to only to find himself plunged into deeper dangers that grow logically out of his actions and the actions of his adversaries.

All appears lost : the dream is crushed, his friends are gone, and hope has died.

In this midnight of the soul, he learns a Truth about himself, about Life that re-shapes his thinking. He struggles, renewed and reborn.

He triumphs or loses magnificently ... or a little bit of both.

Some turn up their lips at the thought of formula --

but from HAMLET to THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA if you look close enough, you will see the core skeleton of every good story.

Love in jeopardy draws the reader in. The tension of what waits around the corner keeps the reader turning the pages. And flashes of action, like lightning bolts, spur the reader on.

Like cooking a stew, you must sift the proper balance of ingredients. A likeable hero. A dream/love just out of reach. Danger. Tension. A hope of success. Series of cruel failures. And the last triumphant struggle.

Remember :

The reader wants to be kept in perpetual anticipation,

to not be able to put the book down,

to laugh, to cringe with sympathy at cruel blows, and to cheer at the end.

Last thought : sizzle sells the steak.

Suspense is better than action. (And you can stretch it over more pages.)

The fear of the unknown is always stronger than the grabbling with the monster unmasked. Action taken against a barely seen adversary is always to be preferred.

Happy November writing.
***

HOW CAN WE KNOW?

There are truisms scattered all through your psychology training as a counselor. One of them is :

"Sometimes you get what you ask for, but not what you wanted."

As in a husband yelling at his wife during a fight, "Would you just shut up!"

She shuts up all right. But the anger, the hurt is still there simmering in her eyes. What the husband wanted was the gleam of love he first saw in her eyes in that intense rapture of dating ... to feel that HE was loved like that once more.

He got what he asked for, but not what he wanted.

Another truism was painfully brought to my mind today during my lunch with my best friend, Sandra. Like me she has a Master's degree in Psychology. She's married to a psychologist. She has an IQ of 154. She's a sharp cookie. And her truism discussed during our lunch was :

"Sometimes what you ask for is not really what you want."

I was relating my concern about several veteran agents bringing up hourly rates last week and reading fees this week.

"Sandra, that would financially devastate most struggling writers. Why would veteran businessmen ask for something that would do that to potential clients? I mean why not ask for a hike in their commissions instead?"

Her face grew sad. She cocked her head at me, mumbling low and motioning me to lean forward. I did.

She thumped me on the forehead with her forefinger.

"OW! Why did you do that for?"

"Because you've been trained to know better."

"Better than to trust a friend?"

"No, writer boy. Better than to accept words at face value."

"Huh?"

She rolled her eyes. "You and I both took the course "The Psychology of Negotiation."

"Yeah. So?"

She sighed as if confronted with a slow-witted child. "So you remember that example they gave us :

A labor union wants Policy X. But do they ask for it. No. They ask for Policy Y which would cripple the company. The company shrieks bloody murder."

She munched a bit of her salad. "The union insists, 'We need Policy Y. What else can we do?"

She smirked, "The company goes, 'Well, how about Policy X. We could afford that. And you would still get your money.' And the Union moans, 'Oh, I guess you talked us into it.'"

"You mean the agents really wanted a hike in commissions all along?"

Sandra sighed and whispered something too low for me to make out. I leaned forward to hear better. She thumped me on the forehead again.

"Ow! Would you stop doing that? That hurts."

"I was trying to jar that brain inside there a bit. C'mon, Roland, use it."

Rubbing my throbbing forehead, I muttered, "I have. The agents say they are underpaid for all they do."

Sandra snorted, "Everyone is underpaid for what they do. It's called life."

"Well, the agents say that reading fees will winnow out the not-serious and the not-ready writers."

"Oh, give me a break, Roland. You and I deal with dreamers all day. No amount of money is going to put off someone all fired up with a dream, and you know it."

"I know how I hate form rejections, Sandra. The agents say that if they charge a reading fee, they'll be able to afford writing personalized rejections."

She motioned with her finger for me to move closer, and instinctively, I did. You guessed it. She thumped me again. Harder.

"Ow!! Would you PLEASE stop doing that!"

"Idiot boy, you know what I always say : usually people are only as good as their options. Why should I try to hawk stories if I can make a comfortable living rejecting them and giving a line of bull why?"

"Not every agent's a crook," I grumbled, rubbing my sore forehead.

Her fingers writhed like she wanted to throttle me. "I don't think any of my customers are crooks either. But I still lock up my store every night. You and I lock up our cars and homes when we leave them, too."

"Why should agents work for free?"

She motioned with her thumb and forefinger. I edged back. I learn slow. But I learn.

"They're in sales, Roland. Jeez, you were in sales when you had a bookstore. I'm in sales with my dress shop. Real Estate agents. Car salesmen. They work for commission."

She rubbed her forehead as if she'd been thumping it instead of mine. "God, Roland, those of us in sales work our butts off. Sometimes you roll seven's. Sometimes you roll snake-eyes. It's the nature of the beast."

I sighed, "I guess I'm a little naive."

She snorted, and I continued, "But I thought they were being upfront about wanting hourly rates."

"These are agents, right? Who deal with lawyers all the time? Give me a break. And I'm sure they've dealt with plumbers and electricians."

I shook my head. "I've been writing in comments in several blogs that we should increase the commission the agents are getting."

She rubbed her temples. "How come I have the headache when I've been thumping you? You're sure you have the same IQ as mine?"

"Einstein couldn't get the same color sock on both feet."

"Listening to you, Roland, and I can believe that. Want my last tomatoe wedge?"

"Sure."

I leaned forward to get it. And you guessed it. Thumped again.

As I rubbed my forehead and ground my teeth, she smirked, "Next time remember your psychology classes."
****************
So what do you think, everyone? Not about how gullible I am with Sandra. What do you think about the agents raising the subjects of hourly rates and reading fees? Do you think they really want a hike in their commission rates? Despite Sandra, I like to think they are being upfront.

But I'm part Lakota, and you know us. We signed all those treaties with the Great White Father. You know the ones : "As long as the grass grows and the waters flow ...."
******************
And it is the beginning of the end :