The Hectic Attic

For those curious about my NaNoWriMo’09 production, here it is…I hope you like it!
Aline Martins

Synopsis: Where do dreams go?

Jenny is still upset about loosing the best storyteller she ever met, her grandma.
To make things even more difficult, they are moving to her Grandma’s old house, at least -she thinks – she might find someone to tell her grandma’s stories.
But she has no idea what kind of friends are waiting for her in a house where the doors are as huge as giants and the rooms always lead to magical places.

And for my curious friends!

Excerpt

When she got the key, she looked around, and the only thing she thought about was picking inside the room once more. “One more time” she thought “just one more time”.
And she opened the door.

“Granny?” Jenny murmured, taking in shallow grasps of the cold air.

“Do you want to play with Granny?” A said a soft voice with glee.

Jenny stepped inside the room, closing the door slowly at her back. “I won’t take long, and nothing can happen” she thought.

Suddenly, other voices joined the first one, all of them whispering at the same time,
“Jenny, we know you are here, we know you are here”.

“Who are you?” asked Jenny choking, this couldn’t be a joke.

“Jenny, my darling” said a very familiar voice.

“Granny?” asked Jenny.

“Did you come to hear new stories Jenny?” the other voices joined what seemed to be her grandmother’s voice.

Terrified, she tried to run away, but she tripped over something and fell to her knees.
“You’ll never get out of here Jenny,” said one of the voices.

“This is where they send you when they don’t need you anymore” another voice said.

“You don’t want us anymore Jenny, you put us here to forget us, but we want you”, they said in unison.

Jenny thought she could feel cold hands around her wrists, holding her, while she could hear her granny’s voice behind all the others, and it said “be careful, my dear, you should not enter the fairyland without following the instructions”.

The other voices were still around her saying “We want to play, we want to play”.
“Granny?” Jenny shook all over trying to get rid of the cold and the fear that was making her choke as if all the objects in the room had their hands and fingers on her.

But, just when Jenny became convinced life was over, and there was nothing else she could do, a whirlwind escalated and suddenly disappeared.

Jenny was confused, she could not figure out where she was, or if she was standing, floating or lying on the floor, all she could feel were the cold and the weight of the silver key on her hand. She closed her eyes for a while, trying to forget, only listening to the sound of her heart.

When she opened her eyes and looked around, she was not in the attic anymore, but in her bedroom, lying on her bed, holding something so tightly in her hand,something that was hurting her. The key.

by Aline Martins

Just in case you’ve been wondering where I’ve been, here is a hint Andrea Blythe gives you.

If you want to read my Nano Story, please leave a comment, I will need some beta readers for December.
Aline

As you know (from my previous post), I am taking part in the National Novel Writing Month this year, (more info at http://www.nanowrimo.org/ ), and I am about to hit 7000 words, hopefully 8000 even though I had a horrible Migraine and ended up in hospital this morning.

This is the kind of thing that inspires me more and more.
Bellow is Neil Gaiman’s pep talk to all the WriMos!

(for those who want to read what I am writing, please send me a message)

I’ll leave you with Neil Gaiman now,
Aline

Originally Posted by: Chris Baty on 11/18/2007 at http://www.nanowrimo.org/node/1065561

Dear NaNoWriMo Author,

By now you’re probably ready to give up. You’re past that first fine furious rapture when every character and idea is new and entertaining. You’re not yet at the momentous downhill slide to the end, when words and images tumble out of your head sometimes faster than you can get them down on paper. You’re in the middle, a little past the half-way point. The glamour has faded, the magic has gone, your back hurts from all the typing, your family, friends and random email acquaintances have gone from being encouraging or at least accepting to now complaining that they never see you any more—and that even when they do you’re preoccupied and no fun. You don’t know why you started your novel, you no longer remember why you imagined that anyone would want to read it, and you’re pretty sure that even if you finish it it won’t have been worth the time or energy and every time you stop long enough to compare it to the thing that you had in your head when you began—a glittering, brilliant, wonderful novel, in which every word spits fire and burns, a book as good or better than the best book you ever read—it falls so painfully short that you’re pretty sure that it would be a mercy simply to delete the whole thing.

Welcome to the club.

That’s how novels get written.

You write. That’s the hard bit that nobody sees. You write on the good days and you write on the lousy days. Like a shark, you have to keep moving forward or you die. Writing may or may not be your salvation; it might or might not be your destiny. But that does not matter. What matters right now are the words, one after another. Find the next word. Write it down. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

A dry-stone wall is a lovely thing when you see it bordering a field in the middle of nowhere but becomes more impressive when you realise that it was built without mortar, that the builder needed to choose each interlocking stone and fit it in. Writing is like building a wall. It’s a continual search for the word that will fit in the text, in your mind, on the page. Plot and character and metaphor and style, all these become secondary to the words. The wall-builder erects her wall one rock at a time until she reaches the far end of the field. If she doesn’t build it it won’t be there. So she looks down at her pile of rocks, picks the one that looks like it will best suit her purpose, and puts it in.

The search for the word gets no easier but nobody else is going to write your novel for you.

The last novel I wrote (it was ANANSI BOYS, in case you were wondering) when I got three-quarters of the way through I called my agent. I told her how stupid I felt writing something no-one would ever want to read, how thin the characters were, how pointless the plot. I strongly suggested that I was ready to abandon this book and write something else instead, or perhaps I could abandon the book and take up a new life as a landscape gardener, bank-robber, short-order cook or marine biologist. And instead of sympathising or agreeing with me, or blasting me forward with a wave of enthusiasm—or even arguing with me—she simply said, suspiciously cheerfully, “Oh, you’re at that part of the book, are you?”

I was shocked. “You mean I’ve done this before?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Not really.”

“Oh yes,” she said. “You do this every time you write a novel. But so do all my other clients.”

I didn’t even get to feel unique in my despair.

So I put down the phone and drove down to the coffee house in which I was writing the book, filled my pen and carried on writing.

One word after another.

That’s the only way that novels get written and, short of elves coming in the night and turning your jumbled notes into Chapter Nine, it’s the only way to do it.

So keep on keeping on. Write another word and then another.

Pretty soon you’ll be on the downward slide, and it’s not impossible that soon you’ll be at the end. Good luck…

Neil Gaiman

I have been struggling to write a book for years now, and I can surely say I have ideas for 4 or 5 different ones, in my mind and small pieces of paper scattered around my house. But as I am a perfectionist and a VERY DAMN GOOD procrastinator, it never became real.

Today, while… procrastinating a little bit (for a change.LOL) I received a tweet that called my attention:

National Novel Writing Month 2009

What’s this?
National Novel Writing Month is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30.

and I though…well, maybe it’s just what I need!

SO, following the NaNoWriMo advice, I am spreading the word I am an official participant, so you can ask me about it during November, so I keep working hard not to feel ashamed I could not accomplish it…LOL

In case you want to add me as a NaNoWriMo buddy, here is my profile:

http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/user/544784

Now, HELP ME HERE:
Should I write it in Portuguese or English?

To continue our Romance posts (and I am holding my fingers not to write about Shakespeare), I thought I should say something about Tristan and Iseult. Which is another very famous romance/ tragedy, which was very well explored by the media, and people tend to forget. Not me though….

Tristan and Iseult’s conflict of love and loyalty is one of the classic tales of Western literature; in the Arthurian tradition, their tragic trajectory rivals and complements that of Lancelot and Guinevere.
The legend of Tristan and Iseult is an influential romance and tragedy, retold in numerous sources with as many variations. The tragic story is of the adulterous love between the Cornish knight Tristan (Tristram) and the Irish princess Iseult (Isolde, Yseult, etc.). The narrative predates and most likely influenced the Arthurian romance of Lancelot and Guinevere.

There are two main traditions of the Tristan legend. The early tradition comprised the French romances of two poets from the second half of the twelfth century, Thomas of Britain and Béroul. Their sources could be traced back to the original, archetypal Celtic romance. Later traditions come from the Prose Tristan (c. 1240), which was markedly different from the earlier tales written by Thomas and Béroul. The Prose Tristan became the common medieval tale of Tristan and Iseult that would provide the background for the writings of Sir Thomas Malory, the English author, who wrote Le Morte d’Arthur (c. 1469).

The story and character of Tristan vary from poet to poet. Even the spelling of his name varies a great deal, although “Tristan” is the most popular spelling. Most versions of the Tristan story follow the same general outline.

In English, after being mostly ignored for about three centuries, there was a renaissance of original Arthurian literature, mostly narrative verse, in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Tristan material in this revival included Alfred Tennyson’s The Last Tournament, one of his Idylls of the King; Matthew Arnold’s Tristram and Iseult; and Algernon Swinburne’s epic poem Tristram of Lyonesse. After World War II most Tristan texts were in the form of prose novels or short stories.

The basic story is one of mis-directed love: Tristan, the heroic nephew of King Mark of Cornwall, is sent to Ireland to escort the Irish king’s daughter, the beautiful Iseult, to Cornwall to become his uncle’s bride. In most versions, it is during the return voyage that Tristan and Iseult accidentally consume a love potion (meant to ensure Iseult’s happiness with Mark) together, and fall in love. Because Iseult’s engagement to Mark cannot be broken, she marries the king despite her love for Tristan, and the two lovers spend the rest of their lives attempting to satisfy their desire for each other without revealing that desire to Mark and the Cornish court.

If you would like to read one of the versions of this story, you can download the e-book here and also, if you like to read Tennyson’s Idylls of the Kingyou can download the ebook here

The story, as Romeo and Juliet, has caught attention of the media many times along the last century and has also been adapted into film many times. The earliest is probably the 1909 French film Tristan et Yseult, an early, silent version of the story and the most recent Tristan film is 2006′s Tristan & Isolde, produced by Tony Scott and Ridley Scott, written by Dean Georgaris, directed by Kevin Reynolds, and starring James Franco and Sophia Myles.

And let’s not forget the Pre-Raphaelites also loved this theme, as you can see in some of the paintings bellow: CLICK TO SEE THE FULL PAINTING

Picture: Deirdre of the Sorrows by Steven Brown

This was a very long weekend, since I didn’t work on Friday and it was followed by a Holiday on Monday. Everything was supposed to be perfect, except for the fact that I was in a place I didn’t want to be, and apparently alone. (Even though there were some people walking around).

In these moments I always tend to think “how could people live apart from their loved ones in ancient times?”, I think it was not easy, imagine your beloved travelled… It used to take days, months, if not years, and no internet, nor phone! Letters could take ages. I would never be able to live in such anxiety.

I think I would adopt desperate measures just like any other Heroine from famous romances.

Yes, I bet you thought of Romeo and Juliet, or maybe going a bit further Tristan and Iseult. But I want to go EVEN further… I always think of the Lady of Shalott and Lancelot, or the Celtic Myth of Deirdre.

Deirdre or Derdriu is the most tragic heroine in Irish mythology and pointed to be the inspiration to many other modern love stories (including Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet).

Deirdre was the daughter of the royal storyteller Fedlimid mac Daill. When she was born, Cathbad the druid prophesied that she would be the most beautiful woman in land, and that kings and lords would go to war over her, and Ulster’s three greatest warriors would be forced into exile because of her.

Conchobar mac Nessa, king of Ulster, decided to hide Deirdre in a place only Leabharcham, an old woman would know, so he could marry her when she was old enough. However, she fell in love with Naoise, a handsome young warrior, hunter and singer, who was accompanied by his two brothers—the sons of Uisnech. He and his brother run away to Scotland, but wherever they went the local king would try to kill Naoise and his brothers so he could have Deirdre. Eventually they ended up on a remote island, where Conchobar tracked them down.

He sent Fergus mac Róich to them with a message of safe conduct home, but on the way back to Emain Macha Fergus was waylaid, forced by his personal geis (a kind of curse) to accept any offer of hospitality. He sent them on to Emain Macha with his son to protect them. After they had arrived, Conchobar sent Leabharcham to spy on Deirdre, to see whether or not she had lost her beauty in her long years of travel.

Leabharcham, trying still to protect Deirdre from a marriage to Conchobar, told him she had lost all her beauty. However, Conchobar had sent another spy, Trendhorn, who told him that Deirdre was as beautiful as ever. The next day, Naoise and his brothers, Ardan and Ainle, faced Conchobar, aided by a few Red Branch Knights, before Conchobar evoked their oath of loyalty to him and had Deirdre dragged to his side. At this point, Éogan mac Durthacht threw a spear, killing Naoise, and his brothers were killed shortly after.

Frustrated by Deirdre’s lack of love for him, Conchobar offered her to Éogan mac Durthacht, the man who’d murdered Naoise.

She committed suicide by leaning out of her chariot and dashing her head against a rock. In some versions of the story, she died of grief.

The End

Well, I am certainly not going to jump out of the bus, but I have to admit she was quite brave to do that.

Although it’s a very ancient myth, this story inspired many authors such as Yeats to write plays about it.

There are four plays based on Deirdre’s story: George William Russell’s Deirdre (1902), William Butler Yeats’ Deirdre (1907), J.M. Synge’s Deirdre of the Sorrows (1910), and Vincent Woods’ A Cry from Heaven (2005). There are also two books: Deirdre (1923) by James Stephens and The Celts (1988) by Elona Malterre.

But if you would like to take a look into the complete story, here are some very good versions:

http://www.luminarium.org/mythology/ireland/deirdre.htm

http://www.dreamsofdeirdre.org/name.html

on a next post I’ll be writing more about Tistan and Iseult and the Lady of Shalott

I woke up and got dressed as if time { past, present and future } was one, and in the following second I could not remember what was gone.

Is it me reflected here? And that? is that me house?I don’t know …
I always talk to myself, but I never see myself like this. What a strange thing! It seems everything was done and I… did nothing!

I think that is why I say that in the end, I do not remember people properly. But how appropriate is that? How would I [and you] be remembered?

I not even know what to think today. After all … NO WAY! I sound like a sad poet that despite its inspiration, the disease of unhappiness come over too soon … I do not like this!

I have to forget such beautiful lines and go back to the fact {the life} that waits for me.
I have to be grateful – I need to. To each second.And all its beauty!
My eyes are heavy, but my heart is radiant.
I want a party at home. It is not my birthday, but why not celebrate?
I do not remember anything special that happened on this day,
so,
What a glorious ordinary day!

I made a cake… it smells as good! whole house does and my soul loved it!
I’ll have an afternoon tea with cake. Not alone, but with me soul!

“Molly, my sister and I fell out,
And what do you think it was all about?
She loved coffee and I loved tea,
And that was the reason we couldn’t agree.”

Aline TeaParty Martins

Alice -by Tim Burton
I won’t say much, since I love Tim Burton’s works…
but this movie is very polemic even before its release… but for those like me…
March 5th 2010 is the day…. to enjoy Alice in Wonderland
and a nice and crazy Tea Party

Today, is Friend’s Day here in Brazil

Through my life, I called many people friend, and I had many deceptions too.

I think these deceptions are not due to bad friendship, but to due to people’s expectations on friendship.

If you ask two or more people, each one will give you a different meaning to friendship. But I think, nothing meant more than a text from Vinicius de Moraes – Brazilian Writer and Composer, on friendship…

Friend Wanted

It doesn’t need to be a man, it’s enough to be human, it’s enough to have feelings, It’s enough to have a heart. Needs to know when to speak, and to be quiet, but above all, it needs to know how to listen. It needs to like poetry, the night, and the songs of the wind. It needs to have a love, a big love to somebody, or at least to miss this love in case it does not have it. It needs to love as much as it can and respect the pain that the others carry with them. It needs to know how to keep a secret, and it must not be a burden. It’s not necessary to be new, but does not need to be second hand. It can have been deceived, because all friends are. It’s not necessary to be pure, but can’t be vulgar. Must have a goal, and be afraid of loosing it, and in case it does not have a goal, it must feel the great vacuum that it leaves inside. It needs to have human senses, and his main objective must be the friend. It must feel pity for the sad people and comprehend the immense emptiness of the solitaries.

It must like children and feel sorry for the ones that could not grow up. Friend Wanted, to like the same things, and that gets touched when called a Friend. It needs to know how o talk about simple things, from drizzles to rains and thunder storms, and about childhood memories. Friend –Wanted, so we don’t get crazy. Someone to talk about the beauty seen, as well as the sadness,. Someone to talk about the anxieties and realizations, the dreams and reality. It must like desert streets, puddles and wet pathways, must like sidewalks and highways, grass after the rain and laying down on it in a sunny day.
Friend Wanted, someone that says the life is worthy living, not because it’s beautiful, but because you already have a friend.

Friend Wanted, so we can stop crying, so we don’t live over the past in search of lost memories. Someone that put the hand on you shoulder, smiling and crying, but someone that calls us Friend, so we are conscious we are still alive.

Vinícius de Moraes

HAPPY FRIEND’S DAY!

Aline Friend Martins

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