In the Labyrinth

One Does Not Say No to Baba Yaga

 

There are moments in writing that feel so spontaneous that it is hard to believe they have come from oneself but instead are descended in the form of a writerly-grace. When Jane Yolen and I wrote Except the Queen, we began by separately creating characters, each with their own voice and chapters, intuitively stitching them together to form one narrative. It was fun as it invited a serendipitous approach to writing. I always assumed a direction, a motive, a line in the plot until Jane sent me her most recent chapter, and everything went out the window, and I had to react to her chapter with something entirely different than I had imagined. I also returned the favor to her on some occasions -- and that process was incredibly fruitful. 

Baba Yaga showed up unannounced in a boxcar, slowing down just long enough to allow a terrified and transformed fairie to get hauled aboard by a pair of broad-fingered hands. I hadn't planned her appearance at all. It was as though she stepped in and demanded of me to include her in the novel. Despite her dangerous reputation, she had a killer sense of humor, demonstrated by her attempts to educate the new arrival to the human world on the art of blending in, beginning with a lesson on the casual use of the word "fuck" and "shit" on the college campus.

Another moment occurred when one of the main characters, Meteora, recalls a confrontation between the Fairie Queen and Baba Yaga at the court. I am not the first writer to imagine her as a singular creature, her own archetype, out of time and eternal. But the written expression of such a unique status surprised me once I had written it down as she instructed. 

"She leaned back, all the while sucking on her lower lip, scraping her tusks against the purple flesh. She was wearing odd clothes--odd in the sense that she was wearing any at all -- for the little I knew of her, Baba Yaga was not beholden to the fashions of the Seelie court or man himself. She was old enough to have roamed the pristine forests in gleaming nakedness when the first man and first woman still wore their skins in innocence. She could not forgive their betrayal, the death of those perfect forests, and now wore the skin of old age, of mortal corruption, to remind those who encountered her that she had not forgotten. 

"Serena and I had seen her once Under the Hill. Accustomed to the cloth of beauty and youth, we were goggle-eyed at her withered hide, her long sagging breasts hanging low over her bony chest. Her hips jutted like the pelvis of a starved cow, and the loose skin of her belly lapped in folds over the tangled fur of her sex. But her strong arms were wound with taut ropes of muscles, her hands broad as spades with thick fingers that ended in black nails, sharpened to razor points. She had refused all gifts of clothing the Queen had offered her: the finely woven cloaks with silver clasps, the green silken gowns, the lace chemises, and pretty petticoats. 

"Serena and I had talked about nothing else for days. How from a leather pouch slung low on her hips, Baba Yaga had withdrawn a necklace of little bones and knuckles and placed it around her neck. How the court had flinched at the sight of it. Even Red Cap, there as an emissary from the Unseelie court, bowed his head before the mocking challenge in her flaming eyes. All fell back from her, all except the Queen, who bloodied her fine garments carrying the carcass of a newly slaughtered fawn and placing it as an offering in Baba Yaga's hands. "

 

Art: Baba Yaga and Vasilisa Diptych by Milo Neuman.

The Year I Stitch Myself Back Together Again

I love this beautiful image from artist Ana Teresa Barboza because it is precisely how I feel these days as I work on healing myself from a series of unexpected near disasters. Three years ago, I discovered my cholesterol was somewhere in the stratosphere, an inheritance from my father, who died of arterial sclerosis. I believed I could manage it myself; diet and exercise would bring it down to a normal range. The cardiologist I saw warned me that it was impossible without statins and other drugs. A few weeks later, I wound up in the hospital, unable to breathe, with my chest and arm on fire. Hours later, I woke with a triple bypass and a world of pain as I struggled to heal over the next year. 

But the pain, which should have subsided over that year, seemed to hang on. Every move, whether bending or reaching or sitting too long, seemed to produce nothing but more pain. Also, all along my chest were hard bumps created by heavy gauge wires that were meant to tie my sternum together and hopefully fuse it again into a whole. 

As it turned out, the surgeon who closed my sternum did a poor job of it. A thin membrane on both sides of the sternum will fuse when both sides are lined up precisely so that the sides fully touch.  But the surgeon failed to align the edges along the membrane correctly, and the bones were unable to touch, making it impossible for the sternum to heal. It hurt constantly, and I wondered if it would ever feel normal again. 

This year, I went to see a thoracic surgeon to ask about getting at least the wires removed. I asked if that would stop the constant pain in my chest. He told me the only way to stop the pain was to open my chest again and reposition the two sides of the sternum so that they fit perfectly along the membrane. I said let's do it. 

I returned to the hospital, and the surgeon completely repositioned and then re-wired my sternum with a fine gauge of wire I could not feel. Everyone, especially my husband, who helped me through the first days, was terrific, and I was allowed to go  home early. I have a thin, narrow scar forming from my collarbone to my navel. It itches like crazy, but I also know that means it is healing, and I don't mind. 

So, here I am now, stitching myself back together in more ways than one. Cardiac surgery scrambles one's brain for a while. I have had to relearn how to do simple things on the computer, remember names, and cook recipes that were once familiar. It all comes back slowly, and I am grateful for every re-discovery I make.

I look forward to the new year that will find me writing, swimming, and hiking in the Colorado flat irons again. I will spend more time writing books, visiting family in different states, and enjoying being in the world. 

My best to all family and friends this Thanksgiving Day. I love you all and can't wait to tuck into my daughter's excellent pies!  

 

When the Tortoise and Then the Hare Sit Down to Write

When it comes to writing novels, I am tortoise. At least with the first half, and there is something thrilling about the second half, like sliding down a long snowy hill, or as in below, leaping off the top step. I am still the tortoise right now. 

For assistance, I return to a 1968 Paris Review interview with the great Canadian author Robertson Davies where he describes his writing process, a laborious and methodical investigation long before the narrative is written. 

"I am at the moment winding up to write another novel, and when I say “winding up” I mean I am making notes and plans and perpetually building up what I will eventually write; that is the way I work. I make very, very careful plans and a great many notes—so many notes indeed that sometimes they are as long or longer than the eventual book. And sketches of characters and suggestions and references to things that will be useful. All that takes a long time. Getting to work on a new novel is a dismal business, for the beginnings never seem to get any easier with the passing of time. I toil like a swimmer who feels himself about to sink beneath the waves at any moment. Like all my novels, this one began with quite a simple idea, but as I work on it a mass of complexities assert themselves, and I have to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by extraneous detail. But then—at least the way I work—when you begin to write, you can write quite briskly because you have done all the preparatory work beforehand. I hope it turns out well. But with novels, like cakes, you never know. Even when I finish a book, I’m never sure whether it is good or rubbish."

So, I will making furious notes, plotting, character studies, and the rest -- and I pray the cake will hold. And that will be good. And can I just add, that I love even more that Davies used a food analogy -- another habit of my family when talking about literature that is close to my heart. 

The wonderful illustration is by Guillaume Ospital and you can more of his terrific work at Cake or Death website. 

A Moment With Sweeney Astray and The Stags

"Those unharnessed runners
from glen to glen!
Nobody tames
that royal blood,

each one aloof
on its rightful summit,
antlered, watchful.
Imagine them,

the stag of high Slieve Felim,
the stag of the steep Fews,
the stag of Duhallow, the stag of Orrey,
the fierce stag of Killarney..."

 

From Sweeney Astray a version from the Irish by Seamus Heaney

Art: Illustrated Manuscript: Gaston Phoebus, Le Livre de la chasse (Paris, ca. 1407)