In the Labyrinth

Interlude in the Research: Call in the Clowns, Satyrs, Fools, and Nymphs.

 

Amid all this heavy lifting of my research notes, I re-read my essay, "A Chorus of Clowns and Masked Comic Theater" " written for Realms of Fantasy on the history of clowns, from antiquity to the Marx Brothers. It's funny, and I enjoyed re-reading it as it provides a comprehensive view of the different forms of improvisational theater. It is an excellent moment to add here as it describes the masks in action, wild, ribald, pranking, shouting, and generally enjoying themselves to our benefit.

From the essay:

"In the middle of winter, when it is so gray I can't take it anymore, I rent as many Marx Brothers movies as possible. Something about the zany interaction of these "clowns" creates havoc in a department store, a racetrack, or the stateroom of an ocean liner that brightens the day's dullness. Then there is that crackling, fast dialogue, most of it famously improvised, and the elaborate musical numbers, ridiculous dances, and absurd moments of slapstick. Perhaps because I know they are four brothers, I sense a kinship in their characters. Although each one wears a different costume and "mask," there is a synchronicity in their performance — for while each one constructs his own comedic business, they do not act alone but in a chorus of clowns.

"Watching them, I sense much older traditions layered beneath the surface of their film performances. It is easy to imagine Groucho with satyr's hooves or Harpo in the round,–mouth mask of an ancient Fool. Inspired by the antics of the Marx Brothers, I decided to review the roots of clowning in the early Southern European history of theater clowns — not the circus clowns — but those masked characters who rose out of early pagan cults and then developed into secular, irreverent tricksters and mirrors of human behavior...."

"...The chorus of clowns rips apart polite society and in that act, exposes our true feelings. In this joyful disorder, we remember primal emotions: we lust, we become envious, we are starved for affection and fame, and we long for an illusive, trouble–free happiness. We would rather sleep than work; we are clever and undeniably foolish at times. We are complicated and conflicted; no single character can carry the weight of many inconsistencies. We need a chorus of clowns to speak for us. Despite their secular natures, the clowns are still mythic to me. Humor is an old response to fear of the unknown and contempt for the familiar. For 3,000 years, somewhere, a chorus of clowns has misbehaved, and in their audacity, called down gods, heroes, and legends for a face-to-face meeting with humanity, offering laughter as a form of reverence."

Marginalia: Kissing Snails

Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could publish our novels with such lovely marginalia? There is something so unexpectedly tender about these two snails meeting and kissing in the margin. Marginalia art has a vital life of its own -- existing side by side with text but not necessarily commenting on the reader. It's the mind reading and wandering a little bit, hearing the whispered words in the head, but delighting in the visual art that sidetracks and then returns one to the text, refreshed. And all in a matter of moments.

Art: Bibliothèque municipale de Lyon, Ms 6881, detail of f. 72. Book of Hours, use of Chalon. 15th century.

Adrienne von Speyr on the Feast of the Assumption

Hannah's Garden Available in Kindle Edition

Feeling very excited to see the first of my revised novels about to go live in a Kindle Edition. It has been a long journey for me (with more than enough roadblocks and frustrations along the way) but joyful, too, as my dream starts to come true. You can find the Kindle edition of the young adult novel here. 

 

 

Book Blurb: Seventeen-year-old Cassie Brittman was thrilled to be playing the violin solo in the Rose Bay Youth Symphony. But that changed with a phone call informing her mother, Anne, that Cassie's grandfather, Daniel Brittman, a painter living in Northern Wisconsin, was gravely ill. Cassie, Anne, and Gunnar, Anne's new boyfriend, quickly set out for the Brittman farm. On their arrival, they discover the farmhouse and great-aunt looters have ravaged Anna's gardens. Darkness hangs over the farm, and ghostly forms waver at the forest's edge. Soon, Cassie can't shake the feeling that they are being stalked by wild creatures or something much more dangerous.

Book Reviews for Hannah’s Garden

“A mystical spiral garden that is also a gateway to another world blooms at the center of Snyder's tightly woven fantasy, a potent blend of faery and family conflicts…Thanks to Snyder's gift for description, readers may feel as if they can hear the music or smell the fragrance of the garden's rare woodland species; the audience will be hooked.” Publisher’s Weekly

“Like the tales, Cassie remembers her mother telling, this is “filled with wonderment and botany,” as well as music, deep relationships between generations, and complex, evocative magic-working.” Kirkus Reviews

“Inventive, beautifully written…Snyder’s use of language is especially poetic in describing nature, including the farm’s flora and fauna and the magical creatures of the Green Clan…a satisfying mix of real-life problems and lovingly described magic.” School Library Journal

“Compelling…This power and depth make it good for contemporary fantasy of all ages. Locus”

Reorganizing Priorities: What to Publish After Hannah's Garden

I have been going back and forth, trying to decide which of my out of print novels to reissue after Hannah's Garden. The stand-alone novels seem easier, cleaner, less complicated, and were at least well edited. But how wondrous and strange it is that the Oran Trilogy, that three-volume sprawling series, barely edited, continues to be the most asked for in my list. So be it.

With the help of a terrific editor and copy editor, I will spend the summer months re-reading and editing the original manuscripts. My greatest hope is that my readers will not notice the changes but rather sense the more cohesive narrative of the edited versions. It will be something of a journey backward for me, as it has been many years since I read the entire series.

I am looking forward to it, not just as an author, but as a reader, experiencing it for the first time.

PS: Time to redo the covers too! 

Plank'd and Research

One of the greatest pleasures is reading Sicilian folktales midday while drunk on a dense-full-bodied beer (16.2 percent) produced locally in Boulder. Like the beer, the stories are rowdy, naughty, mythic, and full of gullible and wise fools who make donkeys appear to shit gold, drive menial men to do self-destructive things and conspire to make foolish heroes into better men as they chase after fantastic brides. Is there any better Sunday to spend than drunk researching the new novel?

Working on the Reissue of The Flight of Michael McBride.

As the work on Hannah's Garden is getting finalized this month for release in November, I have also begun the work of re-issuing The Flight of Michael Michael, which will be published by Leaping Hart Press. Set in the late 1870s, the novel is an unusual pairing of Irish fantasy and and the iconic American cattle ride. What better way for a not yet hero to undergo a rite of passage? Here's an excerpt from the novel, where Michael discovers that he sees more things in the world than an ordinary man...terrifying creatures hunting him for reasons he doesn't understand. Here's an excerpt from Chapter Three:

"...There was no carriage standing before him, but as he turned to look behind him, Michael tensed. There, waiting on a black horse, was the man in the red cap. Only now Michael saw it wasn’t a cap, but long red hair slicked down close to the sides of the man’s narrow face. Surrounding the man were other mounted horsemen spread across the street, their spears and axes held upright. On the pommels of their saddles were skulls tied together, festooned with red and green ribbons and the glint of twirling gold coins. In the shadows of the building, the horsemen’s faces were a deep mottled brown, their bodies thick and strong like carved oak. But in the open street, the sunlight drenched the armor and the warriors shone transparent as a sheet of gold rain. They were attended by wraiths whose pale gray faces wore masks of misery and who stared at Michael out of haunted eyes. Hands soft as dust clung to the bridles and held the mounts steady. Shadowed substance and shining light, they appeared to Michael at once solid and threatening as a closing storm and as vaporous as a misty dream. The man with the long red hair nodded at Michael.

"Red Cap. That’s what the tiny stick creatures had called him. And Michael recognized him at once. The man was hunting him, and this time he’d brought an army.

"A crow cawed loudly overhead and the horsemen shifted in their saddles, their eyes trained upward toward the sound. Out of the blue sky, a huge black crow flapped wide her wings, driving a black shadow over the street beneath her gliding body. The horsemen stirred, clutching the reigns as their mounts became restive. The wraiths bowed their heads into the deep valleys of their bony shoulders. Red Cap broke away from the line of waiting horsemen to confront the crow. He pulled his long bow from a case in his saddle and knocked a long arrow of yew, its red fletch a streak of blood."