In the Labyrinth

Adrienne von Speyr on the Feast of the Assumption

"Thus, the Assumption, the distance and difference between heaven and earth are as bridged over and obliterated for the Mother. For she who who is now received by the Son into heaven is none other than she who received him on earth from heaven; and as her way expanded more and more, starting with the Son's conception and going all the way to her present reception into heaven by the Son, so this reception also expands to its highpoint in the Son's conception by her. The two high points intensify one another and neither direction can be designated as the definitive one: from earth to heaven or from heaven to earth. It is an eternal circuit between God and man, heaven and earth, spiritual world and material world: a circulation also between Mother and Son. For, as the Mother had once said Yes to the Son and everything to do with him, so today the Son speaks his great assent to the Mother. This assent is divine and immeasurable and gives the Mother's assent its whole heavenly limitless-ness. As long as the Mother was in the world, she was as limited as any human being, and she had to bear those limits in mind when she tried to work the Son's cause. From the moment of the Assumption on, she receives the power to be able to do what the Son's wills, without limits. She knows no boundaries except those we on earth set against her work. Only our No can hold back her eternal Yes. "  (Handmaid of the Lord, Adrienne Von Speyr,  translated by E. A. Nelson, Ignatius Press, 1985)

And this  lovely fragment from G. K. Chesterton's "A Little Litany": 

"…Star of his morning; that unfallen star
In that strange starry overturn of space
When earth and sky changed places for an hour
And heaven looked upwards in a human face."

 Art: The Assumption by Guido Reni in 1617.

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 road blocks 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 Anna's gardens have been ravaged by looters. Darkness hangs over the farm, and ghostly forms waver at the edge of the forest. 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 has a power and depth that makes it good for contemporary fantasy of all ages. Locus”

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.

Excerpt from The Innamorati: The Libertini Rehearse, I

The Commedia dell' Arte in the 16th century was a vigorous form of theater, and a largely improvised theater, with established stock plots and bits of commedic exchange that employed a free flowing rehearsal -- a chance to invent and reinvent the plays so the performances remained fresh and current to their audiences. For the actors who performed the roles of the different Zanni (the clowns) there were physical demands, requiring agility and athleticism. In the background, there was an on-going apprenticeship with the children of the actors to acquire experience and understanding of their parent's craft and carry the troupe into the next generation. 

 

Beneath a star-studded sky, the maestro of the Libertini studied his actors and pondered the next two weeks. Alberto Torelli was a tall, well-built man. Though in his forties, he carried himself like an athlete. His black hair, salted with grey at the temples, was thick and wavy. He had an expressive face, with arched eyebrows poised over intense, dark eyes. He wore a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, which he stroked as he thought about their plans. In a month the Libertini would perform in the wealthy palazzos of Milan's nobles. There they would find a much better reception than at this rude seaside camp where they were now. But Alberto knew that his company needed the journey along the coast to develop new plays. They needed more rehearsals and the opportunity to experiment in front of rougher audiences. If these villagers laughed, if they wept and applauded, then Alberto knew his troupe could proceed with confidence to the more daunting audiences of the nobility.

Alberto had high hopes for this company. It was a good mix of experienced hands and energetic newcomers. From Milan they would go west to Turin, and then across the border into France. There, with the right letters of introduction, they would be able to make a comfortable season for themselves.

Alberto glanced at his wife, Isabella, where she sat reading a book of poetry. She was radiant in the glow of firelight, her skin the color of ivory, her long golden hair rippling over her soft, rounded shoulders. Even in the crude camp of wagons and horses, she maintained an aura of elegance. She sat on rugs amid Turkish pillows, her tiny feet encased in embroidered slippers. Isabella was born a prima donna, an Innamorata who could seduce the audience simply by her feminine presence. Alberto had never been happier in his life than the day she had consented to marry him.

As if feeling the warmth of his stare, Isabella glanced up from her book and smiled. Alberto felt his knees go weak. She kissed a pearl-colored fingertip and blew the kiss to him before returning to her book. Alberto caught the kiss and touched his fingers to his own lips. Beyond Isabella sat Fiammetta, who was nursing her baby daughter, Rosella. Fiammetta was married to Flavio Fiorillo, the actor working on the role of II Dottore. Sitting next to her was Alberto s daughter, Silvia, practicing a singing duet with Fiammetta. At sixteen, Silvia was already a charming young woman. But where her mother, Isabella, was golden, Silvia was raven-haired, like Alberto. She had expressive dark eyes and a pouting red mouth.

"I'm going to kill you for that!"

Alberto smiled, watching the antics of Gianni Moretti and Bruno Pasquati rehearsing a scene between the blustering II Capitano and the scrappy king of insults, Pulcinella. The upper halves of their faces were covered by black leather masks with huge black noses and rumpled foreheads. Bruno, playing Pulcinella, wore a tall dusty fez, while Gianni, as II Capitano, had a sweeping mustache that puffed out with every word he spat. The two actors swaggered with huge pot bellies, their shoulders thrust back as they traded insults.

 Read More > > >

Excerpt from The Innamorati: The Libertini Rehearse, I, Excerpt from The Innamorati: The Libertini Dine and Create, II.

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

Perhaps one of the greatest pleasures is reading Sicilian folktales in the midday while getting drunk on Plank'd, 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. Can there be any better way to spend a Sunday than drunk researching for 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."