Magic and Faerie Dust

Pirates and Princes

This week was punctuated with "Tell a Fairy Tale Day" and it had me reflecting on childhood memories, faery rings, magical creatures and a love for stories and reading. My love affair with stories began before my memories did. My father was an avid story teller. He told long, detailed tales of far away places and long distant times. He told stories of his own childhood, the adventures and the mischief. Tales of squirrels being captured and trained, tales of skipping school and snake temples, of paddy fields and stealing eggs. He wove worlds with his words and peopled them in my imagination. My fondest memories are of dragging mattresses out onto the verandah on a hot Summer's night, the whole family sandwiched together, laughing banter flying easily between us, a dark sky dotted with twinkling stars, the night air still and choking, and my father's sonorous voice intertwining threads to weave tales that played like movies inside our heads.

But my father's stories were not confined to only tales of his and his brothers' adventures. He told stories that appeared unbidden into his head. He retold stories he'd read or heard long ago. He remade stories from Shakespeare and Aesop to fit our lives, our world, our experience. Did you know Hamlet was an Indian prince? Or that Aesop's lion, king of his jungle, wore a turban and licked his paws after a meal? He conjured magical worlds like some verbose fakir, and sparked in me a love for narrative.

Cowboys and Indians

Once ignited, my imagination knew no bounds. Imaginary friends followed me everywhere. I talked to myself (if I were completely honest, I'd admit that I still do), creating scenes and singing songs. I was never lonely. My world was always peopled and too often, I would be lost in that world. I laugh now as I remember walking home from school, down dirt lanes, lost in my own world, singing or talking to myself, completely unaware of my surroundings. More than once I was caught mid-song or mid-story by strangers, who had the great good heartedness to simply smile and shake their heads as they walked by. More than once, I was caught unaware by dogs, who were more intrusive and would bale me up against rickety fences, barking and slavering till their owners arrived to rescue me. More than once, my daydreaming ended in someone shouting at, or for me.

Highwaymen and Pirates

The magic didn't end in Australia though. Holiday trips to India were inevitably boring for me. This was the 70s and adults didn't care particularly if children weren't having an exciting time, and they certainly didn't feel responsible for entertaining them. The adults all went off into their own worlds, cousins were still at school and I was often left to my own devices. I was surrounded by readers and writers. A grandmother who read in many languages, uncles who were authors, aunts who loved to tell tales, even a great uncle who captured my romantic imagination at a very early age and taught me Alfred Noyes' The Highwayman.

Even the scary stories are fun

This magical wonderland was amplified by my sister. Eleven years older than me, and doing a degree in Literature at the time, she fed my hunger for poetry and prose. Witches, dragons, and rabbits and small girls in wondrous worlds were my regular bed time diet. I had vivid dreams and talked in my sleep. I wrote stories and poetry. I made up games to play by myself and with friends. I made up stories of my own and entertained my friends with them. So much so that I have wonderful friends who still remember the telling of those tales, more than 30 years on. It was easy. Telling stories was not effortful, it was second nature because I lived those stories in my head. They felt vivid and real to the listener because they were vivid and real for me. I told all kinds of stories and made up all kinds of games. Bunnies, spaceships and evil blue dolls all inhabited my world. I still remember, to my chagrin, the telling of one particular horror tale of vampires that caused my dear dear friend such torment that she wouldn't even let her mother kiss her goodnight for many weeks (in my story, the mother had suddenly and surprisingly turned into a vampire at that crucial moment when she was leaning in to kiss her daughter goodnight). Boy, did I get into trouble for that one! We all laugh at the story now, but I can only imagine how her mother felt at the time. Now that I have children of my own, I can imagine the shock and confusion. I'm sorry Aunty Janet!

Run run as fast as you can...

When I had children of my own, it was no surprise that they were fed on a steady diet of fairy tales and imaginary creatures. We went to great lengths to keep alive Santa and his elves, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny and Bilby (we're Australian after all) and other fantastical creatures. When the Tooth Fairy missed HIS rounds and forgot to leave money, his helper (me) would write long, detailed letters explaining the terrible wars against the ogres in the Fairy kingdom, detailing how he had been waylaid by invading forces, but that now, more than ever, each tooth would play an important part in rebuilding the realm. My own children have grown up sharing my fantastical world. And I'm grateful that my, to-all-appearances-straight-laced LomL has the heart and soul of a poet. This man, who is eminently practical and pragmatic, is the same one who proposed to me with poetry, wrote lyrical letters and still occasionally sketches when he thinks no-one is looking. Had it not been for his indulgence and encouragement, I suspect our world would have been a lot less colourful. To new parents, or to those who just like spending time with small people, making their world more exciting, my advice is to let go of your embarrassment and self-consciousness, indulge your inner child and live wondrous, fantastical worlds. Start by sharing a fairy tale. Go on. What are you waiting for?

It's a Conspiracy, I say!

Image via WikipediaThe world appears to be conspiring this week. No, I haven't fallen into paranoid delusions. But what's a person to think when events and people collude to force one's hand? What is she talking about? I hear you ask...

I found myself shuffling my work engagements around for two days this week as our ceilings were being repaired and I needed to be home to let the tradesmen in. We live in the hills where the ground is clay and rock, and shifts with the regularity of the seasons. So it's the norm for houses to develop cracks and creases and weather like the faces of old peasants who've worked too long in the sun. Our house decided to go one extra step and require a proper facelift. She fell into her palsy, loosening her grip on sections of ceiling, sagging and waning in various places until finally we were compelled to provide her with the care she required. Yes, I do think of the house as an old lady. She has all the creaks and groans, joint pains and temperament of an old lady who has sat too long in one spot. And so, I was forced into a hiatus.

I spent the two days catching up with reading that I've been putting off for rather too long. A dear friend had had her grandfather's writing translated from Greek into English last year and I've been encouraging her to add to the writing, building a history of her grandparents. She has finally managed that and has completed a draft which she had sent me. So finally I was able to devote the time to sitting and reading this beautiful work. It's rough, it needs editing, but it is lyrical. She has a delightful style and a wonderful turn of phrase. She has yet to decide whether she'll publish the work or whether it's a piece of writing that she keeps for herself and her family. I think it has merit as a published work... but I'm no publisher. All I know is that I would read it and enjoy it. So in the process of reading her work, I stumbled upon phrases that were utterly delightful and I felt compelled to tell her immediately (I'm impulsive - I'm pretty sure you've worked that out already). Our conversation quickly turned to what was happening with my own writing and I had to shamefully say that it's on hold. Time has been snatching its wispy tendrils away from me again. I find myself running from task to task and feeling like I'm standing still. My beautiful friend nudged me gently, then less gently into making more of a concerted effort to focus on my own writing, focus on the thing that makes me truly happy... and frustrated.

I spent most of yesterday thinking about that conversation and how I should and could be writing more. Then this morning I woke to find an email from one of the most beautiful, loving people in my world, shoving me unashamedly in the right direction. She is a writer, a blogger, a gorgeous and supportive friend, and has a competition running on her blog. Now when the universe, or God, or the Great Oneness, or serendipity, or whatever-you-like-to-call-it speaks quite this loudly, I figure it's time to listen. So this blog post is my kick start to my writing.

I have a plan. A simple plan. I'm going to make the effort to write every day. It may not be beautiful prose (and I will find it hard to let anyone see that), it may not be lyrical (and I can live with that), but it will be daily and I hope that it will force me into the habit of writing consistently, of honing what I write, of finding my voice and releasing it on nervous, nascent, fluttering wings into the world.