inspiration, mythology, Uncategorized, Welcome, world-building, writing technique

The Hero’s Journey

As you probably know, many writers use Joseph Campbell’s The Hero’s Journey as the route along which to write their own story. Here are some of the more famous examples.

A good yarn often starts with The Ordinary World.
“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit…This particular hobbit was a very well-to-do hobbit, and his name was Baggins. The Bagginses had lived in the neighbourhood of The Hill for time out of mind, and people considered them very respectable, not only because most of them were rich, but also because they never had any adventures or did anything unexpected…”
– J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit

Unexpectedly, there is the Call To Adventure.
“Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.”
– Princess Leia (hologram), “Star Wars: Episode IV”

Followed, of course, by The Refusal Of The Call.
“We are plain quiet folk and have no use for adventures. Nasty uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner! I can’t see what anybody sees in them…Good morning!…we don’t want any adventures here, thank you! You might try over The Hill or across The Water.”
– Bilbo Baggins, The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien

No adventurer ventures without The Helper.
“I can guide you but you must do exactly as I say.”
– Morpheus, “The Matrix”

And off they go to The Threshold Of Adventure.
“The Mos Eisley Spaceport. You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.”
– Obi Wan Kenobi “Star Wars: A New Hope”

But wait, they must face down The Threshold Guardian.
“Who would cross the Bridge of Death must first answer me these questions three, ‘ere the other side they see.”
– Bridge-keeper, “Monty Python and the Holy Grail”

Now, together our adventurers face Tests.
“We’ll never survive.”
“Nonsense, you’re only saying that because no one ever has.”
– Wesley and Buttercup (when preparing to enter the Fire Swamp), “The Princess Bride”

At some point, they endure a Supreme Ordeal.
“Only after disaster can you be resurrected. It is only after you’ve lost everything that you’re free to do anything.”
– Tyler Durden, “Fight Club”

At the climax, our heroes reach the enemy’s lair and prevail. But now comes Flight.
“Come on buddy, we’re not out of this yet.”
– Han Solo, “Star Wars: A New Hope”

Finally, our heroes take The Road Back. They return home.
“We thought you were… dead.”
“I was. Now I’m better.”
– Captain Sheridan in response to the Drazi ambassador, Babylon 5 ep. “The Summoning”

Come to think of it, just reading about Joseph Campbell’s The Hero’s Journey can get a writer excited.

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An Invitation to Blog

The Writers Co-op is looking for a few good bloggers. Anyone in the writing life is welcome to submit a blog. If you have something to say about writing, editing, publishing, marketing or just want to share news of your latest effort, we’re interested. Submit a new blog, or, a link to your current blog page.

Members should post their blog in the draft section. Others should submit their their blog or link to GD <at> Deckard <dot> com. Blogs are posted every Monday or Thursday morning on a first-come basis.

Remember that readers are likely to be people in the writing life interested in learning from one another. Sharing our successes, failures, insights, knowledge and humor is a big part of the life we lead.

I look forward to hearing from you.

– GD Deckard, Founding Member

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book promotion, Magic and Science, mythology, Uncategorized, Writers Co-op

Gods Of Clay

Who would have thought that a homeless girl living on the streets could be a God? Not Porter, son of a wealthy banker. Nor would he ever consider becoming her consort!
– “She’s Probably God,” Gods Of Clay, GD Deckard

Anthologies seem to be a popular way for authors to become better known.
Do you have a story in an anthology? Use the Comments section to tell us about it.

(Gods Of Clay details: https://www.amazon.com/Gods-Clay-Sci-Roundtable-Anthology-ebook/dp/B07N7TFVK7)

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book promotion, Flash Fiction, humor, Magic and Science, mythology, Satire, Stories, Uncategorized, Welcome, Writers Co-op, Writers Co-op Anthology

2019 Writers Co-op Anthology

 – by Curtis Bausse

The Writers’ Co-op invites submissions of short stories (and poems) for the second edition of our yearly anthology, The Rabbit Hole. Volume one was released in November last year, volume two is scheduled for September 2019.

This year, we are looking for weird stories dealing with the following themes: entertainmentweather or science. (If you want to combine all three, we’re very open to stories about a group of scientists on their way to the theatre when they’re caught in a freak snowstorm.) However, there will also be a section Weird At Large for stories that don’t fit the specific themes suggested.

There is a maximum word count of 5000. This is more a guideline than a strict limit – quality is the main criterion, not length. So a great story will be accepted, whether it’s 6000 words or 200 (flash fiction is welcome). But we’re looking for short stories, not novellas or extracts from novels – the story should be complete in itself. Though the anthology will be comprised mostly of stories, there will also be room for some poems or pieces of an experimental nature.

The deadline is 31st March 2019. Submissions should be sent in an attached file to curtis.bausse(at)outlook.com with the subject ‘Co-op submission’. They may have been previously published on personal websites (or elsewhere) but authors must have full rights to them when submitting. Authors will retain said rights after the story or poem is published in the Writers’ Co-op anthology.

Writers whose stories are selected will have the choice between keeping their share of the royalties or donating them to the Against Malaria Foundation.

What is meant by ‘weird’?

Like many categories, it’s fuzzy, because it stands in distinction to ‘normal’, and there’s no common acceptance of what is normal. Not all writers will approach it the same way, and so much the better – we hope for plenty of variety. At the core of weirdness, though, is the upsetting of expectations: normality, in the sense of what we’re accustomed to, doesn’t follow the course that led us to form those expectations. Where it goes – somewhere disturbing or hilarious – is entirely the writer’s choice. Or why not hilariously disturbing? Indeed, one advantage of ‘weird’ is that it allows for humour as much as for horror, so go for it!

How weird does it have to be? Anything from full on, over-the-top freaky to subtly odd and unsettling. So no worries if weird isn’t your usual style – a few deft touches can suffice. Give us writing that shifts our perceptions, leads us to experience, bubbling up through the regularity and routine, the fundamental weirdness of life. To quote the Count of Lautréamont, author of the Chant de Maldoror, if your piece is ‘beautiful as the chance meeting on a dissecting table of a sewing machine and an umbrella,’ there’s every chance that we’ll love it.

We look forward to reading you.

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mythology

Mything the Real Point

 

“You have confused the true and the real”.   

–George Stanley / In conversation 

(Epigraph from Delany’s Dhalgren)

 

Sometime it seems to me that we have a rather dismissive attitude toward myth.

I think it stems from the notion that for ancient societies, the function of myth was to explain natural phenomena. The changing seasons were “explained” by the abduction and periodic return of Persephone. The daily path of the sun was “explained” by a god who made a trek across the sky — either in a blazing chariot (for the Greeks)  or with the sun slung across his back (for the Navajo). Thunder? Lightning? Those were the terrible weapons of Zeus or of Thor.

But how should we view these sorts of stories? Did they really represent a sort of primitive pseudoscience? I don’t have access to any actual ancient people, but I have a hard time buying this notion. I think ancient people were, for the most part, as capable of abstract thought as we are. Sure, there were rubes and yokels — just as there are today — who might have believed that a whirlpool could really be the ravenous maw of a monster. But experienced sailors doubtless saw whirlpools all the time. Sure, sometimes they represented hazards that had to be avoided, but they knew they weren’t monsters. So why turn a whirlpool into a monster? Because that’s what people do: we tell stories. Myths are stories, full of symbolism and metaphor, and we’re missing something if we dismiss them as the geewhiz hokum of a bunch of bronze-age simpletons.

***

It was, I think, common for the ancient Greeks to see the world as permeated by spirits, by deities. Some were major: Zeus, Athena, Poseidon, Hera, etc. Others were remarkably insignificant. A road, a river, a tree, could have a particular deity associated with it. Not a deity of all roads or all rivers, but a specific god who inhabited or embodied a specific road, a particular river. If you look up “Greek goddess of childbirth” on your computer, Google will pop out the name Eileithyia. She was, certainly, a goddess of childbirth in Hellenic and pre-Hellenic cultures. But the Greeks had many goddesses (and some gods) who were directly associated with all the various stages of labor and childbirth: a goddess of conception, of quickening, of the cessation of menstruation, of swelling, of itching, of nausea, the production of colostrum, first contractions, bloody show, water breaking — any of these events or symptoms (and many others) likely had their own associated demiurges. German philologists had a name for these sorts of deities: augenblick gotter. Momentary gods. They existed for the one purpose, the one moment, and that was all.

Did all Greeks pay their respects to all of these deities? Of course not. Many were specific to a particular region or tradition. But the idea of having a multitude of truly trivial gods would’ve been familiar to most ancient people. Polytheism was the rule, not the exception, and you can see similar systems in place for the Egyptians, the Sumerians, the Norse, the Aztecs, as well as for followers of Hinduism, Shintoism, and other religions. The world was a place of magic, and even the most mundane event could be seen as an aspect of that magical world.

When I refer to the world being a magical place, I’m talking about the way it operated, not assigning it a quality. Just because because it was full of wonders doesn’t mean it was all wonderful. Nature abounded with hardships and cruelties. Life was nasty, brutish and short — and it was also full of wonders. Food grew on trees, and sprung from the earth. Life itself arose from its own destruction. New life came from our own bodies (well, women’s bodies, but that’s a subject for another time). And even in the face of hardships, we found tools — fire, blades, augers — to help us cope. Tools that we took from the world around us and modified to our our needs. Really, how could we not have wondered if there was something supernatural behind it all? And if that magic failed us, as it so often must have, well, that just spoke to the inscrutable nature of those powers, those designs. We don’t really understand what the world wants from us, but it seems like it must want something. Otherwise, why give us all of these things? And why, conversely, be so harsh, so demanding, so inexplicable?

And these sorts of questions, this sensibility, is at the root of the human impulse toward religion. It comes from fear and from wonder. It can inspire rigid dogma — and it can inspire creativity. There’s not that much difference between the miraculous things that happen in the Bible (or the Torah or the Koran) and the stories recounted in Homer or Ovid. (In fact, there are some stunning and not-at-all inadvertent parallels between some parts of those narratives, but again, a story for another time.)  But hardly anyone worships Eileithyia or Persephone or Dionysus anymore, so we’ve downgraded their mysteries to amusing old folktales, rather than powerful religious symbols.

***

There IS an explanatory function to a lot of myth. But reducing it to an explanation of the weather or how the leopard got spots is selling it way short. Myths deal with the invention of language, with the origin of rituals, the reason for certain taboos, with heroism, with love, with the beginnings of life itself.

Above all, myths are stories about us. And while it’s common to assume that myths are meant to edify, even a cursory reading makes such an idea almost laughable. The classical Greek gods aren’t meant as models. You’d be hard pressed to find a worse band of jealous and conniving liars, bellicose egomanics, cheats and rapists.

But do they tell us something about ourselves? Absolutely.  

Mythology is too complex, too mixed, too multilayered to be reduced to a single purpose. Reza Azlan said: “all religions are nothing more than a language made up of symbols and metaphors to help an individual explain faith.” Okay. He’s a contentious figure, but his description is apt. Myth is metaphor. Myth is story, and we use story to express what we find otherwise inexpressible. The narratives we create in fiction are distinct from the stories we use to convey facts and information, because those facts are mired in, and limited by, our attachment to the real. No matter how realistic our fiction is, it is not real.  

And that’s the point. Sometimes we need to go beyond the real to get at the true.

That’s where religion comes from.

That’s where myth comes from.

That’s where stories come from.

(Robert Graves saw the entire body of classical Greek myth as chronicling the invasion and subjugation of the bronze age matriarchal societies of pre-Hellenic Greece by the invading, patriarchal tribes from the north — essentially political propaganda. He makes a compelling case for it, too.)

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