Around the World: Emilia Plater

This week in Around the World: Emilia Plater, a super cool blogger and YA writer (who is also in high school!) talks about finding beauty in desolation... Check out her blog here.

Beauty in Desolation

Hypothetical situation time! Imagine you're a cast member of The Jersey Shore. Uh, wait, wrong situation. Okay, imagine you're The Creator Of Everything - God, Mother Earth, a combo of geological and evolutionary forces, whatever floats your boat. Sweet! Now, what materials would you use to create the most stunning, beautiful landscape setting ever?

A. Sparkling waterfalls, lush trees and vines, brightly-colored foliage
B. Gleaming skyscrapers, the dawn sun, the silver machines of humanity
C. Golden sand, scattered white shells, and an endless ocean, OR...
D. Rocks.

Veery interesting. A, B, and C are all great. But if, as Creator, you chose D... you're my kind of all-powerful being.

Why? To answer that, let's take a quick trip to the American West, historical land of cowboys, gunfights, ghosttowns, and tons of other less stereotypical stuff. Yay!

In 2007, I traveled through the area on a road trip with my dad and sister. It's also one of the settings in my YA road trip novel (go figure!), Autochromatic. Most notably, the landscape itself is home to rocks. Looots of rocks.

Rocks. Dirt. Desert prairie. Canyons. Distant mountains. In the huge majority of areas, it's hot, dry, and desolate. Heck, the roads can last for miles and miles without a single sign of life. Unless you're visiting the Grand Canyon during tourist season, in which case... be prepared to stomp on some little kid feet to get a good view! (I wish I was kidding.)

It's no wonder the towns that popped up during the Gold Rush had to struggle to survive - and, little kid stomping aside, it's no wonder the Old West of the 1800's served as the backdrop to some authentic man-on-man violence. In a place with no life, what choice is there but to declare yourself alive? The sun beats down. Everything is hardened. Nothing is beautiful.

Or is it?

Rocks are dead and, when they're not selling for millions as jewelry or encasing dinosaur fossils, pretty boring. That's a generally accepted fact. It follows that in a book, a setting made up of rocks should be boring, too. Not fascinating like a rainforest, or awe-inspiring like a city, or soothing like a beach. But what if a bunch of rocks could create the most beautiful setting of 'em all?

That's the kind of thing writing makes possible.

In Autochromatic, protagonist Riley starts her drive through the West just when her life has taken a turn for the suck. She's lost a friend and found out a ton of stuff she didn't want to know. Her attention on her surroundings is limited, for sure, but what she sees strikes her hard. And when she visits the Grand Canyon, the emptiness gets to her like crazy. Along with that, though, she sees something else: beauty in desolation.

 

Sit down to write a book, and setting tends to present itself as a dang tricky thing. Even the most beautiful backdrop can be rendered a dud by off-the-mark usage or description.

But on the other end of the spectrum, all settings - even ones as desolate as a rocky desert, or an abandoned suburban parking lot, or the Jersey shore (!) - can be made to come alive and be beautiful. It's all in perspective. Not just of the characters - of the writer, too.

I can't know for sure whether I succeeded backdrop-wise in Autochromatic, but it was deff one of my favorite parts of the book to write. Setting is an awesome tool. So jump on that horse and... uhh, I mean, open that Word doc, and start making things beautiful! What's your key to injecting beauty into a setting? And have you ever been in a shoot-out traveled through the West?

***

northern ireland

This weekend, we took a much-needed vacation from homework/classes/papers/reading to goof off in the middle of nowhere in Northern Ireland: we stayed in tiny little cabins, cooked our own food, and curled up by our fireplaces and drank tea. I also fell in a creek, but that's another story.

One day, we hiked to a faery fort (see above), a circle of trees and rocks in the middle of a cow field that was supposedly built by faeries. Kind of creepy, because the cows HATED us and kept walking closer and making weird noises.

Inside the faery fort (see above), where we took refuge from the cows. Didn't see any faeries... although I did say "You guys. Faeries aren't real," when everyone else was nervous about stepping inside the circle -- which might be why I fell in the creek. I'm faery cursed.

It was beautiful and cold (really cold), and we didn't want to leave. I think I could have stayed there for another week.

But we left on Monday for Belfast. The first thing we did was tour some of the Troubles murals and drive along one of the Peace Walls -- I've never been to a city where conflict and violence is so fresh.

On the one hand, it's awkward to be a tourist, to snap pictures of this sectarian hatred like it's a castle or a pretty field. On the other hand, it's a good thing that tourists feel comfortable coming here -- a sign that the peace process is progressing.

Although there have been some bomb threats recently, and our bus driver told us, "your flak jackets and tin helmets are under your seats." There's definitely a joke-y/silly varnish coating everything -- as a coping mechanism, I think -- but the conflict is still very present.

Over 80% of the city's population still lives in segregated Catholic/Protestant areas. And even as an outsider, I know when I move from one area to another: Protestant (or Unionist) areas have red/blue color schemes, and Catholic (Republican) areas have green/orange color schemes. The buses are pink -- because pink is one of the only colors that isn't associated with the IRA, UVF, or any of the paramilitary groups.

But the one thing that's stuck out to me, as we've studied the Troubles, is the purely political nature of the conflict -- it ceased being religious a long time ago.

To finish: a quote from Sinead Morrissey (an Irish poet of the new generation). Travel is a "window, wall and mirror." I think what she means is that travelers gain both insight into other cultures and the realization that we are all so different...and so much the same. To quote my professor from class this morning: "We have our own Troubles, too."

RTW: Favorite First Lines

Over at YA Highway, the Road Trip Wednesday topic is:

"A novel's opening is like a pick up line. If it's good, you might take it home. 

If it's bad... well. You know.

What are your favorite first lines? How do your own WIPs start?"

Photo credit: YA Highway

I gotta say, I used to read every book I started all the way through to the end, even if it wasn't that great. I'm way more picky now -- as in, if the first paragraph doesn't knock me onto my face in the middle of the bookstore, I check no. Sound harsh? Maybe it is. But (cliche but true) today's market is way crowded, and if something doesn't stand out, it's going to mold on the bookshelves. 

So anyway, that was unintentionally depressing...

Some favorite first lines (or paragraphs):

The Sky is Everywhere: Gram is worried about me. It's not just because my sister Bailey died four weeks ago, or because my mother hasn't contacted me in sixteen years, or even because suddenly all I think about is sex. She's worried about me because one of her houseplants has spots.

And because we saw this crazy mansion in Ireland last week and subsequently watched a bunch of Harry Potter movies (if that isn't Hogwarts, what is?), here's another great first line:

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets: Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Around the World: Alexis Bass

Around the World: I love this guest post specially because it's about the Pacific Northwest -- my home! Alexis Bass is a blogger and YA writer -- we met at the PNWA conference this summer while we were waiting by Deb Caletti's autograph table to get our books signed. Deb Caletti never showed up, but we talked for like 45 minutes and then exchanged blogs. I love Alexis' descriptions and pictures of the Northwest in this post (gotta admit it makes me homesick). So jump on the next plane to the PNW (or just let this post transport you - it's cheaper!)

***

My favorite non-fictional place for a novel is the Pacific Northwest.  Yes, I’m completely biased because I live there, but there’s something else – something more mysterious, fresh, and fleeting about stories set in this gorgeous region.

Small pleasures in Northwest life – a view of the mountains - a rarity, only available for view on a clear-sky day, but when visible, it’s breathtaking; hot coffee - the smell not only warms your hands, it warms your soul; full, tall, green trees; houses with their 1920’s-look intact or at least mimicked; and the salty smell that lets you know you’re near the edge of the earth, around boats and house-boats that make you dream about letting yourself explore the other side.  

By the time I trudged down to the ultra crowded Starbucks, my hair was a heavy, wet mop and my mood matched the weather.
Whisper (pg 151) By Phoebe Kitanidis (set in Beaverton, OR)

It’s always raining. Or cloudy. Green has taken over everything (including the way we build houses, eat, and conduct our politics). Winters are dark and wet. Summers are hit or miss – and brief.   Summers are a fleeting moment of something fresh before the northwest will be hidden by a ceiling of clouds and drenched with water.

Summer generally arrived late in her part of the world, usually waiting until July was well underway before making a regular appearance, so the persisting summerlike temperatures were welcome for as long as they wanted to stick around.
The Body Finder (pg 44) By Kimberly Derting (set in Buckley, WA)
 

“Here in the trees it was much easier to believe the absurdities that embarrassed me indoors.  Nothing had changed in this forest for thousands of years, and all the myths and legends of a hundred different lands seemed much more likely in the green haze than they had in my clear-cut bedroom”
Twilight (Pg 137) By Stephanie Meyer (set in Forks, WA)

While setting is a useful tool for visually enhancing a story, moving it forward, and creating a distinct tone, it also builds symbolism and drops the reader in the atmosphere and the character’s thoughts. It creates a very specific Northwest mood.  Usually Northwest moods are manic – high with the sun, low with the rain – yet mellow and constant with the perpetual contented feeling that comes in knowing that the weather won’t be too hot or too cold.  There is also comfort in the consistency of the gray skies and wet streets.

I could tell something was in the air, change – I could feel it.  It wasn’t just the clouds although they had stayed around and then got heavier, bringing cool air and occasional drizzles from the waters of the straits.
The Six Rules of Maybe (PG 293) By Deb Caletti (set in Parish Island, Washington)

Tall trees, cascading mountains, a sky darkened by clouds, crevices, valleys, a coastline – all of these factors contribute to the mystery and fortitude surrounding the northwest.  Wild. Untamed. Yet – hidden. Private. Sheltered.

The air was moist and thick with the kind of misty precipitation that was common this time of year in the Pacific Northwest.  It seeped through Violet’s clothing and her shoes, until it was pressing itself damply against her skin and chilling her all the way to the bone.
The Body Finder (Pg 192) By Kimberly Derting (set in Buckley, Washington)

The forest spread out around us in a boundless labyrinth of ancient trees, and I began to be nervous that we would never find out way our again.
Twilight (PG 258) By Stephanie Myer (set in Forks, WA)

The northwest has some distinct traits that, even to those not familiar with the area, transcend to a place where secrets have a place to stay hidden, the sun is a treasure, and ‘a dark and stormy night’ is almost always a guarantee.

Also note that Kirsten’s up-coming novels (both of them – even the unfinished) take place in the mysterious northwest – hiding bewitching secrets in the forest of Oregon, and hinting at the vastness of the ocean via the Puget Sound.

flaneuring: or fall in dublin

Explanation: This is a paper I wrote for my Metropolitan Anglophone lit class (which basically asks the question: how does literature write a city and vice versa?). It's called a "flaneur" paper--a flaneur is someone who walks a city and writes about it reflectively. (If you've read Virginia Woolf's "Street Haunting", that's a flaneur essay.) It's a long paper, around 4 pages, but I thought I'd share it because it fits the guest-blog theme, and also gives a kind of update on my semester abroad. Plus I added pictures of fall in Dublin! Who can resist??

***

Another city, another pattern of streets, and I don’t know where to begin. Where to trace my finger along the map, trace my shoes along the pavement to dig deep into Dublin. How do I start to know a city when its history creeps back layers into the asphalt of O’Connell Street and the grass of St. Stephen’s Green?

***

Trinity College Dublin

At Trinity, those yellow and blue buses whip around the corner, blaring horns at crowds that think they’re better than the crosswalk. It’s colder than England, and windier, and the chill nips at my toes and nose. I walk fast. All around -- bustle. It makes me invisible. I’m a tourist-status wanderer with a moleskin notebook and hungry eyes. I’m searching for Dublin: meat and heart.

Grafton Street: the buildings squeeze the sky, the street squashes the soil. Glass shop fronts bulge with swanky clothes, fancy haircuts, lacy bras, high-heeled shoes. This isn’t Dublin. At least, I don’t think it is, because it looks like any city anywhere with a McDonald’s and a Marks and Spencer.

Grafton Street

Dublin lurks somewhere up the street in the middle of Stephen’s Green, where the wind turns the park into a shaken-up snow globe of fluttering leaves. The sky sears crispy-cold blue above (Have you noticed the color of the sky in the fall? It’s sharper somehow). The sun is sharper, too, almost as sharp as the wind that whisks down mazes of back streets, pushing leaves into piles with its chilly fingers. Fresher leaves scuff yellow on the cobblestones, yellow and red, and older ones huddle in the gutters, tinged with brown and sopping wet like pieces of paper plastered to the ground.

St. Stephen's Green

Here (and in the promenades of O’Connell Street, the midnight stampedes of Temple Bar), something else exists besides Starbucks, H&M, a city bulldozed by consumerism. Something...grittier and prettier. Something more unique.

But then, as the sky shivers bluer and darker, the street sweeper spins the leaves away, clearing fall from the pavement. Clearing season from the city. Because the city is fleeting --Dublin in autumn is rushed and reddened by the cold: picnickers in parks pretend it’s summer, nightlifers in Temple Bar spill out into the streets. But everyone’s wrapped in scarves and huddled in coats, leathered in boots.
This is Dublin in the fall.

But -- what is Dublin in the spring?

***

So I’ve been thinking about seasons and winds and fashions -- all those things change. I don’t know what Dublin looks like in the spring, but I imagine it’s softer and -- well, yeah, still rainy -- but gentler. Colorful with the pastels of growing awake, not the fire of burning out.

And the city is like this shell for the shift of seasons. A shell even for the shift of days, because Grafton Street flows different directions every day: different musicians jam, different crowds flux, different traffic thunders. Stephen’s Green might be packed with bundled-up lunchers on a sunny day -- like me on Monday, eating a tuna-fish sandwich beneath a sycamore tree -- but empty and wind-swept the next when it’s cloudy and rainy.

The Liffey (looking @ financial district)

Tourists change.

The stops and starts on O’Connell Street change.

Okay, and even the buildings change. Before the Celtic Tiger, I kind of doubt the financial district looked as glossy and shiny and high-end. The city is constantly metamorphosing, but somehow it still stays Dublin. Dublin fading in the fall. Dublin hiding in the winter. Dublin basking in the summer. Dublin trees falling down, growing up. Dublin buildings falling down, like that ruin down the river blocked off by a barbed-wire fence (Dublin was a different Dublin when that building lived). Dublin during the Celtic Tiger thriving and exploding; during the Easter Rising burning and exploding. Dublin during the famine times…

Yet it’s still Dublin.

What grounds it?

***

Layers.

These layers of Dublin leave marks and stains, but time and rain and wind wash them away. Or clean them up: like the filth of the famine times shined into bronze statues, the bullet holes in the GPO rubbed into random pockmarks. In 1916 the Liffey swelled with blood. In 1974 the streets fractured with bomb blasts. The city remembers … but the memories stretch spiderweb-thin with time …

I know Dublin remembers somewhere what it’s been, where it’s come from, the cracks and pains of its growth. But the city sweeps away the past like the street sweeper sweeps leaves. People died here -- but people lived here and live here, and the city lets them heal and breathe. The city folds memories into fresher springs and fierier falls. The scars fade.

Dublin’s always morphing into this shouting bustling breathing dying healing city of the present of the moment.

It’s river flow: the city sifts water and silt over its old bottom until the old is something new. Down below, the old soil might stink of blood and groan with memories of another Ireland… but the river rushes with new reflections. Then catches them and whisks them out to sea so the newer ones can glisten and flick on the surface of the Liffey for another day.

***

Does a city have to remember?

Or can it build over itself, layers and layers of dirt and memories and conversations and walks-to-work and bus-routes-home?

Can it be old Dublin (the scarred rebelling one) and new Dublin (the modern dancing one) at the same time?

Can it be Eavan Boland’s Dublin of misty mornings at Trinity college, Paula Meehan’s Dublin of Georgian tenements, and my Dublin of autumn wanderings -- and not be a contradiction, or a forgetting? But, instead, be a mass of summers/falls/winters/springs, so many stories happening and finishing and vanishing on the streets -- like leaves born green, written with the stories of fall, scuffed with the feet of the city, staining the streets for half a week before melting into the gutters and rolling away with the Liffey.

***

Around the World: Rebecca Latimer

This week in "Around the World": traveling to the setting of Rebecca's YA novel -- with pictures and quotes! Visit Rebecca's blog, Long Ago and Far Away, here.

***

My favourite settings are often the ones that harken back to the realms of folklore, fairy tales, and myth. I adore “other” worlds, and so the best stories are the ones that take place in highly imaginative surroundings, like the intensely magical world of Michael Ende's “The Neverending Story” or the mystic fairy realm Stormhold in Neil Gaiman's “Stardust.”

photos by Rebecca

But realms of fantasy aren't the only settings I enjoy. Some of my favourite books take place in very real locations, like the reclusive writer's manor in Diane Setterfield's “The Thirteenth Tale.” This story in particular makes clear to me the one common denominator between all my favourite fictional settings --- a specific, consistent, and sweeping atmosphere. It's sort of an indefinable quality, but it's something that takes me away and makes me feel part of a whole other life.

My novel “Greyling” is finally complete, and I've done my best to write my characters into settings just as vibrant as the ones I love: a Nightmare Kingdom where dreams and reality blur, where trees are sentient and you can walk through the night sky; a grim metropolis no more bizarre than a crowded collection of office buildings, skyscrapers, and ever-present lights, surrounded by a haunted wood where one beautiful ghost exists solely to warn mortals of lurking evil. Stonehouse and Afterton are two worlds warring for superiority in the heart of a boy who hates (and obsesses over) them both, which makes setting pivotal to the telling of my story.

Quotes from Greyling:

In the distance, over the tops of gleaming trees and jagged cliffs, a mountainous, tumour-like mass of land shot straight upwards, off-balance, menacing and dark. The tower stood at the very tip of the mountain, perched on giant spider legs, staring down as if hungering for bone and blood.

The city was smoggy and smelled of litter and fire; somewhere, someone's house was burning down. A helicopter buzzed against the underbellies of dark yellow clouds, between spiking black buildings and overhead walkways. The men and women on the streets were all dressed in dark coats and scarves, their faces ghostly under the flickering light of static-lined display screens and security lights. 

So how do you make such strange and surreal worlds feel real to the reader? I have no idea. But I suspect it's something to do with pure, vibrant language, and the ability to shape prose by walking that narrow line between barrenness and fields of purple. I truly love words, and sentences woven to be just as beautiful as the things they describe are, in my opinion, the best treasures of fiction. That's what draws me into a story and makes me love it, and so it's what I strive for in my own writing.