Let’s all welcome imp the same to the blogging world. Welcome, imp.
Author: marydpierce
Fforde Ffiesta, Deconstructed
There’s this thing I like to do: Once a year I pack suitcases with, among other stuff, some black dresses, a couple of grey granny wigs, dark glasses, and the lyrics to “Leaning on a Lamppost.” This year I also packed a tattered lace wedding gown and a plastic skull. The first four years I packed for three of us – my husband, our son, and myself. This time, it was just my husband and I, as the boy couldn’t go. I left the mammoth and the dodo behind, too – luggage allowances and all. You’d be amazed at how much room a froufrou wedding gown takes up in a suitcase.
My family and close friends know that this bizarre ritual is part of our trek to the Fforde Ffiesta. Not all of them understand why we go, but they accept it. They accept that the rest of the year we don’t go out much, we don’t visit often, because we’re always saving our money so that we can instead spend a weekend in Swindon, a smallish nondescript city in England, most noted for its Magic Roundabout. But, Swindon is also the literary home of Thursday Next, heroine in a series of books written by the extraordinary Jasper Fforde. And therein lies the allure.
Jasper’s books are difficult to describe. They’re a riotous genre-defying amalgamation of fantasy/sci-fi/fast-paced mystery thriller filled with wit, social commentary, and literary references. The Ffiesta is a literary festival celebrating all things Fforde, organized by a small, but brilliant group of Fforde fans – the Fforganizers. Attendees are passionate about the books. They’re a friendly lot, fun and full of words, and just a little insane – but in a good way. Having been at all five of the Ffiestas now, I am happy to number them among my friends. There is something exhilarating about spending a sleep-deprived weekend amongst like-minded souls who totally get your dorkiness and even embrace it. How can you not make friends with that?
The weekend was jam-packed with non-stop goodness. There was the Friday evening pub quiz; hunt the lobsters; cipher-solving group puzzles; a village fete; a rousing game of Lobster Space Invaders; croquet (it is, after all, England); a bus tour of Swindon with Jasper as tour guide and Derek (a Fforganizer) as the mustachioed ice cream peddler; Nanowrimo hours; literary karaoke; Royal Angst poetry writing competition; Hamlet soliloquy speed-reading competition (for which the plastic skull was needed); Name that Fruit; a murder mystery performed by the Fforganizers; formation of the Danvers Clone brigade (53 members this year – a record!); fancy dress parade in which participants dressed up as characters from Jasper’s books. And throughout the goings on Jasper was everywhere. Reading from his latest not-quite-yet-in-print book; talking, answering questions; presiding over competitions; auction-erring; and at the end of it all, awarding prizes. That’s a lot to pack into a weekend. And, yet, we were all a bit sad when it was time to leave. There’s talk of extending the time a few extra days next year, for those who can, with a group road trip. Itinerary as yet to be determined.
And I, my friends . . . I am SO there.
A Little Something About Doors
Once, when I was four, my mother went to church down the street, leaving my sister (who was three) and me with our father, who remained in bed, asleep. At which point, I decided that my sister and I should go to church, too. We’d been to church before, but never by ourselves. We’d never stood alone on the church steps in front of the double doors that now loomed over us like a wooden angel with a giant pair of wings. Would we be able to open the door on our own? Should we knock? Somehow we managed. I don’t remember how, but I do recall holding my sister’s hand as we clomped down the aisle in our floppy boots, feeling mighty pleased at having gotten through the door by ourselves.
My son graduated from college this past weekend. It made me think about door as 
metaphor. One door closes, another opens. At this same college a few years ago, some students erected a kind of pink uterine tent where the door was a vagina. I didn’t get a picture of that. It would have been interesting, to say the least.
I am fascinated by doors. The look of them, the idea of them. The ins and outs of them, the open and closed. The splendid endless variety of them. Sometimes they are scary. Sometimes, daunting and formidable.
And sometimes they take my breath away.
Lapping the Miles
My husband and I drove some 450 miles over Mother’s Day weekend. We spent time with family, laughed a lot, and enjoyed listening to live music. I drank just enough wine to induce me to sing. The weather was sublime. As we were homeward bound, the late afternoon sun and unending highway made me think of this:
I like to see it lap the Miles/ And lick the Valleys up
Emily Dickinson was writing about a train, but hunched low in my seat, staring over the dashboard at the road ahead, it looked exactly as though our car was lapping up the miles. So I pointed my camera and snapped some pictures.
I wonder if Miss Dickinson would agree.
Fear of Flying
A friend of mine asked me for advice. She’s flying across the country soon and she’s afraid of flying. Since I was a “seasoned flyer,” did I have any tips that might help?
Though I’m loath to admit it, flying scares the crap out of me. I’m 30,000 feet in the air inside a huge hunk of metal that remains airborne only by the marvel of mechanical engineering and a proper maintenance schedule. But I do like to travel and the fastest way to traverse large distances is to get on a plane and hope that the engine, the electrical systems, the landing gear, and the rivets holding everything together have all been thoroughly checked and maintained. Preferably just before I boarded. Yes, it scares me, but I’ve gotten used to it. And I’ve devised a habit to ease my fear. I meditate upon take-off and landing (statistically the most likely time for a problem). Without fail, every single time. It makes me feel better to do this. It makes me feel a little more in control. An illusion perhaps, but isn’t life?
Ultimately, my advice to her was do it and keep doing it, because you can.
Which brings me to the point of this post. As I conveyed my “seasoned” wisdom to my friend, it occurred to me that maybe I should apply similar advice to other aspects of my life. Like blogging. That really scares the crap out of me, too. The whole time I’m writing a post, I’m thinking; someone might actually read this blog, and worse, they might think my writing completely sucks.* Which is why my first blogging attempts consisted of seven posts over the course of nine months.
We are all afraid of something. And mostly, it’s the doing it anyway that sees us through. Eleanor Roosevelt said, “Do the thing you think you cannot do.” She also said, “Do one thing every day that scares you.” Sometimes that may be just getting out of bed.
So read away citizens of the internet. Or not. The blogosphere is a mighty big place. However, if you should stumble upon this page – hellooo – I’m here, still afraid of sucking, but writing anyway.
Because I can.
*I’m also terrified of crossing bridges. Interesting that the common denominator seems to be falling, whether out of the sky, over water, or on my face.
Bare-naked Mickey
Banned Books Week is over. Much was made about the recent attempts of one Wesley Scroggins to have certain immoral books removed from the curriculum of the Republic, Missouri school district. (I find it a little ironic that this guy lives in a place called Republic, a word which generally conjures up thoughts of democracy and freedom.) He says he’s “spent the last couple of years reviewing the various curricula across numerous grades”, so I’m guessing he must have quite a laundry list of filthy books. Though for an opinion piece in the Springfield News-Leader he singles out three books: Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson; Twenty Boy Summer by Sarah Ockler; and Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut.
Lots of people have blogged about this over the past week. As well they should. People banning books is a serious threat to any society. Books are filled with words that shape a story which in turn helps us make sense of the world, just a little. And we humans are the only animal who really, really need to make sense of our world. We make ourselves nuts sometimes with the trying. Stories help. Books help. It’s so essential to us that long before stories were written down, they were spoken. And those stories were passed orally generation to generation, because people thought it was important to keep the stories alive.
I read a lot this past week. And I shuffled over to the ALA website to take a look at the list of banned and challenged books over the years. The list is long, the reasons for wanting the books banned varied. Too filthy, too racist, too subversive, too offensive, too witch-crafty, and even, too naked. As in Mickey-in-the-Night-Kitchen naked.
In The Night Kitchen is a picture book by Maurice Sendak in which a young boy named Mickey hears a noise in the kitchen, goes to investigate, and discovers three jolly bakers preparing a cake for the breakfast. Evidently, the problem for some people is the fact that Mickey falls from upstairs and lands in the kitchen. Naked. It’s not as though he’s naked through the entire book. He falls into the cake batter and emerges in a brown suit of batter, and then gets to do fun stuff like craft an airplane out of bread and fly around the kitchen in it. Towards the end he dives into a bottle of milk and the batter dissolves. For a brief period he is naked again, until he finds himself in his pajamas, back in bed, where everything is as it should be. I don’t know about anyone else, but my son and I loved that book. It’s the perfect rendering of a child’s fanciful dream.
In The Night Kitchen is a picture book by Maurice Sendak in which a young boy named Mickey hears a noise in the kitchen, goes to investigate, and discovers three jolly bakers preparing a cake for the breakfast. Evidently, the problem for some people is the fact that Mickey falls from upstairs and lands in the kitchen. Naked. It’s not as though he’s naked through the entire book. He falls into the cake batter and emerges in a brown suit of batter, and then gets to do fun stuff like craft an airplane out of bread and fly around the kitchen in it. Towards the end he dives into a bottle of milk and the batter dissolves. For a brief period he is naked again, until he finds himself in his pajamas, back in bed, where everything is as it should be. I don’t know about anyone else, but my son and I loved that book. It’s the perfect rendering of a child’s fanciful dream.
So keep telling stories, people. Keep writing books, and reading them, and most of all, keep speaking out when someone tries to stop you.
And GO, Mickey, you bare-naked dream boy.
Fforde Ffiesta is Not a Car.
In a few minutes, I will be heading to Logan airport with my husband and son. Woohoo! We’re off to Swindon, UK, home of literary detective, Thursday Next. We’ll visit a few other places while we’re in England, but Swindon is our primary destination.
Swindon you may ask? Is that even a real place? It is, indeed. It is also the location of the 3rd Fforde Ffiesta. With this trip, we will have made all three.
That’s Fforde as in Jasper, the author of a series of wildly imaginative books that defy definition or genre placement. If you have not heard of him or read his books, I urge you all to do so tout de suite. They are brilliant, and the most fun you will have without leaving your chair (or wherever it is you generally like to read a good book).
Some of the wacky activities we have in store for us this time (taken from the Fforde Ffiesta website):
Hamlet Speed Reading: Fancy yourself as the next David Tennant? Then why not try your hand at our Hamlet Soliloquy Speed Reading Competition.
First Legion of Danvers: Enjoy dressing up in old, grey wigs and black dresses? The 1st Legion of Danvers is just for you.
Grey Angst: Feeling dull and unimaginative? Sounds like the perfect time to create a literary work of genius for this year’s competition.
And of course, no Ffiesta would be complete without the return of ffestival favourites such as Name That Fruit!, and Live Audience Participation Shakespeare (Hamlet, Prince of Zombies). And with the gracious backing of our ever-glorious sponsors The Goliath © Corporation (For All You’ll Ever Need™) these events will now be provided in glorious 3-D technicolour!
If you’re not going to be there this week, I’m sorry. We’ll try to have fun without you. To those of you who WILL be there, let me repeat myself – WOOHOO!! See you soon!
The original Ffestival fforganizers.
Authentic Drama Queen
I am passionate about many things, and when I’m talking about one of those things, I move my hands around. I get loud. When I was a kid, my parents used to tell me I should be an actress. They said this when I was being “overly dramatic,” which I guess I was. A lot.
I love drama. I seek it out everywhere: in fiction, in theater and movies, music. Even historical re-enactments, of which I am fond. Every good story has drama. The vivid, highly emotional, conflicting interests that make it glorious fun to get lost inside the details.
That’s why, when my husband emailed me this photo (which he found at his favorite antique auto/gear head message board — even gear heads get embroiled in drama, which is why someone posted the picture in the first place), I had to use it. It’s so me. If not physically, then spiritually. I offer it here for anyone who might stop by. So, go ahead. Embrace your passion a bit. We could all do worse than to occasionally be a truly, utterly, authentic drama queen.
Where You’ll Find Me
If you’re looking for me this week-end, I won’t be home. I’ll be attending the SCBWI writer’s retreat at Whispering Pines in Rhode Island. I am seriously happy about this. Giddy, even, hopped up on endorphins, and I don’t even have to break a sweat to experience that rush. My fellow attendees will recognize this state of being. It’s a small retreat; a couple of dozen people who attend for the entire week-end, and a couple of dozen more who will be there during the day for the presentations. An author, an illustrator, two editors, and an agent acting as mentors for the week-end. All of us huddled together in cozy lodges surrounded by pine trees and overlooking a serenely beautiful lake. Sheer bliss.
There is very little actual writing that goes on, it’s not that kind of retreat. There are presentations by the mentors, who share their wisdom and experience generously. They talk about the process of writing, of creating flesh and blood characters–whether with words or pictures–the kind who leap out of the book and whisper their stories breathlessly. This is the kind of intimate retreat where there is a constant exchange of ideas and dreams amid much laughter, and as the week-end winds down, silliness fueled by too little sleep. And at the end of it all, the endorphins are still careening through your body (tired as it is), so that you drive away, down the winding narrow road back to your real life with creative muscles pumped, head full of fresh new ideas. Jazzed about the life you’ve chosen for yourself, this writing for children.
Collectibles
I am not a particularly avid collector. Collections, I find, take up way too much room, and requires dusting more frequently than I care to do. I do have a lot of books. They’re everywhere in my house, stacks of them in fact, and only some of them are considered collectibles (i.e. are signed first editions). Most of the books are there to read, or for reference, and periodically I sort through them to determine which of them I can let go of, and then I have my husband cart them to the “book house” at our local transfer station so that someone else may enjoy them.
I do have a collection of trinkets based on the ’39 movie, The Wizard of Oz. And for this, I deliberately set out to collect only small items that would fit neatly behind the glass doors of small cupboards and shadow boxes, thus taking up little room and keeping them virtually dust-free. Smart. Over time I have amassed figurines made of plastic, pewter, or porcelain, most the size of my thumb, and glass marbles painted with the heads of Dorothy and her pals. I have trading cards and thimbles, music boxes, tiny porcelain boxes with even tinier contents, and an assortment of glittery ruby slippers of various sizes. Mostly I acquired these items on eBay, or my husband has because he knows it’s easy one-stop shopping come Christmas time. But small as the items are, they are beginning to require more shelf space than I currently have. I’m working on fixing that.
I have another collection I’ve been working on my entire life, one that needs little storage space or dusting. It’s a collection of words. Words that are lovely and interesting, that have texture, and affect my senses so that I can feel them in my mouth and taste them. They are delicious. Words that conjure up colors and images for me, often unrelated to their actual meaning. Confabulate. Drupaceous. Nacreous. Rugose. These are the kinds of words I stumble upon here and there in the process of living, and I record them in notebooks. I have a lot of notebooks now, but you can keep a lot of words in a notebook. Some of the older notebooks I haven’t looked at in a long, long time, and some have gotten lost entirely. It’s okay. Because, sometimes I stumble upon a word I’ve forgotten or lost and it’s like meeting a childhood friend I haven’t seen in ages and there’s a flicker of recognition, followed by the charm of getting acquainted all over again.
A Wilderness of Words 