The thing that most people notice when they meet a real life horse for the first time, and the thing that a lot of writers who have never met a horse get wrong, is their size.
Horses are big animals. They are big enough that even the strongest man cannot overpower them with his bare hands. You need tools to be able to really hurt a horse (unless you get them in the eyes). The only reason they will move away if you poke them is if they’ve been trained to. There is nothing more frightening to me than a fully grown un-trained horse; they are literally loose canons, capable of immense damage and even more unpredictable.
They are, I will say again, so big you cannot kick their bodies into trenches. An average horse weighs about 1,200 lbs. A large horse could weigh twice that. Their heads alone are so heavy it takes a 100 lb. neck full of muscles to hold them up. They can break your toes if they step on them.
For all that, horses are nimble creatures. A careful horse can pick its way through piles of rocks, and most trained horses will do their best not to step on you—and for the most part they do a good job of it. Horses can stop and turn on a dime, they can jump sideways or back up sharply. Above all they can run. A running horse is a formidable sight, especially if its coming straight at you. For all that, horses are not vicious animals—far from it—and they will not try to hurt you. Most of them, anyway. However, they are so big and strong that if they accidentally hurt you, you can get hurt very badly. So you need to be careful around horses: no loud shouting, no sudden movements, no running at them waving your arms. Not at least until you know the horse and know what it will and will not tolerate. (More on this in Chapter 3:Personality)
But horses are not so big that they are like suburban cars. An average horse carrying more than 250 lbs. will feel the weight. Much more and it could injure its back. Two people, unless they are small and the horse is big even for a horse, cannot comfortably ride astride at the same time.
Still, most horses are tall enough that the average person, unless they are highly trained or athletic, will not be able to mount without either stirrups or a mounting block.
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Horses are quiet. If unshod (barefoot) they walk almost silently. Only when they come on to a full gallop does the classic thunder of their hooves become significantly audible. A horse with metal shoes on, however, even on a dirt road, will produce a distinct “clop, clop, clop” sound.
Horses will snort frequently, even sneeze. They cannot breath through their mouths (they also cannot vomit), so keeping their noses clear is important.
Horses do not vocalize unless they mean to communicate something. They will make an adorable knickering sound (kind of “muhuhuhuhuhu”) when they anticipate being fed. If they are impatient sometimes they make a very odd sound between a squeak and a quack. It sounds rather like two pieces of wet rubber being rubbed together, and to be honest I have never found out what it is called.
The whiny does not sound like “neigh.” It sounds more like: “NnnnnheeeheheheheeHHHEHEHEEEHEEHAAAAAGH!” In varying degrees of length and volume.
Horses whiny either in greeting a friend (equine or human) or in objection to that friend leaving. They can, if they want, whiny so loud it hurts your ears if you are nearby.
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Horses are herbivores, so their teeth are flat and square, but they eat tough food so their jaw muscles are very strong. A horse’s bite can seriously damage you. I was bitten once in a friendly, “I’m not actually trying to hurt you, I just want you to feed me that carrot, and this is just a love bite really” way, and it leaft a huge blue and purple bruise on my arm that lasted for weeks and I had to do a lot of things one-handed. And that was a friendly bite.
I have also been kicked. Once. The horse thought I was a fly. I thought my lungs had been punched out of my chest and I would suffocate. As it turned out I hadn’t even broken any ribs.
If a horse wants to hurt someone, they can. They are used to biting and kicking at animals that are either (A) trying to eat them, or (B) just as big and as tough-skinned as they are. By comparison we humans are small, squishy, thin-skinned weaklings.
If you get on the wrong side of a horse, particularly a stallion, it can kill you.
A horse can kill you by accident, if the accident is bad enough.
Horse people do not treat horses as inanimate objects. We talk to them. We let them see us, smell us, get used to us. Even so we don’t pass behind them within kicking distance, unless we are close enough to keep a hand on their rump as we walk around, so the horse knows it’s us and not a fly.
Most horses that have been trained by people like people and do not want to hurt them. If a horse is particularly attached to a certain person (and they do become attached to their riders) they will go to great lengths to keep that person from harm. The classic example is of a horse who throws her rider, then comes back over and nuzzles at her until she gets up, wanting to make sure the rider is okay. I also once read of a woman who was attacked by a “problem” stallion. The horse bit down on her arm and lifted her up into the air and was preparing to shake her like a rag doll and then presumably trample her for good measure, when another stallion (her stallion) saw what was happening and jumpedout of his paddock, galloped over, and attacked the “problem” stallion, driving him away and saving the woman’s life.
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Horses are warm creatures. They sweat (some of them sweat quite a lot), but it is still harder for them to keep cool in hot weather than it is to for them to keep warm in cold weather.
Horses are hairy. Even in the summertime, when they have short coats, the hair gets everywhere. The only reason I could imagine riding a horse naked and bareback (without a saddle) would be if someone was running after me with a cattle prod threatening to rape me with it… and then I would probably be left feeling much the same either way.
Horses are naturally alert at night and tend to sleep as much as they can during the day. Except for brief periods of lying down for their deep sleep, horses will doze standing up.
Horses like to roll in soft dirt or sand. This is adorable and hysterical to watch—see The Horse and His Boy for a wonderfully accurate and realistic portrayal of horses rolling—but horses will also roll if they’re in pain. If they’re rolling from pain it means something has gone seriously wrong.
The greatest physical weakness of any horse are their surprisingly delicate feet and easily compromised digestive system—and their propensity to finding the most innocuous artifact and seriously maiming themselves upon it (see Chapter 6: Illness and Injury).
Healthy horses have a particular smell: of salt and dirt and fresh grass. Their manure only has a strong smell if it is fresh, and horses only smell of it if they have been confined to a small stall. It smells rather like cooked grass, if you can imagine that.
This rounds up the basics of equine physicality. In the next chapter I’ll talk about their personality, the little (and sometimes big) quirks of character that make horses behave like horses.
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Goldeen Ogawa has been working with and around horses since she was five years old, has been a horse-owner since 2000, and currently rides every week. If you have any questions about horses not answered here you can email her at goldeenogawa@gmail.com or peck at her on Twitter @GrimbyTweets. There you can also follow her weekly horse pictures under the #TweetsFromHorseback hashtag.
The world of horses carries a language of its own which can seem confusing to an outsider. Let me start by saying that I think terminology is the least important thing to get right (as long as your mechanics are solid and I know what you’re talking about, I don’t care much what you call a horse’s pole), but because I’m going to be using rather a lot of it I thought I’d start off with a glossary of sorts.
It is a good idea to have this chart on hand so when I start talking about the hocks and the croup and the coronet band you’ll know what I mean.
Also worth noting: horses are not measured in feet and inches, but in hands. A hand is four inches, so it’s a fairly easy conversion. The height of a horse is measured from the sole of their front hoof to their withers (see chart), but horses can appear much taller if they raise their head up (with effort a horse can hold its head at an angle that a giraffe does normally, though this is usually done only if the horse is excited or alarmed). An average horse is about fifteen and a half hands. A tall horse is sixteen hands or higher. A horse under fifteen hands is called a pony, unless you’re in England in which case a horse is a pony regardless of height as long as it is being ridden by a child. (This isn’t confusing at all, really.)
Horses come in many colors, but the most common are chestnut (brown all over) and bay (brown body with black mane and tail). Even within chestnuts and bays there are a great variety, and I direct you to google “equine coat colors images” for some excellent charts and pictures that will describe the myriad of colors and combinations better than I ever could. A few things, though, that should be mentioned:
Normal horses are very nearly never brindled. If you have brindled horses in your story, there had better be a reason (it’s a new breed! It’s magic!).
A gray horse does not look gray, but white. The gray refers to the skin under the white fur. Horses of this color are usually born a solid brown or black, and fade to white in the first few years. Gray is an extremely beautiful coloration; a clean gray will be blinding white in sunlight, but with a silver sheen from their dark skin that makes them look silvery.
A true white horse has pink skin and brown eyes, and is just as blinding in direct sunlight as a gray, but without the silvery undertone.
An albino also has white hair and pink skin, but likely has red/white eyes as well, and will have all the problems attendant on any albino animal.
(All horses with white or light fur will show dirt very easily, so unless your horse has a good reason to have been recently/regularly groomed and washed, your gray will likely show stains of brown and green.)
A buckskin and a dun are not the same thing: buckskin just means a horse with a beige body and black mane and tail, whereas the dun is a style of markings that can come in many colors. So a buckskin can be a dun, but a dun is not always a buckskin. Once again google images is your very very good friend.
It should also be noted that horses can have a variety of white markings: socks, stockings, stars, blazes, snips. Once again I direct you to google images rather than typing out an exhaustive list.
Tack is all the equipment used between the horse and the rider: saddles are what you sit in, girths are what keep the saddle on the horse, bridles are what hold the bit in the horse’s mouth, and the reins are what go between your hands and the bit. Again, google “horse tack images” and you will find all the information you need.
A mare is an adult female horse. A stallion is an intact adult male horse. A gelding is an adult male horse that has been neutered. (There is no special word for a sterilized mare; the surgery is expensive and not always safe, and generally not performed unless there is a pressing need.) A baby horse is called a foal; a female foal is a filly and a male foal is a colt. A breeding mare is called a brood mare. A mother horse is a dam and a father horse is a sire. A donkey is not a horse at all (but a fellow equine).
Horses move in four gaits, mostly (from slowest to fastest): a walk (one… two… three… four…), a trot (one-two one-two one-two), a canter (one-two-three one-two-three) and a gallop (oneoneoneoneoneone). A jog is a slow trot, and a lope is a slow canter—both terms commonly used in western (cowboy) settings. To complicate matters there are certain breeds called gaited horses, which have their own unique and outlandish gaits. (See Tennessee Walkers.) But for the most part the walk, trot, canter and gallop are all we need worry about.
I think that’s about all you need to be getting on with. Again, this is not a comprehensive glossary, but merely a preface so you will know what I’m talking about.
In the next chapter I’m going into the physicality of horses, their size and shape, and how they interact with their environment.
Goldeen Ogawa has been working with and around horses since she was five years old, has been a horse-owner since 2000, and currently rides every week. If you have any questions about horses not answered here you can email her at goldeenogawa@gmail.com or peck at her on Twitter @GrimbyTweets. There you can also follow her weekly horse pictures under the #TweetsFromHorseback hashtag.
HORSES are of a breed unique to Fantasyland. They are capable of galloping full-tilt all day without rest. Sometimes they do not require food or water. They never cast shoes, go lame, or put their hooves down holes, except when Management deems it necessary, as when the forces of the DARK LORD are only half an hour behind. They never otherwise stumble. Nor do they ever make life difficult for Tourists by biting or kicking their riders or one another. They never resist being mounted or blow out so that their girths slip, or do any of the other things that make horses so chancy in this world. For instance, they never shy and seldom whinny or demand sugar at inopportune moments. But for some reason you cannot hold a conversation while riding them. If you want to say anything to another Tourist (or vice versa), both of you will have to rein to a stop and stand staring out over a VALLEY while you talk. Apart from this inexplicable quirk, Horses can be used just like bicycles, and usually are. Much research into how these exemplary animals come to exist has resulted in the following: no mare ever comes into season on the Tour and no STALLION ever shows an interest in a mare; and few Horses are described as geldings. It therefore seems probable that they breed by pollination. This theory seems to account for everything, since it is clear that the creatures do behave more like vegetables than mammals. It also explains why the ANGL-SAXON COSSACKS and the DESERT NOMADS appear to have a monopoly on horse-breeding. They alone possess the secret of how to pollinate them.
One of my pet peeves in fiction (mainly fantasy, but this problem does arise in other genres) is the depiction of horses. Not only that horses tend to die faster than any red shirt, or that their owners seem to take the loss with less emotional upheaval than one who has lost their favorite pen, but that in some instances they are written in such a way as to appear so un-horselike that I must assume the writer has not gotten within a mile of an actual horse, and has only done the most rudimentary research—if any has been done at all.
My favorite example of this is in Stardust, a novel written by one Neil Gaiman (who it must be said is quite excellent in many other areas and this does not in any way detract from my high opinion of him). In it there is a unicorn—which is alluded to be a horse-shaped creature of good size—it bears two human-shaped people upon its back at one time—but whose corpse (again with the high mortality rate) is later kicked casually into a trench by a withered old witch.
Now, a healthy person could easily kick the body of a dog, maybe even another human, into a grave, but unless this witch had some unmentioned magical power that gave her kick all the power and force of a backhoe (which is what you need to shift the 1,200 lbs. of weight that is a horse’s corpse), all that should have happened is the witch would have hurt her leg. Or perhaps gone flying backwards at comical speeds.
This is not all. Earlier (when this equine of uncertain mass was still alive), our young hero leaves it in a meadow—presumably covered with grass—while he goes to town. There he buys food for himself, and a “small bale of hay” that he brings back to the unicorn. Which he left in the meadow. Which, unless it was the special kind of meadow that grew pork chops instead of the usual fare (grass and other greenstuff) should have provided the unicorn with sufficient fodder. This is ridiculous enough, but that our hero easily carries a “small bale of hay” was enough to make me put down the book and un-cross my eyes with a pair of pliers.
Hay is essentially dried grass; it is packed into bales on average about five feet long, two feet wide, and maybe one and half feet tall. This author can lift a bale if she has a pair of hay hook or some good gloves, and carry it maybe five feet. Seven, if it’s an emergency. More than that and she needs a wheel barrow or a small tractor. So even a load half this size—I have no idea what a “small bale” is—would be unwieldy at best and finally: a regular horse eats about two flakes of hay (and there are about a dozen flakes in a standard bale) a day. Four, if they are a high-energy thoroughbred or performance horse getting a lot of exercise. Presuming a “small bale” is about six flakes, that is far too much for a single equine in a single feeding. Our hero would have been waiting for a half a day for the unicorn to eat it all, after which it would not have been able to carry him and his heroine anywhere because it would probably have developed a nasty case of laminitis (see Chapter 6:Illness and Injury).
This error is so comical I can only imagine some wires got crossed somewhere and “bale” replaced “flake.” Carrying a small flake of hay back to your unicorn (which you left in a meadow where we must presume it has been doing what any self-respecting equine would do) (eating it) is much more understandable, if still a bit superfluous.
Of course, you can make the excuse that the story was set in a different time and place and these things don’t mean exactly what they mean today… but it is being read today, and this is what people who know horses and know hay will think—they will be like me: utterly bemused and suddenly not inclined to pay much attention to the story because the medium by which it was brought to them (a book) is currently being smacked against their forehead in frustration.
There are many more idiosyncrasies of horseflesh in other books I could mention. The tendency of horses in Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell to rear up, fall over, and break their backs. Shadowfax from Lord of the Rings whom I’m convinced was actually a very cleverly disguised car. But if I were to go through all the flubs I’ve caught I’d never get to the point of this article: which is to provide anyone who reads it with the basic knowledge necessary to write horses in such a way that readers like me (who know their stifle from their fetlock, the difference between a running and standing martingale, and what laminitis is) will not break off reading your story to laugh, cry, or slam our faces against the nearest hard, flat surface.
This is not meant as a exhaustive course. I cannot tell you everything. If you really want to write horses well you have to get to know them well, and to do that you are going to have to spend a lot of time working with them (not just watching from a safe distance—don’t let Norman Thelwell fool you). In fact, if you’re writing a book with a lot of horses, I would recommend finding a stable near you and leasing a horse for six months or so. Learn how to feed it, groom it, clean up after it, ride it, and care for it when it inevitably injures itself. You will learn so much, and it will allow you to add little details to your story that, far from causing horse-savvy people such as myself to throw your book across the room, will give us a warm, glowy feeling inside; the feeling that we are in good, knowing hands who have put in the work to really think out the difference between a horse and a bicycle, and to use the knowledge to add depth to their story.
This experience may also make you rethink the wisdom of killing the poor things off when they have reached the end of their usefulness, which we horse-lovers would also appreciate.
However, horses are expensive. They require a lot of time and energy, and not everyone likes being around them. So I will not say you must have hands-on experience and I completely understand not having the resources to do this diligence duly. I’m just saying this way is the best way.
The next best way is to find someone who knows a great deal about horses, and bring your specific questions to them. However, what they tell you will be their own opinions, colored by their own experiences. It is still better to get to know horses for yourself.
But that, like I said, is hard. So I do not expect every writer whose work contains a horse to go out and become a master equestrian as a routine part of their research. But I would like to see horses portrayed more accurately in fiction, and to that end I have compiled this: a guide for writing realistic horses. It is not meant to take the place of hands-on experience, and it is in no way comprehensive. It should, however, point you in the right direction, and give you at least an idea of the kind of creature you are writing about.
Fantasy writers enjoy great liberty when it comes to their worlds: they can always brush things off as “magical” or “alternate”. But horses are a real thing, and if too much is lost or altered they lose their horsiness. They become walking bicycles that breed via pollination, mindless automatons easily acquired and just as easily discarded. And my forehead gets sore from all the books being used to smack it in exasperation.
So, without further preamble, allow me to present:
THE PEDESTRIAN’S GUIDE TO WRITING HORSES
For ease of reading I have broken it down into six chapters, each dealing with different aspects of horses—and one with links to books that got their horses right. I will be posting them over the course of the next week, and as they go live you can reach them by clicking the corresponding link below.
INDEX
1: Terminology
2: Physicality
3: Personality
4: Practicality
5: Care and Maintenance
6: Illness and Injury
7: Further Reading
Goldeen Ogawa has been working with and around horses since she was five years old, has been a horse-owner since 2000, and currently rides every week. If you have any questions about horses not answered here you can email her at goldeenogawa@gmail.com or peck at her on Twitter @GrimbyTweets. There you can also follow her weekly horse pictures under the #TweetsFromHorseback hashtag.
Author’s Note: This is a vignette I wrote some years ago to accompany a drawing I had made. I recently came across it and thought I’d share it (and the drawing) here. I have also committed Poetry at the end. Forgive me. —G
In times long past the Prince of Hell was prone to fits of gloominess. He would mope about the inner circles of Hell, paying no heed to his business or duties, and being what we on earth might call a wet blanket.
Then one day the Prince, in his gloominess, stepped upon a fiddle someone had left lying in the hall. When he picked it up it bit him, much to his surprise and consternation. And when he found the fiddle’s owner you can be sure he had some very stern words for her. But she only tweaked his nose and told him to stop moping so. It did not become a prince, she said, let alone the prince of such an important place as Hell.
Now the Prince, whose name was Sepherus, had not had his nose tweaked in many thousands of years and did not know how to respond. The fiddle’s owner, whose name was Grimbald, Queen of Dreams, took his silence as agreement and offered to teach him how to play the violin. And since Grimbald did (and still does not) understand the concept of “no, thank you” that is exactly what she did. By the afternoon she had Sepherus playing merrily, and quite cured of his moping.
Next she is planning on teaching him how to dance.
“Violin Lessons” by Grace Goldeen Ogawa. Colored pencil on paper, 2008. Click image to purchase print!
Do you know who taught the Cat to fiddle?
The Cat to fiddle
The Cat to fiddle
It was the Devil who diddle, he did, he did!
It was the Devil who taught the Cat to fiddle.
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Do you know who taught the Trickster to fiddle?
The Trickster to fiddle
The Trickster to fiddle
It was the Devil who diddle, he did, he did!
It was the Devil who taught the Trickster to fiddle.
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Do you know who taught the Fairy to fiddle?
The Fairy to fiddle
The Fairy to fiddle
It was the Devil who diddle, he did, he did!
It was the Devil who taught the Fairy to fiddle.
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But who on earth taught the Devil to fiddle?
No one on earth!
Above or between!
Who taught the Devil to fiddle? Grimbald, Dream Queen!
It was Grimbald who taught the Devil to fiddle.
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Singing Grimby, Dancing Grimby
Blue and black beneath the moon!
Whirling Grimby, Wild Grimby
Make your Devil dance his tune!
Grimbald! Grimbald!
The Queen of Dream!
—The Devil his Fiddle, a Song of Grimbald
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Grimbald is a recurring character in Goldeen Ogawa’s mythos. Within this mythos she is a trickster folk hero and sometimes god, the grumpy and unpredictable ruler of the realm of dreams and memories. She is often associated with the moon and night, famous for her biting fiddle, and is considered the counterpart of Tobius Leander (sun, day, flute). She is the namesake of Radio Grimbald and features in the titular piece of Fiddler’s Dream and Other Stories (eBook, 2011).
Goldeen Ogawa thought up Grimbald when she was 19, to scare away the monster in her (Goldeen’s) head. In return, she writes stories and songs about her (Grimbald). You can email her (Goldeen) at goldeenogawa@gmail.com or peck at her on Twitter @GrimbyTweets. (Not actually Grimbald, sadly.)
This month (March) has been declared #DWJMarch, in honor of the late, great Diana Wynne Jones, by K over at WeBeReading.com. This year she is hosting a read-along of Jones’s delightful novel Howl’s Moving Castle, and in honor of that I thought I’d share my thoughts on the book—and do a little fanart.
Reflections on Diana Wynne Jones’s
Fanart for “Howl’s Moving Castle.” Watercolor on paper by Goldeen Ogawa, 2013.
Howl’s Moving Castle (1986, Greenwillow Books of New York) is probably Jones’s best known work, along with the Chrestomanci Books, thanks in no small part to the movie adaptation by Studio Ghibli. And while I have nothing against the film (indeed, Miyazaki-san falls short only of Jones on my list of creative heroes), I must admit that I find it contains but a fraction of the joy, wonder, bewilderment, excitement, hilarity and sheer cheeky cleverness of the book. If you’ve seen the movie but not read the book, please read it immediately. You owe it to the movie to find out where it got all its best bits from.
It should be mentioned at this point that I read the book ages before the movie was even conceived. How young was I? Well, I thought Wales was another made-up country. (!) I remember reading on Jones’s official fan site the announcement of the movie, and how Diana had been having meetings with Japanese people and “drinking lots of tea.” I recall there was much high-pitched excited screaming involved.
Go and catch a falling star
Get with child a mandrake root
Tell me where all past years are
Or who cleft the Devil’s foot.
Teach me to hear the mermaids singing
Or to keep off envy’s stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
Decide what this is about, write the second verse yourself.
—Excerpt from Song by John Donne (with Miss Angorian’s note), which proves crucial to the plot.
Howl’s Moving Castle is a fantasy-romance-fairytale-adventure story about a wizard, a witch, the eldest of three sisters, a scarecrow, a dog, green slime, shooting stars, and (yes) a moving castle. It is set in a magical land where common fairytale tropes are the rule of thumb, except when they’re not. It is mad and wild and chaotic and clever and touching and perfect.
When I first read the book as a child I didn’t know much in the way of classic fairytales. Oh, I knew the story of The Little Mermaid and Snow White, but I’d never developed an affinity for them. I’ve always preferred books that parody (though it be gently) those standard tales. So reading Howl for me was less like reading a parody, and more like reading the real thing. Except that Howl’s Moving Castle is far better. It is not just a children’s fairytale; it is a story about falling in love with a faulty character and learning to stand up for yourself.
The story begins in madness and chaos, continues in the spectacular fashion of a train wreck, spewing brightly colored bits of plot in all directions, until in the third act everything explodes like someone put a match to a warehouse full of fireworks.
And when at last the smoke clears and the dust settles we are left not with a burning pile of rubble, but with a perfectly clear and astounding image. All those pieces sent flying have fallen into place, and we can see the pattern that was always hidden in the chaos. The train was never crashing—it was transforming into an airplane, and now it’s flying through the air!
People who’ve read Diana Wynne Jones know the feeling: the one constant across all her books (aside from their impeccable quality) is her penchant for having explosive, chaotic stories that fall neatly into sense and order at the last minute. Howl’s Moving Castle is a wonderful example of just that.
But it is more than just an explosion. There’s a tightness to the order of the events in the story; a chain reaction, like dominoes. Reading the book is like watching a row of dominoes tip over; each event leading smoothly to the next until you realize that the dominoes, as they fall, are revealing a bigger picture.
This domino effect is one of the strengths of the book. Not a word nor sentence nor paragraph is wasted. Events and feelings and scenes come chasing each other across the page, sometimes nipping on each other’s heels, and unless you are reading with your full attention you are going to miss something. I have read it more times that I can count, and I’m still finding things I missed before: the preciseness of the attributes Sophie prescribes to her hats; Calcifer’s hints as to his true nature; Howl’s actual motivations.
The true magic is that all these impossible things, from enchanted hats to blue-and-silver suits, to seven-league bucket-boots, falling stars, moving castles, and a door that leads four places at once, are all believable. Not just because Jones treats magic as though it were perfectly real, but because she treats it in such a way that the reader believes it is real. She grounds it with realistic characters who, when faced with extraordinary circumstances, react with the same inspiration, cleverness and stupidity that an ordinary person would. With Jones’s magic anything can happen, but the real magic is that she makes you believe it can happen.
The same thing applies to her romance. People squabble, they fight, they declare one another to be “terrors” or “cowardly louts.” And in the end they get together and live happily ever after. But not in that “little cottage with a white picket fence way,” more in a “giant moving castle with a fire demon in the hearth” sort of way. Which is, I think, much more satisfying.
To any child or young person thinking of reading it, I can say: “You are in for a treat: this book is a fantastic adventure.” To any adult who may be worried about picking up a “children’s book,” I say this: “Leave your worries on the dust jacket, my friend. For this is a timeless tale, and like the door of the moving castle it opens upon many places.”
Reading Howl’s Moving Castle is one of the best things I could prescribe to anyone; it will make you smile, then laugh, cry (happily), and finally dance about in joy. Like eating one of Cesari’s cream cakes; you are only sad when it’s over because you’ve finished. Except unlike a cream cake, you can enjoy the book over and over again, and never fear of getting ill.
If thou be’st born to strange sights
Things invisible to see
Ride ten thousand days and nights
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell me
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true and fair.
—Second verse of Song by John Donne. All impossible things named in the poem come to pass before the book ends.
Notes on the Sequels
Howl’s Moving Castle has two loose sequels. I say “loose” because though they take place in the same world and share some of the characters, they are each vastly different stories.
Castle in the Air is an adventure featuring a vaguely Arabian lead character, a genie in a bottle, and a flying carpet (neither of which are as they first appear). Sophie and Howl do not show up until near the end. For this reason I think it gets a somewhat unfair rep from the fans. But I read it before Moving Castle, and I think it is quite good when judged on its own merits. Certainly, it has a distinctly different flavor from its predecessor, and I find that refreshing.
House of Many Ways is absolutely delightful. Again, it is set in a place that has only been alluded to in the previous books, and features an entirely new leading cast (though characters from both Howl and Castle in the Sky make appearances). If I didn’t hold Moving Castle so near and dear to my heart, House of Many Ways would probably be my favorite. Though Howl himself is only present for a few key scenes, he is at his absolute best and should not be missed.
“Thank you,” he said. “Stop there. I won’t trouble you for the rest. Even the good woman is untrue in the last verse, isn’t she? I remember now. Silly of me. John Donne, of course.”
—Wizard Howl
Goldeen Ogawa was born on August 15th, just one day shy of Jones’s birthday. She is not sure whether she is happy to be born so close, or disappointed that she missed it. You can email her at goldeenogawa@gmail.com or peck at her on Twitter @GrimbyTweets.
Diana Wynne Jones wrote dozens of books, all of them good, most of them fantastic. Her other works include The Chrestomanci Books, Dark Lord of Derkholm, The Homeward Bounders, The Merlin Conspiracy, and Goldeen’s favorite book of all time: Hexwood. Her official fan site can be found here.
This week I am sharing the notes I took on a recent trip to Death Valley National Park with my friend Rose. You can read my report from Day One here, and Day Two here.
My trusty bike, leaning against the “No Fun Allowed” sign at the head of Mosaic Canyon.
Thursday, February 7 2013
Driving, it seems, is the way to get around Death Valley. To mitigate the effect this has on my brain I determined to go out for a short ride this morning, almost before breakfast. (I say ‘almost’ because I had a snack of kefir and cereal before I left.)
I rode up the two and a half mile gravel road to the head of Mosaic Canyon. It is a deceptively steep rise, and felt longer than it actually took (under forty minutes). I started off cold, so I put on tights and my long-sleeved shirt. Then I got warm riding up the hill in the morning sun, but before I got too hot I passed into the shade of a hill and got cool again. I paused at the top to take some pictures, and then rode down—fast. I knew there was a reason I brought my mountain bike! And even though I did stop a couple of times to take more pictures, I still made it back to the room in fifteen minutes.
Dafydd riding dashboard on the drive to Beatty. Photo by my companion, Rose.
I ate a proper breakfast, showered, and then we packed up some lunch and piled into the car. The plan was to drive the thirty-odd miles east to Beatty, NV, where we could buy fuel for under four dollars a gallon, then drive back and see the ghost town of Rhyolite. I confess I worried (unnecessarily) about getting there on the same tank I’d filled back in Lancaster, almost 300 miles away—but I needn’t have. We made it to Beatty with room to spare, and found a gas station which started at under $3.50. Joy!
Gas at under $3.50! It’s a Nevada Miracle!
The car successfully refueled (and the windows washed of the dust they had collected yesterday), I made Rose walk around Beatty with me.
Beatty seems a bit like my hometown: they are both gateway towns, both built along a stretch of highway. Unlike my town, however, it is high, dusty desert. I confess both towns have their share of eyesores and curiosities. In Beatty I saw broken down campers and dilapidated clapboard houses right up next to the road, and it made me feel right at home.
View of Beatty, NV, from the gas station.
Walking up the main drag we passed what was little less than a junk yard with some rather creepy statues and a very friendly gray and white cat. One of the statues was a robot sort of fellow, but with real old running shoes stuck on its feet. They looked wilted and bleached, like they had been out in the rain and sun for too long. The other statue was a metal cast of a rearing horse, which was not so bad… except that it had the tail and mane from a real horse sewn on. I know they were real because I went up and touched them, and I could see the pieces of hide from the late horse’s neck that had been used to bolt the mane to the statue’s crest. The effect was a little unsettling.
Dafydd rides the Creepy Horse.
We walked up to the Beatty Historical Museum, where a very talkative docent gave us maps and pamphlets about Rhyolite (I had told her that was where we were going next), and took pictures of me and Rose in silly hats.
Me, Dafydd, Mr. Creepy-but-harmless-Mannequin, and Rose in the Beatty Historical Museum.
The museum itself was very interesting: it had a lot of old antiques and some very creepy mannequins—some of which looked to be hand-made. It also had a stuffed wolf and bear. The bear was made to be standing up and snarling, but the wolf was posed normally. I don’t know whether it was the taxidermist’s intention or my natural aversion to the whole thing, but I couldn’t help thinking that the wolf looked rather sad.
I had thought about stopping for lunch in Beatty, but after putting my head in the two nearest saloons and finding them too full of country music and cigarette smoke, we opted for the little coffee house across the street.
I liked it at once. As we walked in I saw at once that it was made up to be a sort of casual lounge-y sort of place, with little tables by the windows and a large, low, glass-topped table surrounded by comfortable armchairs in front of a disused fireplace. There were stuffed animals and memorabilia on the walls, and a Wii sitting on top of a VCR on the mantle piece.
A plump girl in an apron jumped up from the couch as we entered. I asked her if she had any pastries without wheat, for Rose. She explained she hadn’t, since she would be “closing in two days.” I didn’t ask what that meant, and ordered a muffin and a cup of tea. Rose ordered a sort of milkshake.
While we sat and ate, a few more customers came in (it had been completely empty). One appeared to be a regular, and he teased the full story out of the girl:
It came out that she was closing sort-of for good. It wasn’t that she was going out of business; business was good, but the owners of the property had reneged on their agreement to sell it to her cheap, and were doubling the price. After putting several thousand dollars of her own money into the property itself (not the business) she refused to keep the shop and “make it look pretty”, while they tried to sell it to someone who would kick her out. She was understandably upset, but took it with good spirit: “I’m only twenty-two,” she said. “I’ll outlive them.”
I think she is the sort of person who doesn’t need or expect any help from the universe. I imagine she has quite a life in front of her.
I’m sorry her little shop is closing; I liked it. Perhaps I will be able to immortalize it in a story some day.
View of the coffee shop from the outside; it is the little square building in the foreground.
After the coffee shop, we drove back to Rhyolite. The lady at the museum had given me a map and an informational pamphlet, but I hadn’t read it. I did take out the map, which seemed to show the cemetery on the way to the town.
It turned out the cemetery was down a gravel road off an offshoot of the offshoot that led to Rhyolite. I was not eager to take the TARDIS down yet another bumpy gravel road, and so we continued on until the pavement ended. Here we found a few ruins and an old red barn with a bold “No Trespassing” sign on the door. It was otherwise deserted.
After climbing around on the ruins for a few minutes, I became aware of a faint hooting, humming sort of noise, buried deep in the pervasive gusting of the wind. This wind blew strongly out of the south the entire time we were at Rhyolite, and at this point it was blowing up the gentle slope towards the barn. Looking that way I saw there was a fence made of—not chicken wire, but the sort with bigger, square holes. It looked like there was something hung all over that fence that glinted in the light and made a faint chiming noise.
All at once I realized what I was seeing—and hearing: bottles.
The bottle fence.
Dozens of empty glass bottles had been strung from the fence, and the wind was playing them like so many flutes. The chiming I was hearing was caused by the bottles, jostling in that same wind, clinking against the wire.
Entranced, I walked over. It was an amazing sight: the bottles were all different sizes, but they were all glass. Some were green, a couple brown. Mostly they were clear. They were arranged neatly in a square tile formation, with a few empty spaces where bottles had broken and fallen away. The ground by the fence was littered with broken glass from these bottles.
Being a fence bottle is apparently dangerous. I blame the wind.
Standing right next to the fence, the hooting was louder, and the chiming came from all up and down the fence in waves as the wind fluctuated and played upon the bottles. Mixed with the buffeting roar of the wind, it almost sounded like some mad kind of orchestra. The wind also muted the sounds from the bottles so that, if I detached my mind from reality just a bit, it sounded as though there was a conversation being held in a musical language, somewhere in the distance and very close at the same time.
Rose got bored I’m afraid and went back to the car, but I had to stand there for several minutes, soaking it all in.
The bottle fence by the red barn. Felt like a magic place.
After that I was almost afraid Rhyolite would be a disappointment, but it wasn’t. The ruins are spectacular: skeletal, and built of the same pale salmon stones as the mountains around them, they are at the same time striking and camouflaged.
Rose biking the back roads of Rhyolite.
The town is built on the slope of a hill, and the main road runs up to the top where the pavement ends, and a network of dirt tracks begin. At the summit is a wide lot for tour buses and campers to turn around in, with bathrooms at the end, and at the tip of the pavement is what remains of the town’s casino.
Unlike all the other buildings, this one is muted gray with weathered green trim. The windows are boarded up, and there is an unfriendly chain link fence topped with barbed wire all around it. A sign by the locked gate warns tourists that the site contains materials that may be hazardous to their health.
Seems legit.
Rose and I agree that it is probably haunted.
Opposite the casino is an abandoned railway caboose. I had already climbed inside it before I found the sign (tacked to the back) asking that I please not enter. Oops.
The sign said nothing about climbing on top of it!
I suggested we leave the TARDIS at the top of the town, and then bike down the dirt roads through the ruins to the bottom, where I would leave Rose, bike back up, get the car, and come down and collect her. This worked beautifully: we got to go off the main road and see a lot of ruins that were not fenced off. There was a two-room structure marked as “Residence” on my map, and as “Brothel” by the sign in the window. The front door was locked, but the back door was wide open. Inside the floorboards were cracked and broken, and the walls were covered with graffiti. Beside the inner door was written “IF ONLY THESE WALLS COULD TALK.” I could resist getting out my sharpie and adding “They do!” beneath it.
These walls, they do speak. But do you want to listen?
We went and saw the prison, which was half fallen down in front and filled with rubbish in the back, and then biked back to the main road where there were the remains of the general store, the jewelry store, and the bank. It was fun getting to look through the empty windows, getting to see more empty windows of other ruins through them.
View of the bank through the school’s windows.
I walked around the ruins of the school, which was a fittingly monstrous building, and finally we rode down to the Bottle House.
This was a house with bottles embedded in its concrete walls. There was also a little mosaic model of a town (not Rhyolite) in the back yard. The entire affair was very beautiful, and because it was fenced off, pristine.
The bottle house. Not as cool as the bottle fence, but still pretty.
I have to admit, I did not find it as impressive as the fence with the bottles singing in the wind.
I left Rose by the bottle house and rode back up the hill to get the car.
By this time we were both getting hungry, but I determined we go see the art installation just outside the town. Here were some rather interesting statues that we took pictures of: very much Arte and not the sort of thing I would usually be interested in. But I’m glad I went. I also ran the stone spiral that had been set up, so that was fun.
This is a sculpture call The Last Supper. Here I am being typically irreverent.
Then we went to the cemetery. Rose was happy to skip it, but I know what it’s like to go all the way for something and then miss part of it (Hi, Stanton Drew!) and I knew I wouldn’t be able to come back for a long time.
The road was bumpy, and the cemetery was not as cool as the town or the Singing Bottle Fence, but I’m glad I went and saw what it was like.
You gotta respect them. They did it without TARDISes.
We decided to try a short cut, continuing to take the gravel road all the way to the highway. We were nearly flummoxed at the end when we encountered a rather steep dip, but having seen a couple in a Mustang do it before us, I decided the TARDIS would probably be fine. Which she was. She has been an absolute champ this trip, though she’ll need a good wash when I get home.
From Rhyolite we drove back down into Death Valley and then north some thirty-six miles to Scotty’s Castle, which is located in a steep river canyon that contains some of the few trees in the area. We ate our packed lunch on a half-dead lawn and watched the shadows creep over the Spanish-style mansion. Tours were over for the day, but we still got to walk around and take pictures.
Scotty’s Castle, with Dafydd shown for scale.
Then we drove out to Ubehebe Crater, which was less then ten miles west across the valley. Doing so we passed out of the oasis, and into a whole other sort of desert: one strewn with volcanic debris. For Ubehebe is not a meteorite crater, but a volcanic one. The hills all had a rolling, molten quality too them, black from all the volcanic ash and rock.
Driving up the narrow entrance to the parking lot, we passed the turnoff for the Racetrack, home of the famous Sailing Stones. It is twenty-five miles out a notoriously rough, rocky road. Rose says that if she ever gets an SUV, we will go see them.
The sun had set by the time we reached the crater, casting everything into a blue twilight. I parked the car, and Rose opened her door—only to pull it shut again against the wind that tore into the car. Now we looked and saw the bushes that lined the rim of the crater being blown practically side ways.
After stuffing all the loose papers into the glove compartment, we got out into the wind.
How shall I describe such wind? Perhaps I can say this: that I have not felt such force exerted upon my person in such a direct way since I last found myself braced against whitewater. I had to lean into it to prevent myself being blown over, and I gripped my phone tightly to prevent it being ripped from my hands. It blew so hard I had trouble breathing when I faced directly into it.
Fortunately, it blew out of the crater, and so I was able to creep to the edge for a better view (and pictures!) But you can understand why most of what I remember is the wind pounding into and stretching my skin. The crater was quite impressive: huge and wide and very deep, with heavily eroded sandstone cliffs leading down to a sandy bottom dotted with creosote bushes.
Ubehebe Crater. Not pictured: high winds blowing up out of it, threatening to rip my phone/camera out of my hands.
The landscape to the northwest was also impressive: a wide valley strewn with black flecks of rock and sand, with the distant mountains blue silhouettes against a pink sky, streaked with clouds.
After a few minutes in the wind I got used to it, and even performed experiments; seeing how far forward I could lean, letting the wind support my body; or jumping from the curb and feeling the wind blow me a few feet before I hit the ground. Rose waited patiently in the car until I was done.
Plains to the northwest of the crater, just after sunset.
We drove the forty-five miles back to Stovepipe in growing darkness, where Rose cooked dinner and I sketched Year of the God-Fox.
Tomorrow we leave first thing, so Rose can get home in time to meet her son as he gets home from school, so this is essentially the close of my Death Valley trip.
My bike, at rest in the ruins of Rhyolite.
I have lots of material to work with, and lots of photos to sort through, but I also have ideas for things I’d still like to do.
I’d like to see the Sailing Stones, of course. And I’d like to go back to Ubehebe Crater when there is more time and actually hike around it. I would like to bike down Titus Canyon. And I feel I really should visit Badwater. It is the lowest point in the United States and probably the thing most people think of when you say “Death Valley.”
~G
2.7.2013
Goldeen Ogawa is an avid mountain biker, equestrian, whitewater guide, and all-around outdoorsy person who also writes stories and draws pictures. This week, she has been posting notes from her trip to Death Valley National Park. You can email her about the things in your head at goldeenogawa@gmail.com or peck at her on Twitter @GrimbyTweets.
This week I am sharing the notes I took on a recent trip to Death Valley National Park with my friend Rose. You can read my report from Day One here, and Day Three here.
Highway 190 West, across the valley from Stovepipe Wells.
Wednesday, February 6th 2013
I did not make it to Titus Canyon. I blame the wind.
What happened was this: after a good breakfast of bacon, eggs, bread, kashi and kefir I left Stovepipe Wells on my bicycle and started the trek across the valley floor. At first it was marvelous: gently sloping, slightly downhill, with a weak tailwind. I made good time past the Mesquite Sand Dunes, even allowing for stops to take pictures. I crossed the bottom of the valley, through the Devil’s Corn Field, and then climbed the rise up to the junction with Scotty’s Castle Road. There I had to turn north—left—to begin making my way up the valley.
Looking north (and straight into the wind) along Scotty’s Castle Road, Death Valley.
It felt like turning into a gale. Wind buffeted me, roaring in my ears and slowing me to a crawl. I was riding directly into its head, and on occasion it was so strong I felt like I would be blown backwards if I stopped pedaling. I had to pedal, too, even on the downhill stretches. Every time I stopped I became aware of just how strong the wind was; even standing still the wind whipped my hair back and roared in my ears.
View back towards Stovepipe, across the valley. The white stuff at the base of the mountains is not mist or clouds, but sand from the dunes being picked up by the wind.
I kept going bravely for ten miles, at which point I gave up and turned around. I was tired and I did not think I could count on the wind to hold. I certainly did not want it to back around and trap me. Luckily it didn’t, and I got to enjoy ten miles of the strongest tailwind I’ve ever experienced. For bicyclists: the tail wind was so strong that, on some stretches, I was on my highest gears, spinning out, and getting hot—because even though I must have been going almost thirty miles per hour, so was all the air around me and was therefore offering no wind-cooling whatsoever.
The proof! Ten miles! (From the turnoff at 190 West.)
The ride, however, was spectacular. I really got to see the mountains, and the desert, the way the scenery slowly crept by, revealing range upon range or eroded sandstone cliffs. At the same time I became more aware of things close by: the cracked dried mud beside the road; the salt deposits, and the rare wildflowers.
Wildflowers along Scotty’s Castle Road, Death Valley.
Riding north along Scotty’s Castle Road I passed by a string of salmon-colored cliffs, which came right down to the road’s edge in sweeping curves. I kept peering up into the canyons they revealed, half-expecting to see carvings of dragons or dinosaurs, like in Dinotopia, picked out in the rock.
Sand cliffs near Scotty’s Castle Road, Death Valley.
After I turned west again, on my way home, I lost my tailwind and had to slog the last seven miles back to Stovepipe. It was strangely hard: all the vast, open distances are oddly taxing on my mind. In total I estimate I only biked thirty-six miles, yet I am both mentally and physically tired.
My trusty bicycle resting against the sign for Stovepipe Wells after the ride.
Rose was not in the room when I returned, so I lunched, showered, and was just setting up to do some drawing when she got back. After she ate we crossed the street to the general store in search of chocolate. It was more of a gift shop than a general store, but it did have chocolate. They had the usual T-shirts and mugs made in China, and a few rather beautiful stone-ware mugs and bowls, as well as medicine wheels and dream catchers. In the end, however, Rose and I just got chocolate.
I broke down and took the car: it seems the way to get around DV. We drove out to the Salt Creek Interpretive Trail and walked around on the boardwalk. It is called Salt Creek because the water is more saline than seawater—due to the fact that it evaporates as it flows, leaving the salt and minerals behind. It is one of the habitats of the super-rare pupfish—though we didn’t see any. We did see lots of salt, though.
Dafydd at Salt Creek. The white stuff is salt. I know, I checked.
After that we drove on to Furnace Creek, where there is a proper visitor’s center and a Chevron (gas starting at $5.28 a gallon). I didn’t buy gas (I think I will have enough to get us to Beatty tomorrow), but we did go into the visitor’s center where Rose bought a mug, and I got a bandana with a topographical map of Death Valley printed on it. I also had cell phone reception, surprisingly, so I took advantage of it to call my mom, just for fun.
We then drove back to Stovepipe, and up the gravel road to the bottom of Mosaic Canyon, which I had wanted to bike up to yesterday evening, but Rose hadn’t been up for it. I think I will bike up there again tomorrow.
Jawa country if ever I did see it!
By this point my sandals were giving me sores and we were losing the light, so we didn’t hike up all the way. Still, it was a pleasant walk: the rock is all jumbled, mixed between cement-like amalgamations and smooth, polished sandstone. In some of the steeper places there are even grease-stains from where people have put their hands, just like in the Tower of Pisa. It looked, altogether, rather like Jawa country. I had fun climbing around on the walls of the canyon and taking silly pictures.
In addition to being Dafydd’s Assistance Human, I can also function as a bridge!
Tomorrow we drive out to Beatty, and then to the ghost town of Rhyolite. After which, if we have time, we’ll make the schlep back up north to Scotty’s Castle, which Rose wants to see, and then to Ubehebe Crater, which I want to see.
~G
2.7.2013
Sunset, viewed from the depths of Mosaic Canyon.
Goldeen Ogawa is an avid mountain biker, equestrian, whitewater guide, and all-around outdoorsy person who also writes stories and draws pictures. This week, she is posting notes from her trip to Death Valley National Park. You can email her about the things in your head at goldeenogawa@gmail.com or peck at her on Twitter @GrimbyTweets.
I recently took a trip to Death Valley National Park, which lies on the eastern border of California. I went there ostensibly to do research for a story, but also because I’ve always loved the outdoors and I really wanted to visit. I went with my friend Rose, who lives east of Lancaster, and whose house provided a midway rest point on my drive. (As the dragon flies I live very close to the valley, however we are separated by the highest mountains in the continental United States, so in order to actually get from my house to the park I had to drive south almost to Los Angeles, and then north again, and then (finally) east.)
We stayed at the hotel at Stovepipe Wells for three nights, from Tuesday, February 5th, to Friday, February 8th, and visited most of the places of interest in the northern half of the park. Rather than writing up one monumental report, I’ve chose to share the notes I took during the trip. What follows are my notes from Day One.
The report from Day Two is here, and Day Three here.
View from Father Crowely (really) Vista, overlooking Panamint Valley. Western border of Death Valley National Park.
Tuesday, February 5th 2013
The thing about Death Valley is it is not all empty space; it is filled up around the edges with sharp, spiky mountains; purple and blue when they are in the distance, gold and red when up close.
I know this, because I got to drive through many of those mountains to get here.
At first it was all space. The high desert north of Mojave, with sandstone cliffs and miles and miles and miles of tumbleweed-strewn plain, dotted with Joshua Trees. We drove through that landscape for two and a half hours before we even saw our first sign for Death Valley. From there we cut across the southern edge of some salt flats, with the snow-capped Sierra mountains marching away north of us.
There is a lot of uphill to get to Death Valley. Up, up, gently up the sloping rise… then down, down tight, twisty roads, across the narrow valley floor, and then up again. The final stretch winds its way through the mountains that border Death Valley’s western side, up, over, and finally down, down, down. Down from nearly five-thousand feet, to sea level. I know, because there is a sign that says so about fifty yards down the road from here.
Sign fifty feet from Stovepipe Wells hotel, Death Valley.
Here is Stovepipe Wells, a way station in the northwest area of Death Valley National Park. There is a rambling sort of motel with a bar and saloon attached, and across the street a general store with a gas station. There is also a camp ground, and a small, seldom-used airport beyond that.
View of Death Valley, looking north from Mosaic Canyon Road, west of Stovepipe Wells.
Gas here is frighteningly expensive. Passing by Panamint Springs Resort I saw the gas listed as starting at $6—something a gallon. I think. Anyway, it was over $5. The gas station here does not have its prices listed, but I shudder to think what they are. With luck, I will not have to buy gas here: on Thursday we plan to drive out the other side of DV and stop in Beatty NV, where hopefully the gas is more reasonably priced.
Death Valley is very dry—as is to be expected. The dirt is find powder, mixed with stones. I can’t seem to get cold water from the tap here: it is either luke-warm or very hot.
We are “camping out” in the hotel room. Food is also pricey here, so Rose has brought her hotplate and supplies of eggs, bacon and meat. I have bread, some veggies, and snacks of dry cereal and fruit. Also kefir. It has all been packed into Rose’s big cooler with lots of ice. We’ll see how long it lasts.
Our food supplies for the week. Can you find Dafydd?
I brought my bicycle and tomorrow I am going to ride over to the bottom of Titus Canyon, and then see how far up it I get. I was warned at the ranger station that is is 1) very steep, and 2) very busy with traffic going the other way. So I will bring my lights, for visibility.
Rose is not up for very much biking, so after my ride we may take the car over to Furnace Creek and do some of the easy trails from there. Or stuff. And things. I will write of it whatever.
~G
2.5.2013
My companion, Rose, looking at the sun setting on the eastern mountains of Death Valley, over the buildings of Stovepipe Wells.
Goldeen Ogawa is an avid mountain biker, equestrian, whitewater guide, and all-around outdoorsy person who also writes stories and draws pictures. This week, she is posting notes from her trip to Death Valley National Park. You can email her about the things in your head at goldeenogawa@gmail.com or peck at her on Twitter @GrimbyTweets.
I had this brilliant idea to do a blog post about horses in fiction and how they are misrepresented and how to do them justice. 5,000 words later I realized what I had was a series of blog posts, and ones that would need to be heavily proofed at that. So while those are getting shaken down into something resembling coherence, here’s a look at what I’ve been doing for the past month.
This project has seriously been eating my life. After eight years of writing/illustrating AngeldevilI’ve become quite good at making comics. But God-Fox is 100% color, which makes it about three times more difficult than Angeldevil (which was almost exclusively black and white). But the finished pages are coming out marvelously. Here’s a sample from Book 3 (of 4) which I’m currently working on:
Watercolor on Bristol Board, lettering and alignment in Photoshop.
Year of the God-Fox will be available on-line later this year, and (I hope) in print no too long after. If you know of any creator-owned content publishers looking for a nice, all-ages fantasy type story, send me their info, yeah?
Around the edges I’ve also been writing a good deal, working up a nice backlog of stories to publish once I get Heliopause Productions off the ground. This is proving to be more work than I anticipated, due to having to deal with my previous accounts with Amazon, iTunes, etc. Word to the wise for indie-published writers: if you want to have a professional front (which you do), make all your accounts under that name from the start, so you don’t have to go through the head-aches I’m going through. This is also why I’m making the transition now, while the whole operation is still rather small.
Oh yes, and I’ve been doing some (volunteer) narrator work for the District of Wonders podcasts. For those interested, I have so far recorded and delivered stories for Tales to Terrify and Crime City Central, though I have no way of knowing exactly when they’ll be aired. Look for works by Anne Michaud and Keith McCarthy, respectively.
It’s been an interesting exercise in reading stories I would otherwise never read, and doing characters I would otherwise never do. It’s also helped me develop a better system for recording and editing the resulting files. Knowledge that should come in handy when Radio Grimbald starts up again.
Ah yes, about Radio Grimbald. I’ve been asked when my own podcast will be coming back, and the truth is I don’t know, except that it will be back. The landscape is this: I have a novel that’s essentially ready to be published, but I want to do it properly, with fancy illustrations and wonderful type-setting and a snazzy print edition and everything. Once that’s done I’ll be able to podcast it. But in order to have the time to do all that properly, I’ll need to not be spending six hours a day illustrating a webcomic.
So first I’ve got to get Year of the God-Fox finished, then I can concentrate on turning my novel into an actual book, and then I can record it, and then, then Radio Grimbald will be back. For real, anyway. I’ve got a few free-floating stories that may appear as interstitial episodes in the near future. Assuming I have the time.
I know it’s very frustrating when we artists wall ourselves off in our towers and work work work without ever showing you anything, but rest assured that when the gates do open there will be a flood of new material.
Next week I will be in San Jose for Further Confusion, exhibiting in the Art Show and probably yelling myself hoarse at the Karaoke on Saturday night. Should be good fun. If you’re in the area, I highly recommend picking up a day pass for either Friday or Saturday (or both). On Friday my friend 2, the Ranting Gryphon (not an actual gryphon, sadly) has a stand-up show. He is hiLARious (if not child-friendly), and I can’t recommend him enough. And on Saturday another friend, Matt Ebel is doing a concert—he’s a class act that should not be missed.
Some people make New Year’s resolution. Me, if I look too far into the future I start to whimper and cry and curl into a little ball—so I’ve been keeping my nose firmly to the grindstone, and let time bring what may.
Speaking of grindstones and noses, I should soon be putting one back to the other. Those pages won’t paint themselves!
Watercolor on Bristol Board. Type and alignment in Photoshop. I have two more to do today.
Goldeen Ogawa is a writer and an artist whose mind makes promises her body cannot always keep. You can email her about the things in your head at goldeenogawa@gmail.com or peck at her on Twitter @GrimbyTweets.
It is about an hour past midnight, in the wee hours of Christmas morning. The parents are safely asleep, and so I have just gotten back from creeping out into the living room and leaving them a little surprise in the stockings left hanging over our (entirely traditional) Christmas Victrola. Since I know neither of them will see this blog before they see the living room, I can post a picture here.
Dafydd (left) and Sally holding Amigurumi!Dave (right) above my family’s Christmas Victrola, covered with presents waiting to be opened later this morning.
Those stockings were made by my Wonderful Mother when my brother and I were very young. She made them out of cloth she wove herself on a giant loom that took up the entire spare room of the house my parents rented in Palo Alto, out of a pattern she created out of thin air. She made four, actually. One each for myself, my brother, and our two cousins. For the next fifteen years or so my brother and I would awake on Christmas morning to find them stuffed with candies and goodies—bribes, essentially, to keep us busy while we waited for our dad (a chronically late riser in those days) to wake up so we could open presents together.
I remember in the beginning there was some half-hearted pretext that Santa came and left the goodies for us, but my brother and I soon deduced that “Santa” was just a code word for your parents at about one in the morning on Christmas Day. It was a game of make-believe for us, and we played along as long as it was fun—until one year when we were teenagers my mother announced that “Santa” had had enough and could she please not buy stocking stuffers this year? We relented.
My entire family (and by that extension, myself) are atheists, so it may be surprising to some of you that we celebrate Christmas.
It shouldn’t be, really.
Christmas is, after all, just what we currently call the tradition of sharing gifts, eating good food, and bringing lights into the dark around the winter solstice. Human beings have been celebrating versions of Christmas for as long as we can remember. Probably as long as we have been human. And we probably will be celebrating Christmas, though we may not always call it that, for as long as there are humans on Earth (or any other planet with a tilted axis). And what is atheism but a human at their default spiritual state? All atheists have is their humanity, and that is what Christmas is all about, really:
Celebrating humanity, and our capacity for love and generosity and our appreciation of good food and music and dancing and our unique ability to bring light and warmth into otherwise cold and dark places.
Early Christians showed no compunction about appropriating the popular pagan winter festivals into their own religion, to make it more appealing. They even went so far as to forcibly move the observance of their messiah’s birthday from the spring (when it actually happened) to the middle of winter. Even so, many of our Christmas traditions today are not Christian in origin; they are holdovers from the religions that Christianity was trying to compete with.
And one of the best parts of being an atheist is that you can pick and choose your fun celebrations from any and all faiths with no feelings of guilt or loyalty. I certainly don’t see any problem with keeping fine old traditions going, especially if they are such good ideas like public singing, eating chocolate, giving presents, and lighting fires in the middle of the night.
It’s not about god for me (any of them); it’s about being human. And I think that’s something we can all celebrate.
Christians took over a bunch of different holidays that were already happening at about the same time, condensed them into one, and slapped a new name on it.
I see no problem in stealing it back from them.
But unlike them, I don’t have an agenda (except maybe to make eggnog this evening) so I can’t be bothered to change the name.
So as my little fuzzy red gay dragon from Wales would say: Nadolig Llawen!
May all the gods who have been celebrated in the name of Christmas (every one) bless you.
And for those of you who find the blessings of gods superfluous, my dragon wishes you well also.
You can never have too many well-wishes from dragons, whatever your faith or lack thereof. I take this truth to be self-evident.
Merry Christmas,
—Goldeen
Goldeen Ogawa disbelieves in all religions equally, but believes almost unconditionally in humanity’s ability to tell stories. Take from that what you will. You can email her about the things in your head at goldeenogawa@gmail.com or peck at her on Twitter @GrimbyTweets.
