Tag: Writing

Small Dream Saturday

Small Dream Saturday: A Brief History of Vampires

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Hello Strangers,

I am nothing if not (in)consistent. Today (eleven o’clock at night,) I am going to do things a bit differently; I am going to reveal to you the surprising and potentially very inaccurate history of the folkloric tradition of vampires as I have learned it.

Photo by Martin Schneider on Pexels.com

Beginning in the Slavic region of Europe, ‘wampyrs’ or ‘vampyrs’ were not blood sucking demons but were actually mythic creatures that sucked the rain from the storm clouds and causing the droughts that starved communities. Similar to the gods of other communities, they served as explanations for weather patterns and as causes of human suffering.

After this, it came to mean a race of creatures that devoured celestial bodies including the sun, and also the moon. They were thought to be the cause of eclipses and blood moons, when they would bite the moon, turning it red. Now, interestingly, this is also where the werewolf myth begins. Part of the vampyr myth was that they could shapeshift into creatures like crows, cats, rabbits, and, you guessed it, wolves. Because of this, and because of the new lore surrounding the moon and stars, historians have a difficult time deciding which myths belong to which creatures, and the meanings of the name that they shared for a long time. To this day, there is conflict between vampires and werewolves not only in the interpretation of their stories, but also as characters in the stories themsleves.

After all of this, we arrive at the familiar tale of the blood sucking demon. There wasn’t much to tell here, it was simply a terrifying supernatural creature, feeding on the blood of humans. Until it became something else. Something closer to a human.

If a human were to turn into a vampire, (forgive my many spellings of the word, I know it’s distracting,) there was usually a reason for it. Parents might curse their child, and when that child died, they would return as a vampire, roaming restlessly in search of human blood. They might be a child born out of wedlock, a union not blessed by God. I take issue with that kind of assertion, because I believe that God is merciful and that every person will have a chance to repent of their sins and be saved. I take issues with stories that twist our perception of reality, but it was a cultural belief at the time The third way one could become a vampire was through sorcery. If a magician was already playing with dark forces, then when they died, their corpse might be overtaken by a demon and used to steal blood. Not just human either, a lot of sheep and cattle were killed for a very long time.

From this myth, we find the introduction of the vampire into mainstream media in England, and then America: Bram Stoker’s Dracula. (This statement ignores the many myths already present in distinctive stories held by various Native American tribes, and it is an interesting note that while the modern vampire can be traced back to Slavic origins, there are cultures all over the world from Africa, to Asia, to the Americas and beyond who have their own tales of blood-sucking creatures similar to the vampire.) But! Nonetheless, Dracula was a beginning of the vampire for the American people. A nearly human, but still greedy, conniving, lusting, blood thirsty monster. And yet even in the novel, there was some sympathy for him.

Dracula is modern, but Twilight, True Blood, and The Vampire Diaries, are contemporary examples of the vampire in literature, and they have undergone yet another shift. While they maintain their warnings of and brushes with female sexuality, lust, and demonology, these vampires are no longer demons, even if they maintain their offensive religious imagery. Religion is even touched on directly and from the vampire’s perspective in Twilight; Edward Cullen thinks that as a vampire, he is beyond saving, beyond the grace of God, and unwanted by God. In The Vampire Diaries, the two leading brothers struggle to find a sense of morality and love. Also undead politics and eating people. But the point is, vampires have changed in a fundamental way: they are no longer demons, they are representations of fallen man.

Within the realm of storytelling, vampires are at a place at last where they might seek redemption. Instead of representing fear, evil, and famine, they represent the human lost. The unwanted. The dangerous, and the people who think they are too far gone. It is time, in fiction, for the vampire’s redemption.

All stories are a product of their time and culture. We tell stories based on the state of reality, and of the thoughts in our heads that maybe we are not ready to think about in their realest forms. Our culture today is lost, listless, restless, and evil. But fully human. And in the stories of today, there is an ingrained belief that even a vampire can be redeemed.

I have a hero complex, but I will never save anybody, in any way. My small dream at the end of this Saturday is a prayer that the lost would come home.

All my love to you,

–Mabel

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Small Dream Saturday: Firefly Season

MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers.

I waited all winter for firefly season. I usually write about pleasant things, but I won’t today. It was a cold and gray winter. The highways were littered with the bodies of dogs dumped in the streets by their owners. A puppy in the middle of a bridge. Animals shot, but not killed. Police and animal control called, but not answered. Everywhere I looked, there was a starving dog or a cold house filled with suffering people, a junkyard or a sick horse. You volunteer. You step in, or step up, but you can’t save them all. In fact, you can’t save many at all.

I waited all winter for firefly season. They’re still here. But I’ve missed it.

My small dream this Saturday is that next year I would get up and bring a mason jar outside. I’ll catch ten or fifteen lightning bugs. I’ll take a picture. I’ll watch them blink. And then I’ll let them go. A bit of the old magic from childhood. It’s one of the smallest dreams I have on here.

I just said a lot of hopeless things. But I’ve been thinking about this lately: In the story of Jacob and Rachel, Rachel has two children. The first was Joseph. The second child, she named as she lay dying. She called him Ben-Oni, which means ‘Son of my Sorrow.’ Jacob looked at the child and called him Benjamin, ‘Son of my Right Hand.’ I have also heard it said, ‘Son of my Strength.’ What Rachel believed was grief, Jacob named strength. When she died, the child would have to bear his own name. Jacob chose to name him something he would be able to carry.

What we name things, situations, people, matters. What we name ourselves when the hard times come is similarly important. And so often, the things we count as sorrows are the vessels for strength. So if you’re a helper, and I’ve made you feel like it isn’t worthwhile to keep helping, that’s not the right way to view it. This winter I was in pain and that wasn’t wrong of me. But what I called grief, I misnamed. Opportunity. Every ounce of suffering, an opportunity.

“And I have been a constant example of how you can help those in need by working hard. You should remember the words of the Lord Jesus: ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’” Acts 20:35

In the short time I have left, I’ll take pictures of any lighting bugs I catch.

Blessings to you, and don’t waste your firefly season.

–Mabel

P.S. If you look closely at the picture above, you’ll see a tiny orange speck in the background to the right. That my friends, is a window in the dark.

Small Dream Saturday

Small Dream Saturday: entry 13

MabelLeave a comment

Good morning, Strangers.

Velma Dinkley: Chocolate Ice Cream at Night

When I was a child, I watched Scooby Doo obsessively. Didn’t matter the series or story, show or movie, it was guaranteed the tv was mine from 7:00 to 7:30 every single night. It was family ordained. I’d stand there eating a hotdog at the border between the kitchen and living room.

Scooby Doo was the seed that grew the desires to have a van and go on road-trips. It led me to consider becoming a private detective, and inspired my addiction to mysteries and fantasy alike. It was the first thing that made me feel clever and sparked an interest in cryptozoology.

I have three small dreams for this morning. They get smaller as they go along.

1. I would like to write a Scooby Doo television series. Scooby Doo is a franchise that acts like a comic book world. There are alternate universes with different sets of lore, different kinds of stories, different art styles, tones, and even character development. I think it’s likely that in twenty years, we’ll still be making Scooby Doo shows. And I’d like to write one.

2. A smaller dream, but still large, is that I would like to have insulated sheds on my very wild, natural property. These sheds would hold animation/digital art tech, so that I could make short videos, but also much longer and more detailed comic books and graphic novels that I would then self-publish. (Or maybe publish traditionally! Who knows?) They would be cool and dark, and they’d be an escape from their more primitive surroundings.

3. This is the littlest dream, and it’s the one that will prepare me for dreams 1 and 2. I’m going to write as much fan fiction as possible. I should have started when I was twelve like all the other writers, but I just wasn’t ready. So now, I’m going to be indulgent. I’m going to learn by doing, and even if it’s all hot garbage, I am going to have fun and grow as a person as I write incomprehensible cross overs, multiple-plot line series’s, and just fun, ridiculous one off stories. It’s going to be magnificent, and I know that because I’ve already started. My motto is quantity over quality. For that is the way to improve.

That’s all for now! Happy Saturday, my dears, and happy writing! All love,

—Mabel

Art & Writing

Tolkien Skies

MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers,

I’ve missed it here.

For the sake of the story, regardless of where you are, let’s pretend that it’s dark outside. You’re sitting across from me at a round wooden table in a country kitchen with a low watt bulb. It’s a bit depressing, but very human, and despite the heavy feeling, you also feel at ease. We have mugs of tea in front of us whether you enjoy tea or not, because that’s what I served. It has honey in it, and a spoon. And last of all, I am a woman of incalculable age, I could be young or older, and my hands… My skin is stretched over muscle and bone in such a way that somehow implies I am tired. So tired. When you look at my face, that skin is stretched too. And all of a sudden, I am not just tired.

Do you see what I want you to see?

For a time, as a teenager, I lived in a desert. I hated it desperately for years because during the day, the sun washed out all the color from the earth. Even green things looked grey. The sky looked almost white, and the color of the sunlight was closer to white than to a bold, happy yellow. I would stay inside for weeks on end.

After my uncle died, I would sit out on the wall and talk to him. I think it was during that time that I saw the evening sky in the desert. And that’s when everything changed. For a few minutes a day, I was at the circus. I was in a fantasy world. The clouds looked like cotton candy, or storms made of fire, or some other, incredible event.

Examples of Tolkien Skies

I named them Tolkien Skies, after J.R.R. Tolkien. From that moment on, I realized how much fiction had informed my views of reality. Tolkien’s skies and mountains were in the desert, but my old house in North Carolina was the setting of Ink Heart by Cornelia Funke. I look at trees and to this day I still see Dr. Seuss. Fireflies lead to magic portals, and in the field past my backyard, a barefoot woman I wrote met God.

The place I am now, it’s been a nightmare for me. I’ve stopped looking for good and I feel consistently heavy. The things I love hold less appeal. There is no physical escape from the sadness. Everywhere I look there is suffering and hatred. But that’s not the whole story.

You see, since being here, I’ve built more stories than I have I think anywhere else. I haven’t written to you yet about the neighbors whose window inspired my blog’s tag, ‘a window in the dark, a cup of tea waiting in the kitchen’ and their blue, orange, green, and gold porch lights. I haven’t told you about the lore I built around the moon. The movie Hugo was such a blessing to me, with its beautiful color palette and the Station Master in the film. I’ve gotten two dogs from this place and written more than 60,000 words in one year (a record, I think!) I learned how to bake bread, and I never would have started this blog if it weren’t for this difficult, difficult place. I began volunteering, and a very big opportunity has come my way. I’ve sat at city council meetings. And I’ll move again soon.

I can’t deny it. I’ve gotten sick again. I’m not functioning properly on any level. But as much as I want to deny it, this place has been a blessing from God. Many blessings. A new chapter is coming. And in the meantime, there has been just enough of different worlds to keep me sane while I stay in this one. I have more posts coming soon, mainly about writing and hopefully some about art (I have access to my photographs again! I will explain more in my next post!)

When things get dark, we need to search for God in the darkness. Where is He? Thankfully, I think He sometimes shows us redemption in the stories we tell ourselves. So much of my world is painted.

Thank you for sitting with me and letting me monologue. There’s a change of clothes in the guest bedroom towards the back of the house and clean sheets. I’ll leave the light on for you, but I’m going to bed. I am very, very tired.

All my love dear,

—Mabel

Art & Writing

The Rising of Bread

MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers,

This post is not about breadmaking, but about something I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since I started baking bread: the resting period.

If you’ve ever read the Grimm Fairytales, you may have also been told of how two brothers traveled the countryside in a marvelous adventure, collecting their stories in taverns, from gnarled old women in remote villages, and on street corners where charlatans spoke in hushed tones that feigned secrecy, but would instead draw their crowd. It may surprise you to learn that actually, a large number of their stories were collected just across the street from their house; from their little sister’s friends. Their second, absolutely integral source, was an upper class woman and her family who had been collecting them fastidiously throughout their lives. 

In her book, ‘Clever Maids’ (which I highly recommend) Valerie Paradiz goes through the lives of the Grimms, and also through the lives of these women and their work. 

During this time, men and boys down through the middle class had more access to education than at any time in their recent history and women continued to work in the home, often without access to books and certainly not to scholarly papers and journals. But while men were gaining education and scholarship, women were continuing the oral tradition, often making alterations to old stories and creating their own. While the reasons we remember the brothers and not their sister and friends would be a fascinating, if disheartening discussion, this post focuses on the women themselves and the way that they lived to cultivate this culture of storytelling.

It has been posited by historians that one of the reasons there are so many spinners and weavers in folklore is because it was the women weavers who told the stories, hence the terms “spinning a yarn,” and “weaving a tale.” According to Paradiz, women often told stories as they did repetitive work such as weaving, embroidering, laundry, or cooking, much like we listen to podcasts or watch dramas while we work today. 

When making bread, the same ingredients combine, they are worked and kneaded, and then they are left covered in a dark spot to rest. And as the dough rests, it rises. I think these women had their chores and schedules like ingredients and a sure routine, pounding them out like bread on a counter. Though at times it may have been boring or lonely, and limited, the quiet lulls cultivated the stories. The quiet created the rest period. Their boredom forced them to imagine, and their motherhood forced them to teach. Their girlhood forced them to invent things that men made no time for. And because of them, we have thousands of stories that may otherwise have been lost. Entire cultures fossilized in living voices until they would be written down. 

I think this is where things get confusing today. In 2023, makers, creators, and artists are encouraged to work in a way that generates the most content in the least amount of time. No longer artisans and craftsmen, they are considered ‘content creators’ and manufacturers. This model is based on the notion that all art, whether it be singing, drawing, dancing, or storytelling, is only justified if it is made to generate a profit (and if you are going to make a profit creating today, it’s very hard to do without following this formula). What this has led to within art communities is overbranding, repetitive and inauthentic content, and lack of satisfaction and burnout as artists. 

There was so much about the past that I wouldn’t want to return to…But the idea of skilled and strenuous—yet simple—labor, and a model of creation and play simply for the sake of itself is something I think many of us could benefit from. 

I can’t say one way or another, and I’m sure there are male creators that would benefit from this type of creation as well, but it makes me wonder if women create differently, and have different motives for doing so. Would this be more beneficial for one sex than the other? All I know is that without work to distract from my creativity, I stagnate as an artist and a person. And without imagination, I am unable to work. As a creator, I think it’s time to take back our craft and decide for ourselves what it will mean to be artists. 

Art & Writing

The Medium of Story…

MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers, 

It is officially spring! Has been for a week. Flowers are blooming with the leaves on the trees, bugs are back, jumping and buzzing above the wildflowers and grasses, and the sun has gotten some of its color back. It’s looking to be a beautiful season. 

There are so many stories in nature. One area of the forest holds standing water, mosquitoes, and the moss which will continue to live despite  the summer heat, another has a babbling brook and Black Eyed Susans that the deer come to drink at, still another holds a meadow, which somehow always manages to catch the sunlight, gold in the middle, and green at the edges from the filter of the leaves. 

That’s an apt metaphor for story as well. I read somewhere that a lot of people today have stories inside them, but assume they have to turn them into novels. That simply isn’t true, there are a thousand ways to tell a story. They don’t even have to be written. 

My favorite living artist is named Robin Sealark. She has an excellent YouTube channel under that name, and she was the person who taught me to experiment with everything in my art. To sketch, paint, and tell story with abandon. Art-a-thons and studies, realistic and stylized…She explained that in the first year of an art degree, students work in the studio for hours a day, months on end, trying everything. Acrylic, oil, gouache, watercolor, graphite, charcoal, chalk, crayons, sculpting, digital mediums…And then after they’ve tried everything, they specialize.  

So, in a generation that has access to everything, do we limit ourselves? 

I’ve started a journal, and everytime I have a story idea, I write it down. I think about it, and then I also add what medium I think it’s best suited to. Some of my stories are very visual, so I pick comics, graphic novels, or animations, (animations are obviously out of reach for a lot of creators, but I still like to list it as an option!) and some stories enter my mind and I imagine telling them around a campfire or as a bedtime story. These might be better suited to podcasts, songs, or a simply written script I can memorize and tell as a bedtime story, or at a campfire. Not everything has to belong to everyone. 

You can write novels, short stories, poems, tv scripts, you can make mixed media stories like comics and graphic novels, you can make sculptures and paintings that encompass a story, dance, song, podcast, blog, youtube channel. You can cook stories! You can weave a story! Literally. 

What I’m asking is that you don’t limit yourself before you’ve tried everything. Even the people who write medical textbooks and grants are telling stories. Marketing is storytelling. Landscape paintings are stories. Embrace all of the mediums. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a new way to create. 

Happy Spring! 

–Mabel

Art & Writing

Creative Rituals

Mabel1 Comment

Hello, Strangers. 

All my life, I’ve wanted to be a novelist. I wanted to write book series after book series and earn a nice living and some recognition. The problem for me has always been, simply, I am not a very good writer. The process of writing a structured novel has eluded me for years, and short stories are somehow worse. I lose the plot, I sound patronizing or preachy, I can’t find the words, my story is dull, characters lack dimension. In frustration and laziness, I have abandoned countless projects and forgotten the details of the rest. And that was when I was writing consistently at all. But one thing I’ve always had some ability in is writing poetry. I love poetry because it frees me to tell a story without constraint, or worries about proper form. I can meditate on the meaning of words and truly slow down to think about what needs to happen. it doesn’t have to make sense. And the poems don’t have to be good. They just have to exist. And therein lies the secret to ritual and routine.

Not poetry,

but love. 

The word amateur initially came to English through the French, and the French took amateur from the Latin amator which means “lover”. According to Merriam-Webster, in its earliest usage, it meant:

“one that has a marked fondness, liking, or taste.” 

An amateur writer, then, may be clumsy, inexperienced, and lack talent in the craft, (which is closer to how the word is used today) but they get into writing for the love of it. 

Merriam-Webster defines ritual as a ceremonial act or series of acts which are repeated in a precise manner. The type of ritual I am referring to today is not religious or spiritual, but a way to enforce a habit.

To be an amateur is to love something even if you have no skill in it. Ritual can be defined as the result of disciplined love to practice something until you have skill in it.

Every night after I got home from work, I would take off my uniform and replace it with a set of pajamas. I needed to be comfortable and warm. After it got dark and the rest of my household went to bed, I donned red lipstick and mascara, made myself a cup of something hot, gathered my journals and went to sit in the dim glow of the lamp in the dining room alcove. As low music played quietly, I would ruminate, and then, in a format that I knew I could trust, I would write. Here are some of the key elements that I’ve found help me when creating a writing ritual:

Time and Place

The first thing to consider is practicality. Do you only have time to write in the mornings or evenings? Build writing into that time. I typically waited until everyone was asleep and when it was peaceful and quiet, I got to work. It is important to be consistent, but flexible as needs must. The second thing to consider is place. Do you work better in the hustle and bustle, or do you need silence? Do you need the comfort of your bed, or the dignity of a desk? Are you alright with mess, or do you need a clean environment? You can build a space with whatever you have by making small adjustments as you need to.

Attire

I write whimsically; fantasy, children’s stories, poetry, etc., and I find that I work best in pajamas. I’m warm, comfortable, and able to contemplate quietly. The makeup I wear helps me to feel artistic and awake with my ideas. In my mind, it adds a layer of depth to my writing persona. What you wear can affect your mood and your view of yourself, and exercising creative control can help you to feel more confident when you create.

The Five Senses

Ritual relies significantly on the five senses, which are: sight, hearing, touch, taste, and smell. If you have a glass of wine and burn your favorite candle whenever you write, you have two different things to associate writing with. You may use a certain playlist, turn on the same lamp, and sit in the same place. You may find it more difficult to write without these things once you have a routine, but they can also help you greatly when you do use them. Much like grounding, these elements can give you a mental anchor to the task at hand. The things you associate with writing should be pleasant, but not distracting.

The Love of an Amateur

I mentioned in a previous post that I have a hard time writing humor into my stories because I always see people as sad. I would like to write funny stories, but I write sad things instead. I would like to write short stories and novels, but I write poetry and journal entries instead. Yet, this is not bad. I do not write funny stories yet. But through writing my sad things, I am learning how to incorporate laughter. Through years of writing poetry and journal entries, I have gained enough confidence and discipline to try novel writing again (and I am!). Don’t let your love for the craft die out! If you need to, begin your ritual or routine with warmups, or a medium that is familiar to you, and comfortable. Gain confidence and passion for it, gain experience and expertise, and then challenge yourself to do the hard things.

I hope these ideas can be helpful to you, and I look forward to writing more about writing, soon. With love,

–Mabel

Small Dream Saturday

Small Dream…Monday: Entry 4

MabelLeave a comment

Hey Strangers.

I am capable of telling some beautiful stories. They’re sad, usually. They have hope, and happy endings, but they’re still sad. My characters lack dimension because I can only write them how I see them, and not how they might choose to hide if they were real. And real people always hide. Besides, no one wants to read stories that are only told in shades of blue.

Watching some of my favorite cartoons this week, I’ve realized how endearing and complex they are, because underlying their characters is a profound sadness; but on the surface, there is a profound humor, and love is a critical element of both. 

I missed Small Dream Saturday last week, and I missed my regular posting. But my dream was for humor. Unironically, one of my favorite things in the world is to give people close to me a place to mourn. Sometimes people need to cry and for some reason, I see sadness like little else. But I have stripped my worlds, both real and fictional, down to grief and have ignored the joy of humor. I’ve ignored why people lie. I’ve forgotten why both humor and grief make the human, and my dream is to learn to write in a way that makes people laugh and makes my characters something a real person can connect to. 

I’m excited to learn how to write laughter. That’s my dream. 

With love,

–Mabel