(Modus operandi: this is a part of a series I’m doing to stay creative during my obligatory training with the Swiss military. The stories are super short and are meant to be read while listening to the music pieces written to accompany them. This second story was inspired by the painting above – “All Hallow’s Eve” by Jakub Schikaneder – which I saw at the National Gallery in Prague and wondered who the old woman was waiting for, and why she looked so sad. I hope you like it!) 🙂
On Sokolov’s Bridge
In late October, 1799, Franek’s mother sent him to Sokolov’s Bridge to pull a bucket of water from the cold, deep lake below.
“And don’t fall in,” his mother warned, but Franek did.
It had been an accident of course. Franek had hurried along the dusty road between the tall autumn oaks, hoisting the heavy wooden bucket with him. He ran as fast as he could, because he had an entire evening of good things to look forward to, and they had not included going to the lake for water. Dusk was falling. The air held the first cutting edge of winter. Franek arrived at the place where the earth dipped down steeply toward the lake. He started across the bridge, which was very long and crumbling. In the middle of the bridge was the winch and the rope for the water-bucket, and he climbed the little steps along the rough stone wall that hedged the bridge’s sides. He heaved the bucket after him, put it on the sharp iron hook at the end of the rope.
And that was when he fell. There was no particular reason for it. Franek had fetched water from the lake a hundred times before. But today he looked down, and just as he was about to lower the bucket, he thought he saw something in the water below. He could have sworn there were faces peering up at him, a dozen or more, and a shape moving in the depths, a ripple, like the pearlescent spine of a great fish pushing up out of the ebb, a thin, sleek form twisting just under the surface and falling away again.
He tottered a moment at the edge of the bridge, a confused look on his face. Then he fell, very quickly, and the water rushed up to meet him.
When Franek came to, he was lying in a little cave with a rotting wooden door, and carpets over the rough wet rocks, and a diamond-paned window that looked up onto the underside of the lake
A woman was sitting across from him. She looked not a day over eighteen, dressed in a plain white shroud. There were rotting flowers in her hair, and spots of mould on her cheeks, and she was watching the boy sharply.
“Good evening,” said the woman, when she saw Franek returning her gaze.
“Good evening,” said Franek.
Now, Sokolov’s Bridge was one of those very old bridges that, by virtue of its age, was also the prison of a water witch. Her name had been Margosha once, and she had been bound to the foundations of the bridge a hundred years ago, for it was thought that if you mixed a bit of human in with the mortar and stones, your construction would remain strong through war and high-water, storm and earthquake. To move the road around the narrow, twisting lake would have taken years. And so one day in spring, Margosha was lowered into the water, her hair full of flowers, her eyes full of tears, and they walled her into the foundation pillar at the centre of Sokolov’s Bridge
She died, of course, slowly and cruelly, while her townspeople watched solemnly from the banks. She saw their faces as she sank into the dark, the baker who had given her ginger cakes as a child, her parents hand in hand, her betrothed, stony and upright. She saw them all turn to shadows against the sun, as her eyes blurred and went out like candles. But she did not leave the place she died. She haunted it, a water witch of the icy depths.
Margosha grew old and bitter as time. She watched the women and children come and draw their water. She saw the foxes and the birds passing by on their secret journeys. Peering up with her lidless, milky eyes she saw the merchants, and the soldiers, the highwaymen and the thieves, and her cold, wet heart grew hungry for revenge.
Every few years or so, a fool would dip into her waters: pedlars stopping to bathe before the village, lazy old fishermen in their boats, women with their sacks of laundry; all of them vanished, never to be seen. And when Margosha saw Franek teetering on the edge, she stirred in the depths and watched him fall, and gathered him up once he did.
“You may have three wishes,” she said now, in her dripping lair beneath the lake. She smiled a green smile full of snails and weeds. Sometimes a tiny fish would squeeze its way out of the corner of her eye and drop to the floor. “But not for you. You may wish for anyone in the world. And then you will stay here in the dark, with the ones I have taken. You will lie in the water and watch as the dreams of others come true, as they pass over the bridge with their children and grandchildren, as they go to markets you will never visit, and see sights you will never see, as they live on and on in the light.”
Because that was what she had done and what she had been: a wish, a lucky penny thrown into the water for the good of others.
“Why can’t I wish for myself?” said Franek, who had been planning to be very clever. He had planned to wish his way out of the lake and onto Sokolov’s Bridge, with a pail of water and perhaps a few toffees for the road home, and now the witch had ruined everything. But Margosha knew what he would wish for. She was not a stupid witch.
“Because I couldn’t,” she said with a smirk. And she gestured down a hallway of her lair. Its floor was covered with puddles, and in each one lay a dark shape, a jacket or a heap of petticoats, or a heavy suit of rusting amor. Puddle after puddle stretched away, and face down in each one was a man or a woman, their clothes all soaked to the bone, their bodies swollen and pale. “But the bridge still stands! No war or fire has broken it. That is sacrifice, is it not? All for the greater good.”
She watched Franek, her eyes glittering with fury. “Come now. Don’t you want anything? I have such a lot of trinkets and coins saved up for wishes.” She ran her long fingers through a chest of coins and ribbons and locks of hair, rattling them together.
Franek thought of himself staying in the cold lake forever, floating there while everyone forgot he ever existed. There had been no choice presented; he would stay here, wishes or none. The witch simply wanted the satisfaction of watching someone wish for things he would never enjoy himself. But Franek was not sure he minded as much as she thought he did. He wished for a new cow for his mother, and he wished his friend from the old schoolhouse could walk again. With each wish, Maryzska dropped a coin away into the water that lapped at the floor of her lair.
And then Franek had an idea: “I wish you weren’t imprisoned here,” he said. “I’m sorry the wicked people threw you down the well, but I wish you could be free again. I didn’t throw you down the well. I wish you well.”
Margosha pulled back in surprise, and suddenly she looked like her old self again. The snails dropped from her teeth, and a flood of fishes fell from under eyelids and slithered into the water.
“But will you allow me one thing?” Franek asked. “If I’m to stay here forever, let me come up on All Hallow’s Eve. Let me look out of the water and go up on the bridge.”
The water witch nodded, her eyes as green as the seaweed in her hair. And then she was gone, sliding and wriggling out of the water and running off beneath the red oak trees, and then above them, on and on toward the moon.
“And tell my mother I’ll wait for her there!” Franek shouted after her. “Go and tell her! Please go and tell her!”
Margosha never returned to the bridge. But All Hallow’s Eve did, swinging round like a great brass pendulum and dragging with it the smell of oak-logs and fires and hot cider. And every time it did, the door opened in a cottage not far from Sokolov’s Bridge, and a woman came out with a little bag of things, and a fine new wreath, and went to Sokolov’s Bridge, and waited all through the day, hunched and alone, for nighttime.
In late October, 1843, Franek looked up from the bottom of the lake. Seaweed slithered across his pale forehead and wound through his hair. Moonlight reflected in his eyes, turning them to silver coins. High above, an old woman was peering down at him, laughing and crying and waving. Franek waved back, his hand moving slowly through the water. And now he felt himself rising, breaking the surface and floating to the edge of the lake, climbing the mortar of the ancient foundations. They embraced for a moment on Sokolov’s Bridge, a boy forever eight, and an old woman, cut out against the bright cold light.
Then the moon shifted, and the clouds returned, and Franek climbed the little steps to the old iron hook. He fell away again into the water, just as he had before. His mother blurred, a rippling shape up on Sokolov’s Bridge. And as Franek sank, he watched his mother turn slowly, and shoulder her wreath, and trudge away into the night.
(Modus operandi: this is a part of a series I’m doing to stay creative during obligatory training with the Swiss military. The stories are super short – under a thousand words – and are meant to be read while listening to the music pieces written to accompany them. If you read more slowly, you can click on the Soundcloud link and then on the little looped-y-loop so that the music repeats itself. This first story is inspired by the now-very-famous 52 Hertz Whale, who spoke so differently from other whales that none of them could understand it. I hope you like it! 🙂
The Whale and the Tea-Kettle
Not far from a bleak winter beach – sharp stones and frost, thin grass and no sun to warm the edges of things – a boat drifted, rusting and old, its portholes covered in rime. It was the sort of boat people called a tea-kettle, which meant it was small and clad in metal, and had only one thin, crooked smokestack, and was prone to leakage.
The boat bobbed in the black water, mostly silent but for a few grumbles and grunts, until all at once a whale surfaced next to it. The whale’s great curious eye gazed at the boat, and the boat’s grimy portholes gazed back.
“Hello,” said the whale.
The wind whistled through the boat’s single smokestack. The whale took this to mean, “Hello to you, too.”
“Why are you floating here so quietly?” the whale inquired, not wanting the conversation to flag.
A wave came and knocked against the boat’s side. “Everything inside me has died,” said the boat melodramatically.
The whale peered into one porthole and sure enough there were skeletons around the table, and a skeleton tucked into bed, and a skeleton holding a mug in its bony fingers and grinning at the wall.
“What happened to them?” the whale asked, but the boat only bobbed to and fro and did not answer.
The whale stirred the water with its great tail, to wake the tea-kettle up.
“I don’t know,” the boat answered at last, in creaks and cracks of its rusting panels. “I suppose I took a wrong turn somewhere and they ran out of water. Funny, isn’t it, to run out of water in the middle of the sea?”
The whale wasn’t sure that was funny, but it laughed politely, a long, slow laugh that took several minutes. “How did you learn to speak to whales?” it asked, when it had finished.
“I didn’t,” said the boat. “I don’t know why I can talk to you. I suppose because your voice is very strange for a whale’s.”
The whale dipped its head underwater, feeling rather ashamed. It was true that its voice was not cavernous and bellowing like other whales. It sounded creaky and thin, much like the rasp of tea-kettle’s rivets and plates.
“I never learned to speak to whales either,” said the whale. “Or at least, none of them can understand what I say to them.”
One of the tea-kettle’s loose shutters clanked in the wind. “Well, I’ve forgotten how to speak boat-ish, if it’s any consolation. Boats wouldn’t be caught dead speaking to me, because I’m rusting, and I have only one thin, crooked smokestack, and I’m prone to leakage. But it’s not so bad. The fishers on my boat spoke nine languages between them, before they stopped speaking altogether, and it didn’t do them any good. They never agreed on anything.”
“I think,” said the whale, “that if I could speak to someone, I would never stop.”
“Well, you can speak to me,” said the boat, and one of the portholes in its prow spun in a gust of wind, like a wink.
The whale was delighted, and it told the tea-kettle its tale.
When the whale was no larger than a bicycle, its mother vanished in a cloud of orcas. The little whale wandered the seas, speaking to other whales with wild abandon. It spoke to great blue whales, and small bullish grey ones, and a white one as long as an ocean-liner. It asked them if it could join their herds, tried telling jokes and singing songs, but the other whales looked at it askance for its strange and ugly voice, and then chased it away. Not one of them understood what it was trying to say.
The whale travelled far and wide, growing larger and larger. It sang to a squid, and a coral reef. It bellowed a greeting to a child on a beach, who watched it curiously and then answered in an even stranger song than the whale’s own. It spoke to a starling, who was hitching a ride on a grey piece of driftwood. The whale surfaced very gently and murmured ‘good morning’ to the starling as nicely as it could, but the bird was startled anyway and fluttered indignantly away.
In time the whale grew weary, and floating in the blue dark of the ocean it wished it might turn into one of those small, mute, silvery fishes, or burst above the waves and become a starling, too, that could swoop away into the sky.
And just when the whale was as sad as it had ever been, it saw a boat floating on the surface of the water, and heard a sound – a long, rude creeeeeeak – and the whale was sure that meant “Hello.”
Perhaps you will say boats cannot speak. Perhaps you will insist the whale went mad from loneliness. But perhaps they were both very happy, the whale and the tea-kettle, drifting far from the shore and the thin grey grasses, and the sharp rocks, into the far cold sea, where they creaked and warbled in their own secret language for the rest of their days.
Helloooo, poor dusty blog. *blows cobwebs from the windows* *throws wide the curtains* I’m back from Asia, and I loved it, and those posts are still coming, but slowly, alas, for lots of reasons.
I was really sick for most of my time in Hong Kong, and most of December in general. I got all the way through Japan, South Korea, and Taiwan, drinking tap-water all the way, and then China KNOCKED ME OUT. My body was not ready.
I recovered enough to get on a plane back to Zürich, and then I sat next to a sick Swiss guy and became ill all over again. (On an unrelated note, this guy watched Inside Out six times on our 13-hour flight, and like . . . I adore Pixar as much as the next person, but whoa.) Anyway, when I got to my parents house for holiday feasting, my older brother, who was visiting from the US, was sick. So between Chinese, Swiss, and American pathogens I got *really* sick. Like, catatonic, stay-away-or-you’ll-die-a-miserable-plague-ish-death, too, sick.
And that’s the tragic tale of why I’ve been non-existent on the internet, even more than usual.
Now military is starting (ahhhhh. . .) and I’ll be confined to barracks and cut-off from the internet, so I’ve been trying to catch up on things before then, and break in my boots, which are awfully uncomfortable and apparently if you don’t wear them in before military they’ll mangle your feet.
Also, I have a massive revision to do, and fun little story project, so let’s talk about those!
Monster Middle Grade continues its sloooooow evolution into readable book-form. A part of me doesn’t want to talk about this, because I think there’s sometimes this expectation that book-writing should be a straightforward flash of inspiration, a flurry of passionate writing in a garret, some careful revision, and then you churn out a tidy book a year, and it’s lovely, and the characters are all perfectly evolved, and the plot has no holes, and the world-building is neither too much nor too little.
And if that doesn’t happen, there must be something wrong with you, or you’re a bad writer, or whatever. And the thing is, some writers do manage to put out an excellent book every year, and keep up the appearance of having everything under control (which is very cool, and I admire them for that greatly).
But once you meet other writers and get a peek behind the scenes, you realise that book-writing is almost never tidy and appearances can be gravely misleading. Some books are messy and bursting at the seams. Some books – probably some of your very favourites – didn’t only take 1-2 drafts to get right. Maybe they took 3-4 drafts. Maybe they took 10 drafts or 15 drafts or 20 drafts, and the writer despaired many times, and doubted they were up for the task, and questioned whether the book would ever work the way it worked in their head, or whether they should become a Yak-herder in Nepal.
So, thats where I am right now. But I’m also determined to do this, and if your book or piece of music or whatever you’re working on is taking a long time to click, I would say that’s ok, and you’re ok, and you’re growing an entire world, and that takes time. If people outside of the working process don’t understand, that’s on them.
The good news is, Monster Middle Grade is getting there, creeping closer with every massive, unwieldy draft, and I’m so, so grateful I have an awesome publisher and editor and agent who let me work at until I get it right.
Military and Absence
I’ll be gone from everything – life, friends, emails, texting, social media – while in military, so I’m very sorry if you’re waiting for a response on something. I have a backlog of emails, and I will answer them. I heard things get less stringent as the months go by, and so I should be able to catch up before I’m discharged at the end of May, but the first few weeks are rough and busy, and I only have about 24 hours off every weekend, and so I just won’t be online much, or doing any of things I’ve done in my life thus far, like having a piano, or writing. Which brings me to. . .
A Tiny Story + Music Project!!!
To keep the creative juices flowing on a hopefully easy-to-manage scale, I’m going to be posting a super-short story on the weekends, together with a short piece of music I’ll write that’s meant to be listened to while reading the story. I think it’ll be fun way to recover from running around with guns and being shouted at by sergeants. I hope by the end of military I’ll have 4-5 short nice little bundles of stories and music.
The first one is called The Whale and the Tea-Kettle, and I’ll post it on Sunday!
I hope everyone’s well! See you on the other side! 🙂
The second half of 2017 has been The Half-Year Stefan Travels Everywhere, partly because I’m finally out of college, partly because I have work or internships in those places, and partly because I’m going to military in a mere 25 days, from which I’m assuming I will emerge a̶ ̶b̶r̶a̶i̶n̶w̶a̶s̶h̶e̶d̶ ̶v̶e̶g̶e̶t̶a̶b̶l̶e̶ utterly changed and intent on getting serious about life.
SO NOW’S THE TIME.
Anyway. I’m writing this post in Hong Kong, on the 103rd floor of the Ritz Carlton, which is not a brag so much as an admission of having friends who drag your stingy, plebeian self into those places because they’re nice like that. (Thanks, L. 😊). But this post is about Scandinavia, and I’ll blog about Asia – where I’ve been since November – next week. And probably the week after and the week after, into infinity. It will help keep my morale up while I’m wriggling around in the mud.
So. All of this happened back in October. I left Berlin, where I was doing some transcriptions for a teacher of mine, went home to Zürich briefly for some sad events, and from there went to Scandinavia for the Aarhus International Hay Festival for Literature. It was a great festival. I’ve almost never been to a not-great book event because book people are truly the best people, but I’m still always surprised when they’re enjoyable, because I’m shy and public performances where one is expected to show off one’s glittering personality make me anxious. I don’t necessarily *act* shy, and people usually mistake my jabbering for friendliness but NO. It’s terror. People are crazy and if you avoid them you are less likely to be murdered. That’s just, like . . . a reasonable, not-at-all paranoid fact of life.
We did an event on a boat.
While I and some other writers were loitering in front of said boat, two missionaries from Utah came up to me. No doubt deciding I looked the most heathen of all of us, they started making conversation with me, and the other writers immediately sidled away and abandoned me to my fate. I told them I was from Colorado because that’s what I tell Americans, even though I was only born in Colorado and then left fairly promptly afterwards. We talked about the Dutch language, which they had learned, and they taught me some words. There’s no punchline to this story except to say that I made some awkward excuse and escaped into the library, and I felt kind of bad for them afterwards because they tried.
Speaking of the library: Aarhus has the best library.
They also have an excellent art museum.
On the last evening, we had dinner with the English ambassador to Denmark and got to paint our own plates.
For some reason I thought the plate was edible and asked my table mates how to eat it and they patiently explained to me that they didn’t suspect the plate was edible. Well done, Stefan. That said, if Iiiii were the chef I would have made it edible. If you have rose-hip and celeriac paint shouldn’t the canvas be like . . . a flat bread or edible wafer or something? Not complain, though. It was delicious, and famous book-people like Chris Riddle and Meg Rosoff were close by, also painting their plates.
Speaking of food, there are going to be lots of food pictures in this post, because I ate lots of good food.
After the festival, where I met many friendly authors like Sarah Crossen, Jana Sramkova, Victor Dixon, and Maria Turtschaninoff, I went to Stockholm which I had never visited before.
Obligatory food picture. This is how lemon meringue looks when it’s died and gone to heaven. It’s like, the ultimate Pokemon form. The highest evolutionary phase. The zenith of patisserie. It didn’t taste very good.
And then I went back to Denmark! I slept the whole flight, which is a really boring thing to put in a blog post, but I was thrilled about it because no matter how short a flight is, it always ends with me staring feverishly at the little screen-thing and counting down the minutes to landing so that I can escape my seat and my seat-mates and airplanes in general. I suggest that upon entering the planes, flight attendants just start knocking us out with stylish little clubs.
My apartment in Copenhagen was very nice, sparse, frighteningly sterile, definitely a change from my hippy-dippy apartment in Berlin. The only problem was that its sole book was a coffee-sized edition of The Da Vinci Code. This made me question everyone and everything. (Who would buy such an enormous version of The Da Vinci Code? Is it ironic? Why put it on the coffee table? Do they want the renters to read it? Are they superfans? Also, who even reads The Da Vinci Code? What’s that? 80 million people? Oh.)
But that’s mean. I’m sure the owner is very smart, and I’m sure The Da Vinci Code has redeeming qualities, like entertainment value or speeding up the inevitable demise of the human race through deforestation.
And that will have to do. I’m a big fan of Scandinavia. Everyone was very tall and friendly, and the food was good, and the architecture was nice
Next post will be Japan / Korea / Taiwan / China adventures.
Remember when I used to post every Tuesday? About like . . . upcoming costume dramas and random things we talked about at school? And now that I have actual things to blog about, I never do. 🙃🙃🙃
BUT THINGS HAVE BEEN BUSY, etc. etc. so since I know it’ll be a least another month before I get around to posting again, I’m going to condense everything into one giant post about my month in Novi Sad, and floods, and moving to Prague, and all that.
1 – It was great. I already have very fond memories and it’s only been like two months, and usually it takes me much longer to get to the fond-memories stage of things. It started out a bit disconcertingly, though. My friend, who is Serbian, in order to secure the lowest possible rent for my apartment, told the landlord that I was a starving artist paying the last of my savings for the lease. He basically invented an elaborate backstory and filled me in on it just as we were pulling up to the building, which is totally something I would make a character do in a book, but is weird in real life.
Friend: I arrange everything so you don’t pay much money. I say you very poor. Ok?
Me: Um, what. . .
Friend: I also say that you’re my brother.
Me: But I don’t speak Serbian. And I look nothing like you. And it’s kind of basically lying, and also, this is never going to work.
Friend: Don’t worry! Don’t speak.
I realised later that his plan was pretty run-of-the-mill for these parts. It felt like even if the landlord didn’t believe a word he said, it was practically expected there would be some truth-bending going on, and anything else would have been viewed as a glaring lack of business-savvy.
(Just so we’re clear: I’m not really ok with this. I’m probably the last person who deserves an apartment rebate, and there’s about 101 ethical reasons not to pretend to be poor to get a cheap apartment. But a) I didn’t have a say in the matter, literally, because I speak like four words of Serbian, and b) it’s a different culture for sure, very much prone to bargaining and embellishing and doing whatever it takes for a good deal, which leads me to number two. . .)
2 – Everyone hustles non-stop in Serbia. The country has a pretty crazy history, including NATO bombings, genocide, and potentially triggering World War 1, and the result is that everyone is constantly out to make a buck, prove their worth, and convince the world that they’re just as worthy as any other country. People in Serbia are fiercely proud, and some of them I spoke to seemed to suspect Western Europeans or Americans look down on them, which was sad to see and isn’t the case at all, I don’t think. (Some of my friends didn’t even know Serbia existed, though, which . . . might also contribute to a country’s inferiority complexes.)
That said, there’s so much to recommend Serbia. It’s an old, culturally rich country, lots of agriculture, horse-drawn carriages on the highways, but also sleek, modern malls, and the fooooood. The food is delicious. And the people I met were lovely and kind. “We hate America,” I was told once by a merry Novi Sadian. “But not AMERICANS.” 👍 Good to know.
3 – People have a strange sense of timeliness in Serbia. I grew up in Switzerland, the land of be-on-time-or-else-you-are-a-terrible-rude-person, so I’ve gotten used to making a time with someone and knowing we’ll both there. Not so in Serbia. In Serbia you kind of need to learn to go with the flow, and if you’re not a flow-y sort of person, you’ll still have to go with the flow, just probably a bit later or earlier than you intended. Examplement:
Friend, blithely: I’ll pick you up at 15 or 16 or 17 o’ clock. Ok?
Me: Ok! Which one exactly, tho- *phone clicks*
Me, all dauntless and When-In-Rome-ish: I’m going to assume he’ll come in the middle of those three options. So, 16 o’ clock. (In retrospect, that’s not super logical, but I’m not a super logical person.)
Friend: *arrives at 15:05, pounds on door, me stumbling out of the shower, looking a fright*
Friend: You’re so stressed! We’re not in New York City! Or Zürich! You need to RELAX.
4 – I finished my book while in Novi Sad. I’ve probably mentioned finishing this book five times now on this blog, which would make sense because this is Draft 6-ish? I asked my editor for more time before she had even read the last draft and went back to the drawing board for some things that weren’t working for me. I thought I would only change a few things, but I changed a lot. And now it’s off, yay!
5 – On my second-to-last night in Novi Sad, my apartment flooded. It was very close to the Danube, and the week before it had rained pretty heavily, and late one evening the Danube got into the pipes and oozed up out of the drains. I heard a gurgling coming from all the pipes at once, then saw this sheet of water spreading over the floor of the living area. I started by frantically shovelling water into buckets with a dustpan and dumping the buckets out the window (loooool, Stefan, so wise, so resourceful), but there was more Danube than dustpans. So in the end I gave up, packed my suitcase, and fled to my friend’s house.
(The landlord was super nice and apologetic about it afterwards, which is funny because I assume it wasn’t his fault? But who knows, maybe he’s a wizard and wanted me gone and so enlisted the help of the rivers and ponds.)
After that, I went to Denver. I was in the US for about five seconds, attended a lovely wedding, drank some lovely cocktails, saw some lovely rock formations, spent 3 hours in Iceland, and escaped back to Europe.
And now I’m in Prague! The Vltava river is right next door, which is giving me Danube flashbacks but I’m on the 13th floor, OK, RIVER? Please stay away. Plz.
It’s been really nice. I’ve been interning during the mornings and some afternoons, which allows lots of time to visit museums and eat chimney cake and putter around in graveyards. The food is not aaaaaas good as in Serbia, in my humble opinion, but still good. The public transportation system is nice, as there’s a subway and a tram-line. It’s definitely a much bigger city than Novi Sad, or maybe my neighbourhood is just a bit sketchier, but I definitely don’t go jogging after nightfall anymore.
My favourite part is the graveyard right behind my apartment. It’s vast and overgrown and quiet, and I’ve spent many a long evening walking through the lanes and mausoleums. The picture below is a teeny tiny grave that has no writing on it but looks old and sad and mysterious. It’s either for children or very short people, but what’s interesting is that even some of the oldest graves still have flowers and candles, as if someone totally remembers the person lying there and cares about them. I usually think graveyards are the height of human hubris, and headstones kind of a sad attempts to last past your expiration date, but if people actually care 500 years later I guess that’s nice.
And that’s that for a bit! 🙂 I hope everyone’s well.
Hey! Hi. *waves* This is a super short blog post, because I’m in Prague and busy interning / eating all the Czech people’s food / wandering graveyards, etc., but basically PALAST DER FINSTERNIS is out next week on August 23rd (hurray!) and I’ll be flying back to Zürich for a short while on September 2nd to do a reading for it.
What and when:
September 2nd, 2017
14:00 – reading from the German edition of A DROP OF NIGHT (Palast der Finsternis)
Book signing afterwards
(The reading is part of the festivities for the 100 Year Anniversary of the Zürich Public Library.)
If anyone I know from online or real life can make it, come say hi! 🙂 That would be awesome.
Hiiiii. I’m writing this from a little tiny apartment in Novi Sad, tippy-tapping away, listening to Beethoven loudly to drown out the pigeons living in the ventilation, baking cookies on a panini press. I’ll blog about this adventure later, but basically I need to have this re-write done by the end of the month, and there’s still a lot to do, and I’m vacillating wildly between panic and ya know . . . the joys of writing.
After this, I have to fly to the US for a millisecond for my older brother’s wedding. (Congrats, older brother!!) And then to Prague for the internship. And then back to Zürich for a reading. (Do I remember how to do readings? And how to speak Swiss German? AND HOW TO SIT ON A STAGE AND SAY WORDS? Doubtful.)
Some writing things:
I wrote a cabinet story! We’re all kind of on hiatus and busy out of our minds, but I had it lying around so I put it up. It’s gloomy and foggy, and in step with the cabinet story I wrote before it, since I wrote them both around the same time.
Two tidbits of book news:
A Drop of Night is out in German later this year, on August 23rd, in mah home country and other German speaking countries. It’s called Palast der Finsternis there. And it can be pre-ordered here. And look at its beautiful cover:
And that’s that!
*pigeons resume cooing aggressively*
*Beethoven SHAKING THE RAFTERS*
*distant yelling in Serbian*
This is my last blog post as a college studennnnnnt. At least for a bit. I’m thrilled. I’ll probably type up a college-y post sometime this summer where I blab about the past four years, and the many eccentric people I met, and the juicy, juicy gossip that was gleaned, and then I will read over that post and decide it must never see the light of day and delete it, so um . . . 👍
A quick writing update: I’m on re-write number five of my next book, and it’s super long, and it keeps getting LONGER, ack. I love it, though. It involves gods and monsters and the Moon, and a child with a creature living behind his ribs. I’ve just been really glacial at writing this past year, and I can’t wait to be able to concentrate again after graduation. In the meantime, here’s a mood-board of the general aesthetic, courtesy of all the fantastically talented artists with work up on Pinterest:
Vienna: I went to Vienna briefly for a friend’s wedding two months ago, and this post is about that because I’M SLOW AT BLOGGING. It was only the second time I’d been. The first time was a super short 24 hour trip where I spent most of the time in a scorchingly hot TV studio in a warehouse. (It was a roundtable discussion of Literature and CultureTM and when we’d finished, one of the producers said “That’s a wrap!” and the moderator was like “That’s the most interesting thing anyone’s said to me all day.” 😂)
This time I had a bit of time to hang out with friends and sight-see and there was no TV studio involved, so it was great.
I also went to the alps last week to finish my grad thesis, which is now handed off, and which I’m very anxious about. Also, final grad performance is next week 13.6.2017, 20 o’ clock / 8PM, in case anyone wants to come listen to the strange music of five chamber musicians and a 3-D printer. 🙂
Back to the alps:
The hotel was a bit Shining-esque. I met no ghosts that were recognisable as such. I also didn’t use the elevator, though, so I can’t say it’s NOT full of blood.
And that’s that! There are still a million things to organise for the performance next week and I’m moving away from Switzerland after graduation, so I need to hurry. In my next post I will be either a disgraced former music student with a flop final performance or a graduate, and either way I’ll be off in foreign lands for work, and I’m very excited for all of it, whatever might happen.
Hope everyone’s well! 🙂
I haven’t done a Tidbits and Interestings in a whiiiiiile, but I have lovely news!
First bit of lovely news:
I’m super honoured to say that I’m one of the 39 authors picked for the International Hay Festival for Literature in Aarhus 2017, which according to them is a selection of ‘the best emerging writers under 40 in Europe.’ That’s very kind. This was just announced at the London Book Fair, and I’m pleased-but-also-surprised because I spend most of my life in the uni library with earphones in, so how do they know I exist? BUT ANYWAY, I’ll be going to Denmark in October 2017 for the festival, and there’ll be an illustrated anthology out this May in both English and Dutch with a newly-written short story from me called The Honeybee Cemetery.
I’m especially happy because I remember getting the email saying I was on the longlist, and I had to send a sample of writing that was going to be judged by people like Matt Haig, and I was like: “Matt Haig is very famous. I don’t know what Matt Haig likes to read. What if I choose something he hates and in one fell swoop my writing career ends forever?”
So I labored over picking a snippet, and you know how when you think about things too much you make poor decisions that make no sense? So I ended up sending a piece of an obscure short story I wrote for Cabinet a few years ago, which . . . was probably quite weird and morbid. But then I got picked, so I’m very grateful.
Another nice thing:
A Drop of Night‘s paperback is releasing in the US this week! Kirkus called it ‘bizarre and hugely suspenseful’. Publishers Weekly called it ‘pulpy’. xD So, if you want some bizarre and hugely suspenseful but also pulpy French Revolution-y thriller adventures, you can now have them for cheaper.
(Publishers Weekly also called it ‘polished and engagingly snarky’, though, so at least it’s polished and engagingly snarky pulp. *pats self-esteem delicately back into place* Also, here’s a deleted scene if you are inclined toward reading deleted things.)
More nice things:
Switzerland’s Friday Magazine picked me for their 30 under 30 innovators and artists. I’m very flattered, thank you.
Also, I’m in Zürich’s Who’s Who of 2017, which cracks me up, as I’m sure there are much who-ier people in Zürich, but thank you anyway.
Current Favorite Music:
This song is from the 50’s, and I don’t know what ‘ticky-tacky’ is but it’s my new favourite word. Also, I love that they used a Theremin in the orchestration. (You can hear the Theremin right at the beginning and throughout. It sounds like a very sad, muted violin.)
And that’s that! I’m very grateful for all this good stuff, and for the people who suggest me for these things and read my stories and talk about them, and for my agent and publishers. Thank you, truly.
(A portmanteau of Porto and Amsterdam, to continue the tradition of having blog titles that make no sense.)
(Also, I went to Porto, and I didn’t go to Amsterdam.)
(Also, why didn’t you go to Amsterdam when you said you would, and your blog title says Amsterdam in it, ya weirdo? the intrepid reader asks. Well, intrepid reader: my brother and his girlfran went to Amsterdam a few weeks before I was planning to go, and Brother said the food was gross and the air was gross, etc. etc., and while I don’t really believe him, and I’m sure Amsterdam has lots to recommend it, I figured I would only go to Porto and then stay in Switzerland and work instead. So I did.
But Porto was a really pleasant adventure, too, and I’ll just tell about that.
A list of Porto’s fine features:
- Houses and churches are covered with what look like pretty bathroom tiles. I don’t know why this is, but I think it’s very forward-thinking and hygienic, because this way you can just hose down your house or church when it’s looking shabby.
- Porto has a great graveyard that looks a bit like a city. I think I talked about this before on this blog, but graveyards are interesting places, and I highly recommend visiting one in every country you go to. They’re all different and yet the same, blabla, philosophical tangent about the universality of death, but mostly I just like to walk through the tombstones and look at the birth dates, and imagine who the people were when they were alive, and all the strange things they must have lived through. Sometimes I write down the names and google them later, and find interesting stories that way.
- I met Brazil’s minister of defence. I wish I were joking, but alas . . . He was downstairs in the lobby of the hotel I was staying in, together with a bunch of generals and important-looking people, and I didn’t know this, and by time I realised this, I had already slopped halfway across the lobby in sweatpants to get to the teeny tiny gym in the basement, and there was no turning back, and they all peered at me curiously. It was not my proudest moment.
(*Google tells me he was there for a conference. I didn’t stop to ask. I saw the welcome banner much too late to do me any good.)
- On the subject of meeting interesting people: there was an elderly gentleman who pulled me aside on the street and started talking to me at length, ignoring all my Awkward Shrugging in American, and in the end I just listened to him until he was finished. I’m still sad I have no idea what he said. I think it must have been very wise, though, and he probably told me the secret of all existence, and now I’m going to have to learn the hard way, when it probably would have been easier just to learn Portuguese.
- I was offered baggies of drugs four times, which is quite a lot for one trip, I thought. The cab driver warned me this was a thing, so it wasn’t really surprising, but it was funny for how often it happened. Basically, perfectly respectable-looking people size you up keenly as they pass, decide you look sad and prone to addiction, and then circle back, holding their hand palm-out, while going like:
And you’re like “AHAHAHA, *awkwardly slides past them, because you don’t want to get arrested*. I think they just offer it to anyone who looks foreign/young/and-or-male, which in their mind seems to equate stupid-enough-to-buy-baggies-of-unidentified-substances-in-broad-daylight-on-the-street-in-a-strange-land . . . which actually would be my plan of action, too, if I were a Portuguese drug-dealer.
But enough about drugs, this is off-brand, I write CHILDREN’S BOOKS.
- Portugal was really pretty. See how pretty?
- The food was great. There were lots of sardines, pastries, codfish, chocolate cake, and this sandwich called ‘Francesinha’, which is Porto’s famous dish, and is delicious. The picture I got of it didn’t do it justice, though, so here’s a burger I had instead.
- I have Instagram now. I don’t entirely know how to use it. Like, I can’t figure out how to import contacts, so I’m only following people when they pop up in my recommended box, but what if they DON’T POP UP? I’m such an old-person-confused-by-technology. Anyway, I’m not sure how much or little I’m going to end up using it, and it will probably take me a while to get the hang of, but there it is if you so please.