Welcome to Ogham Court: Threads and Theme

                So I was sitting having lunch at the day job, trying to send a message about my current WIP.  The title of the short story that started it was “The Shop on Ogham Court.”  Being from the East coast where we are always in a hurry, I started talking about it in shorthand as just “Ogham Court”.  That triggered a whole word association/stream of consciousness thing.  I thought about Ogham as history, hidden language, cryptic, multiple meanings and foreign.  Court became a string of justice, judging, rules and laws.  Suddenly my WIP began to take on a theme and subtheme.  Parts that I had written took on a new direction.  I think I have found the deeper meaning I need to get the momentum going.

                I had already poked and prodded Nora, the main character, about her past and present circumstances.  She told me a lot about growing up with a moderately successful father and stay-at-home mother.  Living in an affluent town in North Jersey and summering at their beachfront house on Long Beach Island.  She described as moderate, although we would consider it rich.  That’s because her father, she never calls him “Dad” went from moderate success to blockbuster and moved his movie production career and himself to the West Coast and a whole new life.   Mom moved back to the Miami area, where she grew up, and is now a hostess at a South Beach restaurant.

                Nora was “displaced” from her first job out of college and went to help out her elderly Aunt Aine.  Aine owns a little Irish Shop on a fictional street in Tribeca (Ogham Court).  The front of the shop if filled with standard stuff: sweaters, china, crystal and linens.  But as you venture deeper into the store, you find music instruments then ancient statues and the like.  Another part at the rear contains herbs, oils and other medicinals.  All the way in the rear of the shop are rooms, one of which is usually locked.  Aine calls it her tea room.  She goes in there with certain regulars for tea and conversation.

                So Nora has been judged by her employer, she judges her parents.  She has entered Aine’s world  on Ogham Court where the rules and laws are strange and foreign.   It is about to get stranger.

                In the weeks and months to come, I will be sharing some of what develops on Ogham Court and my discoveries about Nora and what the future holds. Perhaps I should pour a cuppa and read her cards?

                Just a side note, Nora, Aine and Devlin (we'll talk about him later) make their first brief appearance in Dark Dealings, my upcoming urban fantasy novel.

Light the Fires of Beltane

Light the Fires of Beltane

                In ancient times and to this day, Druids would celebrate the beginning of summer with the lighting of two bonfires.  The cattle, one the most valued animals, in the culture would be a paraded between the fires for health and fertility.  It is the season of new growth and creation.     In Ireland it was celebrated when the hawthorn trees were in bloom.   On the Julian calendar that was on about May 1; the changes wrought by the Gregorian  calendar in 1752.  The Gregorian calendar also changed the birthday of George Washington and other Founding Fathers, in case you were interested. 

                And so I start on a new project.  It is, like the summer, a rebirth.  I have begun the expansion of an old short story, a piece of which was feature in my post Show Me a Story.  You’ll be hearing more about that in the weeks to come.  I have also embarked on the final pre-publishing phase for my novel Dark Dealings.  I have found a group of wonderfully supportive, creative and motivated writers in my PubWrite friends. Check them out on Facebook and Twitter (#pubwrite)

                The ancient festivals of Imbolc, Beltane, Lughnasadh and Samhain are oriented to agricultural and livestock.  Beltane is the beginning of the season when the work since Imbolc begins to bear fruit.  And so it is for me. But as any farmer will tell you, the work to assure a good harvest is just beginning.  A great harvest also requires a degree of luck.  So I will look to the flowering hawthorn and cut a branch for luck and buckle down to the hard work.  The hawthorn is the tree of hope.  And so I hope for the harvest.

                Like a dedicated farmer of the word I will work and share my joys and on occasion whine about the aches and pains.  Unfortunately I don’t have a hawthorn in my yard, although I had one in my Irish Gran’s yard growing up.  But I have a beautiful weeping cherry and a crabapple tree and they are in bloom.   Every once in a while a breeze will bring a flurry of petals down on the robins that dance around my lawn.  Now if I could just do something about the stink bugs.  Any suggestions?

               

               

#FlashFriday Fun: Show Not Tell Challenge New WIP

The challenge was as follows:

The Show Not Tell Challenge: In 300 words or less, write a passage (it can be an excerpt from your WIP, flash fiction, a poem, or any other writing) that shows (rather than tells) the following:

• you’re scared and hungry
• it’s dusk
• you think someone is following you
• and just for fun, see if you can involve all five senses AND include these random words: shimmer, saccadic, substance, and salt.

294 words

“Tristan’s word is not worth his salt.” Devlin opened the picnic basket and pulled out the bottle of Tullamore Dew and two glasses.  We’d wandered down to the Christopher St Pier.  The shop was closed and he’d gotten Padraic to cover the bar.

                “What am I supposed to do? How could Aunt Aine expect that I would show up, take charge of the Singing Stone and everything that went with it.”   My head throbbed. Was it a result of the reading of the will earlier or that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast?  My stomach growled and cast its vote.

                “Give it some time. Nora.  There’s no rush to accept his offer.”

                The shimmer of another sunset on the tall glass office buildings across the Hudson whispered of  urgency.   

                “Devlin, I did not signed on for this.  Aunt Aine was quirky in a New Age kind of way. Always talking about Sidhe and the old way, and mixing up wacky substances for her customers.  Why me?”

                “She saw something in you, something important.”  He spread a blanket on the grass and pullied a container of Irish stew and loaf of bread out.

                In the midst of the seagulls that had gathered and edged closer to our food, a lone raven stared at me. Its non-saccadic stare demanded my attention.   One brazen gull tried to steal a hunk of brown bread.  The raven screeched, spread its broad black wings and rebuffed the thief.  The great black bird turned its gaze back to me. 

                “Are you okay?” Devlin asked.

                “I’d swear the bird was trying to talk to me.”

                “And you ask ‘why me’.”  Devlin poured the amber liquid in crystal Waterford tumblers.

                I held out my hand for the drink.  The raven hopped two steps closer.