Catherine Kullmann’s The Murmer of Masks is #228 in the never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION

 *The images in this specific piece are granted copyright:  Public Domain, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law.

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***The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished fiction genre (including screenwriters and playwrights) for INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION.  Contact CRC Blog via email at caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7 

****Catherine Kullmann’s The Murmer of Masks  is #228 in the never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific excerpt from a fiction genre and how that fiction writer wrote that specific excerpt.  

Name of fiction work? And were there other names you considered that you would like to share with us? The Murmur of Masks. The working title was Thalia. In Greek mythology, Thalia is the Muse of Comedy and Olivia, the heroine, attends a big masquerade disguised as Thalia. (Left: Thalia, Roman sculpture, 2nd century CE; in the Pio-Clementino Museum, Vatican City.)

This is a pivotal moment in the story. When I came to consider the underlying theme of the book as a whole, I realised it was masks—the different masks we all wear, both consciously and subconsciously, what they reveal about us, and what happens when we unmask—or are unmasked. (Right:  Catherine Kullmann in October of 2013. Copyright by Catherine Kullmann)

What is the date you began writing this piece of fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of fiction? I started it in August 2012 and finished it about February 2014. It was first published in July 2016 so the final tweaking would have been then. (Left:  Catherine Kullmann's study. Credit and Copyright by Cathrine Kullmann)  

Where did you do most of your writing for this fiction work?  I wrote it in my study at home. My study was then upstairs, in a spacious room with a bay window looking onto the street. I had two desks, an antique regency one, and a more modern on for my PC.  Bookcases containing my research library and period engravings vied for wall space.  I have recently moved my study downstairs, but the set-up is very similar. (Right: Catherine Kulmann's desk.  Credit and Copyright by Catherine Kullmann)

What were your writing habits while writing this work- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? I was generally at my desk from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m.  and 3 p.m. to 6 p.m. each day.  I don’t listen to music while I write—it distracts me from the scene in my head. I write directly on my PC. I am very familiar with my chosen period of the extended regency (1800 to 1830) but frequently interrupt my writing to check something or do further research.  I might have a glass of water as I write but generally will take a short break for tea or coffee as otherwise I take two sips and then let it get cold.  (Left: Cathrine Kulmann's modern desk.  Credit and Copyright by Catherine Kullmann)

https://booksgosocial.com/2018/08/02/regency-period/ 

Please include just one excerpt and include page numbers as
reference. This one excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer. Chapter Two, pages 17 to 19

England, 1803 The Treaty of Amiens has collapsed and the United Kingdom is again at war with Napoleonic France. Nineteen-year-old Luke Fitzmaurice is determined to join the army but his mother is against it. She considers that an illness he suffered some years previously may have lingering effects. In the end, she agrees that if his doctor has no objections, she will withdraw hers. We meet Luke at the doctor’s surgery.

“I am sorry, sir but I remain convinced that prolonged exertion might put an undue strain on your heart. I cannot in good conscience recommend a military career.”

Luke felt ill. He had been so sure the doctor would support him. “And if I were to join a volunteer corps at home?” he suggested hopefully.

“Not even that. Be grateful you’re as well as you are, sir. There were times we despaired of your life and you will recall how long it took you to build up your strength.”

“I see,” Luke said dully.

Unable to face anyone, he did not turn for home but headed towards the hills, picking up the pace as soon as he was free of the village confines. For some time he was aware only of the rhythmical surge of the big gelding between his thighs, the answering movement of his own body, the wind in his face. Leaning forward, he urged the horse into a gallop. ‘Don’t think, don’t think’, pounded through his head in time with the hoof-beats and then, ‘Useless, useless’. The ground grew steeper and he slowed his mount, patting its neck. “You shouldn’t suffer for my failings,” he said apologetically.

He continued more slowly, letting the horse pick its

way up an uneven path to a rocky outcrop that looked out over the surrounding countryside. A rough shelter had been built from grey stone to protect any wanderer or shepherd caught in a storm. Luke dismounted and loosely looped the reins around the branch of a bent and twisted tree. A little spring burbled nearby and he went to scoop up the fresh water in his hands, first drinking and then splashing more onto his hot face. He took a deep breath, drawing in the sun-warmed air, scented with grass and gorse. A skylark rose overhead, singing its heart out. He looked up at the tiny bird, a black dot against the blue sky. He had felt like that, ready to soar and be free. What now? He shook his head. A rough-hewn plank had been balanced between two piles of stones and he went to sit on the make-shift bench. Ignoring the wild beauty of the surrounding scene, he hung his head, frowning at the clasped hands that dangled between his spread knees.

He felt—un-made— was the only way he could

describe it. To be told he was more or less an invalid, infirm, not even an old crock, but a young one! And yet he didn’t feel unwell—he could ride all day and stand a bout as well as the next man. He was tired at the end of a day in the saddle and if his heart beat faster and he was out of breath after swordplay, well that was usual, wasn’t it? Everyone got out of breath when they ran a race or engaged in sports. It was part of the fun, to push oneself to the limit. But his limit was to be less than that of other men? He had never noticed it.

What was he to do? He felt aimless, purposeless, worse than when he had finally been permitted to leave his sickroom three years previously. Months of intermittent fever combined with aching joints had left him a gawky, gangling youth with pudding rather than muscles who had grown several inches during his forced bed-rest. It was Mr Adams’ head groom, a former cavalry sergeant, who had stepped in then to help him. Observing the boy’s struggles to regain his strength and revive his riding skills, he had suggested that a little sword drill might be of benefit. Fired by dreams of a commission in a cavalry regiment and gratified by the prospect of not appearing a complete Johnny Raw when this should come to pass, Luke had put himself in the hands of his instructor who, on occasion, had gone so far as to pronounce his prowess ‘not bad’. But it had all been to no avail.

Tomorrow he must travel to Dorsetshire for his sister’s betrothal party. Was that to be his future, to go from one engagement to the next as a society fribble, for ever looking on while others acted? (Below Middle:  The Italian version of THE MURMER OF MASKS.  Credit and Copyright by Catherine Kullmann)

Why is this excerpt so emotional for you as a writer to write? And can you describe your own emotional experience of writing this specific excerpt?  I am more of a pantser than a plotter, or to put it another way, I develop my plot as I write my first draft. I chose this excerpt because writing it was one of those wonderful times when I felt I was really in my character’s head.  (Right: Catherine Kullmann in November 2014.  Copyright by Catherine Kullmann)

Writing can at times be arduous, but every so often something clicks and you and your character take flight. I still remember when the word un-made came to me. It was as if Luke and I were one, sitting on that rough bench, trying to make sense of what was happening to him.  

As you see, it comes at the beginning of the book and set down important markers that I later drew on to develop Luke as a character. These include his resentment at his infirmity, his mentor the drill sergeant, his love of swordplay and his despair at being condemned to a life as a society fribble, (Left: Catherine Kulmann in November of 2017.  Copyright by Catherine Kullmann)

Twelve years later, when Napoleon escapes from Elba, Luke will move heaven and earth to join Wellington’s army in Brussels, leaving everything he loves behind him. Even though I had always sworn I would not write about the Battle of Waterloo, he left me no choice but to accompany him there. (Right: Napoleon leaving Elba.  Credit, Josph Beaume)

Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked up rough drafts of this excerpt? Because I write directly onto my PC, I don’t keep track of changes as I write, so I cannot show you a marked-up rough draft.  I edit as I go, and will usually have 4 or 5 drafts. Passages like this one generally come almost fully-formed and just require polishing. (Left:  The Battle of Waterloo.  Credit, William Sadler)

Catherine Kullmann was born and educated in Dublin. Following a three-year courtship conducted mostly by letter, she moved to Germany where she lived for twenty-five years before returning to Ireland. She has worked in the Irish and New Zealand public services and in the private sector. Widowed, she has three adult sons and two grandchildren. (Right: Catherine Kulmann in August of 2019.  Copyright by Catherine Kullmann)

Catherine has always been interested in the extended Regency period, a time when the foundations of our modern world were laid. She loves writing and is particularly interested in what happens after the first happy end—how life goes on for the protagonists and sometimes catches up with them. Her books are set against a background of the offstage, Napoleonic wars and consider in particular the situation of women trapped in a patriarchal society. She is the author of The Murmur of Masks, Perception & Illusion, A Suggestion of Scandal, The Duke’s Regret, The Potential for Love, and A Comfortable Alliance

Catherine also blogs about historical facts and trivia related to this era. You can find out more about her books and read her blog (My Scrap Album) at www.catherinekullmann.com Her Facebook page is https://www.facebook.com/catherinekullmannauthor

All of the Inside the Emotion of Fiction LIVE LINKS can be found at the VERY END of the below feature: 

http://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2021/03/stephenson-holts-arranged-marriage-is.html 

 

Tracy Traynor’s "Grace In Mombasa" is #227 in the never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION

 *The images in this specific piece are granted copyright:  Public Domain, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law.

The other images are granted copyright permission by the copyright holder, which is identified beneath each photo. 

**Some of the links will have to be copied and then posted in your search engine in order to pull up properly

***The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished fiction genre (including screenwriters and playwrights) for INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION.  Contact CRC Blog via email at caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7 

****Tracy Traynor’s Grace In Mombasa is #227 in the never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific excerpt from a fiction genre and how that fiction writer wrote that specific excerpt.  

Name of fiction work? And were there other names you considered
that you would like to share with us? GRACE IN MOMBASA. Other books would be FAITH IN ABERTILLERY

What is the date you began writing this piece of fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of fiction? I published in Nov 2018, I started writing it in Jan 2018, but it had been in my mind for about 5 years before I started.

Where did you do most of your writing for this fiction work?  And please describe in detail.  And can you please include a photo? We have converted the small bedroom in our house into a study for me.  It is a small room but has a nice large window that I can look out of as I write and watch the clouds race by, and the birds sitting on the roof of the house opposite.  I am surrounded by book cases.  My computer table is in front of the window.  On the wall to my right is my WIP white board, where I make notes on my next two books.

What were your writing habits while writing this work- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? I am a speed-typist, so my books are written straight into a word.doc, which I need as I am dyslexic and my spelling is atrocious!

I very rarely listen to music, I work best in silence.  Sometimes when I am writing my fantasy books I listen to Enya as it puts me in the mood.  But I didn’t listen to anything whilst writing Grace in Mombasa.

I am a coffee-holic, so up to 2pm I will drink lots of coffee from my filter-coffee maker.  After 2pm, I switch to tall glasses of iced water.  The cold keeps me alert, just as much as the caffeine did in the morning. (Left: Tracy Traynor's writing space.  Credit and Copyright by Tracy Traynor)

I am a morning person and feel more alert before lunch, so I will write then if I can.  However, when I am nearing the end of a book I will work late, say up to 11pm as I am in the throws of ‘nearly there.’ (Right: Tracy Traynor's whiteboard.  Credit and Copyright by Tracy Traynor)

Please include just one excerpt and include page numbers as reference.  This one excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer. Chapter 21. P263.  The chapter is called, You Can’t Out Give God.

 12th December 1963

The noise was deafening.  Cheering, singing, chanting, stamping.  Throngs of people were swaying, jumping, and waving their arms in the air.  It was joyous and amazing and would be a day that Grace would never forget.  It was the day Kenya received independence from Britain.

Grace stood on the hospital veranda and smiled as she watched Mombasa celebrate a day that was long overdue.  Tribal and family groups danced along the street, the Dogos with their nose rings, the Embu with their grass skirts and monkey headdresses, and the Kikuyu men with their bodies adorned with strings of beads.  The crowd as one bounced to the chanting, arms in the air, broad smiles by one and all.  When her legs grew tired from standing, Grace returned to her room.  She tried to do some work but was unable to.  The infectious joy of the country infiltrated every part of the day, and went right through the night to the next day.

Lying awake on her bed listening to the drums and the chanting as the sun began to rise the next day, Grace wondered what would happen next.  She had read Kenyatta’s book ‘Facing Mount Kenya’ and felt sure that he was an honourable man who would lead the country in the right direction.  But what was to become of her life?  Would she be able to stay?  Should she stay? 

The town was finally becoming quiet and Grace was just dropping off to sleep when a nurse knocked on her door.

“Mrs Grace.”

Grace roused herself.  “Yes.”

“Please come, there is a man asking for you.”

Beyond tired, but also curious, Grace got out of bed and threw her dress on, slipped her feet into her shoes and opened the door.

“Who wants me?”

The nurse threw her a worried look.  “Aluoch.”

“I don’t recognise that name, should I know him?”

The nurse just looked at Grace with wide eyes.  “Come,” she said.

Instead of leading the way to one of the wards, the nurse led Grace towards the uninhabited part of the old building.  “In there.” The nurse pointed towards a dark room before turning and running back to the main part of the hospital.  

A man suddenly appeared in the doorway, making Grace jump.  “Mrs-God?”

Grace gulped and nodded.

“Come.”  It was a command she couldn’t refuse and she followed the man into the room.  Once her eyes had become used to the dim light, Grace could make out a small boy lying on the floor.  She could hear him moaning quietly.

“What’s wrong with him?” Grace asked.

“Snake bite.  You fix him.”

“I can’t, we need a doctor and quickly before the poison seeps through his blood.  Do you know what type of snake bit him?”

“Cobra.”

“Nooo.  We have to get him some anti-venom immediately or he will die.  Quick, pick him up.”

“No.”

Grace turned to look at the man properly for the first time.  He was taller than average and lean.  His eyes were bloodshot and his skin covered completely in scars.  Her eyes travelled to his hand, which held a machete.

She took a step back.  “You know he will die without medicine?”

“I watch you for long time, Mrs-God.”

“Oh,” Grace didn’t know what else to say.

“I saved you in Nairobi on speech-day.  You walk right into Mau Mau path.  Aluoch,” he stopped to thump his chest, “save you.”

“You were the man who told him I was Mrs-God?”

“Yes.  I saved your life, now you save his,” he pointed to the boy.

“Let me fetch the doctor, we have had medicine delivered this week, you are lucky, I’m sure we will have some anti-venom left.”

“No.”

“Why not?” said Grace getting distressed as time was running out.

“Police look for us.  You fix him, Mrs-God, just you.”

“I can’t, I need the medicine, let me see if the doctor will let me have it without coming back with me.”

Aluoch swung his machete.  “No.”

The boy started rasping, his ability to draw breath becoming harder.  Grace sank onto the floor beside the boy.  Oh Lord, she cried in her spirit, please help us.  Without any real expectation that the prayer would be answered, she started to pray aloud.  She started with the Lord’s Prayer and then launched into a cry for mercy and for a miracle.  As she prayed, she could hear the boy’s breathing becoming more laboured.  She opened her eyes and looked at him.  He was such a young lad.  Then the memory of laying hands on Bernice came to her and she reached over and placed a hand on his chest.

“Dear Father-God, in your mercy and by your grace, please draw the venom from his body and let him live, that your name may be glorified.”

The boy coughed and spluttered so hard that his body jerked upright into a sitting position.  He coughed and seemed to be choking.  Grace wrapped her arms around him and continued to pray.

Another cough brought a pile of blood shooting from his mouth.  Grace stroked his head and continued to pray.  Then as suddenly as it had started, the coughing stopped, and he lay back in her arms.  For a moment, Grace thought he had died as his breathing had become so still, then he opened his eyes and looked up into hers.  Dark brown pools of gratefulness stared up at her.

Grace looked up at Aluoch, not too sure what to say.

“Odinga?”  Aluoch said.

“Ndiyo baba,” the boy answered.

Aluoch let his head fall backwards and a sound came from him that pierced the air.  When the cry stopped, Aluoch leant down and none too gently pushed Grace out of the way so that he could pick up his son.  Without looking back, he ran out of the room.

Grace started crying.  “Father-God you are wonderful beyond words, and so mysterious.”

When Grace told Oborneo what had happened he had been furious with the nurse and would have admonished her for eternity if Grace hadn’t told him to stop.  

“She shouldn’t have taken you to him,” Oborneo said with fists clenched.  “He is a known killer; no one knows how many people he has killed.  I can’t believe that God saved his son, he deserves to die.”

“Oborneo!  That is a terrible thing to say.”

“If he had killed your family, you would think so too.”

Grace paused for a moment.  “I suppose I might, but God works in mysterious ways and we don’t know what the outcome of last night will be.  Maybe God will change his ways?  Who knows?  I shall pray for his soul and for the safety of his son, Odinga.”

Why is this excerpt so emotional for you as a writer to write?  And can you describe your own emotional experience of writing this specific excerpt? Because I met Moira Smith, the woman whose life story this is about, I feel very emotionally connected.  Moira was a small, white woman, living in a dark place, battling to bring God’s peace and joy into the lives of the local people of Mombasa.  

I didn’t meet her until a few months before I left Mombasa, and unfortunately only had the opportunity to meet her twice.  The first meeting was short, the second much longer where we sat for a while and she told me some things about her life.  Not all this book is true (I don’t know about her life before being a nanny in London and then getting on board the ship to Mombasa) so it is not a biography.  (Left: The Rod to Mombasa)

But I saw where she slept in the Mombasa free hospital and how dedicated she was to spreading the Good News.  Those two short meetings touched me deeply and I was never able to forget her.  Her self-sacrifice of her life to help others moves me to tears every time I think of her.  I cried many times when writing this book, especially the ending.  I give her a happy ending in this book. (Above Left: The Town of Mombasa )

In truth, she died in the hospital where she lived.  Her last act before she died was to give away her medicine to someone she said, needed it more than her.  When I lived in Mombasa the knowledge that you can’t out-give God was placed in my heart by several miracles that God moved in my life.  His way of talking to me, and His love in what we give away, has shaped me. (Right: Civil Native Hosptial in Mombasa whre Moira Smith died)

Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked up rough drafts of this excerpt? I don’t have any rough drafts I’m afraid.  I work on one word.doc from beginning to end so all the rough drafts get deleted as I go along. (This is the Civil Native Hospital, as it was when Moira first arrived.  It has gone under lots of changes since then.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a picture of Moira.  I reached out during research for the book to people who had known her but they didn’t have any.  The church that buried her tried to find living relatives in the UK, but were unsuccessful.

50% of all my royalties earned from sales of this book, go to Barnabas Outreach Mombasa, who are working with local people.  They help set women up in small business with a £50 loan, and they’re building a small school and medic center.  In this way, I feel like I am keeping Moira’s spirit alive in Kenya. 

http://www.barnabasuk.org/mombasa-project/ 

A story lover from an early age, Tracy Traynor waited until she was fifty-five before chasing her dream of being an author.  Now, she is an award-winning, Amazon bestselling author who writes in several genres. (Right: Tracy Traynor's Facebook Logo Photo)

https://www.tntraynor.uk

https://wordpress.com/flourishandapolish.wordpress.com

https://www.facebook.com/#!/tracy.traynor.9

https://twitter.com/tracy_traynor

All of the Inside the Emotion of Fiction LIVE LINKS can be found at the VERY END of the below feature: 

http://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2021/03/stephenson-holts-arranged-marriage-is.html 

Laura Reece Hogan’s “Exodus” is #276 in the never-ending series called BACKSTORY OF THE POEM

 *The images in this specific piece are granted copyright:  Public Domain, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law.

The other images are granted copyright permission by the copyright holder, which is identified beneath each photo. 

**Some of the links will have to be copied and then posted in your search engine in order to pull up properly

*** The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished poets for BACKSTORY OF THE POEM series.  Contact CRC Blog via email at caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7

***Laura Reece Hogan’s “Exodus” is #276 in the never-ending series called BACKSTORY OF THE POEM where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific poem and how the poet wrote that specific poem.  All BACKSTORY OF THE POEM links are at the end of this piece. 

Can you go through the step-by-step process of writing this poem from the moment the idea was first conceived in your brain until final form? This poem first sparked when I received a text message from my friend who had recently lost her husband to cancer. She wrote that she was “empty and lonely” without him. Those words just ripped through me, calling up those life losses we all experience. Over the next several weeks I found myself ruminating about death and the separation inherent in different types of loss. A tension in the question of separation kept coming back to me—in the experience of loss, what are we separated from, and what are we not separated from? (Above Right: The Osiria Rose in Laura Reece Hogan's garden.  Credit and Copyright by Laura Reece Hogan.)

I have a particular variety of roses in my garden, called Osiria roses, which bloom with deep red outer petals encircling white inner petals. I love these roses for their own spectacular beauty, but also because they remind me that vivid life and love embrace the lonelier, more stripped-away parts of life. 

In fact, I suspect these roses were named in connection with Osiris, the Egyptian god of death, because of his mythic ability to be in a state of death and yet also somehow a state of life when his wife Isis finds him and conceives a child with him. My roses were blossoming, and they became for me a visual expression of these thoughts about life and death, separation and union even after death. (Above Left:  Osiris)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Osiris 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isis 

Also, around this time I recognized that my poetry manuscript-in-progress was speaking about varying forms of flight, and I wanted to compose a poem about flight in the sense of a fleeing or departure for the unknown, as in the Exodus flight out of Egypt. The image of my Osiria roses started pairing for me with the parting of the Red Sea.

By the time I went to the Napa Valley Writers’ Conference that summer, I had written an early draft of this poem, and I rewrote it during the workshop, which was very helpful. (Right:  Isis)

http://www.napawritersconference.org/ 

In late August and September I revised the poem, and by October I had a completed draft, which I submitted to the Santa Fe Literary Review for their “Spaces Between” theme—perfect for the subject and the split form I had chosen for the poem. 

https://www.sfcc.edu/santa-fe-literary-review/ 

Where were you when you started to actually write the poem?  And please describe the place in great detail. The first parts of the poem were written in my garden. 

I live in Southern California and my little garden is home to bougainvillea, gardenias, hydrangeas, sugar maples, a lemon tree and a lime tree, and my daughter’s pots of succulents and sunflowers. Cottontails live in the bushes and come out to nibble grass in the early evening. Coyotes and a blue fox have passed through. 

In the spring one tiny bunch of miniature daffodils always magically appears, and sometimes in April or May we see migrating painted lady butterflies. There is one hibiscus that somehow blossoms purple, and one jacaranda tree. But my favorite is the roses. I love visiting the different rose bushes to see what is budding, what is fading, and what the bees are doing. (Right and Below Left: Flowers from Laura Reece Hogan's garden.  Credit and Copyright by Laura Reece Hogan)

What month and year did you start writing this poem?  My first thoughts about the poem began on May 28, 2019, when I received that text from my friend. My first written notes and an early draft came in June, and I had a final draft by October of 2019. (Below Right: Laura Reece Hogan in her garden.  Copyright by Laura Reece Hogan)

How many drafts of this poem did you write before going to the final? (And can you share a photograph of your rough drafts with pen markings on it?)  I usually write notes or a first draft by hand, and then I move it into a Word document and work from there. This poem’s initial handwritten version was very rough, but already the split form and key ideas were present. I went through at least fourteen drafts. (Below Left: Laura Reece Hogan's rough drafts.  Credit and Copyright by Laura Reece Hogan)

Were there any lines in any of your rough drafts of this poem that were not in the final version?  And can you share them with us? The original title of the poem was “The Waters Saw You,” from a line of the poem, but also a direct reference to Psalm 77:17, in which the waters of the Red Sea see God and convulse. In the end I preferred “Exodus,” because to me that more effectively captured the different forms of flight or separation that poem was addressing.

The final line of the poem also changed. I knew I wanted those words to contain the opening rose, the parting sea, and the idea that separation might also contain life-giving newness. The line originally ended with “petal wide in your hands,” but that was a place-holder phrase. It became “split and start the bloom.”

 

What do you want readers of this poem to take from this poem? I hope the poem evokes passages of both coming and going, birth and death, love and separation, and the mysterious truth that we are part of an organic world that is constantly changing and finding a way to be new all over again. As human beings we inevitably experience pain and separation, but we also heal and have such a capacity for new beginnings. And ultimately, we follow along a current or trajectory of life that we don’t always control, yet it is possible to see it as a passage of trusting what lies beyond us, a love which may part us in all the senses explored in the poem, but also guides and catalyzes new ways of being.

 

Which part of the poem was the most emotional of you to write and why? For me this poem has two chords of emotional resonance, just as the roses are both red and white, just as the form of the poem is split. So perhaps it will come as no surprise that two parts of the poem were emotional to write. “The parting of the waves       a vise-cracking of the heart/ ribs open to the sky” felt raw to write because I was drawing on all those terrible experiences of personal loss. But I was perhaps even more deeply moved to write “undertow pulling me beyond       reach, through your tangled deep/ navigation belonging only       to my belonging to you” because the speaker here is expressing a profound trust in love and what is beyond her control and knowing.

 

Has this poem been published before?  And if so where? This poem was published in Santa Fe Literary Review, Volume 15, 2020, and also appears in my collection Litany of Flights (Paraclete Press, 2020).

https://paracletepress.com/ 

Laura Reece Hogan is the author of the poetry collection Litany of Flights (Paraclete Press, 2020), which won the 2020 Paraclete Poetry Prize, the poetry chapbook O Garden-Dweller (Finishing Line Press, 2017), and the spiritual theology book I Live, No Longer I: Paul's Spirituality of Suffering, Transformation, and Joy (Wipf & Stock, 2017), which examines the spirituality of Paul the apostle. She is one of ten poets featured in the anthology In a Strange Land (Cascade Books, 2019).

I Live, No Longer I won four First Place 2018 Catholic Press Association Book Awards in the categories of Spirituality, Hardcover; Spirituality, Softcover; Theology; and Scripture, Popular Studies. I Live, No Longer I also was awarded the gold medal for Spirituality in the 2018 Illumination Book Awards, and won the category of Religion: Christianity in the 2017 American Book Fest Best Book Awards. O Garden-Dweller won 2nd Place in the category of Poetry in the 2018 Catholic Press Association Book Awards.

Her poems can be found in or are forthcoming in America, First Things, Lily Poetry Review, Whale Road Review, a Diode Editions anthology, Dappled Things, River Heron Review, Mantis, Cumberland River Review, LETTERS Journal, The Cresset, EcoTheo Review, Relief: A Journal of Art and Faith, The Christian Century, Spiritus, U.S. Catholic, Anglican Theological Review, Poets Reading the News, The Windhover, Santa Fe Literary Review, Saint Katherine Review, Trinity House Review, Amethyst, Snapdragon: A Journal of Art & Healing, Riddled with Arrows, Poems for Ephesians, The Penwood Review, Faith Hope and Fiction, PILGRIM: A Journal of Catholic Experience, NonBinary Review, Plum Tree Tavern, the anthology Solo Novo 7/8: Psalms of Cinder & Silt (Solo Press, 2019), and other publications.

Her poetry has been nominated for the Best of the Net and a Pushcart Prize. Her essays have been featured in Spirituality and Ekstasis Magazine. Laura has spoken on a range of topics including Paul’s spirituality, the Christological hymns, the paradox of the cross, Carmelite spirituality, and spirituality and creative writing.

Laura earned a B.A. from Rice University in Houston, Texas, a J.D. from the University of California, Los Angeles School of Law, and an M.A. in theology from St. John’s Seminary in Camarillo, California. She is a professed Third Order Carmelite. She lives in Southern California with her family.

http://www.laurareecehogan.com/ 

All of the Backstory of the Poem LIVE LINKS can be found at the VERY END of the below feature: 

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Ryan Dennis’s THE BEASTS THEY TURNED AWAY is #226 in the never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION

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****Ryan Dennis’s The Beasts They Turned Away is #226 in the never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific excerpt from a fiction genre and how that fiction writer wrote that specific excerpt.

Name of fiction work? And were there other names you considered that you would like to share with us? The novel is titled The Beasts They Turned Away, although after five years of thinking about it, I still might not have gotten it right. I wanted something that reflected both the form and the content of the book in some way, but had to settle for only the latter. Its working title for the first draft was Man of Land and Sky.  (Right:  Ryan Dennis (far right) outside of Neachtains pub in Galway, Ireland. Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

What is the date you began writing this piece of fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of fiction? The Beasts They Turned Away is the result of my PhD with the National University of Ireland, Galway. I first started writing it September 2015, and six drafts later, the final corrections were submitted to the publisher in February 2020. I had trouble with my eyes in 2015 and couldn’t tolerate a computer screen, so I wrote the whole thing longhand in notebooks first—and once accidentally left those notebooks overnight in a pub. Luckily, the barman didn’t bin the year’s work. (Journal entry from Ryan Dennis's notebook of THE BEASTS THEY TURNED AWAY.  Credit and Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

Where did you do most of your writing for this fiction work?  And please describe in detail.  And can you please include a photo? Because the project spanned five years, the writing of Beasts happened all over and spread across three continents. Some of it was at my desk in Galway, Ireland, some happened at the home farm in Western New York State, and the final draft was completed while traveling through South America. (Right: Road leading to Ryan Dennis's farm in upper state New York. Credit and Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

When at home and in good weather I’d either work on the porch, or on a hay bale in a field. It always worked better when I was outside and only the cattle could hear me talking to myself. (Left: Ryan Dennis's nephew sitting on the porch where Ryan Dennis writes. Credit and Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

What were your writing habits while writing this work- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? I always write the first draft of everything on paper, and then type it in. I can’t think staring at a computer screen, and instead need a pen in my hand so I can draw arrows and make quick notes and scratch things out. It’s much slower, but I can’t get around it. (I just hope that it makes for a better archive someday.) (Right:  Ryan Dennis reading on his farm.  Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

Often, I let the characters in the scene speak to each other freely first, with me simply transcribing what they say. Then I go back and write a draft of the scene. In that manner, I’m not getting in their way as much. (Left: Ryan Dennis with his partner Alessandra in Patagonia, South America.  Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

Please include just one excerpt and include page numbers as reference.  This one excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer. 

THE SICK PEN

The old man stares at the backend of a cow, his elbows in his hands. The cow lays still, breathes slowly. 

Behind them Geir Sullivan jerks open the shed door, squeezes himself through sideways. Stands there with his thumbs tucked in his belt loops. Hey there, he yells out. Rocks on his heels. Yells out again and then walks through the shed.

The Great Mulgannon, Geir Sullivan says, coming upon the old man. Stands next to him and folds his arms. Then says, Christ Almighty.

A red mass protrudes out of the back of the cow, bulges in the straw. Leathery caruncles drying, stiffening in the murky light. Her uterus spilled out behind her.

Listen, says Geir Sullivan. He wears a hat that says Cusack Feeds. Takes it off and puts it back on again. I’m sure you’re willing as I am to let bygones be bygones and all that. He looks the old man over. Then shifts on his feet and holds out an open palm. 

The old man walks away.

Geir Sullivan stares after him. Turns to the cow. Then follows the old man.

The old man enters the dairy, takes a calf bucket. Pumps the lever of a plastic barrel and splashes teat dip into the bucket. Fills it with warm water. Yellow bubbles swell on the surface and then burst. Geir Sullivan trails the old man out the door.

The old man climbs into the sick pen again. Swings his leg over the highest bar and sets the bucket down. It tilts in the bedding. The old man picks up a come-along from the corner of the pen and drags it to the down cow. Tosses the rope towards the rafter stretching over them. 202 lays in the far end of the pen, watching the old man, the other cow. Flicks her tail at flies on her topline. On the third try the old man tosses the rope over the plank, connects it back to the pulley.

I just been hired, see, by Cusack, Geir Sullivan says. Sure, it’s alright. I’m to enquire after accounts and all that. Mostly the overdue ones. Jesus, what’s going on here, he says, nodding at the cow.

The old man slips the hip lifters over her pins and turns an old bolt shaft until it grips her bones tightly. Straightens himself, exhales. Starts working the crank, raising the backend of the cow.

Geir Sullivan says, anyway, they sent me here. In fact, I’m the only one that would come. Others say it’s futile, or well. Just don’t feel comfortable or something. But I said hell, I’ll come.

The cow scrapes at the concrete with her front hooves but doesn’t have the strength to lift herself. Resigns to being on her front knees. Her backend slowly turning as the rope twists.

The old man pushes up his sleeves. They bunch at his elbows. Dips his hand into the bucket, lathers. The dark water clinging to the hair on his arms. Says, the dead pile will take you. Maybe not today though.

The old man carefully rubs the rough tissue. Lifts the bucket to his chest and pours it, the warm liquid following wiry paths over the organ, his fingers. Falls to the hay. The cow jerks, dust filtering down from where the rope flinches on the wooden rafter.

The old man steadies himself behind the cow. Gets two hands beneath the bulbous pile and then puts his shoulder under it. Shakes as he lifts up. Slips it back into the cow, pushing it into the caverns inside her. Then he stands there, his arm inside the cow. Tells Geir Sullivan to come here.

Geir Sullivan clutches at his beltloops and kicks at the chaff in front of him. Turns to stare at the shed walls. The old man says it again and Geir Sullivan finally steps forward.

Run your hand along my arm, the old man says. Until you find my fingers. Hold her in place for me.

Surely will not, Geir Sullivan says. This isn’t my job.

The old man looks him over. Says, probably never been inside a woman either.

Geir Sullivan chews on the inside of his cheek. Shakes his head. Jesus Christ, he says.

Geir Sullivan pushes his hand through the vulva of the cow, his arm sliding against the slick skin of the old man. Leans in until his fingers reach the tissue lining. The old man pats Geir Sullivan’s hand inside the uterus of the cow before freeing himself.

I’m going to need to leave here with a payment, Geir Sullivan says. Marching orders, you know. I’m sure you understand.

The old man takes a steak knife out of the back of his pocket and tosses it into the bucket. Tips the bucket and swirls around the little bit of teat dip still inside. Bends and unlaces one of his work shoes, pulling at the dirty string as it becomes longer, clumps of mud breaking apart as he forces it through the eyelets. Drops the shoelace into the bucket.

The old man grabs the fold of the vulva and needles the end of the knife into it. He clenches the shoelace in his mouth, the bitter taste pooling around his teeth. The string stretching half his length and swaying. The internal fluids of the cow cool on the old man’s arm. When the knife pierces through the tissue of the vulva the old man slides the knife into his back pocket again, pokes the end of the lace through the hole. Pulls. The cow lifting her head and straining from the lifters. 

The old man spreads the vulva flat between his fingers and takes the knife again. Geir squints. Leans away from the old man. 202 rocks forward at the other end of the pen, finally pulls herself to her knees and gets her hindlegs beneath her, rises. Her loin dipping as she stretches, puts her head over the gate. The old man’s wrinkled fingers numbly work the flesh, the shoelaces. He stops sometimes to curse and wipe his forehead on the end of his shirt.

Eventually the string weaves around the outside of the vulva, both ends falling over the back of the udder.

Take your hand out, the old man says. But do it slowly.

As soon as Geir is clear from the end of the cow the old man ties the shoelace into a bow. Well, he says. Then says, there you have it. You’re an alright assistant, Sullivan.

Geir Sullivan shakes his arm out. Didn’t expect to be doing vet work today. But damn.

The smell of iodine rises off the clothes of the two men, the top of their collars damp with sweat. The old man bends down to rub his hand on a dry patch of straw. Then steps over the top bar of the gate and takes a syringe, bottle, off a nearby window ledge. 

Now comes the uncomfortable part, says Geir. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask for that payment. It would be helping me out.

I won’t, the old man says. He fills the syringe and gives the cow a shot of penicillin in the neck. 

Geir Sullivan crosses his arms. Looks to the cow and then back to the old man. Tilts his head. You won’t, Geir says. That’s not a great stroke on your part.

The old man levers the crank, slowly lowering the cow. When her weight settles in the bedding and the rope slackens the old man slips the lifters off. He pushes her rear legs beneath her to make it easier for her to stand later.

The old man looks up. Sees Geir Sullivan still staring at him. Says, can’t get water from a stone, and so on.

Fucksake, you’re a pain in the hole.

The old man sets the knife, syringe, and bottle into the bucket. Grabs the lip of the bucket and heads towards the dairy.

They’ll put a lien on this place, if they haven’t already, Geir says. Banks and lawyers and all of it.

Geir Sullivan grabs the old man’s shoulder as he passes.

The old man spins around. Lifts a finger at him. I’ve given more than enough for what I have. Try to take more and see what happens.

The old man takes the knife out of the bucket, grips it. Turns back to the dairy.

I will, Geir Sullivan yells at the old man. He pounds his fist on the gate, making the latch rattle. Glares at the old man’s back. I will!

Why is this excerpt so emotional for you as a writer to write?  And can you describe your own emotional experience of writing this specific excerpt? This except involves the main character fixing the prolapsed uterus of a cow with his shoelace and a steak knife. The scene was added in the final draft. I had written similar scenes in other short stories and an unpublished novel from when I was young. It might seem a little unrealistic to some readers, but that it how we fixed prolapsed uteruses on our farm. Much like the protagonist in The Beasts They Turned Away, we couldn’t afford to hire a vet. To me, the scene represents not just a lived experience, but serves as a demonstration of what the current agricultural policy has done to family farming in most Western nations. (Left:  Ryan as a child with Ana.  Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked up rough drafts of this excerpt? Unfortunately, all the drafts of the novel that survived moving from one place to another are kept in a blue plastic tub in the old feed room on the farm (and I am currently back in the West of Ireland). I had to put a lot of heavy tools tractor parts over the lid because the goat that roamed free liked to pry it open and eat my future archive.

https://www.kennys.ie/shop/The-Beasts-They-Turned-Away-Dennis-Ryan

All of the Inside the Emotion of Fiction LIVE LINKS can be found at the VERY END of the below feature: 

http://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2021/03/stephenson-holts-arranged-marriage-is.html 

Clint Margrave’s “Jesus Never Laughed” is #275 in the never-ending series called BACKSTORY OF THE POEM

 *The images in this specific piece are granted copyright:  Public Domain, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law.

The other images are granted copyright permission by the copyright holder, which is identified beneath each photo. 

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*** The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished poets for BACKSTORY OF THE POEM series.  Contact CRC Blog via email at caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7

***Clint Margrave’s “Jesus Never Laughed” is #275 in the never-ending series called BACKSTORY OF THE POEM where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific poem and how the poet wrote that specific poem.  All BACKSTORY OF THE POEM links are at the end of this piece. 

Can you go through the step-by-step process of writing this poem from the moment the idea was first conceived in your brain until final form? In a journal entry dated from August 2019, I first mention this idea that Jesus never laughed. I had heard someone say on a podcast around that time how Jesus never laughed and how Socrates never wept. It wasn't until a year later that I rediscovered this in my journal and wrote a draft of the poem.  (Right:  Clint Margrave's journal entry from August of 2019.  Credit and Copyright by Clint Margrave)

Where were you when you started to actually write the poem?  And please describe the place in great detail. Most likely in my apartment in Atwater Village in Los Angeles, CA. Probably at the kitchen table rather than in my office. I have taken to writing there during the pandemic, since my office has now become my classroom.  (Left: sculpture head of Socrates)

 

What month and year did you start writing this poem? The first journal notes were in August 2019. The first draft was August 2020.  (Right:  The place where Clint Margrave wrote "Jesus Never Laughed"  Credit and Copyright by Clint Margrave)

How many drafts of this poem did you write before going to the final? (And can you share a photograph of your rough drafts with pen markings on it?) Not too many compared to some poems. I'm guessing around 10.  

 

Were there any lines in any of your rough drafts of this poem that were not in the final version?  And can you share them with us? Sure. Originally, I had to tried to include the idea that Socrates never wept then realized it was too much. (Left:  Clint Margrave's writing space today.  Credit and Copyright by Clint Margrave)

The more I thought about how Jesus never laughed and how there is a whole religion based only around one side of life  (tragedy), the more I wanted to focus in on this. There isn't much humor anywhere in the Bible, both in the Hebrew Bible and the Christian one, which seems odd if this is supposed to be the word of "God" since humans have both the comic and the tragic. God and Jesus are both so humorless as characters.  (Right:  Clint Margrave in August of 2019.  Copyright by Clint Margrave)

What do you want readers of this poem to take from this poem? I don't want to prescribe any feeling or message, but maybe I hope it'll inspire people to remember to laugh and lighten up sometimes.  

 

Which part of the poem was the most emotional of you to write and why? I felt emotional about how so many can only see tragedy, which is only embracing one side of life. I believe you need to embrace both. Some turn entirely away from the tragic as well and that isn't healthy either, but we need to laugh, even at tragedy sometimes. It's the only way to deal with the world.  

Has this poem been published before?  And if so where? Yes, in The Moth, Spring 2021 Issue. (Above Left)

Jesus Never Laughed 

 

It’s true that a sense of humor

didn’t run in the family. 

 

And he could always fall back 

on other traits 

like raising the dead,

healing the blind,

walking on water. 

 

Not to mention

turning that water into wine 

which must’ve made him 

a hit at parties.

But imagine if one of the most famous

lines in the Bible 

had been, “Jesus laughed”?

Instead, he wept. 

He was always weeping. 

For the sins of the world.

For the mercy of his father.

You almost feel bad for the guy. 

You almost want to say, 

Hey Jesus, lighten up! 

  

No one ever taught him

that tragedy is only

one side of life.  

That for every martyr

you need a jester,

for every Book of Job

you need a book of jokes. 

 

No one ever taught him

that laughter is its own savior

and sometimes all you have. 

Clint Margrave is the author of the novel Lying Bastard (Run Amok Books, 2020), and the poetry collections, Salute the Wreckage, The Early Death of Men, and Visitor (Forthcoming) all from NYQ Books. His work has appeared in The Threepenny Review, Rattle, Cimarron Review, Ambit (UK), Verse Daily, and The Writer’s Almanac, among others. He lives in Los Angeles, CA. (Right:  Clint Margrave.  Copyright by Clint Margrave)

All of the Backstory of the Poem LIVE LINKS can be found at the VERY END of the below feature: 

http://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2021/02/will-justice-drakes-intercession-is-251.html