Branwen the Daughter of Llyr — Tale 2 Criticism

As I was starting to write a criticism, I received a book by a scholar whose field is ancient Celtic literature. The scholar, Peter B. Ellis, cautions using Lady Charlotte Guest's text. I understand from an academic standpoint. However, Ellis's book targets the popular market, making that, too, a problem. In any case, my criticism will not reach academia; and I read another translation.

I see the events of this tale as occurring immediately after the withdrawal of the Roman troops. From the west came Norse invaders, from the east Irish tribes and marauders. From my (scant) reading, it appears that the area the Irish invaded had been partly depopulated, so that resistance would not be great. In the tale, what is a welcoming of the man and woman with the pot, and the rapid growth of their numbers and fortification of their territory, likely was a remembrance of an invasion put in innocuous terms. The same might have been with Bendigeid's invasion of Ireland. Certainly, in the generation after the withdrawal of Roman troops the Welsh would not have been strong enough to invade Ireland. What might have happened is that the Welsh led a reconquest of their lands, and this was much later misinterpreted as a conquest of Ireland.

The tribes of southern Wales play a subordinate role to those of the north. The southern tribes, notably the Silures, readily adapted to Roman ways. Archeological aerial photography located a dozen Roman villas in the south. The north, occupied by the Ordovices, was garrisoned by the Romans. The Ordovices must have looked askance at the southern Welsh tribes, the territory of Pryderi, and this have found its way into the tale.

Bendigeid Vran (or Bran) is identified with Bron, the Fisher King. Vran is mortally wounded by a poison arrow in the leg. The fisher king is lame. The story of the Fisher King is a most intriguing tale in Medieval literature, but it breaks off before the ending; then, four authors took up the tale. The head of Bendigeid Vran is buried on a hill in London protecting the country from invasion, and later disinterred. This serves as a reason after the fact for why there were invasions. Ellis writes that King Arthur (in legend, of course) disinterred the head, to his regret. Ellis must have his source for this. It is not in the tale.

Red Canyon Road

 

This is a detail from a 16x20 acrylic. I used a dry brush on the rocks to simulate striations. The namesake red path at bottom is more prominent on the right side, but the sky on the left has more going on. The source material, like so many others, was a small ad photo in a magazine; a car featured prominently in the foreground, but we couldn't be having that. 

Character building: Terry Brooks interview

 Terry Brooks.  I'm sure this name is popular and you may have read his books.  So what is it about characters?  How and why do authors choose them for the story?

One of the top fantasy writers of our time who is up there with Tolkien.   As a young aspiring writer, and I was in my teens, I wrote to this author.  Surprisingly he wrote back, 

.

and it was often for about five years.  I've been to the conventions and he is a very good person.  For those who couldn't afford the $100 ticket, he would go to one of the local churches to speak to a crowd.  I wanted to learn from the best.   Character development and how this top author does it.  Are writers born or made?  

Author Interviews: C.S. Lewis

 

He is a mastermind, surprisingly he also knew Tolkein.  They were very good friends and met up at the pubs or local coffee shops.  I'm always amazing how they echoed each other in their stories.

Happy Tuesday!

Stobrod Durnham

 

In a town forgotten by time

A rented white SUV bearing four occupants pulled into a muddy clearing. With the engine shut off, water drops from lofty pines were loud on the roof. The object of their quest, an ancient country store, moldered on a low rise across a rickety foot bridge. A hand-lettered sign read "Stobrod Durnham Store". It promised childhood treats no longer available in big cities--exactly what Ed wanted to save from extinction. The Outworld store in that other dimension was just the place, if he could persuade the owner to abandon the rapidly-sinking U.S.S. Earth.

Ed squinted through the trickling windshield. "Let's hope nobody's there but the owner. We might spook the locals."

"Not you, Master Ed." The dwarf Hecabano wore a logger's cap over his satyr horns. His black muscle shirt contrasted with Ed's sport coat. 

Two women, sort of, occupied the back seat. Wicca disdained her vampish stage dress in favor of a white peasant blouse and jeans. This was no place to sink Gucci heels in hog slop. The Bot queen wore jeans, sweatshirt, and gloves to conceal her goldtone plating. Beneath the black punk 'do bestowed by Wicca was a passably human mask. It served to avoid drawing attention on the highway. 

"I'll make first contact," Ed decided, getting out. "Might even have to translate. Remember--no politics."

Wicca hopped onto grassy knolls to avoid the mud. "Ha! Why don't you ask Queenie what a bad girl she's been."

"You refer," the Bot said, "to the recent military coup I engineered to hasten your demise."

Hecabano looked back under drizzly skies. "Ah. That explains why they cower behind razor wire and thirty thousand handpicked troops."

"Come on, knock it off." Ed kept a leery eye on muddy water rushing  beneath the bridge, which had no hand rails. "Stick together so he can keep a tab on us." 

An old-fashioned bell tinkled their entry. Ed savored the weathered floor boards, homespun displays, the smell of produce and pine cleaner. The joint was a bonanza of edible memories.

"I don't believe it." Ed reached into an old red cooler and extracted a  bottle. "Kickapoo Joy Juice, the precursor of Mountain Dew. Taken from the Li'l Abner comic strip. They've even got Moon Pie and squirrel nut zippers."

Wicca frowned at bags of pink, white and brown coconut drops. The undead had no need of food, but in her case, a taste for expensive booze.

It was Queenie who drew first notice from Stobrod. He rocked sedately behind the counter, sizing them up with a wizened eye. A frayed ball cap sat well back on his thinning pate. "They hell izzis?"

"Allow me," Ed said. "He wants to know what the hell this is."

Queenie's heavy tread creaked the floor boards as she went in Ed's face, having no concept of personal space. "Explanation required: how can you translate this dialect when it eludes my vastly superior processors?"

Ed puffed cheeks in thought. "I grew up with it."

"Ah lahk hern voice," Stobrod said, pushing himself erect. "Tawks lahk that thar dispatcher on Adam Twelve. Why she wearin' a maisk?"

Hecabano unloaded an armful of goodies. "Er. . . .skin condition."

"Say," Ed ventured. "I notice you're an inspection station. Could we get our vehicle done?"

"Aita why." Stobrod shrugged. 

"After awhile," Ed supplied for Queenie. "How long is that?"

Another shrug. "Bouda hai ire."

"About half an hour. Okay then."

Wicca sashayed from between displays. "Hey, Hiram, do you folks get the Wicca Horror Show in this burg?"

"The whut?" Stobrod narrowed eyes and pursed lips in confusion. "Y'all folks a-sellin' sum-un? Ah ain't buyin' nuffin. Aina gwinter." 

"I ain't going to," Ed furnished as that last remark. "No, we're buying, not selling. But I don't want to clean you out."

"You kin buy the whole shootin' match, all ah cares."

"Excellent!" Hecabano trundled off on another expedition, aiming for some pineapple bear claws from Mexico. 

"Sum-un odd heah," Stobrod drawled, staring at Wicca. "You got yella eyes, tawk kinda lahk a Britisher. Ain't never seen no hair whut shines purple lahk 'at thar."

Wicca tossed raven locks. "Ever been to Wexelt? It's in the Outworld, where the witches are."

"Yuze a witch?"

"All day, Bay Ray. It got me into the academy. Now I'm a tier seven mage."

Ed stepped between them. "Yeah, well. . . that's what we wanted to ask about." Behind his back, he waved Wicca off. "We're looking to help people relocate. I'm sure you can see where it's all headed. To use a French flair--garBAZH."

"You French?"

"Uh. . . .no."

"Din tawk plain English, lahken ah does."

Queenie came near. "I have established an algorithm which can translate this dialect with 89 percent certainty. You will continue speaking, human."

Stobrod bristled. "You a-givin' me orders? Shyte mah azz!"

"Translation:--"

"We get it," Ed hastily put in. At that moment, Hecabano returned with more treasure.

"Master Ed, what are hoarhound drops?"

Wicca laughed. "Whore hound? What a thing to call candy! Let me see." She recoiled from the brown molasses hard candy thrust at her. "I do not want to know why they call it that."

The proprietor was steadily ringing up the haul. "Yona th'ow in the inspection? Up ta twunny-fie so fur." 

"Sure," Ed said. 

"Twunny dollah."

A boy of about ten came in, wearing overalls. "I slapped on the sticker, Gramps."

"Most curious," Hecabano said. "Is there not a minimum age for certified state inspectors?"

Stobrod looked down at him. "Ah sells inspection stickers. Y'all jess boughten one."

After a short talk with Wicca, Ed asked whether Stobrod wanted to appear on the show, at the going rate of ninety dollars for a cameo.

"Me on TV?" Stobrod scratched a stubbly chin. "Gotta lemme plug the store if'n ah agrees."

Wicca clapped. "Of course you can, Stan! Outworld dimension, you've got another one!" 

Stobrod leaned toward Ed. "Dat gell ain't raht in the head parts."

"Don't I know it," Ed said. "We'll be in touch. Soon." 

Character Development Strategies

 Ok I have read Karen Marie Moning's works a bit.  She's a new writer to the Celtic fantasy genre and it's always interesting to me to see how an author plans out her books.  She certainly has a detailed account to one of her male characters.

Going to let you see her technique which was hands down, what a well done character.  Although the book is romance, of which I rarely looked into but some do interest me with the plot and the best way an author expresses their craft in writing. It's a long post but worth the read. 

  About JERICHO BARRONS

(SPOILERS if you’re not current on the books)

Bet that got your attention

I knew, from the onset of the Fever Series, I would never take the reader inside Jericho Barrons’s head. However, that doesn’t prevent me from psychoanalyzing my own character. I’m fairly certain I’m the one who created him, not the other way around, although given his formidable powers, I suppose it’s possible that I’m the figment of his imagination. I analyze all my characters, and have elaborate portfolios on them.

Barrons came onto the page, a fully fleshed enigma, demanding I ask no questions, only follow him around and get to know him. Judge him by his actions.

I’ve heard readers say ‘Barrons changed’ over the series, as if that’s a surprising fact.

Of course, he changed. Nearly every character in the series did, with few exceptions. I would say Rowena remained precisely what she was throughout, but off the top of my head, I can’t think of any other character besides secondary ones who didn’t transform substantially. Even Jo was becoming different, growing, when she met her untimely and dreadful demise. Lor also changed, or perhaps he merely began revealing more of the raucous, good-hearted man beneath the Bonecrusher. Ryodan also changed, but less than Jericho Barrons. Ryodan didn’t have the same backstory. He’d been out in the world, living participating, protecting his family, being king of his domain.

Barrons had been solely focused on a single thing right up until the moment Mac came into his life, and even after. There’d been no life for Barrons. He was a man on a mission.

Since I never allowed the reader inside his head (with minute exceptions) the only way the reader had to gauge Barrons’s emotion was through the eyes of other characters in the books, and he’s an inscrutable male even to other characters.

A friend asked me the other day what I considered the inflection point in Jericho Barrons’s character growth, which was a simple question for me to answer but that she asked it made me realize it may have been more obvious to me than it was to the reader.

Jericho Barrons suffered what I imagine to be one of the most exquisitely painful, draining, debilitating states of existence of which I can conceive. He lived, in comparison, a tiny amount of time as a man, in a barbaric land, as a barbarian, before his induction into a never-ending hell that stretched for inestimable millennia without respite.

As a parent, every single day, for thousands and thousands of years, he watched his son suffer unspeakable pain, knowing it was his own fault his child was suffering. (To those who’ve asked, who the woman was that once was his sun, moon and stars, before Mac, it was his son’s mother. Before Barrons became what he is, he loved a woman deeply.) (Also, remember that the terrible torture and repeated killings of his son that turned the child into an insane version of the beast occurred roughly one year after the Nine became what they are, so Barrons has been trying to save or put his son to rest since one year after they became. His entire existence has been devoted to this cause. Barrons killed the man who did it to his son as well as the man's wife, no it wasn't pretty. He carries that and pays it forward.) He had to live every moment of every hour trying to deal with the fact that what he’d done, what happened so long ago, had not only stolen all hope of a life for his son, but condemned that innocent child to eternal torment, in his care. He couldn’t leave him. He couldn’t give him peace. He couldn’t save him. His child. The one who stared up at him trustingly, with all the love in his eyes.

And he’d failed him.

Each day Jericho Barrons lived, his son was in agony. He tended him, fed his uncontrollable appetites, kept him chained and caged, tormented day and night, while he searched obsessively for a way to—if not save him—at least give him peace.

As Barrons said, “Dying is overrated. Human sentimentality has twisted it into the ultimate act of love. Dying for someone isn’t the hard thing. The man that dies escapes. Plain and simple. Game over. End of pain. Try living for someone. Through it all – good, bad, thick, thin, joy, suffering. That’s the hard thing.” Barrons knows that intimately. His entire existence revolved around this problem. He lived, holding his breath, searching endlessly, acquiring all ancient artifacts in existence, studying crumbling scrolls, learning the dark arts, desperate to find a way to end his son’s suffering. It was his reason for being.

Into that life burst our Rainbow Girl and yes, she pissed him off. He knew, from the mural on his ceiling, she was important to him, that they had a destiny together but Mac 1.0 who walked into his bookstore was not geared to survive. She was a liability, another person that needed him. He was hard on her. He was tough. He pushed her, drove her, challenged her. He did everything he could to give her teeth and claws, and he succeeded.

(As a mental exercise, take a moment to re-cast every scene between Mac and Barrons in the first five books with this: Instead of starting the scene from Mac’s POV, start out with Jericho Barrons, beneath his garage with his son. We can see the pain that draws his face taut, we see the grief and despair in his eyes. We know he flashes back to that desert, to his son’s trusting eyes, to his own failure. We know he divides his time between caring for his son’s rabid needs in a rather grotesque fashion and searching exhaustively for a way to save him. There’s a heaviness in Barrons’s heart that never lifts. He, like his son, will never be free. Then he goes to the bookstore and tries to deal with the woman who actually thinks birthday cakes and whether her nails are painted matters. Mac’s lucky he didn’t eat her. This all comes down to whether I, as the writer, permit you to know his backstory up front. If’ I’d been writing a romance, not only would I have given you more of his backstory initially, but I’d also have given you his point of view, binding your emotions and empathy to him. By never letting you into his head, I never bound your empathy to him.)

He had to grow Mac up fast in the single year that passed for them between Darkfever and Shadowfever when, at last, Mac gave him the way to end his son’s eternal pain.

Freeing him.

And Jericho Barrons exhaled for the first time.

And, as some of the terrible pain and tension rolled off him, he looked around, wonderingly, and realized he could finally do something the rest of the Nine had been doing all along.

Live.

Maybe even laugh. Care again. Without it resulting in only pain.

Ask himself what he wanted to do today.

Make love to Mac and not hear the endless howls of anguish from beneath the garage behind the bookstore. Give of himself freely and wholly.

Barrons was transformed by this event.

I love Jericho Barrons. He’s not an easy man. But he is rock-solid and committed. He’s done terrible things in the past and he exists as a beast that must meet certain needs. He walks a fine line with it, puts more good into the world than bad, and perhaps most critically, learns and evolves. As he tells Mac, there are some things you can never forgive yourself for (in the conversation about Jo) but you learn to pay it forward. He’s fiercely intelligent but brusque with his wisdom. Still, he can be gentle. Remember the scene when Mac discovers Dani killed Alina? And his Rainbow Girl time in the basement in the Dark Zone. That was hell for him. He wanted Mac to want him. And she didn’t. She wanted sex. Not him. In their suspended time of Pri-ya, she fulfilled his fantasies, rocked his world, rattled his soul.

Without ever once seeing him.

When you know who I am…let me be your man.

I’ve said from the beginning, what fascinates me as a writer is taking flawed, imperfect characters, throwing obstacles and challenges their way and seeing what they become. But also, throwing tribe and love their way and watching how that changes them, too.

Loving and being loved, finding your tribe where you fit, are accepted and valued, is one of the most transformative powers in the universe. It strengthens souls and softens hearts.

But it wasn’t over for Barrons yet. Mac had an inner demon that she would never rest easy until she’d defeated. Again, Barrons stood back and did all in his power to help a woman he loved achieve what she needed. With Mac, it often took painful truths to jam some steel up her spine.

Barrons will never be the hero who pops up as a knight in shining armor every time Mac needs saving. (Although, arguably, the only time he wasn’t Johnny-on-the-spot, he was dead.) He will be the man who teaches her all he knows to make her capable of saving herself or, at the least, to survive long enough for him to get there to help her. And together, they will thrive. He won’t be the man who says all the right words. But he’ll do the right things. He won’t always do the right things with finesse. He’s not perfect.

I had a vision, from the beginning, how I wanted Mac and Barrons to end up and, in KOSAL, I take them there. What a boring series it would be if the only person who changed and grew was Mac.

We live, we grow, we evolve. Those are the kind of characters I’m driven to write about.

The Fever Series suffered more than a few challenges. One of them is that it doesn’t comfortably fit within any one genre. It’s not romance, I didn’t write a book boyfriend. I wrote a difficult but infinitely rewarding man. I didn’t write a perfect heroine. I followed a woman from innocence to wisdom and chronicled her many mistakes along the way. It’s not quite fantasy, although the world building is fully fleshed, vivid and cohesive. It’s not really even urban fantasy. It’s an odd blend of mystery, slow burn love, transformation, how-to-survive-tough-times, fantasy with enough romance that it makes it a bit of a mess to pigeonhole.

Mac and Barrons are not, nor are they intended to be, an example of a perfect relationship. Their relationship is perfect for them. They bring out the best in each other. Not the worst, not the mediocre. The best. He’s right for her and she’s right for him, the way Dani and Ryodan fit each other, Kat and Sean, Christian and…well, you don’t know that part yet. I’m not holding any of my couplings up as a shining example of that to which we should aspire in our own lives. Love them or hate them, they are all gray characters, imperfect people, in an imperfect, fictional world populated by superheroes, assassins, dragon-like Hunters, Fae, druids, supernatural powers.

Now that the Fever Series is drawing to a close, I compiled a list of my favorite Jericho Barrons quotes. Many of them are my favorites because they’re just good advice about life. He was trying to teach Mac, wake her up, bring her to an equal playing ground. Feel free to add if I’ve missed any of yours. I may do this for other characters, as well. It’s intriguing to look back and see how far they’ve all come.

___

I’m sorry your pretty little world got all screwed up, but everybody’s does, and you go on. It’s how you go on that defines you.

You’re Mac. And I’m Jericho. And nothing else matters. Never will. You exist in a place that is beyond all rules for me. Do you understand that?” (I do, Jericho Barrons just told me he loves me.)

Sometimes, Ms. Lane, one must break with one’s past to embrace’s one’s future. It is never an easy thing to do. It is one of the distinguishing characteristics between survivors and victims. Letting go of what was, to survive what is. (God, did we all learn that in the Time of Covid?)

And this isn’t a Barrons quote but about Barrons…”Ancient eyes had stared at me, filled with ancient grief. And something more. Something so alien and unexpected that I’d almost burst into tears. I’d seen many things in his eyes in the time I’d known him. Lust, amusement, sympathy, mockery, caution, fury. But I had never seen this. Hope. Jericho Barrons had hope, and I was the reason for it. I would never forget his smile. It had illuminated him from the inside out. (This is when he realizes she may be able to lay his son to rest.)

And here we go. She’s bristling and my hackles go up. Bloody hell. I feel fangs coming on. Tell you what, Ms. Lane. Anytime you want to have a conversation with me, leave the myriad issues you have with wanting to fuck me every time you see me outside my cave, come on in and see what you find. You might like it. (That was total truth. Mac got in her own way quite often. I love her, but she had a lot of growing to do.)

Lose the pessimism, Ms. Lane. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Hope strengthens, fear kills.

You’re leaving me, Rainbow Girl.

If only love could be turned off. It’s not a faucet. Love’s a bloody river with level-five rapids. Only a catastrophic act of nature or a dam has any chance of stopping it – and then usually only succeeds in diverting it. Both measures are extreme and change the terrain so much you end up wondering why you bothered. No landmarks to gauge your position once it’s done. Only way to survive is to devise new ways to map out life.

The only question of any significant emotive content is: can you live without it?

Fear is more than a wasted emotion. It’s the ultimate set of blinders. If you can’t face the truth of your reality, you can’t be a part of it, can’t control it. You may as well throw in the towel and yield to the whims of anyone with a stronger will.

Mac is mine. You will never go there. You have a problem with Mac, you work it out with me. I am her shield. I am her second fucking skin. (This one just makes my heart happy, lol)

Of all the years, this one has been my finest. Fire to my ice, Mac. Frost to my flame.

I sometimes wake up to find he’s pulled me close to him and is holding me, spooned into my back with his face in my hair and, those hands that don’t speak like mine don’t speak move over my skin and tell me I’m cherished, honored, seen.

I didn’t want to hide the memory from you. I wanted to cram it down your goddamn throat. I wanted to force you to face it, to want it, to want me, to be willing to fight for what was possible between us with the same single-minded devotion as you fucked. Well, Ms. Lane, you’ve got your precious memory back. Will you throw me away now?

I’ve had a long life. You haven’t. You love your family. Go to another world. Find a…a husband— (he breaks off and that dangerous rattle starts in his chest yet, he goes on) Have children. Rebuild the human race. Live all those dreams you used to have. (She refuses, of course.)

When you know who I am, let me be your man.

Oh ye of little faith. Not for IYD. But you didn’t even try.

Women have been repeating the same mistake since time began: falling for a man’s potential. We rarely see it the same way and even more rarely care to achieve it.

One day you may kiss a man you can’t breathe without and find breath is of little consequence.

(M) Are we, like, having a conversation? (B) Did you just, like, ask me for advice and listen with an open mind? If so, then yes, I would call this a conversation.

Then there’s one from KOSAL that you haven’t seen yet:

B. You choose. Hero or villain.

M. You told me you’re not the hero.

B. Not the villain either.

M. What else is there?

B. A person that gets up every day and tries as hard as she can to live up to what she believes in. Aims for the stars. Misses sometimes. Tries again. Harder. With more commitment to protecting others and less selfishness.

Typical of their early relationship, this one makes me laugh:

B. The moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you were trouble.

M. Ditto.

B. I wanted to drag you between the shelves, fuck you senseless and send you home.

M. If you’d done that, I never would have left.

B. You’re still here anyway.

M. You don’t have to sound so sour about it.

B. You’re upsetting my entire existence.

M. Fine. I’ll leave.

B. Try and I’ll chain you up.

Creativity with Snow

 

             Let today be the day. Snow is falling outside our North GA home and keeping warm in the kitchen, got the Hobbit & Lord of the Rings soundtrack going to keep the creativity going.  Got some hot tea

A couple of clips to enjoy.

What is your favorite thing to write or paint to?