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capri0mniI started writing this report last night, almost giving a minute-by-minute account, then conked out before I got to the middle. Then, I had to reboot before I posted. I can't be bothered writing another minute-by-minute account, so you lucky lucky people get the sane version.
Art Garden was June 12. The theme was "hair."
Came home Friday night and slept on a new air bed. Woke up Saturday with a very painful back. Almost called in sick, but went anyway. Very glad I did.
At the party afterward, Irene O'Garden challenged me to write something based on my real life, instead of my usual fairy tales and symbolic poetry, saying that if I'd let the people in the audience get over their hangups about my chair, they'd be enthralled (or something to that effect) by my point of view... Maybe she's right. Maybe I'll take her up on that challenge (but I do so love writing fairy tales, and not just because they instantly transport the teller and audience to an alternate world of common ground...).
Saturday night, we pumped up the air bed so it was much firmer, and I took a Tylenol PM... in the morning, my back was 99.9999999% better.
Came back on Monday. Dad drove back to New York on Tuesday.
Meanwhile, back in November of last year, a woman in England, whom I know online, commissioned me to compose a story for her to tell at The Festival at the Edge, about Dragons.
I finally finished it on Friday, and sent her an email telling her so. Last year, I'd decided my usual price for my stories would be $35 (£19.21). But that's for a private story, where I still retain all rights. Since she'd be telling this story abroad, and planning on telling it at additional festivals through the year, I figured that counted as some form of publication, so I should charge a little more. And decided on £27. She agreed that this was reasonable, and just about what she could afford...
She finally came back from that other festival this last Monday, and I emailed her the story... And waited... and waited ... for her reply. She got back to me on Thursday saying she loved it...And that if I drafted up a flyer of some sort about my services, she'd distribute it at The Edge (w00t!). So that's what I've been working on.
I've decided on a three-fold pamphlet... the first panel extolling the virtues of wondertales (the folklorists' term for "fairy tales"), the middle panel being an "About the Artist" kind of thing, and the third panel being terms, conditions and how to reach me... The middle bit is the hardest bit to write, but worth it, I think. ... Even if she doesn't distribute it at the Festival, it will still be good to have on hand, in case I ever get a chance to distribute them myself...
Oh, and also, at the after party on the 12th, one person in particular was insistant that I should publish my Art Garden stories... so I am seriously looking at the book services of Cafe Press.
Now, you're up to date. It's time for the "behind the cuts."
Princess Tangle-Hair
Once upon a time, there lived a king who ruled a kingdom rich beyond compare. But his wife had borne him no heir. His counselors advised him to banish her, and take a younger bride.
Hearing of this, the queen ran into the forest, to rage against Fate's cruelty. Exhausted at last, she came to rest beside a still pond.
There, she saw her reflection, and how her hair had become tangled with briars. Taking her comb, she worked them free. As she did, grief loosened its grip on her heart. Then, one hair fell into the water.
The pond churned, and a host of frog spirits appeared. "You have defiled our sanctuary!" they chorused in anger, "so must die!"
The queen begged for mercy, and told them her tale.
The spirits took pity on her. "Go tell your king you shall bear a daughter within the year, blessed by us. But her hair must never be combed or cut, or she shall be lost to the world of men."
The queen wept. "Spare my daughter! It should be I!"
"You had your chance," they told her, "but she may be ransomed with a gift so rare there is not another like it in the world."
And so it came to pass. A princess was born, blessed with strength, intelligence and grace. But her hair hung in wild tangles down her back -- never once had it been combed or cut. Some said this proved her true father some wild beast. But there were many more who asked for her hand in marriage.
Her father decided to hold a ball on her sixteenth birthday, to choose a husband. The palace thrummed with anticipation. But the princess, fearing she was ugly, ran into the forest, just as her mother had, before her.
There, she saw a deer running through the brush, and saw a tuft of its hair caught in a bramble.
"Perhaps," she thought, "those thorns would catch my tangles." She took a branch, and pulled it through her hair.
The sky grew dark, and thunder clapped. The princess transformed into a wild mare -- her hair now a long mane.
Hearing the thunder, her parents feared the worst, and sent every servant and knight to search for her. But she was nowhere to be found.
The queen revealed, then, the terrible bargain she had struck, and asked all the suitors to bring their rarest offerings to the pond. But all floated back to the surface, rejected by the frog spirits.
Years passed, and in time, the king and queen died of old age. Many rival kings tried to invade the land, but to no avail. For as soon as a scout crossed over the kingdom's border, a wild mare would appear before him, and with a stamp of her hoof, she'd raise a great storm, and drive the army away. Years turned into centuries. The kingdom of the enchanted mare became a tale told to children.
But one day, a prince heard the tale, and believed it. The youngest of seven, he had little hope of a royal inheritance, and set his heart on breaking the spell. His brothers mocked him, and the king, fearing him mad, sent him away.
The prince, however, was light of heart, and set out in search of the mysterious lost kingdom.
Then, one day he looked to the horizon, he saw the wild mare, her mane hanging down to her fetlocks, rippling like water as she moved, and he knew at once it must be the enchanted princess, and this must be her land.
The princess's grace, strength and intelligence were still her own, and in an instant, the prince fell in love. He thought no more about the gold in the treasure house, and only of winning her back to the world of men. He heart seemed full of music. But he had no harp to play.
So the prince set to work. He made the frame from arching branches of roses, the blossoms still fresh. And for the strings, he plucked out strands of his own fine hair. Then he sought out the spirits' pond, and he began to play.
The sound stirred a memory in the wild mare's heart, and she, losing her shyness at last, came forward to hear him.
The frog spirits, too, heard his offering, and knew there was not another like it in the world. They released the princess from her enchantment, and she regained the form of a young princess, but her eyes held centuries of wisdom and sorrow.
She, with that wisdom, and he, with his faith, ruled the kingdom well for all their days.
and
Custom
Wondertales
by
Ann Magill
Few things can bring people together or raise the spirits like a good story. And the simple words "Once upon a Time" can, like a parting of the veil, lead us to a world where petty differences disappear, each of us can be a hero, and our ordinary struggles become gallant quests.
Sharing a story, through print or the spoken word, is a wonderful way to:
- Observe a holiday
˜ Celebrate a birthday
- Mark a wedding anniversary
˜ Thank a parent
- Congratulate a student
˜ Memorialize a loved one
- . . . and so much more!
Tell me what theme or motif you'd like, and a bit about why it's meaningful, and I will compose an original wondertale just for you.
Art Garden was June 12. The theme was "hair."
Came home Friday night and slept on a new air bed. Woke up Saturday with a very painful back. Almost called in sick, but went anyway. Very glad I did.
At the party afterward, Irene O'Garden challenged me to write something based on my real life, instead of my usual fairy tales and symbolic poetry, saying that if I'd let the people in the audience get over their hangups about my chair, they'd be enthralled (or something to that effect) by my point of view... Maybe she's right. Maybe I'll take her up on that challenge (but I do so love writing fairy tales, and not just because they instantly transport the teller and audience to an alternate world of common ground...).
Saturday night, we pumped up the air bed so it was much firmer, and I took a Tylenol PM... in the morning, my back was 99.9999999% better.
Came back on Monday. Dad drove back to New York on Tuesday.
Meanwhile, back in November of last year, a woman in England, whom I know online, commissioned me to compose a story for her to tell at The Festival at the Edge, about Dragons.
I finally finished it on Friday, and sent her an email telling her so. Last year, I'd decided my usual price for my stories would be $35 (£19.21). But that's for a private story, where I still retain all rights. Since she'd be telling this story abroad, and planning on telling it at additional festivals through the year, I figured that counted as some form of publication, so I should charge a little more. And decided on £27. She agreed that this was reasonable, and just about what she could afford...
She finally came back from that other festival this last Monday, and I emailed her the story... And waited... and waited ... for her reply. She got back to me on Thursday saying she loved it...And that if I drafted up a flyer of some sort about my services, she'd distribute it at The Edge (w00t!). So that's what I've been working on.
I've decided on a three-fold pamphlet... the first panel extolling the virtues of wondertales (the folklorists' term for "fairy tales"), the middle panel being an "About the Artist" kind of thing, and the third panel being terms, conditions and how to reach me... The middle bit is the hardest bit to write, but worth it, I think. ... Even if she doesn't distribute it at the Festival, it will still be good to have on hand, in case I ever get a chance to distribute them myself...
Oh, and also, at the after party on the 12th, one person in particular was insistant that I should publish my Art Garden stories... so I am seriously looking at the book services of Cafe Press.
Now, you're up to date. It's time for the "behind the cuts."
Once upon a time, there lived a king who ruled a kingdom rich beyond compare. But his wife had borne him no heir. His counselors advised him to banish her, and take a younger bride.
Hearing of this, the queen ran into the forest, to rage against Fate's cruelty. Exhausted at last, she came to rest beside a still pond.
There, she saw her reflection, and how her hair had become tangled with briars. Taking her comb, she worked them free. As she did, grief loosened its grip on her heart. Then, one hair fell into the water.
The pond churned, and a host of frog spirits appeared. "You have defiled our sanctuary!" they chorused in anger, "so must die!"
The queen begged for mercy, and told them her tale.
The spirits took pity on her. "Go tell your king you shall bear a daughter within the year, blessed by us. But her hair must never be combed or cut, or she shall be lost to the world of men."
The queen wept. "Spare my daughter! It should be I!"
"You had your chance," they told her, "but she may be ransomed with a gift so rare there is not another like it in the world."
And so it came to pass. A princess was born, blessed with strength, intelligence and grace. But her hair hung in wild tangles down her back -- never once had it been combed or cut. Some said this proved her true father some wild beast. But there were many more who asked for her hand in marriage.
Her father decided to hold a ball on her sixteenth birthday, to choose a husband. The palace thrummed with anticipation. But the princess, fearing she was ugly, ran into the forest, just as her mother had, before her.
There, she saw a deer running through the brush, and saw a tuft of its hair caught in a bramble.
"Perhaps," she thought, "those thorns would catch my tangles." She took a branch, and pulled it through her hair.
The sky grew dark, and thunder clapped. The princess transformed into a wild mare -- her hair now a long mane.
Hearing the thunder, her parents feared the worst, and sent every servant and knight to search for her. But she was nowhere to be found.
The queen revealed, then, the terrible bargain she had struck, and asked all the suitors to bring their rarest offerings to the pond. But all floated back to the surface, rejected by the frog spirits.
Years passed, and in time, the king and queen died of old age. Many rival kings tried to invade the land, but to no avail. For as soon as a scout crossed over the kingdom's border, a wild mare would appear before him, and with a stamp of her hoof, she'd raise a great storm, and drive the army away. Years turned into centuries. The kingdom of the enchanted mare became a tale told to children.
But one day, a prince heard the tale, and believed it. The youngest of seven, he had little hope of a royal inheritance, and set his heart on breaking the spell. His brothers mocked him, and the king, fearing him mad, sent him away.
The prince, however, was light of heart, and set out in search of the mysterious lost kingdom.
Then, one day he looked to the horizon, he saw the wild mare, her mane hanging down to her fetlocks, rippling like water as she moved, and he knew at once it must be the enchanted princess, and this must be her land.
The princess's grace, strength and intelligence were still her own, and in an instant, the prince fell in love. He thought no more about the gold in the treasure house, and only of winning her back to the world of men. He heart seemed full of music. But he had no harp to play.
So the prince set to work. He made the frame from arching branches of roses, the blossoms still fresh. And for the strings, he plucked out strands of his own fine hair. Then he sought out the spirits' pond, and he began to play.
The sound stirred a memory in the wild mare's heart, and she, losing her shyness at last, came forward to hear him.
The frog spirits, too, heard his offering, and knew there was not another like it in the world. They released the princess from her enchantment, and she regained the form of a young princess, but her eyes held centuries of wisdom and sorrow.
She, with that wisdom, and he, with his faith, ruled the kingdom well for all their days.
and
Custom
Wondertales
by
Ann Magill
Few things can bring people together or raise the spirits like a good story. And the simple words "Once upon a Time" can, like a parting of the veil, lead us to a world where petty differences disappear, each of us can be a hero, and our ordinary struggles become gallant quests.
Sharing a story, through print or the spoken word, is a wonderful way to:
- Observe a holiday
˜ Celebrate a birthday
- Mark a wedding anniversary
˜ Thank a parent
- Congratulate a student
˜ Memorialize a loved one
- . . . and so much more!
Tell me what theme or motif you'd like, and a bit about why it's meaningful, and I will compose an original wondertale just for you.
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no subject
Date: 2004-06-27 10:07 am (UTC)*Hugs*
AAwww... Thanks!
Date: 2004-06-27 11:09 am (UTC)Finding a traditional agent and publisher to represent me would be another matter. Everything in the publishing industry as it stands now is geared toward filling niches... But -- oringinal wondertales (not redactions) aimed at adults? I don't think there is a niche for that.
Besides, the last time I heard a statistic, all the publishing imprints in the world are owned by something like 9 mega-corporations...
And glad you like the story... it's actually based on Sleeping Beauty -- what I consider the most annoying "fairy tale" of all time. I just took all the bits I found most obnoxious, and turned them into their opposite... >;-)