Company of Misfits

Oftentimes, inspiration can be found in the most unlikely of places. For many stories or adventures in The Wicket of Silvus, the inspiration is the incredible, sometimes quirky, and very odd moments that make up my life. In fact, on a regular basis I will message a friend and tell her what happened that day and the response I receive is, "How?! How do these things always happen to you?" I'm not sure, to be honest, but it makes for great writing material.

However, sometimes inspiration comes from unusual sources. For example, a few years ago I was in a tough place in my life. I was sad and tried to find moments of humour in watching comedic YouTubers. One of my favourites, at the time, was Brandon Farris. I can't recommend all of his videos, as some are just a bit too out there for my taste, but there are many that are quite enjoyable. I'd have to say that the video below is my all-time favourite. I could just imagine this ridiculous energy put into someone well-trained in swordsmanship, and perhaps a tad bit more brave, and I could immediately see how reaction times would be faster than anticipated. 

Megildur (meaning: sword) was created during one of those moments where I needed a bit more of this ridiculous joy in my life and my book, and he is bursting with excited energy and ready to accompany our travellers on their adventure. Hopefully they never come across a spider along the way. :)

The Verdict

Have you ever been judged? Have you ever sat in judgement over others? Maybe it was for something you did or didn't do. Maybe it was for something someone else did or didn't do. Maybe it was for something that you said, or they said, or no one said. Maybe judgement happened because of a funny look, or just looking funny. 

As long as I can remember, I wanted to be an author. I wanted to write books full of imagination and fantasy and joy and playfulness. But I have a terrible, squelching fear of being judged. It's not just about me being judged, but my ideas. If someone came up to me and said, "Lisa, you're such an idiot and you look like a complete loser," I could handle that because it's about me externally. It's about a person's perception of the individual I may or may not portray to others. But if someone comes up to me and says, "your book/art/craft/project/etc sucks," that hurts. Because that is no longer a facade I play to make people happy. When I do a project of any kind, be it book or painting or play, that is my deepest, innermost creative side burrowing its way out from the hole it dug itself into and peeking around to see if it's safe. 

I wrote a lot of things as a kid and received a lot of criticism. Either from my peers, my teachers, my classmates, or whomever. If ever I thought I was artistic, someone would tell me I wasn't and tear me down. I still remember making a ginger bread house with my aunt when I was really little and I wanted to be creative in my own childish way and she told me it was going to be too messy and disgusting and I just needed to keep my hands off. So I did. With a lot of things. Because for me, creativity equaled failure. 

But then I began to volunteer in writing children's material for my church. I started when I was a teen, and people actually liked what I wrote. I wrote puppet plays for kids, but the adults were all watching too and both the children and adults laughed, but not with judgement. I spread my talents to things like children's curriculum and summer camp story time plays. I wrote skits for ladies retreats for people I had never met, and they liked it. But all the while I felt I was surrounded by a council of people, letting me do my thing but just biding their time to place judgement on me; to tell me I'm not good enough. As I read through The Wicket of Silvus again, I can see it in the pages of this first book: my fear... my hesitation to let my words flow... my need to hold back.

Although it may not seem like it to anyone else, putting a book out there into the world was a massive act of bravery for me. I have slowly grown out of the dark abyss that my childhood bullies pushed me into, and fought with my self-esteem along the way, only to find out that I don't walk this journey alone. I have not advertised my book anywhere but on Facebook, and my friends, you wonderful friends, have supported me, have told your friends, have passed along the word to others. You are the council of elders, sitting around making judgement, and you have judged it to be worthy, and have compelled me to keep going. 

Thank you.

Beriothien

Many years ago I had a roommate who was born in a different country and had taken a "Canadian name" when moving to Canada because no one was ever able to pronounce her African name correctly. (For her privacy I will refrain from mentioning names or her country of origin.) I asked what her given name was and she tried to teach me to say it. No matter how many times I repeated her name, and no matter how exact I thought I was being with the tones and inflections, she continued to laugh at me and say, "No, that's not it!" Apparently I could not get it right. 

Society is growing when it comes to names. It used to be that immigrants would move to Canada and take what was called a "Christian name," or basically an English name. But times are, gratefully, changing where people of all cultures are beginning to feel free to use their given names. And yet, often, as English only speakers, we may struggle to pronounce names of those from other cultures and ethnic backgrounds. Let's face it, with the way things are going in naming babies obscure names in our own culture, many children's names of any ethnic background are hard to pronounce. 

What bothers me is that if someone is trying, and I mean really trying not just being ridiculous, and they still can't get your name 100% perfect, is that really a reason to laugh at them? Take my name for example: I have one of the easiest names on the planet to pronounce. But yet I've been called Leeza, Leeser, Liz, Lissa, Leezer, Liza, Lysa, and Katey. But I don't say anything or complain, although that did make it awkward after being called Katey by a client for 6 months to have to admit to them that it wasn't my name. Unless they're doing it to harass me for some reason, I understand different people have different accents and they're all going to say my name differently and that's okay. 

At the back of the book, The Wicket of Silvus, there is a name list with all of the human and elvish names with a pronunciation chart. If you choose to take a look and find out that Beriothien is actually pronounced Behr-ee-oh-thee-ehn, then more power to you. But if you are enjoying the book and choose to call him Berry-oh-theen, go for it! It's your imagination and your experience. If ever I am able to turn this into an audiobook, I will have a discussion on pronunciation with the narrator. But for now, I really don't care what you call the characters. If you want to discuss them with me, I will likely figure out who you're talking about, no matter what weird name you give them.

The Windy City

 Chicago...

What can I say, really. Chicago is a magical place...if you don't get murdered or robbed or accidentally end up walking for a very, very long time to find the number one pizza place in the city.

There are several landmarks mentioned in Chapter 5 that may be hard to identify. The bean, otherwise known as Cloud Gate, is a fascinating art instalment by Sir Anish Kapoor. It reflect the city perfectly and is a gorgeous, yet completely impractical, giant shiny bean. (See above photo.)

There is also Maggie Daley Park, with a walkway that is decorated with inverted trees. I personally have not seen these trees, but they seem very interesting.

Another landmark mentioned was the Crown Fountain. Designed by Jaume Plensa, the Crown Fountain is two identical 50-foot towers that stand opposite each other and project video images of a broad spectrum of 1000 of Chicago's citizens. And yes, they periodically "spit" water and create this very odd fountain.

I have this foggy memory of arriving in Chicago and driving to the hotel where we were charged an exorbitant amount of money for parking, around $60/night! The previous few nights were spent at rainy campgrounds so we were dirty, tired, and incredibly hungry. Our vehicle was packed to the top with stinky camping gear and we were ready for a break from tenting. Even though we arrived late into the evening, we still walked over an hour to get to "the best pizza place in Chicago," according to someone who used to live there. It was definitely amazing pizza, although at that point I would have eaten a slice of pepperoni on its own and considered it amazingly awesome. 

As the valet helped carry the bags to the car at the end of our stay, he offered to put them in the back for us. (That's the kind of place we stayed at.) However, when we popped open the hatch, I thought his eyes were going to fall out of his head. "Very full," he said, looking at our camping gear. I agreed, and we put the bags in their designated spots on our own.

The Stairway Tree

 

When I started this blog, my intention was to read each chapter of my book, find some sort of quirk within that chapter, and write a personal anecdote corresponding to that quirk while showing off the chapter art; hence why every blog post is named after a chapter title. Of course I didn't want to write about the chapters themselves for spoiler purposes, but personal insights into my life are often amusing. 

The ultimate idea behind all of this being that, at the end of the blog chapter posts, I would be finished writing book two and be able to announce the upcoming title. That gave me a 20 week timeline to finish writing my second book. Instead, I have been busy with summer, work, summer, and more work. 

I wasn't going to announce this plan, you see. I was just going to do it and let the reader figure it out. But lo and behold, people are sending me comments about my previous blog that prove it was seriously misread, and now I feel the need to explain.

I have had comments such as, "I feel your pain;" "Why is it that we are both so bad at this?;" "This made me sad for you..." and so on. I was very confused because I thought the last post was hysterical. 

It was never meant to be a sad post, dear friends. It was strictly a satire; a pasquinade; a lampoon. It was written for comical purposes. I am very, very content with my life and have no regrets...(except that one time I kicked my dog). Every one of these ridiculous encounters offers me a hilarious story of my life that makes me smile, and sometimes snort laugh to myself in the midst of a crowded room while people stare at me and I can't explain why I am trying not to laugh out loud. I am glad I have made a bumbling idiot of myself on more than one occasion. It amuses me.

Sometimes entering the stories of my mind is like descending the stairway tree into a new realm. For some reason, those around me seem to have "normal" stories such as, "We went to the mall," or "I went to England and we had pastry;" or "We drove across country and nothing abnormal happened." This is not the way my journey takes. For me it's more like, "So this one time I was in the mall with my cousin and we were eating our food when a man with a mental disability walked up to me, hands outstretched, and reached pointedly for my boobs, never taking his eyes off of them. I grabbed his hand in mine and shook it and said, 'Hello!' really loudly and he suddenly looked up, saw my face, and immediately turned white and ran away. The Asian couple next to us literally had their chopsticks halfway to their mouths and were staring, mouths gaping, horrified, while my cousin and I laughed our heads off;" or "This one time a dear friend of mine and I were out for a drive, looking for our campsite, and it was late at night and we couldn't tell where we were going and the GPS seemed to be lost as well and we ended up down this random dark road at night where we saw a person with a reflective jacket walking in the ditch and a creature that looked vaguely like an alien as its eyes glowed in the dark somewhere above her head. We drove by slowly and realized the woman was out, late at night, taking her llama for a walk;" or "I was walking around a tiny island in the middle of a lake in the mountains and came across a foreign tourist who was telling his friend that he had eaten a sandwich the week before and in a thick, German-type accent said, 'the sandwich, it was corrupt.' In other words, he got food poisoning real bad." Those are basic examples. It gets much weirder from there.

But as you can see, I do not begrudge the stories of my past. I look on them with amusement, joy, and sometimes a little bitter-sweet sadness as I remember the people I have spent time with and no longer have the pleasure of being around. If you want to feel sorry for me, feel sorry that I don't own a Starbucks franchise, because I could use that. 

What's in a Name?

Have you ever felt that sense of awkwardness in a conversation when you realize that you're talking or gesturing like a bumbling idiot and both you and the other person know it but there's very little you can do to stop it?

Unfortunately, this happens to me frequently...usually around male humans.

The earliest example of this was when I was in grade 4 or 5 and had a crush on my brother's best friend. To be fair, what girl doesn't have a crush on her brother's friend as a kid? Not only was he my brother's best friend, but our dads worked together and we saw each other all... the... time! And he had a fabulous smile. And a great voice.

Naturally, I was terrified of him. 

For some unknown and regrettable reason, I ended up spilling the beans to my brother that I liked his friend. As any brother I know would do, he threatened to tell. I was mortified. Not only could I not talk to this person even though we saw each other regularly, but if my brother told him, I would never be able to look him in the face again. They were having a sleepover one night when my brother came into my room and said he was going to tell his friend.

I protested, he teased that he would. I cried, he persisted. I yelled, "Okay, but only in my room!"

What?! Who does that? Yes, you can tell the boy I have a crush on that I like him but only in front of me while I'm surrounded by teddy bears and wearing care bear pyjamas. That's reasonable.

Turns out my brother told me later that he wasn't really going to tell, but since I gave him permission, he did. He dragged the poor boy into my room, told him I had a crush on him, and I had to watch in horror as he turned bright red and buried his face in my blanket and I knew I could never look at him again.

I did.

Somehow he ended up coming to visit when we moved half-way across the country. I was now a teenager and still feeling humiliated, even though at least 5 years had passed. I felt so humiliated, in fact, that I became incredibly anxious and tried to bottle it up. Instead, it came out in anger. I was SO angry that I glared at him every time he looked at me, and when my dog accidentally walked in front of me, I kicked her! It was one of my worst regrets. Then I ran to my room and didn't come out until he went home. I was a mess!

Fast forward to college and who should be attending the same school but the same guy. I was determined to not make a fool of myself or be angry. But someone told the admissions office that I had known him when I was a child so "wouldn't it be nice if they sat at the same table for the freshman banquet?" No... it was not nice. My anxiety was already through the roof, and then I had this guy that I used to like and to whom I had clearly shown myself to be a nut job, sitting beside me, and I had no idea how to use a fork and knife! (Seriously, in an attempt to assuage my anxiety prior to attending college, I asked my youth mentors to take me for supper and show me how to use a fork and knife because I HATED using a knife and would rather just cut things with my fork and my parents had given up trying to teach me. But I also knew that wasn't proper etiquette so I asked for help. Turns out it wasn't that helpful.) Mr. Much-handsomer-than-in-childhood was sitting beside me as I try to delicately use my fork and knife, and I accidentally managed to twist the knife in such a way that I shot the piece of my steak across the table, spewing gravy and plate contents everywhere while I sat there, frozen in place in my fancy dress, and wished the world would swallow me whole.

Let's get one thing straight: my life does not follow a pleasant straight line. It likes to take detours and moguls and sometimes throws me in a lake. As a back story to this following unfortunate incident, a few years prior to college I had been attempting to wear contacts. Turns out, I'm allergic to contact solution. Back then that was my only allergy but what it did was turn the backs of my eyelids into "cobblestones," according to my optometrist. My one eyelid was damaged so badly that for years I had a hard time smiling without it closing completely. The eyelid is still slightly more droopy than the other eye, not that you can notice.

Throughout that college year I avoided talking to said boy. He was always friendly and polite, and probably confused by me, but all I could do was try to avoid eye contact. However, one day I decided to try and be "normal" again. He was doing dishes and I turned to thank the dishwashing staff. He smiled and I decided to smile back, my damaged eye closing and effectively causing me to wink at him. 

May death come swiftly.

He married someone else, to no one's surprise.

During my later college years, I tried to be more casual and less angry. It was very common for people to announce their upcoming weddings in their grad speeches to the school, which often happened weeks prior to school ending, so I thought it would be funny and ironic to announce my upcoming nuptials and add, "so if anyone is willing and available, I'll be waiting at the alter." It got a good chuckle, but also a guy that I was not necessarily interested in, but was a lovely and hilarious individual, thought it would be funny to jump up and run to the front. Thankfully my brother, who had since begun attending the school as well, grabbed his arm and sat his ass down.

However, I found out about it. Which means every time I saw him I blushed. He took that as a sign to continue and he would give a cutesy little wave, wink, or otherwise attempt uncomfortable flirting. At every occasion I would turn crimson and run, or look away, or attempt to not talk. I knew it was all in fun and I desperately wanted to have fun with it, but my anxiety wouldn't let me. One day he blew me a kiss and I jumped so hard that I knocked my glass of milk into my lap and it poured into the plastic, dining-hall bucket seat and soaked the back of my pants. He offered his jacket to tie around my waist as an apology, but I declined and just sat in the milk. You're not supposed to cry over spilt milk, but I think turning beat red and mumbling something incoherent is likely okay.

He married someone else, to no one's surprise.

Years later I was living in Calgary on my own and was dreadfully lonely. I was looking for a friend and invited out this other guy from my college days to go for coffee and hang out. I didn't know him very well but we had been in a singing group together for a year so I thought maybe I could act someone normal around him. I wasn't looking to have anything romantic come of it, but more was wanting a friend in the city since I knew no one. Apparently our introvertedness combined was too much because he decided to bring a friend. My anxiety went through the roof, more than it already was, and my tongue was completely tied. Once again, I turned into the bumbling idiot who could logically see how everything I was doing was stupid, but there was nothing I could do to stop that train.

First, I brought up a memory of when I was vomiting on the side of the road from food poisoning and he had held my hair. Because who doesn't want to remember that. 

Then his friend told me all about his job and not two minutes later I asked what he did for a living.

I also asked his friend's name multiple times. 

I talked with my hands. Not in a "normal-gesturing-around-the-room" fashion, but in a "this-person-is-crazy-and-flailing-like-kermit" fashion. 

I also brought up a song he mentioned in my yearbook, as though I had been studying it for years. I had not, by the way. It was just the weirdest thing that had been written in my yearbook and was memorable because of its oddity.  

And last, but not least, I believe I spilled my coffee on myself.

He married someone else, to no one's surprise.

And let's not forget the man who applied for a job at the cleaning company I used to work with who walked in and told me his name and his voice alone was so luxurious (I have a thing for voices) that I practically disintegrated in my seat and lost all power of speech. Even though I was the receptionist and was supposed to give him directions to his interview, I mumbled a few incoherent words and pointed the wrong way and turned red and ran to the finance department and my coworker had to come save the day. Then, in true awkward fashion, I felt I needed to go into the owner's office post interview and tell them to hire him because he has a nice voice. There is no way that normal people do that. Oh yeah, they hired him, and I could never talk when he was in the room. Some receptionist I was.

I'm sure he married someone else, to no one's surprise.

In chapter 3, when Brianna becomes a bumbling idiot around Beriothien, that is a reflection of my own ineptness in talking to unknown men. Hopefully I have improved. If not, he will marry someone else, to no one's surprise.

Ice Cream Drips and a Red Fedora

 

Mmmm...ice cream!

Anyone who knows me at all knows that my favourite snack is ice cream.

Anyone who knows me really well knows that I'm also mildly lactose intolerant...and I don't care.

Actually, I am intolerant or allergic to several foods: cinnamon, garlic, strong spices of unknown varieties, grass. That last one isn't a food most people partake in, but it is a food for some species...like deer. 

What helps me when my throat clogs up from garlic and I feel like I can't breathe? Ice cream.

What gives me an emotional boost at the end of a long, discouraging day? Ice cream.

What brings me joy in those special moments of life when I want to celebrate? Ice cream.

What do I not want sliding down my chest into my bra? You guessed it... ice cream.

And yet it has. 

As my friend and I ate ice cream in the parking lot of Scoops and Snacks, I was fortunate enough to experience the same uncomfortably awkward scenario that plagued our poor Brianna in chapter 2. However, unlike the young adventurer in our story, I did not run for home. Instead, I just let it be. Because what can you really do when a glob of sticky ice cream pools in your clothing? Nothing, that's what.

I don't particularly appreciate that part of ice cream.

What I do appreciate about ice cream is that it attracts all kinds. Adults, kids, elves, dogs, deer... all are in love with the deliciousness of ice cream. Even wasps...which should all die.

During our ice cream eating adventure, we had the pleasure of meeting some of the local deer. One even tried to come say hello to my usually friendly dog, who pointedly avoided making eye contact and pretended she didn't see the deer whenever it looked her way. Apparently she's afraid of large animals. 

I took her to meet a calf once and she almost produced it's mother. (For those of the non-Simpson generation, "don't have a cow, man" is exactly what I told her as she tried to break her collar in an attempt to escape.) She also met a horse once, but that's a horse of a different colour. I mean, she's a wheat colour, the horse was chestnut. 

Here are pictures to corroborate the tale of the deer and the dog:

Here, too, is a photo of my incredible author friend, letting the aforementioned deer lick her fingers.

As an aside, I've always liked fedoras, but I don't care for the colour red.