Headin' for the hills.

As I said last week, hearth/myth is taking a break today. Go read a book! Preferably one of mine, of course. But if you're all caught up on my work, head over to Rursday Reads -- you're sure to find a book (or several!) there that you will enjoy.

See you back here on Sunday, August 16th, for a special celebration.

***

These moments of bloggy cabin fever have been brought to you, as a public service, by Lynne Cantwell.

First harvest's in.

Yesterday was Lughnasa, one of the big Neopagan holidays. Legend has it that August 1st was set aside by Lugh Lámhfhada (or Lugh of the Long Hand) as a day to honor His foster mother, Tailtiu. There were to be games and feasting to mark the occasion. In addition, the festival celebrates the first harvest: wheat and other grains, as well as the first apples.

Lugh is an interesting fellow. His father was Cian, one of the Tuatha Dé Danann -- in other words, the ancient Irish gods -- and His mother was Ethniu, daughter of a Fomorian chieftain named Balor. He was sent out to foster with Tailtiu, who was of the Fir Bolg -- and that rounds out the three tribes or ethnic groups that were vying for control of Ireland at that time.

When Lugh first came to Tara, the seat of the high kings of Ireland, the guard at the gate wouldn't let Him in. Our multi-talented hero offered his services, one after the other, to the gatekeeper, as recounted by Lady Gregory in Gods and Fighting Men. (Tara is spelled Teamhair in the original, but I'm using the modern spelling. Also, grammer nerds, please excuse the lack of paragraph breaks between speakers -- it's the original text, not me!)

"What are you skilled in?" said the door-keeper; "for no one without an art comes into Tara." "Question me," said Lugh; "I am a carpenter." "We do not want you; we have a carpenter ourselves, Luchtar, son of Luachaid." "Then I am a smith." "We have a smith ourselves, Colum Cuaillemech of the Three New Ways." "Then I am a champion." "That is no use to us; we have a champion before, Ogma, brother to the king." "Question me again," he said; "I am a harper." "That is no use to us; we have a harper ourselves, Abhean, son of Bicelmos, that the Men of the Three Gods brought from the hills." "I am a poet," he said then, "and a teller of tales." "That is no use to us; we have a teller of tales ourselves, Erc, son of Ethaman." "And I am a magician." "That is no use to us; we have plenty of magicians and people of power." "I am a physician," he said. "That is no use; we have Diancecht for our physician." "Let me be a cup-bearer," he said. "We do not want you; we have nine cup-bearers ourselves. "I am a good worker in brass." "We have a worker in brass ourselves, that is Credne Cerd."

Finally, Lugh said, "Go and ask the king if he has any one man that can do all these things, and if he has, I will not ask to come into Tara." So the guard went in and delivered the message to Nuada, who suggested that the guard try Lugh at chess. When Lugh won every game, Nuada relented at last and let Him in. Later, Lugh became high king himself and ruled for forty years -- and fulfilled a prophecy by killing Balor, His grandfather, in battle.

Lugh is sometimes referred to as the Irish sun god, but He's not. Belenus, or maybe the Dagda, hold that honor. No, Lugh is the god of light -- as well as the patron of all the other things He told that gatekeeper He was good at: smithcraft, music, poetry and storytelling, medicine, and all the rest.

When men came at last to Ireland, the Tuatha took their royal court and retreated "under the hill" -- and Lugh of the Long Hand, the god who could do anything, shrunk in both stature and importance. Today, He's known as the leprechaun.

Neopagans celebrate Lughnasa -- or as it's also known, Lammas -- by baking bread or oatcakes, and by taking stock of their own personal harvests. Alert readers of hearth/myth know that my own harvest this year is spotty: I haven't yet made a permanent move to Colorado, but I've finished the ten-book Pipe Woman Chronicles cycle with the publication of Dragon's Web and Firebird's Snare this spring. I'm planning one more book before I let Naomi and her family alone for a while, but it won't be a novel. Instead, it will be a companion volume to the series, consisting of information on each of the gods and goddesses who have appeared in the story. (This post gives you a taste of what readers might find in such a book.)

Aside from that, I'm planning to write one more novel this year. It will probably be magic realism, although I don't know the plot yet. Or any of the characters. But I've never let that stop me before -- why stop now?

A blessed Lughnasa to you all! Next week, hearth/myth will be on hiatus; I'm going to West Virginia to unplug for a few days. See you here in two weeks!

***
These moments of multi-talented blogginess have been brought to you, as a public service, by Lynne Cantwell

Why I write magic realism.

I'm writing this in anticipation of this year's Magic Realism Blog Hop, which starts Wednesday. Kudos to Zoe Brooks, who has once again organized what promises to be a wonderful event. You'll see a link at the bottom of this post to the rest of the posts on the hop. If they're not showing up today, come on back Wednesday and give it another try.

I suppose you could think of this as a companion piece to my post at Indies Unlimited last week about why I write fantasy. I've dipped my toes in the waters of magic realism, too, and so I thought it might be interesting to talk about how the two genres complement each other.

Well, it will be interesting for me, anyhow, and it's my blog.

Why would a fantasy writer want to bother with magic realism, anyway? It's not like it sells any better. Certainly the critics like it better, if what you're after is literary-snobby critical acclaim. But really, what can you do with one that you can't do with the other?

I can think of a couple of things. For one thing, magic realism is more subtle. Let's say your characters are doing their best not to talk about the elephant in the room -- alcoholism, say, or child abuse, or murder. In fantasy, chances are that the magic solution would be big and unmistakable: a wizard turns the wine to water, or the abuser gets his comeuppance when a magical creature mauls him. In magic realism, you might have a character like Toni Morrison's Beloved -- a baby whose death haunts her mother so much that the baby's ghost comes back. At first she looks like a blessing, but then she grows and grows, becoming so huge that she takes over the family's house and calls all the shots.

For another thing, the gee-whiz factor in fantasy can sometimes hamper you from doing what you'd like to do. In fantasy, non-magical people basically have two reactions to magic: either they're totally wowed by it (or pretend not to care while secretly being wowed by it), or they fear it. Which sets up that old good vs. evil dichotomy: "Burn the witch!"/"No, you don't understand! She uses her magic for good!" Same/same with paranormal creatures: either they're misunderstood, or they should be destroyed. Think Disney's "Beauty and the Beast," or any paranormal romance in which the "good guys" are after the hunky vampire/werewolf/fae.

If you've read any of my books, you know I don't have a lot of use for that classic dichotomy. In my opinion, even the bad guys believe they're doing the right thing. And magic realism allows even the villains to be more well-rounded characters. It puts the magic in the background, so that it becomes part of the fabric of time and place. And that allows the author to paint with a finer brush. If I'd written Seasons of the Fool as a regular fantasy, Dave's wife, Nina, might have been portrayed as the equivalent of the wicked stepmother. As a work of magic realism, Nina takes on depth and becomes a tragic figure (or that was my intention, anyway). Instead of being a stock character or a caricature, she becomes a person who might be reconciled with her kids someday.

Don't get me wrong -- I love writing fantasy. It's a lot of fun. But I also enjoy writing magic realism, and I expect to be doing more work in that genre, too, in years to come.

***

***

These moments of magical realistic blogginess have been brought to you, as a public service, by Lynne Cantwell

Roses and daisies: life goes on.

A couple of weeks ago, still in rather a funk over the whole mess in Denver, I bought myself a dozen roses at the grocery store. This was partly to cheer myself up and partly to make up for missing the lovely bouquet that my daughter bought me for Mother's Day. I did get to enjoy her flowers for a few days, but the week after Mother's Day was crazy, and then I went back to Denver for another three weeks and by then, well, you know. Cut flowers only last so long.

Anyway, the roses. The floral department had them in a number of colors: red (of course), white, yellow, pale pink, and a deeper pink among them. I picked the deep pink ones, brought them home, and plunked them in a vase.

The thing about cut flowers -- particularly when you get them at the grocery store -- is that they're kind of hit-and-miss, in terms of how long they'll last. Hydrangeas usually wither and die right away for me. Gerbera daisies seem to lose their pluck -- the flowers stay bright, but the stems collapse. Tulips, on the other hand, keep growing, their stalks elongating like some mutant thing. Typically, roses fall somewhere in the middle of the spectrum: the buds will start to open, but they crumple into a withered mass before they can reach their true potential.

Not this bunch, though. This bunch of deep pink roses opened beautifully. And they smelled nice! Once upon a time, all roses had a lovely, heady fragrance. But for decades, they have been bred for visual beauty, not for scent. My mother had a rose bush; it produced lovely red roses that smelled like old cigarettes.

So I was pretty pleased with my vase of roses. And then, as the blooms finally faded, I noticed something odd: tiny buds seemed to be swelling on the stems. Sure enough, a couple of days later, new leaves were popping out on my store-bought cut roses.

It reminded me of the time when my mother received a daisy for Mother's Day. We'd gone camping that weekend, and the campground was giving a daisy to every mother in honor of the day. Mom, whose thumb was much greener than mine will ever be, stuck the flower in some water in a two-liter soda bottle -- and it rooted. She planted it after we got home, and we enjoyed those daisies for quite a number of years.

So I did some quick internet research about roses grown from cuttings. Then I filled a pot with potting soil and stuck the budding stems in it. I don't know whether they will take -- some of the new leaves have died already, probably from the shock of transplanting -- but if they don't, it's okay. Deep pink means gratitude in rose talk, and I'm already grateful for the reminder that even after it looks like it's all over, life still goes on.

***
These moments of bloggy gratitude have been brought to you, as a public service, by Lynne Cantwell