When I talk about writing, The Hearthsinger is always first on my list. The main character, Mari, is so unlike me in so many ways, but I love writing her story. If it were real, I hope she'd be friends with me. I would want to be friends with her.
And although Hearthsinger is my cherished, long-preserved, first-completed novel, it is definitely the most difficult to write. Eighteen months and seven (or eight) drafts after the idea first hit me, I know that this story will still be with me for a long time, in my head and my computer. But I can't help but feel that it's a labor of love, and that one day when I see it finished, the memory of labor pains will have faded and I'll still be smitten with it.
The plotline came to me a year and a half ago, possibly brought on by sleep loss, and it's steadily consumed my life. I was sixteen and volunteering for two weeks at a bakery, helping them out during the cramp of Easter bunny baking. That was fun, but it meant getting up at four in the morning and working from five to eleven. I mixed the ingredients, worked the frighteningly large mixing machine, kneaded the dough into loaves, greased pans, and yanked bread in and out of the eighteen-by-eleven-foot oven. Somewhere in the midst of all that, probably around 6:30 a.m., while I sleepily stared at the forty pound mixer arm walloping dough around its metal tub, a story moment touched me. I risked leaving the mixer without supervision to run to the front and scribble my first few lines on the back of a baking advertisement. For the rest of that day, I willed the bakery clock to tick forward onto the eleven so that I could go home and write.
After several (or eight) drafts and a trip to Germany, the storyline smoothed out:
The forest has always been Mari's forest, in the war-torn kingdom of Isar. As a child, she wanders there with her nurse, hearing stories, singing songs, and at last, learning the secret to hearing what the trees sing in return. And her parents' disapproval can't change what she hears, not during the long years of the war, not even when Mari is home and loneliest.
Soon, though, she is sent to the south, to a place completely unfamiliar, to marry an enemy boy. But Montren turns out curious about the forest songs and eager to learn more, and it sets a glow going in Mari that can't be put out. When mercenary attacks send Montren to the king and Mari learns of a threat on both their lives, the question is not whether or how to ride to the captured city: it is how to find him and warn him of the danger, before she herself is overtaken.
That's all I'm giving away! The first chapter can be read on my account on Figment. Please enjoy and (gasp!) critique your little hearts out, if that's what you're feeling.
My trip to Germany provided enormous inspiration for Hearthsinger. Everything from food to trees became an "Oh!" moment for me, a moment where everything stops while Savannah rushes to write down an observation. The long walks in the woods were the best. Our house was just down the road from a forested mountain, surrounded by cows and cornfields and, in the summer, big, glistening, slugs. But the slugs only added to the adventure, and I always emerged from my walks feeling starry-eyed. I wrote and rewrote my chapter sequence and plot summary (I have to write that way, otherwise my story flow becomes either excrutiatingly slow or queasily fast), and felt whisked away by the magic of that stolen half-year. But that's another story. Germany became the backdrop for Hearthsinger, until I couldn't imagine Mari anywhere else. It was unbearably lovely.
Last year when I was in Germany, my exchange partner's father, Ludwig, was extremely generous with his books. When I arrived and told him, yes, I liked to read, he immediately led me to their third floor and piled my eager hands high with both his favorites and ones he had read to his boys when they were children.
Of course, they were all in German. Although I'm normally a very quick reader, it took me two months alone just to get through the first one he gave me. I went to my bookshelf after that and decided I wanted a bit of an easy read next. My choice was Der Wilde Wald, "The Wild Forest", by Tonke Dragt. Originally published in Norwegian, fantastical, funny, adventurous, even a couple moments that made my heart thump.
One morning in the dining room I pulled Der Wald out. After a while, Ludwig appeared, and as he got his breakfast ready, he glanced sideways at the title and said:
"That book is a little young for you, isn't it?"
He didn't mean it condescendingly--he wanted to be hospitable and make sure I was enjoying myself. But since I was enjoying it so much, my instincts startled up in defense.
It's the same back home. Every now and then I sneak a book off my shelf that I should have outgrown years ago, but I haven't, because it's just too darn good.
Here's my official list:
1. Ella Enchanted, by Gail Carson Levine
I remember living in rural Texas in the third grade and experiencing my first agonizing, breathtaking moment of cartharsis, bending over my copy, my nine-year-old heart pounding during that final scene. Char was also the first character who ever got me blushing. And I would still willingly slide down a stair rail with him.
2. The Frog Princess Series, by E.D. Baker
There's something fuzzy about these books. There's constant humor popping up, the kind that makes me chuckle out loud, and even though I would probably barely rate them at PG, a certain character always gets my heart jumping when he asks for a kiss. Reading these and Ella in one sitting would probably send me into cardiac arrest.
3. Understood Betsy, by Dorothy Canfield Fisher
This was one of the many times my mother was right when she said, "You'll like it if you try it." It's homey and sweet, and set in New England, which is where I spent some of my childhood. I love watching the transition of Elizabeth Ann into Betsy, and reading of Cousin Ann hugging her goodbye.
4. The BFG, by Roald Dahl
I went through a hefty Dahl phase as a child, and still don't know any other official definition for an epicure except, "It is someone who is dainty with his eating." This spring, I went through our storage closet and found my much-loved copy of BFG. I laughed out loud the whole way through. Dahl had a gift for messing with words, which I love, while admittedly developing some frightening situations (50-foot giants running around the world every evening to eat "human beans", an extremely small, 24-foot giant who can create dreams, nightmares rattling in jars, that sort of thing).
5. The Princess Academy, by Shannon Hale
I am constantly in awe of Shannon Hale and love her teen and adult books, but Princess Academy tends toward a younger audience with as much creativity and loveliness. I was twelve when I first read it, and sat in my window seat until my backside was numb, forgetting to do important things, like eat, until I read the last quarry song and saw the last miri petal twirl off above a mountain.
6. Johnny Tremain, by Esther Forbes
My mother read this to me years ago, and we stayed up much later than I was supposed to, probably as late as ten-thirty. It was one of the first times I remember hating a character in a story. Not because it was a bad character. Because you were supposed to. That induced more heart-thumping, of a different variety.
7. The Bronze Bow, by Elizabeth Gouge
I believe my fourth grade class read this together. I loved Daniel, the main character, in spite of his surly behavior. How is it that that just made him all the more loveable? The ending is beautiful, with one line standing out particularly in my memory:
"How light it is," Leah murmured. "Even with Jesus gone."
With all these stories, there's something irresistably lovely that makes it impossible for me to let them go. Maybe I'm one of those people who don't outgrow children's stories. I'd like to be one of those people.
When I originally set out to write a blog, I did it with the shiningly pure intention of sharing my writing with the world. As a writer, I'm typically shy. I stow away in corners, but if anyone tries to peep over my shoulder, I'm like a frantic armadillo curling into a ball. As a result, it's generally only my family who reads anything of mine.
Last winter, my friend Isaac told me about a writer's website called figment.com. It took me a while to get warmed up, but now I'm a regular "fig". There are some truly talented writers there. There's genres for poetry, short stories, novels, anything a little writerish mind can dream of. If anyone is interested in reading some of my work, they can follow this link to view my profile:
figment.com/Savannah-Finger
Figment's become a very fun place for me. I have an unintentional attitude toward my stories that makes writing like romance: I can't have a fling with a book. A story socks me in the stomach, and I'm in love forever. I don't do well writing multiple stories at the same time. Occasionally another idea teases me, and I yield to it for awhile, file it away to age, and repeat. Since the dawn of Figment, though, I've started allowing those teasings to distract me, lead me off in different directions. A couple of the things I've published are short stories/poems/screenplays which I loved writing, but know aren't going to go farther. So, still hopeful, I'm sending them out to the other figs, wanting them to be loved a little at least.
My two big projects, The Hearthsinger and The Default Sweater, probably won't enjoy as much posting. With these two, I'll most likely just post the first few chapters and ask for critiques (eek!). This coming week, I'll post the synopses of these two guys, as well as my screenplay, The Way the Scroll Is. Which was just so dang much fun to write.
A side note: Hooray! Rain's finally hit Texas! It's amazing to see how grateful people are after five months of scorched grass, blazing 105-degree temperatures, wildfires, and drought. It's almost as though we were the thirsty ones, instead of the earth. I was at our church this afternoon when the roof started to rumble with rain. Everyone stopped and looked at one another in amazement. It poured like it was trying to make up for the last few months. I think it'll have to try harder, though...
We opened the patio door and let the rain smell seep in. I saw an older couple walking through the puddles of the parking lot, holding hands. After so much devastation in this area, the realization of rain startled me and made me almost want to cry. It's amazing what you learn to appreciate when it's suddenly not there.
So we central Texans are reveling in our wet wonderland, and it's September, my favorite time of year. I should start baking stuff. Maybe I can sweet talk my mother into making a pie. Mm, pie....
Hello, look at this. I've become a blogger. I guess we'll see how this project chugs along. I'm not a technical kind of gal, and probably won't be able to figure out how to do this anywhere else, so I'll go ahead and introduce myself:
My name is Savannah! (There's a start.)
I have kept a blog before, but, as I said, I am not gifted when it comes to technology, and when the website encounters problems...you got it. I can't fix them.
So this is my new site, I guess, for talking shop about writing, sharing a bit of my own work with you all, and generally discussing stories. While not possessing a particular aptitude for the mechanical, I do love stories.
