You Should Read This: Herland by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

I’ve been carrying this book around since days in Baltimore, when my ex gave it to me as a Valentine. It came in a charming little boxed set complete with temporary tattoo. Nowadays I have several real tattoos but I still draw on this book, particularly for the Literary Techniques in Speculative Fiction class.

What: Surrealist Games, compiled and presented by Alastair Brotchie is a compedium of games played by members of the Surrealist movement along with illustrations and surrealist quotes. Games include echo poems, provocations, and oral description of objects perceived by touch.

Who: Any writer is the better for a little dose of surreality from time to time, and any forays into the book will yield a few interesting phrases at the least, or perhaps even a whole new mind.

Why: Read it to find some writing games that you can play solo or with similarly-verbally-minded friends. Read it for the equivalent of a poetic whack upside the head. Read it for the creative sparks flung out by its pages.

When: Read it at a time dictated by the roll of a die or the motions of a lizard on the wall.

Where and how: Graze through the pictures and see what inspiration leaps from the paper to your brain. Don’t treat it like a manual, working your way through game 1, game 2, game so on. Instead, let it fall open and see where chance takes you.

Enjoy this writing advice and want more content like it? Check out the classes Cat gives via the Rambo Academy for Wayward Writers, which offers both on-demand and live online writing classes for fantasy and science fiction writers from Cat and other authors, including Ann Leckie, Seanan McGuire, Fran Wilde and other talents! All classes include three free slots.

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#sfwapro

John Bellairs wrote a host of children’s books, including one of my favorites, The House with a Clock in Its Walls, and a single adult novel, The Face in the Frost. I wish the ratio had been in the opposite direction, because The Face in the Frost just has such an engaging world and characters that I would have loved more of it. Much, much more. It’s a woefully slim little book, and I will not claim that it has the world’s most satisfying ending, but it delights me in so many ways.

Much of the book’s richness lies in the banter between the two old friends (there’s only one place it falls flat, and it says something about the quality of the texture elsewhere that the flat spot drives me a little nuts every time I read it), who are both skilled and eccentric wizards. The friendship is a longtime one, built of mutual affection, exasperation, and shared experience. Pieces of this book are a buddy roadtrip, taken through a series of small kingdoms, some only town-sized, and the supernatural menace is one that is genuinely haunting.

I’ve read other books by Bellairs, but with the exception of The House with a Clock in its Walls (which has lovely Edmund Gorey illustrations as a bonus), I find that his children’s literature falls flat for me, though I know it’s well-loved by many middle-graders. For me, it lacks the menace that both Face in the Frost and Clock in Its Walls hold.

I used part of the first paragraph for the description of Prospero’s house for our clan housing on Dark Castle MUD, (back in the innocent days of the early Net when the majority of us had no idea what copyright meant); for all I know (and hope) it’s still there, but I somehow doubt it. Here it is, for your delectation:

Several centuries (or so) ago, in a country whose name doesn’t matter, there wa a tall, skinny, straggly-bearded old wizard named Prospero, and not the one you are thinking of, either. He lived in a huge, ridiculous, doodad-covered, trash-filled two-story horror of a house that stumbled, staggered, and dribbled right up to the edge of a great shadowy forest of elms and oaks and maples. It was a house whose gutter spouts were worked in the shape of whistling sphinxes and screaming bearded faces; a house whose white wooden porch was decorated with carved bears, monkeys, toads, and fat women in togas holding sheaves of grain; a house whose steep gray-slate roof was capped with a glass-enclosed, twisty-copper-columned observatory. On the artichoke dome of the observatory was a weather-vane shaped like a dancing hippopotamus; as the wind changed, it blew through the nostril’s of the hippo’s hollow head, making a whiny snarfling sound that fortunately could not be heard unless you were up on the roof fixing slates.