Metaphor in Story

Photo from www.dailymail.co.uk

In my novel, Me, Myself and Ike, the narrator, Kit, twice mentions seeing a rare white stag - first as a tattoo design and then again, on a mountain. He says: "They are such powerful symbols of ...something." He can't recall what the white stag symbolizes, but it appears in this story with good reason.

Rare white animals have long inspired myths and legends around the globe. The white buffalo has special significance to native Americans as does the Kermode, or 'Spirit Bear' of British Columbia's west coast. The white stag is a creature of lore in many cultures and the Celtic people believed them to be messengers from the 'otherworld'. They also said it would appear when one was breaking a taboo and Arthurian legends held that pursuit of the white stag represented mankind's spiritual quest.

When I read novels, I pause to consider why the author chose particular images or symbols and delight in discovering those which are especially apt. I think that very often, the best metaphors aren't consciously created by the author, but are 'found' within the first draft sometime after it was written. The white stag was just such a 'gift' to me.

Coffee of Choice

Image from www.grinningplanet.com


I've been drinking and enjoying coffee for more years than I care to remember. Time passed, I drank. And then there came a time when I realized that as a consumer I can choose to make a difference toward the greater good by thoughtful selection of the products I buy. Fair trade coffee (that which fairly compensates the growers of coffee in third world countries) was a no-brainer, much like dolphin friendly tuna and recycled paper for my printer.

But it's only recently that I learned I need to go one step further and choose organic coffee. Coffee carrying a certified organic label doesn't just mean it was grown without chemical fertilizers - it also means the coffee was grown in the shade of the rain forest (as it's naturally inclined to do) and that translates into protection of tropical forest and its inhabitants. Birds, monkeys, pumas, frogs- well, you get the idea - my choice of coffee makes a world of difference to them.

Check out this site for more info: http://www.grinningplanet.com/2005/01-25/organic-coffee-shade-grown-fair-trade-coffee-article.htm

I've also heard that coffee is the second most traded commodity on the planet so there's a lot of java being sipped. Here's to making a difference, one cup at a time.

Reviews... Me, Myself and Ike

Some great reviews for Me, Myself and Ike:

Quill and Quire: http://www.quillandquire.com/reviews/review.cfm?review_id=6687

Excerpt:Completely riveting, suspenseful, and heartbreaking, Me, Myself and Ike is one of the best young adult releases of the year.Reviewed by Shannon Ozirny (November 2009 issue)

Canadian Materials Magazine: http://www.umanitoba.ca/cm/vol16/no1/memyselfandike.html

and

Publishers Weekly: http://www.publishersweekly.com/article/CA6701099.html
Me, Myself and Ike K.L. Denman. Orca, $12.95 paper (208p) ISBN 978-1-55469-086-2

Excerpt:

High school student Kit (a formerly popular kid who now sees his friends slipping away) and his friend Ike are obsessed with Ötzi the Iceman (a mummy discovered in the Alps in 1991) and fascinated by the insight into prehistoric man that his frozen body provided. They hatch a plan to gather artifacts of interest to future generations and freeze to death with them on a mountain, ensuring their eternal fame (“All those actors and rock stars—who's going to even know their names?” Ike says. “But a guy who's, like, a messenger from the past, that's special. Extraordinary”). As Kit gathers artifacts and deflects questions from friends and family, he writes a “manifesto” about modern culture and hangs out with the increasingly abusive Ike. Ages 12–up. (Oct.)

Fresh from the printers...

Me, Myself and Ike is now available from book stores everywhere! It will be formally launched at Kidsbooks in Vancouver on October 15th at 7 PM.

Sleep, Interrupted

When people visit us, a frequent comment is, "It's so quiet here!" On the whole, that's true. But of late, our summer sleep has been disturbed by the manic sound of a bell ringing villain engaged in the gleeful pursuit of prey - in our bedroom.

Lynx (relaxed pose shown above is deceptive) enjoys hunting. A lot. He also enjoys presenting us with his victims and his favorite place to finish them off is in our bedroom. I recently vowed to foil this cat caper by keeping our window (the section that slides open is only about a foot from the floor) open a mere crack at night. This isn't something I especially want to do in the summer but it's far preferable to being wakened by the cat tearing about in pursuit of a mouse, shrew, rat, lizard or snake. We've had all of those.

The cat is onto me. When I went to prepare for bed last night, I remembered to narrow the window opening, but it was too late. The wee gray thing scurrying ahead of my feet had been dropped off early. This example of future planning could show unsuspected intelligence in the feline species, but I was in no mood to appreciate that.

I reviewed my options. Ignore the sitch? Open the window and let the cat come back to have his way? Capture the creature and put it back outside? I was tired, it was late, but the only option I could go with was capture. I wanted to wake my husband and ask for his help, but decided against having two annoyed people. I admit to hoping the light being turned on would 'accidentally' wake him, but if that happened he pretended otherwise.

My weapon of choice was a ceramic pot which I intended to use for containment purposes, and I went for it. Lynx's choice of play-mate for the night proved to be a shrew, not especially fast but most adept at evasion. I gave up, went to bed, heard wee scratching sounds. Got up and observed that the critter was scurrying back and forth in front of the window - clearly sensing escape was through that crack. Aha! He merely needed a bridge and he'd be on his way. Open window wide, drape bath towel from here to there, lights out again, wait, and voila! The shrew figured it out.

I went to bed most pleased with the outcome, was almost asleep when a frog started croaking. Loudly. Too loudly for the sound to be emanating from outside. I didn't bother to get up and check on this - I knew who was responsible. Sammy, our kitchen frog, was back. He's not supposed to be a kitchen frog, he's a Pacific Tree Frog, but he spent much of last summer on our kitchen window sill or tucked into the corner of the counter behind the coffee pot, and no amount of taking him back outside could convince him our kitchen was not proper frog habitat. I even consulted a frog expert about his issues, but she informed me that he'd decided our kitchen was part of his territory - either keep all windows completely closed or share.

In his case, we share. Maybe he'll catch the mosquito that came in sometime later ...

Close Encounters of the Avian Kind

Since moving to this small patch of paradise on the upper Sunshine Coast, I've had my share of special meetings with birds. Last winter, a Muscovie Duck spent an afternoon on our deck, peering in the windows. (We dubbed him Peeking Duck.)
Last month, as I walked with a group of riders and horses through the woods, we were all spooked into uneasy silence by the eerie calls of a pair of ravens. Living here, we're all accustomed to the strange sounds of ravens, but on this occasion it was easy to understand why the coast aboriginal peoples considered them magical.

Last week, I was called upon to rescue an errant hummingbird who must have dodged through the open kitchen door (I suspect this move was due to one of their frequent aerial combats) and was then attempting to escape through a skylight. A tall ladder and some trust was necessary to resolve that situation.

And this past weekend, I met an owl - the one shown here. I heard strange sounds coming from the 'wild' back corner of our property - pretty much sounded like a monkey- went to investigate, and encountered this beauty. We literally gazed into each others eyes for a long moment, and then it turned it's head away- all the way round to look in the opposite direction. That would have been a really handy skill to have when my kids were little. I ran for my camera, felt certain the owl would be gone by the time I returned, but she (or he) was still there. She yawned, scratched herself, looked at me, looked around - was totally okay with the gawking, admiring human. I felt as if I'd been granted an audience with royalty.

There are many stories about owls, the oldest dating back at least 5,000 years to the Sumerians who associated owls with Lilith, Adam's first wife. That story says that Lilith refused to submit to Adam, saw herself as his equal, and left when they couldn't resolve their differences-freeing him to marry Eve. After that, Lilith was said to shape-shift into the form of an owl. The Latin genus for true owl species is 'strix' which means screamer or witch. The Greeks have tales about the Strix which relates them to vampires. In the Middle Ages, to many the sighting of an owl during the day was an evil omen, possibly portending death. But to others, an owl sighting meant one could be blessed with psychic awareness and wisdom.

I like this last interpretation best. Meeting this owl was a memorable moment. I initially thought it was the rare Spotted Owl, of which it's sadly said there are only 22 left in B.C. However, my Audubon bird book is out of date and the 'net established that this is a Barred Owl (aka Hoot Owl); they've only recently taken up residence on the B.C coast.

If this special visitor is an omen, I'd like to think that it means my latest book submission, which centers on a rather more common bird, the domestic chicken, will meet with the publisher's approval. Either that, or it means my new book idea (a nebulous entity at present) which may involve Wiccans, Shamans and other-worldly adventures, will begin to take shape.

Meanwhile, it's almost time for dinner and this too is fitting. The ornithologist's phrase to describe the Barred Owl's common call is, "Who cooks for you?" Around here, that's usually me.

Leonard Cohen

I wasn't fortunate enough to see Leonard Cohen perform live on his recent tour, but I was able to console myself by buying a DVD copy of his London performance. I watched it through once and since then, have listened to this marvelous music so often my family has fled. I don't think I've re-listened to music so often since I was a teen with something like Carole King's album, Tapestry, playing on my tinny old turn table, so I began wondering - just what is it about this music that's captured me?

It's the lyrics. It's a rare thing to find such poetry in music and much as I enjoy Cohen's beautiful melodies, I wouldn't feel the need to hear numerous repetitions were the music not mirrored and woven through with such wise and shocking insight, such depth of feeling and stunningly gorgeous metaphor. The phrases Cohen turns often delight, and if they're not doing that, they're challenging intellect or prompting a stare down with morality and spirit.

Many years ago (many) when I was in Grade 5, our teacher brought a Cohen recording into the classroom, played Suzanne, and asked us what we thought it meant. I didn't know but I remember being entranced, drawn into the mystery of that song and wanting even then to hear it again and again so that I might understand. Like the Suzanne of his song, I think Cohen is still showing us "where to look amid the garbage and the flowers". And I expect I'll keep listening.