I’ve been struggling.  That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but it can tend to move me toward the philosophical.  I’ve been struggling to find the time to write and the limited time I have garnered has been unproductive.  Perhaps it is time for me to think about why I write.  Contemplating that may spur me to greater, more consistent, and perhaps goal achieveing efforts.

To the philosophizing: Stories can be lies.  I don’t want to be that sort of story-teller.  A story may contain a lesson.  It would be nice if I had wisdom to impart.  Stories can entertain, they can motivate, they can inspire.  Stories are simple enough that they can be truer, or at very least, clearer than regular life. 

Almost anything is clearer than regular life.  Indeed clarity is, for me, a rare thing.  It is valued in diamonds and minds and for good reason, clarity is precious.  I certainly think I could do with more clarity in my writing. 

I begin this project, this writing, in hopes of speaking truth, Lord give me truth.  I wish to impart more than entertain, but a good tale can draw an enthusiastic audience, God give me listening ears.  I would hear your voice and spread it to those who need it as I do, Lord breath on me breath of life.

I have been encouraged to focus on this writing and not be distracted.  I always hear echoes and I wonder who is speaking behind the speaker behind the next.  I should not be distracted.

Give glory to God.  May I not be distracted from what is my clear duty. 

God make clear to me what will give you glory.

At least that’s how I feel at the moment.  Life is complex and simple.  There is not enough of it, and more to do than time allows.  I’m failing to use it as well as I might.  That’s why I like fiction, it is clear, fantasy is clean, stories can be an escape or salvation.

Escape or salvation.  I imagine those are two among the many things stories can be.

LSO

I’ve been away, though I’m not sure anyone has noticed.  (poor me : (. . . )  My writing time is pretty limited and I’ve spent it on Writing.com instead of here on my own blog.  We shall see if it was profitable.

Here is a link to my WDC Portfolio which contains some stuff from this site.  What I have spent most of my time doing, so far, is reviewing other writers.  I am chagrined at how my own work has suffered, or perhaps languished is a better word.  Hopefully I can rectify that.

By the way, another milestone is fast approaching and I will not complete my first draft online novel, the Abbot and the Djinn in time for my birthday.  This is a fact, cold and hard and depressing.  I wouldn’t have finished it if I hadn’t spent time on WDC but I am depressed at . . .

. . . growing old and having grown old.  There is no undoing it.  I have felt that I am writing to the wind here and though people seem to appreciate my reviews on WDC it has not translated as I’d hoped.  The wind still blows, yes, the wind blows.

I guess that’s enough.  I’ve taken to exhorting in my reviews “Keep writing.  Don’t stop writing.”  And so, having stopped in my quest to create Tir na Nua, I will begin again.  I will not stop, though it blows.  The wind, I mean.

LSO

I’m sure you are familiar with the naming convention of many Celtic peoples where a son is named after his father or at least a notable fore-bearer.  Among the Irish you have Mc and Mac and O s which are really Ui s.  The Welsh use Ap and Map the same way.  In short O’Neill means grandson of Neill whereas MacNeill means son of Neill.

How else to keep separate all the Anguses and Rhaurys and Eochaids?  Ah, well, before the application of the now traditional surnames, notable personages received Bye Names (at least we have theirs recorded, likely everybody had them).  After all, in the list of High Kings of Ireland alone there are plenty of Eochaids and Aedhs and Nialls.  Fortunately there are nickname like descriptive names that when added to their given names help to keep track of just which one you are talking about.

Interestingly many people who’s surname is O’Neill or MacNeill might think that their name comes from the famous Niall of the Nine Hostages.  They may share genetics with Noigiallach but the name comes from a later Niall, Niall Glundubh, that is Black Knee.

Much more mysterious to me than how Niall Nine Hostages got his name is what in the world happened to stick Niall Glundubh with the bye name Black Knee.  Does anyone out there know the origin of Black Knee?

All in all, from Nuada Airgetlam (silver hand) to Conn Cetchathach (of the Hundred Battles) to Eochaid Mugmedon (Slave Lord) to Elim Oillfinshneachta (Snow that tasted of wine) to Finnachta Fleadhach (the festive) Bye Names are just good clean fun.

Write me down as a yeah vote on renewing this tradition.

LSO

I’ve been doing this “BLOG” for over a year now.  Last Friday, as I saved after making a couple of changes to a recent post, my entire corpus disappeared.  That’s right, all 90 plus posts ceased to be. 

I have to say that I wasn’t overly concerned at first.  I thought that Word Press might just have gone down and when the server returned from maintenance or whatever all would be well.  That did not occur.  My concern/disquiet/fear rose a bit.  I was confronted with the possibility that everything that I’d written would be lost and I started to scramble to see if I had copies of some of the articles.  The answer was mostly no.

I have to confess to other emotions too.  One that might surprise you was a certain amount of relief.  Really Steve?  Relief?  Yes, because I have to say that some of this stuff is just not up to what I hope I can do. 

But there is SO much work to do.  Work on the writing, work on the layout, work on myself.  The last is incredibly daunting.  And really, what is the point?  I haven’t exactly caught on.  I think I know why that is too.  I’m not that good.

Still, if not particularly good, I am writing.  Though I’ve not captured an enormous following that just means that fewer people know what a horrible speller and grammarian I am.  Then too, having had few visitors and fewer commenters guarantees that there are a vast host of people who have not come across my scratchings, evaluated me, and then discarded my work as not worth the time it takes to read.

It was freeing to think I might have to start again.

OH!  There it all is.  Thanks Jeff

Well, everything is back.  I’ve lost nothing.  But I have realized impermanence.  I’ve experienced it.  I am curious to see how it affects me. 

LSO

PS. I did take the time today to go though and make a personal copy of all that has gone before.  I am still thinking about what starting over would have meant and what it might mean.

These fragments of the lore of Tir na Nua are presented raw, first draft, and unedited. I apologize for their original condition. However, my first priority is to capture sketches, so to speak, of the people and places of Tir na Nua. I have promised Free Celtic Fiction and before I can shape these sketches into more polished works I need to write these drafts. I share them, as they are, while I try to find the time to improve them. — LSO

 Read the beginning of this story: the Red Son of Concubar

the Coming of CuRuada the Red Son of Concubar

Nine days after Concubar’s tryst with the deer woman of the wood, the king was feasting in his great hall with his Red Branch warriors.  They would not leave off asking him about the woman and what was said between them.  Some of his men felt that it was good fortune and some were worried it was ill, but Concubar wished only that he could find the woman again.  How can I, Concubar thought, when I don’t even know her name?

Cathbad the, chief druid of Ulster, came into the hall in distress, “My lord Concubar, there is trouble on the hurley pitch.  The boys troop has cornered another boy and are beating him to death.”

Concubar sighed, “Boys will be boys, must I truly drag them from their prey?  What is this other boy to me?  Perhaps the troop has good cause.  Did you think of that Cathbad?”

“As to who the boy is, I can not say, but his cloak marks him as a prince and the broach upon it says he is the son of a king,”  said Cathbad, “And if you would know who he might be to you you’d best stop them soon or there will be no finding it out until the king, who is his father comes looking for his son.  I doubt he will be pleased.”

So the king rose from his couch and went to the hurley pitch with haste, all his warriors with him.  Now a king among the Gael must rule by right of a choosing.  He must be strong in body, perfect, and strong in voice so that his commands will be heard and obeyed. 

Concubar was without peer and his commands were always followed, so powerful was his voice.  So Concubar shouted with his commanding voice, “See here, stop beating that boy,”  said Concubar.

Even his command would not stop the boys.  So shocking was this that Concubar said not another word, but began to pull the boys off one at a time and throw them to his warriors, who’s sons they were.  When Concubar reached the bottom of the scrum he found Donall, the son of the champion, Cormac, and a little fellow with hair like flame of fire.

“Leave off you two! What is the meaning of this?”  shouted Concubar, and finally the boys stopped their struggles.  “What mischief are you all up to Donall?”

Donal answered, “This little fellow came and said that he wanted to play at hurley with us.  Nobody can play with the boy’s troop unless he be worthy, so we asked his name, but this little fellow would not say it, he claimed he was bound by his gesa not to give his name except to the king.”

Another boy piped up, “He wouldn’t say, so we told him he couldn’t play.  Then he stole our sliotar and carried it off to the goal.”

“Liar, I stole nothing, I only wanted to play.” said the little fellow.

“. . . so when he put the sliotar in the goal we confronted him.  Without permission and giving his name he should not play at hurley with the boys troop.” said Donall

“I have as much right as anyone here.” shouted the little fellow.

All the boys started to yell at that and curse him. “After that he attacked us.” said Donall

“Another lie! You pushed me down first.” howled the little red-haired boy.

“This one little boy attacked you?  All of you?” Asked the king.

“He is a demon or worse! He broke Felmid’s arm and who knows what else?” said Donall.

“This little fellow?” asked Concubar again, and the boys troop was shamed to silence.

Concubar set the two boys down.  He looked around at the boys, many of which had woundings and some who sat on the ground nursing broken bones, and the king wondered, who could this child be?

Concubar turned to the little fellow. “So boy, what is your name?”  he asked not unkindly.  He looked sternly in the boys face, but he found no fear there at all.

“I told them and I’ll tell you or anyone else, I can tell my name to none but the king, it is a gesa on me.”  Then it was that Concubar saw that the cloak he wore was outsized for one so small for it was a man’s cloak, a king’s cloak, indeed Concubar saw that it was his cloak pinned with his broach and on the childs hand was his ring.