Writers love words. Writers love paper-- filling it with words, word-images, word-related images. When the words don't come, sometimes we panic. We think we're "blocked" and we'll never write another inspired piece again. We begin to listen to that Inner Critic again, who loves to tell us that there's nothing new in the universe and therefore why bother to try to write something worthwhile. Inner Critic takes delight in trying to convince us that we have nothing to say, it's all been said before, we couldn't possibly say it better than...[fill in your favorite writer(s) here].
I tell writers who attend my workshops that everything we do is about the writing. About our stories. When we aren't actually committing our stories to paper, we're gathering information for them, researching anecdotes, picking up on the best way to express what is, in essence, often not amenable to expression on paper (or verbal expression of any sort, for that matter). If you aren't writing in the conventional sense (pen to paper, fingers to keyboard), you're still creating. The words will come.
Years ago, writer Susan Baugh helped me put into words this same concept. I took her workshop on writing the fairy tale at the International Women's Writing Guild conference sometime in the late 1990s, and my WiseWoman character's quest paralleled my own: finding the right words. In the end, she discovers she had the words all along:
GRANDMOTHER TURTLE: a fairy tale about finding the right words by Marilyn Zembo Day (with thanks to Susan Baugh)
In the beginning, Grandmother Turtle knew all the words. She had seen the books in the moment before time began, run her gnarled fingers over their richly textured leafs. She knew the magic words on the rough-hewn pages of the bronze-toned volume. Her fingertips had traced its deep-furrowed lines and the blood-red rubies encrusted on its cover. She remembered the quieter, simpler lines in the silver book, adorned with turquoise, more beautiful than the distant mountains glimmering in Mother Moon’s reflection.
Especially, she loved the feel of the amethyst-strewn cover of the golden book. It was the one containing the special words, the spells of intention, the very sacred notes to live by. Grandmother couldn’t recall them all now but she knew they were out there… waiting for her. It was not an urgent need to bring them back into the fold, at least not until most recently. Life had been peaceful. The Mother had been good to them.
Now, however, Grandmother was troubled. Just this morning, as Father Sun slithered early fingers of light overhead, she had seen Raven alight jauntily atop her daughter’s hut. Today, on the day her first granddaughter would be named and taken into the clan, the cocky ebony bird dared scamper in a backwards circle, cawing and cawing, proclaiming his supremacy. Now the entire village knew he had staked his claim, and it was up to her to challenge his insolent declaration. To do so in safety and in absolute certainty she would not fail, she needed the words. And they remained just out of her mind’s reach.
*****
As the younger women bustled about the village carrying water, pounding grains for bread and cakes, and preparing tasty treats with succulent berries and crunchy brown nuts for the ceremony, Grandmother Turtle pulled in her head. She covered it with the elder shawl her daughter had woven for her when she first sought to leave the house of her birth to nest with Ran. The finely constructed garment attested to Seeda’s expert skills and reminded the elder Wise Woman of the pain she felt when she realized her daughter was not the one to whom she would pass on the Wise Woman ways. These many years, she thought it would be a woman from another nest—and she watched each village girl-child with heavy heart, from the moment of birth, searching for a sign. When Seeda told her mother that her last moontime was long before first snows covered the mountains, Grandmother dared not hope the Mother would give them a girl-child. It was almost too much to wish for… and yet the Wise Woman knew in her bones, heard the whispers of the ancestors that this was to be so.
Serana came into the world squealing and kicking, greeting her mother with pain and joy. Grandmother counted three stars shooting across the midnight sky on that evening. And she heard Wolf howl as she buried the baby’s wombnest under the window of Seeda’s hut. Until today, Serana’s destiny rested easily in the hands of Great Mother. She would be named and welcomed this day, and Grandmother Elder would proclaim her the next Wise Woman of the Clan. All of this was as it should be. And then Raven arrived.
*****
The Wise Woman shuffled quietly away from the village, toward the blue-black forest. She needed to think. She must solve the dilemma of the words. It would be disastrous to give the child a Wise Woman name without the magic words of intention. She would sit beside the talking stream and meditate on the problem. As she sought her place on the large boulder next to the water, she did not see Raven soaring above. She knew not that he hid in the boughs of trees beside the brook as she pondered her next steps.
Presently, Grandmother grew weary of searching her mind for words. Her head began to nod and her eyelids grew heavy. The shawl slipped from her head as she decided to move from the rock to the soft green grass. She spread the elder garment out, lay down upon it and promptly fell into a deep, deep sleep.
In due time, she felt a tugging at the shawl beneath her. Opening dream-doused eyes, she was amazed to find Wolf pulling at it. She had never been this close to Wolf before, always honoring his need to run free in the wilds yet paying attention whenever he called to her. She knew he did not dally frivolously. He brought messages of great import.
Cautiously, Grandmother opened her eyes wide so that Wolf gazed full into her violet depths. “Wolf,” she murmured quietly. The magnificent creature stopped tugging but continued to grasp the shawl in his mouth, mesmerized by her gaze.
“Wolf,” she repeated, more affirmatively.
He dropped the cloth from his mouth and stood at attention, waiting.
“Wolf?” This one was a question. The great animal needed no further words. He knew of the books and of her need.
“You know where the bronze book can be found,” he told her. “You were there in the moment before time.”
“Yes,” she replied, “but I do not remember the way. It has never been necessary to take that journey again and the path is not clear for me.”
“Clear or not, it has never been an easy route,” Wolf intoned. “The forest is thick and lush, and you will be tempted to stray from the path for rest and water many times. If you hesitate or falter, all may be lost.”
“I understand, Friend Wolf. But will you guide an old woman on her journey?”
“Aye, I can do that. If you will give me this rich shawl in exchange. It will warm my lair on cold nights.”
“It is yours the moment the words are mine.”
And they set out through the thick woods, moving quickly through foliage so thick and trees so tall that Father Sun barely touched their essence. Fleetingly, Grandmother wondered about the naming ceremony, knowing the clan would wait for her return for only just so long. It mattered little—the naming meant nothing if the words weren’t blessed. On she trudged, following Wolf deeper and deeper into the unknown.
The path narrowed as they walked and began to climb steeper trails. The old woman moved more and more slowly, sometimes losing sight of Wolf up ahead. Soon, when she had not seen her guide for some time, her pace slowed and she began to think of the little brook and the pleasant nap she’d been having when Wolf found her. “A deep drink of that water –that would be wonderful right now,” she thought, and suddenly she sighted an old stone well in an unexpected clearing ahead. Next to the well, a worn, smooth boulder invited tired, sore hips.
“Just a moment’s rest and then I’ll be much better,” she said aloud. She started to walk toward the well, her parched throat urging her forward. Reaching it, she drew on the frayed rope, pulling the bucket closer to the surface. s she pulled, in the distance she heard Wolf howl, a long, wailing warning. But the thirst was greater than the risk. “An old woman needs water and rest,” she said, for no one to hear but herself.
As she brought the water bucket closer to the edge of the well, a bright red-tinged light flowed from the vessel. Grandmother was at once full of both fear and curiosity. In awe, she reached into its depths and pulled from it the first book, the Bronze. She let her palms caress the perfect red stones. She opened the volume, fanning red-tipped pages, letting them fall open as the Mother saw fit. Carefully, she moved toward the boulder where she would rest and gather the knowledge needed.
But this was not to be, for as she lowered herself to the stone, her grip on the book loosened and, without warning, Raven swooped down and caught the Bronze tome in his beak. Without looking back, he soared skyward and then on into the deep woods beyond the clearing. In the distance, Grandmother heard Wolf’s mournful cry once more.
*****
In despair, Grandmother Turtle slumped to the ground in front of the huge stone. She no longer wanted the stale water of the well. Her only hope now lay in the two other books. But where were they to be found?
Just then, she heard a gurgling sound—almost as if she were back at her little brook. Thirst once again urged her on. A few feet away, at the edge of the forest, the bubbling sounds got louder. Not long afterward she found herself following a bustling stream to where it became a lake so clear it was almost silver. The sky, as it touched its shores, shone turquoise. Birds chirped contentedly and fish gaily leaped in and out of glistening waters.
Grandmother Turtle sighed and bent down to drink. When sufficiently refreshed, she looked up and was surprised to see the whiskered face of a huge catfish bobbing out of the water only a few feet in front of her. This was unlike any fish she’d ever seen, however, as its eyes caught hers in its direct gaze and it seemed to smile.
“Ho!” greeted the fish. “I see you have mighty thirst.”
“Yes, Great Fish. I am on a journey and the road has been long without water or rest. I very much needed the gift of your beautiful lake. Thank you.”
“I think perhaps you have a greater need than this water or you would not be here.”
“Why, yes, that is true. I am seeking…”
“You need not explain. I know of what you seek. It is simply difficult to understand why. After all, the books were yours before time began.”
“I know this but the words have been lost to me for some time now. If I do not find them, all is lost for my tribe. We are a small group and, without a Wise Woman when I am gone, they will lose the magic and perhaps soon lose all.”
“Grandmother, I can help you if you wish, but it is a long journey at best and sometimes dangerous. And you must be careful not to eat anything along the way. The woods along the shoreline are full of tempting fruits and nuts—but to ingest anything endangers your goal.”
“I have quenched my thirst and rested a moment. I will have no need for anything else. I will be nourished by the discovery of the books.”
With that, Catfish directed the elder to follow him. She trekked for miles along the shoreline, climbing over vines and fallen tree limbs, scratching her calves and sometimes tearing the edges of her long skirt. Always, she watched for Catfish to leap again from the ever-more-urgently flowing waters. In time, the waters began to rage and she lost sight of Great Fish as the flow dropped off ahead. Where the water dropped in a crystal shattering waterfall, the land too dropped and she began to scale rocks and earth beside the falls to seek the lower waterway. The movement downward was time-consuming and exhausting. Grandmother’s stomach began to call to her, reminding her it had been a very long time since she’d appeased it. Her energy was waning.
As she reached the smooth surface at the bottom of the falls, she noticed bushes filled with scrumptious red berries and tempting brown nuts. Catfish was nowhere in sight. Hungrily, Grandmother turned toward the abundant bushes and, as she turned, the crystalline falls looked as though a blue-green light was emanating from behind its waters. Curious, she stepped closer and realized she could actually walk behind the waterspill. She followed the light into the cave behind the falls and beheld the much-desired silver book, round turquoise stones adorning its cover, sitting on a plain stone altar within. Without hesitation, she walked to the book, took it into her arms and brought it to her breast as though it were her new grandchild. She turned and exited the cave quickly, hesitating only long enough to reverently touch the place which had held the book for so long and to open randomly to glance at a single silver-edged page.
Outside, her stomach growled once more. “I have it now,” she remarked to the wind whipping at the berry bushes. “I can eat a berry or two for energy on the long trip back.”
She reached for the most succulent of the fruit in front of her and, as she did, the winds grew stronger and caused her grip on the precious volume to loosen for just a moment. In that instant, Raven swooped from his perch above the waters and stole away with her treasure. Up into the sky he escaped, vanishing into the mist.
*****
Trembling, Grandmother Turtle brought her hands to her face and began to wail. “Oh, Great Mother, all is lost! My foolishness has cost my granddaughter her rightful place as Wise Woman. Our clan is doomed. I do not deserve to be Wise Woman myself—I have listened to my body and not to my spirit.”
Grandmother cried and prayed, prayed and cried, for some time, until she looked up and noticed the long scaly body of Snake at her feet. Snake’s large head undulated above the ground, yellow-green eyes glaring at the elder woman.
“Snake?”
“Grandmother.”
“Do you stare for a purpose?”
“Yes, Grandmother. You moan and you pray to Our Mother, yet you have nothing about which to grieve.”
“Ah, but Honored Snake, I have much to grieve. I have brought disaster upon my people.”
“You have done no such thing. Your people await your return as we speak.”
“I cannot return without the words.”
“You know the words. They were given to you before time began. What is the problem?”
“I am an old woman, and the words escape me. Without the books, I cannot be certain of these truths. Will you help me in my quest?”
Time remained as suspended in air as the Great Snake’s head, while Grandmother waited for his response. Finally, fangs flicking in and out with each word, Honored Snake assented. “You may follow me to the Golden Dragon’s lair, where the Book of Intentions can be found. Once there, I can slither into the cave and let you know when the Gold One sleeps. While he rests, you can sneak past him and grab the book. Only you must not be distracted by anything in the cave and you must especially not speak a word. If you do, all will be lost.”
Grandmother agreed and they went on their way. The terrain covered was less rugged than her earlier path and the old woman was beginning see hope once more. But then she heard the terrible roar of the angry dragon in the distance and she was not so certain.
“Do not fear,” Snake advised. “He will sleep and you will get the book.”
Not long afterward, Snake’s expectations proved true. He returned from the cave, nodded silently to Grandmother and she crept past the entrance into the bowels of the monster. Immediately, she sighted the brilliant golden book. She focused on the soft purple amethyst stones encrusted on its cover, noticing the perfectly chiseled edges from which lilac and white light flowed. It was easy enough to attend to the beauty of this tome yet, as she streaked out of the cave with the book clutched to her breast, a rustling sound from somewhere deeper in the cave distracted her. The moment’s hesitation caused her to stumble. She quickly regained equilibrium but the small noise disturbed the dragon enough to make him rise and sleepily evoke a half-roar.
Grandmother picked up speed and raced outside with the golden volume. Out of breath and jumpy, she stumbled once more, dropping the book to the ground. For one brief second, she saw the golden pages as they flew open on the ground. Then Raven again honed in on the treasure and carried it off beyond sight.
*****
Bereft, the old woman fell to the ground. She didn’t care if the Dragon awoke and came looking for the book thief. It mattered not if she ate or drank or rested any more. Raven had stolen all the books, and Serana would not be the Wise Woman. In fact, there would be no Wise Woman when she died and her clan would cease to exist.
Just then, she heard a small voice say, “Return.”
Looking up, she spied Grandmother Spider weaving her web in the vines overhead, hanging between bushes and trees. “Return,” Spider was saying. “Go back to your people.”
“How can I return empty-handed?” she asked.
“Return. You are full now. Return.”
Without another alternative, Grandmother Turtle decided to listen to Wise Spider. She walked away from the dragon’s cave, climbed back up beside the crystalline water fall, followed the silver lakeshore and passed the stone well before coming to the end of the path at her meditation brook. There, on the boulder beside her brook, lay the three treasured books, shining in the sunlight.
Grandmother walked to the boulder, thanking the Mother for her kindness and understanding. As she approached, she noticed a spider web spun across the base of the rock. She reached to open the bronze book and gasped as it fell to dust. The silver and gold tomes also turned to ash as soon as she sought to open them.
For a cold stale moment, she froze and then, in a moment before time began, she sought the path back to her home. The elder shawl slipped from her shoulders to the ground, as Wolf howled in the near-wood. Grandmother held her head high as the path before her glowed. he was returning to her village, where she would lead the naming ceremony for Serana, Daughter of Joy, Woman of Truth.
YOUR TURN
1. Write about a time that you couldn't find the right words. Maybe it wasn't about writing a poem or a story. Maybe it was a time you needed to impart bad news. Perhaps someone was hurting and you didn't feel there were adequate words. What did you do? What did you say? How were your actions/words received?
2. Make a list of 5 to 10 of your favorite words-- ones whose sounds you love, or whose definitions intrigue you. Choose three of them-- write a short piece that includes them all.
3. I once led a workshop on the fairy tale at the IWWG conference, adding "a feminist twist" to it. What's your favorite fairy tale? Can you rewrite it, modernizing it, perhaps even adding a feminist twist? or a gay twist? or another "twist"? Maybe you'd like to make it a poem, or a play!
4. Fairy tales, like myths, include hero(in)es who are sent on a quest. Usually they encounter at least three challenges, sometimes they meet three or more "guides" who help them along the way. Using this structure, you might set up a three-stanza poem (verse or prose) in which you are the hero(ine). What might be your three challenges (in a day, week, year), where might you find your guides (pets, the homeless guy on the corner, a hummingbird in your garden...)? Write your tale, perhaps adding a stanza before and after the three challenges to bring it all together.
5. When you think you're in a Writer's Block stage, write this title at the top of your page: Why I Write. Then start writing with "I write because..." Don't stop to cross out or re-read or change anything. Let it flow. Unlock. Be a writer.
