Raving

Raving for research, that is.

Something is definitely wrong with my brain. Today in my writing class, we were going over the syllabus (she procrastinated writing it until this morning) and talking about the end-of-semester research paper (assigned to be at least ten pages, and less than twenty pages). When she said we could write about anything we liked, I was practically ecstatic (still on something of a little high right now...). You mean, I thought, I get to research in-depth about whatever I want? Holy cow, what an opportunity!

Only now, I'm trying to decide if my first thought is really a good one.

I want to research the representations of, symbols of, reactions to, relationship with, etc., death in various cultures, especially in the myths, legends, and folktales thereof. But that's too big, so I want to zero in on old Celtic traditions. Arawn, Bran's head, the Bean Nighe, the Banshee, ravens, hounds that bay like geese, and so forth. It would be awesome.

But people might think I'm a little crazy for picking such a morose topic. It gives me too much delight to be a healthy fascination.

I could, on the other hand, discuss a set of legends from a certain subdivision of Celtic lore--Manx, Scottish, Irish, Briton, Cornish, Welsh--and how they reflect social dynamics of historic society.

On a completely unrelated note, I could research old sailing ships in hopes of getting around to writing out that idea about the lonely, vindictive embodiment of the waters of the world, Lady Undine, and her fascination with Former-captain Lund. Since he practically lives out at sea, I'd need to know more than a thing or two about the ship he'd be sailing on.

Or I could write about Malayan bladed weapons, or focus on the use and structure of the European longsword.

I could theorize about why the constellation Orion often crops up to be a warrior/hunter type fellow in various cultures. I mean, he doesn't even look all the human. Yeah, he's got the belt to draw attention to himself, and his armpit's pretty bright, but you can take those stars and make them into something other than a guy about to bop a bull on the head.

Heck, I could write about the history of swimming.

She also mentioned the option of turning in the first chapter of a novel--even though she's not supposed to allow that sort of thing--if we worked out what sort of research we were going to do in advance, and displayed it in the writing. Some people, upon first hearing that first chapters were allowed, seemed somewhat jaded at the thought. But she glared everyone down and asked if they knew how much research actually goes into a novel. When she said that, I let my head fall against my desk. Too dang much, in my opinion. And even when you think you checked enough facts, something you learn in astronomy class pops out at you and shouts, "Hey, idiot! New moon, even though you can't see it, isn't up at night! Dipsmack."

So yes, I have quite a few options floating around in my head. For Son of Sferesh, I could even just research medieval travel, city layout, and social structure and stick it into the first chapter.

Problem is, now that I've thought of so many, I have to pick one. Yikes. Any opinions are welcome, of course.

(In favor of the Celtic idea, no matter how ultimately useless the research would prove to be for me, I have a book full of Celtic stories that has, in the back, a list of recommended reading. I'm not sure where I would start with most of the rest of them.)

Editing Staff

I'm officially a member of the staff of the university's literary magazine, and I don't have to do poetry. I'm actually on staff to help with the creative nonfiction that comes through. Huzzah!

Duck Fluff

"You're a swimmer, aren't you?"

My professor caught me by surprise. I'd slipped into the lead on our field trip to the Writing Center--they had free food, so I'd already been there--and she'd pulled me up short with the question. I fumbled for a moment, trying to decide how she knew. I didn't smell like chlorine: I'd been out of a pool for weeks. My hair wasn't wet: my alarm hadn't gone off that morning in time to take a shower. The dead-giveaway shoulders were disguised: my backpack made it impossible to know that they were any wider than the rest of me.

"Yeah, I am. How'd you know?"

"That streak of hair on the back of your neck is bleached blond by the chlorine."

I laughed aloud. I'd been picked out as a swimmer many times, but never by the gathering of too-short hairs on the nape of my neck. "Duck fluff" was always a subject of mild amusement for my teammates and me, but I had never been branded on account of the extra light streak at my nape.