Musings: A. A. Milne Alan Garner editing Halfway Down Neil Gaiman The Ocean At The End Of The Lane The Owl's Service Transcendental poets writing
by Maureen Bush
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Let The Story Be
I came across the phrase people who love the interior world a while ago. I love this – it completely explains where I find myself right now. I don’t remember where I came across it. Apologies for not crediting a radiant phrase.
It explains the books I loved as a child, and my drive now to go deeper into silence, an amazing roller coaster of discovery. I’m diving deep into the interior world.
When I was a child I adored the poem Halfway Down, by A. A. Milne:
Halfway down the stairs
is a stair
where i sit.
there isn’t any
other stair
quite like it.
I remember myself at four years old counting our basement stairs, finding the middle stair and sitting, contemplating the end of the poem. It isn’t really anywhere. It’s somewhere else instead.
I loved the strangeness of Alan Garner’s The Owl Service, and the magic and wonder of Mary Stewart’s Merlin and Arthur stories – not the sword fighting, but the otherness, the mystery. I find it in transcendental poetry, and Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane. I’ve always been drawn to the mysteries of life, and now I find myself immersed in it. It feels absolutely right.
Now, can I catch this in stories? Part of finding the mystery is allowing myself to not know. Can I “not know” about writing? To simply sit with it, to let it emerge, to be what it needs to be, to let the story become?
I’m editing another novel manuscript. It became clear I need to edit it by retyping it entirely, slowing when I reached anything that isn’t quite right, and letting new words come from a quiet mind. Nothing cognitive, just being with the story.
I’ll hit a paragraph that just doesn’t feel right and let a rewrite flow. I move on through lines that work, that feel right, and when I reach another rough patch, I let the story become what it wants to become.
It’s oddly slow, coming in fits and starts, letting the story set the pace. Once again, I have to release all control and just let the story be.
Maureen
Musings: A. A. Milne fantasy poetry When We Were Four
by Maureen Bush
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Poetry for Children
I’ve been thinking about my favorite book of poetry as a child: A.A. Milne’s When We Were Four. My favorite poem hints at my love of fantasy:
Halfway Down
Halfway down the stairs
Is a stair
Where I sit.
There isn’t any
Other stair
Quite like
It.
I’m not at the bottom,
I’m not at the top;
So this is the stair
Where
I always
Stop.
…
Halfway up the stairs
Isn’t up,
And isn’t down
It isn’t in the nursery,
It isn’t in the town.
And all sorts of funny thoughts
Run round my head:
“It isn’t really
Anywhere!
It’s somewhere else
Instead!”
I remember sitting halfway down the stairs, just like the child in the picture, pondering this, and finding the idea of being somewhere else instead totally delicious.
Maureen