See Topaz: The Truth Portal & The Color Mayhem to learn more about Mirth and all its weirdness!
Category: literature
the trees would open
“Our first day traveling down the river ended. There was a sense of anticipation in the air, a hint of the importance of what was to come. Burma yanked at a blanket with his teeth. I took it from him and pulled it up over our snuggled bodies. Fiddling through my slingbags, I found some dried fruit, which we ate while staring expectantly for the moments when the trees would open above us and allow us to see the immense beauty of the night sky, its brilliant starlight showering the eventide with charm. Every time the trees closed up again, our eyelids drooped a little more, until they shut.”
Excerpt From
Topaz: The Truth Portal & The Color Mayhem
Anticipation can keep us going sometimes when we hit a lull. What are some things you’re looking forward to before then end of the year? 🖤
I’m looking forward to watching my kids dance in the nutcracker, finishing editing my new novel, finding a new apartment to live in that has a yard (and hopefully a brick wall!)
Happy Tuesday! 🖤
little pygmy globe
“The sunlight gently lit up the orb from the inside, just as a candle is used to kindle another. He sighed with pleasure and passed me the little pygmy globe. I cupped my palms, surprised by the offering, and held it like a fragile, soft-shelled queepfluff egg. It was heavy and warm, and throbbed with a tiny pulse that vibrated gently through its crystal wall.”
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random idiots
“You’d think that you’d think before climbing into a car with random idiots.”
“Ya, I get it, Damien. I didn’t think. I messed up . . . again.”
The opening scene of the Nirvana Threads was inspired by my experience, once upon a time, hitchhiking in British Columbia, Canada. The driver was playing chicken on the highway with random cars from the opposite lane. I remember thinking: “this might be how I’m going to die” and clutching the side of my seat and mentally calling on God to do his will. Although I don’t outright mention it’s chicken they’re playing in the car in TNT, the picture is still painted. I hope you give it a read!!
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click here to check it out! : www.rachel-tremblay.com
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Have you ever been caught in a crazy situation, intentionally or accidentally, where you thought “this could be it”?
Sending mucho warm, loving vibes to you this Friday! Keep safe!
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Topaz Fun Facts : Inspiration
When we write, whether poetry, short stories, or novels, inspiration can come from anywhere, at anytime, and an urge to get to a piece of paper, a computer, a laptop, or often for me, the notes app, pushes us forward almost uncontrollably. Because we know the idea can slip away as easily as it came. We have to get it down, asap.
A gentle place where inspiration often comes is while journalling. Some years back, I was on a creative “diet” prescribed in Julia Cameron’s “The Artist’s Way”. It was during the reading and carrying out of the activities in this workbook that I finally decided to take the plunge and write a novel, because even though I’d been writing forever, I’d never given myself that permission. She helped me realize I actually wanted to, and that I could go ahead and just do it.
Now any parent can understand that it’s hard to keep routines such as morning journalling, yoga or meditation with the busy life that comes with having kids. I try to journal somewhat regularly now, but when I chose to write Topaz, I was very disciplined.
The idea for the book had come from the page itself. The inspiration for Mirth’s whiteness was the whiteness of the lined paper I was writing on. (I journal longhand in the ugliest spiral notebook I can find. If it’s too lovely, I can’t bear to mark it with my messy scrawl.)
The idea of the belly button portal to another world, and also the idea of the orbiglass worlds, was taken from a story I wrote in my twenties for a graphic novel called Gravitée. You can say I stole my own idea. It was a project that never got past some sketches and minimal research.
The main idea of the graphic novel was that of a society de-evolved to the point that everyone had claws and tails, and a small community of rebels were left with old clues from their deceased astrologer ancestors to help them save their world after the earthquakes. Saved, that is, from the charlatan priests that led them and took advantage of fear and ignorance to pretend the gods needed appeasing. Gravitée was the name of the main character, who is now Topaz, and in her “umbi-pit” world she would meet a a guide, who became Mallo. The original idea was that the the center of the universe was in her navel. It was inspired by an expression in French “le nombril du monde” which is usually negative, implying someone thinks they are the center of the universe. In this case it was true. She was the centre.
Topaz’s premise is completely different, one of a girl who sets off from an absurd dystopian society in search for authenticity and happiness, but the magical components of Gravitée fit her like a glove.
Never throw out old ideas! Who knows when they can be of use. Like a box of sewing scraps, you can explore it and find lace to add to a hem, or fancy buttons to sew down the front of your home-made garment.
Have you ever salvaged old ideas, whether with writing or otherwise? Tell me in the comments!
Have a good week! 🖤
See: https://rachel-tremblay.com/books/topaz/ for info on this high fantasy!
Mirth as per Topaz’s Glossary – “U”
Here are a few more weird things from Mirth, Topaz’s umbi-pit playing a bigger role in this book than one would expect from a such a small body part. Check out this link: Topaz: The Truth Portal & The Color Mayhem to learn more about Topaz and her quest for freedom and emancipation.
tiny suns
“[…] the inked words. How meaningless they could have seemed a few months before, and somehow rich with parallels now. Impressions of how they related to her existence sailed her mind, passing through in waves. Like tiny suns of understanding bursting at the crest of each ripple, the longer she sat with the words, the more intense became her clarity. And then, quite suddenly, as if stepping out of a cold sea, Carlie felt wide awake, washed clean of the dirt that had been pulling her down.”
The Nirvana Threads
A magical realism book that dreams of making it to your tbr 😆🖤
Check www.rachel-tremblay.com for goodies and highlights on my instagram account for reviews 🖤
Stop eating the leaves, Stan
“Stop eating the leaves, Stan!”
Stan stopped chewing and turned to look at me, torn pages dangling from his mouth.
“I should have know you’d be trouble,” I said, flipping through the accounting records. “It’s been a rough few months, we’ll have to close if we keep this up. We need to draw more people.”
Stan spat out the pages and walked over to the blackboard in one big step, ducking to avoid the fluorescents. The chalk between his teeth, he began to draw a stick figure.
“Not that kind of draw, you long-necked twit.”
The giraffe dropped the chalk and went back to nosing through the books on the highest shelf. Wth his tongue, he opened a cloth-covered, vintage edition (they tasted so much better with age) and ripped out a page, slowly, so as to not be heard.
“I told you to stop eating the leaves, Stan!” I slammed my hands on my desk and glared at him.
Stan stopped chewing and turned to look at me, torn pages dangling from his mouth. After a few moments, he began to chew again. I sipped my bitter coffee and went back to flipping through the accounting records.
crow’s feet
His body was blocking the door. I noticed only as I turned the handle. I could see him through the door’s window. I rapt on the glass with my knuckles. And again. He didn’t budge. My shoulder up against the wooden frame, I put my weight into it. A crack opened wide enough for me to squeeze through. The door fell back again. The man was now flopped over to his side, eyes half open, mouth slightly agape. I knew if I looked hard enough I would see the needle somewhere. I stood watching him for a few moments, considering pulling him up and sitting him out of the way. But I left him there. I didn’t want to touch him. Especially not knowing where the needle was. Twice that day I had seen people in the same state. On a park bench, a girl. Half her back and half her ass exposed, her head hanging between her legs and her dangling arms. In another park, an old man’s head lolled to the side like a dead man’s. Was he old? They all looked old. And not as in elderly. Old as in worn out. The beauty of life sapped from their shells. That’s all their bodies were: battered shells. Housing need. I watched the man’s chest rise and fall. And again. A woman walked by pushing a stroller. Her eyes dropped to the man, and then lifted to mine. She smiled, and I smiled. Our crow’s feet didn’t wrinkle.
(Check out www.blanketsandfrankincense.com for more flash and poetry)
death before decaf
He thinks differently at night. He’s more dramatic. More far-seeing, perhaps, but often to the expense of his optimism, his soul drooping from the weight of the world upon it. Problems become disproportionately big, and the shadow they create even bigger. But when morning comes, the corners of his mind that had grown dark and grim are filled with the sun’s radiant promise of fresh possibilities. Every new day is a fresh start and a chance to make the choices for himself that seemed impossible under the oppression of night.
Perhaps, the alarm goes off, and the hand that finds the snooze button still lingers between worlds; between the night that tormented, the dreams that freed, and the morning that reminds. But his feet know better than to listen to his hands. They are the ones that take him places, whereas hands merely press the snooze button over again. So they drag him out of bed, trusting that if they walk him to the right place, the hands will know how to brew the drink that will revive him. As he shuffles his way to the kitchen, the dreams he had in the night pop their face in and out of his consciousness. There is much strangeness there. He’s wades in it with dull curiosity. Behind it lies the soundless memory of the eve. He approaches it until he stands right at its edge, with great risk of slipping back into the mirky pond of hopelessness. He loses his footing, more than once; he almost falls in, but the hands reach the jar of beans just in time. And with his brain on automatic pilot, he opens it and pours some into the grinder. But, no, life is too much, he thinks. He should just go back to bed. With weak intention, he holds down the button and the beans crack and crinkle in a lovely way. A glimmer of wellness sparks within. But it dies just as quickly when the grinding stops, and he wants to quit everything he ever started, to rot away in his bed where he can just go on sleeping forever. The kettle whistles and beckons to be emptied onto the grinds he’s just put in the reusable cloth filter. His dreams have died but he still needs to save the planet. The liquid tar streams into the cup with the broken handle, the cup that has been loved to pieces because it is just the right size, and his eyes widen. The steam rises, bringing joy to his senses. He wants to go back to bed, but his sleepy mind is sharp enough to know that just a few seconds away, there is salvation for his shadow self, forewarned by the heat seeping into his palms through the walls of the handle-less cup. A stir of sugar to sweeten the bitter awakening, a drop of milk to smoothen the ride, and meaning is brought back to living. He sips. He remembers the night, still, but it shrinks to a dot in a sea of light. It was a false alarm, there is no need to panic. He feels good about staying awake. At this rate, his whole perspective could be revolutionized, his purpose in life rediscovered, even, if he could just make it to the shower.
(Check out www.blanketsandfrankincense.com for more flash and poetry)
