My Christmas Story: "Dulce Domum"
Dec. 22nd, 2009 12:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ellenkushnerI keep forgetting to tell you that I have a new story published, in Jonathan Strahan's magnificent Eclipse Three (Night Shade Books, 10/09). (I'd posted just a little on its progress here.) It's called "Dulce Domum," from the chapter in The Wind in the Willows, bits of which are also woven into my text -- that's the chapter where Mole & Rat find Mole's old home in a snowstorm on Christmas Eve:
Home! The call was clear, the summons was plain.
“Ratty!” Mole called, “hold on! It’s my home, my old home! I’ve just come across the smell of it, and it’s close by here, really quite close. And I must go to it, I must, I must!”
Home! Why, it must be quite close by him at that moment, his old home that he had hurriedly forsaken, that day when he first found the river.
The story's about home, and family, and a few other things besides:
He called her late on Christmas Eve. She was home. She said, Come on up, which was good because he was standing at a payphone two blocks away, his cellphone deliberately run down, and it was raining. She was wearing sweatpants and a fleece bathrobe with moons on it. The “I don’t care if I’m attractive or not” gambit. He called her on it by falling to his knees before her, singing softly, “Oh, holy night, the stars are brightly shiiiiining….” So she took the cue and undid her sash.
I started the story a few years ago, on my sofa in Somerville, looking out at the snow on the porch on a cold winter's night. I picked it up & put it down a lot since then, and when Jonathan Strahan asked me for a story for ECLIPSE 3, I realized it was a push to get it finished. It was very exciting and very challenging to write, as it's in a new style I've been experimenting with, messing with points-of-view and indirection and what people are willing to reveal to others and to themselves - I've done a couple of new Riverside stories in it (of which more later; neither is out yet), too. I didn't think this one was really working, so I'd put it aside yet again when I realized that Jonathan's deadline was near, and learned that he couldn't give me an extension. So I sent him the rough ms., saying, "If you like it, I'll knock myself out to get it done for you on time (and maybe you can even give me some editorial suggestions), but if it's not right for you, I'll put it away again & see if I learn more about writing eventually...." Of course, in the course of whipping the rough draft into shape to send him, I cracked the back of it. Pressure (and an audience) are wonderful things! Don't forget that, kids. Anyhow, armed with his love, I finished the story, and am 95% pleased with it. And I am forever grateful to Jonathan Strahan for his faith and encouragement on this one.
Here are a few excerpts, mostly from the Grahame, with bits of mine thrown in, just to give you a taste:
- So that’s why you’re home now? Waiting for stray lonely goyim to come in out of the rain?
She touched his hair. – It is my destiny. My spiritual practice, in return for killing your god. I feel I owe you something. Tomorrow I observe the ritual celebration of a movie and Chinese food, but for tonight . . . hot sex with a hunky blond.
It’s OK, she went on; - I’m used to spending Christmas Eve with people who are depressed about their families. It’s kind of a specialty.
He stopped dead in his tracks, his nose searching hither and thither . . . A moment, and he had caught it again; and with it this time came recollection in fullest flood.
Villagers all, this frosty tide,
Let your doors swing open wide
Though wind may follow, and snow beside,
Yet draw us in by your fire to bide;
Joy shall be yours in the morning!
Were they singing it now? He doubted it. He doubted it very much. If they were, he would be there. He would be there, singing, instead of right here, howling, as his pleasure refused to be staved off another measure.
“Oh, Ratty!” he cried dismally, “why ever did I do it? Why did I bring you to this poor, cold little place, on a night like this, when you might have been at River Bank by this time, toasting your toes before a blazing fire, with all your own nice things about you!”
Oh, and he knew he should be there now. He should be there with them. Even if they weren’t singing. Especially if they weren’t singing.
* * *
And so I wish you all a lovely holiday season, however you roll. You can read Grahame's Dulce Domum chapter here, online - or get out your battered old copy of The Wind in the Willows.
Home! The call was clear, the summons was plain.
“Ratty!” Mole called, “hold on! It’s my home, my old home! I’ve just come across the smell of it, and it’s close by here, really quite close. And I must go to it, I must, I must!”
Home! Why, it must be quite close by him at that moment, his old home that he had hurriedly forsaken, that day when he first found the river.
The story's about home, and family, and a few other things besides:
He called her late on Christmas Eve. She was home. She said, Come on up, which was good because he was standing at a payphone two blocks away, his cellphone deliberately run down, and it was raining. She was wearing sweatpants and a fleece bathrobe with moons on it. The “I don’t care if I’m attractive or not” gambit. He called her on it by falling to his knees before her, singing softly, “Oh, holy night, the stars are brightly shiiiiining….” So she took the cue and undid her sash.
I started the story a few years ago, on my sofa in Somerville, looking out at the snow on the porch on a cold winter's night. I picked it up & put it down a lot since then, and when Jonathan Strahan asked me for a story for ECLIPSE 3, I realized it was a push to get it finished. It was very exciting and very challenging to write, as it's in a new style I've been experimenting with, messing with points-of-view and indirection and what people are willing to reveal to others and to themselves - I've done a couple of new Riverside stories in it (of which more later; neither is out yet), too. I didn't think this one was really working, so I'd put it aside yet again when I realized that Jonathan's deadline was near, and learned that he couldn't give me an extension. So I sent him the rough ms., saying, "If you like it, I'll knock myself out to get it done for you on time (and maybe you can even give me some editorial suggestions), but if it's not right for you, I'll put it away again & see if I learn more about writing eventually...." Of course, in the course of whipping the rough draft into shape to send him, I cracked the back of it. Pressure (and an audience) are wonderful things! Don't forget that, kids. Anyhow, armed with his love, I finished the story, and am 95% pleased with it. And I am forever grateful to Jonathan Strahan for his faith and encouragement on this one.
Here are a few excerpts, mostly from the Grahame, with bits of mine thrown in, just to give you a taste:
- So that’s why you’re home now? Waiting for stray lonely goyim to come in out of the rain?
She touched his hair. – It is my destiny. My spiritual practice, in return for killing your god. I feel I owe you something. Tomorrow I observe the ritual celebration of a movie and Chinese food, but for tonight . . . hot sex with a hunky blond.
It’s OK, she went on; - I’m used to spending Christmas Eve with people who are depressed about their families. It’s kind of a specialty.
He stopped dead in his tracks, his nose searching hither and thither . . . A moment, and he had caught it again; and with it this time came recollection in fullest flood.
Villagers all, this frosty tide,
Let your doors swing open wide
Though wind may follow, and snow beside,
Yet draw us in by your fire to bide;
Joy shall be yours in the morning!
Were they singing it now? He doubted it. He doubted it very much. If they were, he would be there. He would be there, singing, instead of right here, howling, as his pleasure refused to be staved off another measure.
“Oh, Ratty!” he cried dismally, “why ever did I do it? Why did I bring you to this poor, cold little place, on a night like this, when you might have been at River Bank by this time, toasting your toes before a blazing fire, with all your own nice things about you!”
Oh, and he knew he should be there now. He should be there with them. Even if they weren’t singing. Especially if they weren’t singing.
* * *
And so I wish you all a lovely holiday season, however you roll. You can read Grahame's Dulce Domum chapter here, online - or get out your battered old copy of The Wind in the Willows.
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Date: 2009-12-23 03:45 am (UTC)Thanks for the icon, too. Heh!
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