D. Avraham ~ Musings

Today, we have an interview with two people — at least to incarnations of the same individual. A little over six years ago, Deborah Walker decided to throw sensible advice to the wind, quit her day job, and, as she puts it, “give this writing malarkey a try.” She hasn’t look back since. Translated into more than a dozen languages, her stories have graced the pages of a number of prominent magazines, journals and anthologies, such as Fantastic Stories of the Imagination, Nature’s Futures, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet and The Year’s Best S. 

Kelda Crich sprung from the mind of Deborah Walker and is now out in the open lurking through the streets of London, exploring strange things in the city’s medical museums. Kelda’s poems have appeared in Nameless, Cthulhu Haiku II, Transitions and Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet.

Both writers were gracious enough to discuss with me their work, and their thoughts about writing in general.

So, taking that leap, quitting your day job and plunging into a career as a writer must have been daunting for you. What made you decide to do that?

I’d vaguely thought before that it might be something that I’d be good at, but every time I tried to write something my first draft was very weak. I didn’t realize that was often the case. But, I decided I wanted to have a real stab at it. At the time I remember thinking that if I managed to get one thing published in the first year, I’d be quite pleased. I managed to get something published, and I’m still at it.

Why Speculative Fiction?

Because I love the strange and offbeat. Because that’s the way my mind turns. Because I’m not sure how non spec writers actually do it.

Who’s your favorite writer?

For short stories: Philip K. Dick, D.H. Lawrence, H.P. Lovecraft, Ursula K. le Guin, Tanith Lee, Al Reynolds, Robert Silverberg, Liz Williams, Scott Wolven, Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Eudora Welty.

How did you come up with your stories?

My process is quite usual I think, I do a lot of research. My usual process of creation begins with the initial idea, the seed.  Then, I then copied swathes of Wikipedia about the initial idea: changelings in this case, into my working document.

Without any idea of the story I just start to write, reading the research as I go and deleting it as I read.

The research leads me onto more ideas for the story. I always add a new element. In the case on one of my recent stories, it was worm biology and Mythos and nuns, which led to more research being copied into the working document, and sparked off new ideas.

I love, love, love Wikipedia. For instance, before I started writing I didn’t know much about changelings but Wikipedia has over 4000 words on them.

What projects are you working on now?

I’m always working on shorts stories. I’m on a bit of a competition binge at the moment, looking for short story competitions that are free to enter. I like the challenge of a prompt. I’ve also got a novella on the back burner, but I keep getting distracted by the allure short stories.

You can check out Deborah Walker’s blog and extensive bibliography here.

For Kelda Krich’s Horror blog go here (if you dare).

She had smooth lines

Gliding asymmetrically

Angling and spinning

Into

A curved symmetry

Of smoothness aligned.

.

He was edged in

A curve

Breaking sharply

Into

Hardened folds

Of sharp distinctions

.

Their threads

Twisted and

Tangled

Into

A knotted weave of

Of limits

Misled.

.

They fell like Rain

Drops of Truth

Full of Life and Promise

But

The untilled ground was

A Hard Packed Crust

So

They just Beaded

And ran off

Into

Deep Dark

Pools of Despair

That were

Littered

With Shards of

Broken Vessels

He came on the scene

Near the end of the third chapter

Naturally and spontaneously constructed

To find balance

And give meaning

To her chaotic and frenzied narrative.

Perfectly kempt,

Though suitably ruffled

With a measure of ambiguity

And the Mysterious

To keep up the Intrigue.

An enduring character

He seemed.

.
But her muse waned

And he staled

Cracked and flaked

Into bits and pieces

Of redundancy

That was soon

Edited out of her existence

.

The plot thins

To a taught sheen

Stretched and pulled

Over the surface of

Mounds and

Mounds of

Mediocrity.

Only his hands

Gnarled and thin

Like wrinkled tattered

Weathered broadcloth

Showed

From beneath

The starch white

Cuffs of a

Pressed Polyester

Shirt

.

Only his hands

Quick and light

Like bright dancing

Flames of light

Expressed

From behind

The stark pallid

Edge of a

Gruff and hard

Mein

.

Only his hands

Nimble and fleet

Like cool clean

Water cascading

Rushing

From between

The chiseled stone

Wall of a

Cold and cruel

Carcass

.

Only his hands

Betrayed him.

The old man

In the dark grey coat

Looked at

The overcast sky

Heaved a sigh

And rocked back

On the faded green

Park bench

To provide

Momentum

For the climb

To his feet

.

He sighed

It wasn’t a sigh of grief

Or of pain.

Not of satisfaction

Or contentment

But of
Contemplation

And preparation

.

The old man

In the dark grey coat

Planted his

Crooked feet

Heaved a sigh

And rocked forward

On the faded green

Park bench

And stood

Slowly

Not quite erect

Not quite bent.

.

He sighed

It wasn’t a sigh of bitterness

Or of fatigue

Not of weariness

Or hopelessness

But of reminiscence

And remembrance

.

The old man in the grey coat

Straightened his

Sagging shoulders

Heaved a sigh

And turned towards

The faded brown

Path

That led towards

A place that

Was once called

Home

And sighed.

You are the poet

And I am the poem

Compose me a Salvation

.

You are the dancer

And I am the dance

Step me towards redemption.

.

The instrument fades before the artist

And is realized.

.

I am the Song

Waiting to be Sung.

.

.

Wrapped in a red stained prayer shawl

Tear strained supplications

Pour through

Tears streaked across

My heart

.

A scoffing piously cynical believer

The world is spinning upside down

Too bad for me

My feet are rooted in the ground

.

Wrapped in a bleached white shroud

Gloom forced dirges

Hover under

Gloom cast over

Mind.

.

A star eye skeptic

Refusing to despair

Life’s proven beyond a doubt

To be a capricious affair.

.

Wrapped in a deep blue essence

Hope void adjurations

Stick like melted sugar

Hope the hands aren’t

Mine.