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

I left a bookmark

On your page

And was surprised

To find

Since my last visit

The plot had shifted

.

I marked my place

And skipped ahead

A little

Turn of a page or two

But upon my return

All the story lines had tangled

.

I had put it down

It’s true

I got busy with,

Oh, I’m not sure what, but

I just always expected

I could pick up

In that same place

Where I left off

.

Couldn’t you

Have found a way

To suspend time and space

Like the bookmark

I had left for you.

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.

“Does she work?”

Asked

The pretty teller

As she

Offered

A packaged smile

That

Came with all the

Forms

And Files

She slid

Across

The counter.

.

“Does she work?”

He thought

Of

Dishes piled

High

And the line

Of clothes

Never ending

And the way

She always

Spoke a little

Too loudly

Even when

There wasn’t

The reverberating

Din

Of children in

The background.

.

“Does she work?”

She asked

Standing in

The sterile room

With florescent glare

Her temperature controlled

Along with the air

By the hushed

Tones of

Muzak

Caressing

Her ear.

.

“Does she work?”

The question stuck

Like mud

On the freshly painted

Walls of the foyer

That she scrubbed

Clean

Only to

Find

An artist’s rendition

Of the Metro

In greens and reds

And so much

Blue

Swept under

The carpet.

.

“Does she work?”

She asked.

.

“No,” he answered

And, knew

It was a lie.

Lazy dogs with a toothless grin

Bound and gagged to a chained linked fin

They growl and scowl and foul the air

But they don’t really care

As long as they gets their three meals square

I am a wet rag

Dripping with sweat

And tears squeezed

From the bottomless depths of the Deep

Twisted into tight knots that

Bunch and cluster

And clump upon each other into

A tangle of damp seething compacted

Tensions –

Wearied and spent.

No one really understands me

Except maybe Mom.

.

She does,

Or, did.

.

Probably not anymore

Now that she’s passed on

Passed away, as they say.

Passed on, far away.

.

We spent a lot of time

Wondering

During those seven years

If she actually understood

Anything

Buried under that thick coat of

Calcified Brain Disease –

Alzheimer’s, they would whisper.

.

My Dad thought so.

He was convinced.

Sure.

That beneath that

Veneer of a nearly blank stare

His wife was still

Well

Still

.

Of course he had to.

It was the only way

That he could understand.

Cope in

His new role of

Trying to comprehend

What

To

Do.

.

Even when

Truthfully

There

Was

Nothing

To

Do.

.

No one really understands me.

But I guess that’s to be expected.

.

Since I’m not

Who I was

.

Not who I thought I was

Yesterday

Not even a shadow

With its boy in tow.

.

I once was a boy with

A mother

Understanding

Everything

Shielded within that protective coat of

A Mother’s Love

Encouragements, she would whisper.

.

She always thought so

She was convinced

Sure.

That beneath that

Imperfect exterior

Was the heart

Of a Hero’s

Will.

.

Of course she would always say

That no matter what I did

Or, who I became

She would

Always love me

Even if sometimes

She might not like

What

I

Might

Do.

.

Even when

Truthfully

There

Was

No

Reason

To

Do

So.

.

No one really understands me

And that needs to just be

Accepted

.

Even if I

Don’t like it

One

Bit.

.

No,

Not

One

Bit,

At

All.

Don’t Cry Form Me Am Yisrael

.

I’m Tired of the Tears

Really

Not that I think

That they’re insincere

Not Fully

.

Don’t cry for me Am Yisrael

The Truth

Is the Presence has

Never left you at all

It was just the Booth

.

Don’t cry for your loss

The Promise,

He has kept.

It is you, that refuse to close
The distance
.
Don’t cry for me Am Yisrael

No guilt

There is only one thing left

Truth to tell

And, that’s to rebuild.