BLOG TOUR:
Sage Covered Hills – Author Interview
Fundinmental – Witch of Death Review + Soundtrack
Lilly Gayle – Witch of Death Scene Spotlight
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Today Roland Yeomans is taking
over my blog with a deep guest post about writing, pain, and life that’ll get
you thinking. Take it away, Roland!
HEAVEN’S ON FIRE
The bronze mists swirled about my table at Meilori’s like
veiled bereaved women going to prayers.
I looked at my blank laptop screen and asked myself the
most important question a writer can ask: What do I have to say?
Writers write best when the answer to that is “Something Important” (at least to
themselves so that the fire is there at the tips of their fingers and within
their hearts.)
To be important, what we write must not only be true to
the human spirit, it must also not go over old ground.
How many times can you re-use the same tea bag before the
brew you conjure is tepid and tasteless?
What we write must be relevant to the world in which our
readers live. Yet, America has become
the Evening Land.
September 11th. Ferguson.
Baltimore. Isis. A Maryland mother pushing her dead son on a
swing all night. People go on their
daily concerns as if the shadows were not deepening.
It is not getting lighter; our eyes have just adjusted to
the darkness.
I jerked in surprise as the ghost of William Faulkner sat
beside me.
“As I stood behind you, Roland, I couldn’t help but read
what you were writing.”
He sighed, “Our
tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained that
by now we can almost bear it. Of
course there are still problems of the spirit. Yet one question looms above
all: when will life end for me? And how
will it happen … by terrorist plot, by Nature’s increasingly hostile hand, by
the cruel strangulation of mishandled economics, or by my neighbor’s hate.”
The ghost of Mark Twain sat
down on the other side of me. “A beast
does not know he is a beast, son. And the closer a man grows to becoming a
beast, the less he realizes it.”
Faulkner nodded, “Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing, because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat of wresting something from nothing.”
He tapped the screen of my laptop. “You must learn them again. You must teach yourself that the basest of all things is to be afraid. And teaching yourself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in your writing for anything but the old truths of the heart ….”
Faulkner’s voice trailed off and then picked back up, “ …the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed - love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until you do so, you labor under a curse.”
Mark said, “You write not of love but of lust, of defeats in which no one loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. Your griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. You write not of the heart but of the sex glands.”
Faulkner nodded, “Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing, because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat of wresting something from nothing.”
He tapped the screen of my laptop. “You must learn them again. You must teach yourself that the basest of all things is to be afraid. And teaching yourself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in your writing for anything but the old truths of the heart ….”
Faulkner’s voice trailed off and then picked back up, “ …the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed - love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until you do so, you labor under a curse.”
Mark said, “You write not of love but of lust, of defeats in which no one loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. Your griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. You write not of the heart but of the sex glands.”
Title: Death in the House of Life
Author: Roland Yeomans
Genre: Egyptian Mystery / Paranormal
Length: 245 pages
BOOK LINKS:
The poet, Rainer Maria Rilke,
sat down opposite me and pointed to my laptop screen.
“The blank page is the
dragon that faces all authors. But like St. George, we have sought that dragon
of our own volition. Perhaps all the
dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just
once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its
deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love.”
He smiled sadly, “I know our novels are like that: they
are helpless to shape or birth themselves.
We must do it for them. And they are born of those seeds which are the
books we have read.”
Faulkner nodded, “Authors read because we want to be with
those who know secret things or else to be alone with our thoughts.”
Mark gruffed, “I’m just a common pilgrim, Bill. So tell me, what are those secret things?”
Rilke sighed, “Answers to every soul’s basic questions:
Why do you want to shut out of your life any uneasiness,
any misery, any depression, since after all you don't know what work these
conditions are doing inside you?
Why do you want to persecute yourself with the question
of where all this is coming from and where it is going?”
Mark Twain blew a cloud of cigar smoke. “Poet, you got a handle on those questions,
but I didn’t hear any answer.”
Rilke smiled even sadder.
“We must each decide for ourselves those answers. But my answer to myself is:
‘You know that you are in the midst of transitions and as
a child you wished for nothing so much as to change, to grow, to mature.
If there is anything unhealthy in my life, I must bear in
mind that a fever is simply the means by which an organism frees itself from that
which is harmful.
So I must simply ride the crest of that fever until it
breaks since that is the way both the soul and body gets better.
Do not assume that any who seek to comfort me live
untroubled among simple and quiet words, for such words were born in pain.
Their lives may also have had such sadness and difficulty
that it is far beyond mine. Were it otherwise, they would never have been able
to find the words to give me healing.’”
Mark nodded his head in agreement. “The purpose of life
is to be defeated by greater and greater things and yet still rise to try again
with greater discernment.’”
William Faulkner murmured, “My own answer was:
‘Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in
your heart ... live in the question, in the uncertain moment. That is the human condition … and realizing
that fact will make you a better, more perceptive writer.’”
Rilke turned to the ghost of Mark Twain, asking, “And
what would your answer be, Mr. Clemens?”
He waggled an eyebrow at me. “Welcome the blank page, son, full of things
that have never been, for the only worthwhile journey is the one within.”
All three turned their eyes to me in silent request for
my own answer. What would you have said
in my place?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Roland Yeomans was born in Detroit, Michigan. But his last memories of that city are
hub-caps and kneecaps since, at the age of seven, he followed the free food
when his parents moved to Lafayette, Louisiana.
The hitch-hiking after their speeding car from state to state was a real
adventure. Once in Louisiana, Roland
learned strange new ways of pronouncing David and Richard when they were last
names. And it was not a pleasant sight
when he pronounced Comeaux for the first time.
He has a Bachelor’s degree in English Education and a
Master’s degree in Psychology. He has
been a teacher, counselor, book store owner, and even a pirate since he once
worked at a tax preparation firm.
So far he has written thirty-three books. You can find Roland at his web page: www.rolandyeomans.blogspot.com or at his private table in Meilori’s. The web page is safer to visit. But if you insist on visiting Meilori’s, bring a friend who runs
slower than you.
Thank you, Roland, for giving us
a wonderfully insightful post.
Please leave a comment for
Roland!
