Memory feeds imagination.  - unknown

Hunchback Girl

When I was young, we lived next door to a silver-haired, hunchbacked woman. "Grandma Bloyer," we called her--though she bore no relation to us. I remember her distinctly, for she barely stood taller than I was.

Grandma Bloyer had spent most of her life working as a nurse. She had met all kinds of people, and her smart sense of humor served her well. In my mind's eye, I can still see my mother sitting at Grandma Bloyer's massive dining room table with a cup of coffee, chuckling over a story and shaking her head in disbelief at what a character Grandma Bloyer was.

My mother used to tell me that as a toddler, I displayed a peculiar knack for persistence, prompting Grandma Bloyer to dub me "Miss Determined." Apparently, my get-it-done attitude permeated my bedtime prayers, which ended with a childish and emphatic "A-MAN!" With her quick sense  of humor, Grandma Bloyer would mutter, "You'll get him, Katie. Don't worry!"

One evening, Grandma Bloyer came over to stay with me while the rest of my family was away. I have no recollection of where my parents and my older sister and younger brother would have gone without me, but I do remember having Grandma Bloyer's full attention. How often does that happen for a middle child? We played a game of checkers. She let me win, and she made me feel important that I'd done so.

I'm sure that the memory of Grandma Bloyer prompted my creation of Grandmother Upstairs on some conscious or subconscious level. I suspect that most people underestimate the magnetic attraction between the very old and the very young. The boundless energy and curiosity of youth fascinate and delight old folks: they bring back fond memories of being lithe and carefree. Conversely, the very young devour the attention and seemingly infinite knowledge that the very old bestow on them: they need the encouragement and validation of someone accomplished.

Even before she met Grandmother Upstairs, Penny learned about her from the loose-lipped doorman at the hotel where the old woman resided:

One of our best clients – a wealthy old woman who keeps to herself most of the time. Rather plain and a little deaf, I think. You see how tiny and hunched over she is, but she is rather spry for all that—an amazing old woman. Most everyone knows her as Madame Qiao. A flighty old woman—I mean that she comes and goes at odd intervals.

Long before I finished the first draft of my novel, I asked a friend with three children if she and her family would be willing to read and comment on the story as it was shaped at the time. They did so and informed me that the story line dragged at first; however, after they met Grandmother Upstairs, the children didn't want to stop reading:



The cat and the girl continued to climb until they reached the top flight. On the eighth floor, the sixteenth flight–the very top of the stairwell–Qiao Miao led Penny to a pair of large carved wooden doors on the landing. The doors swished open at their approach, and Penny was swept into the waiting arms of Grandmother Upstairs.

“Well done, my dear!” the old woman exclaimed, gazing fondly at Qiao Miao. She hugged Penny warmly as if she were greeting an old friend. Relief flooded through Penny’s being. She clung to the old woman, who stood no taller than Penny and was nearly as thin, except for her hunchback.

“Now, dearie! Oh, you must be exhausted, dear girl, so we’ll save the conversation for the morning. You’ve eaten, yes?”

And so Penny steps into another world and begins to unravel the mystery of her mother's absence and her family's secret ties to the land of Hoi. In Grandmother Upstairs, she finds a valuable friend and ally. She finds a woman who looks at the world from a different perspective, a woman who knows with a certainty things that others have dismissed or denied. The power of their friendship permeates the story.

"You will always be lucky if you know how to make friends with strange cats." - Colonial proverb

Oriental Cat: Inspiration for Qiao Miao

The summer before my daughter entered middle school, we acquired a kitten. My daughter named him Meowbert Mallory George III despite the fact that he had no predecessor. We called him "Meowie" for short. Like most cats, he proved highly intelligent despite the fact that he worshiped the great god Refrigerator (he adored raw eggs).  


One day, when I was struggling to develop Penny's adventures, a cat walked in unannounced and neatly rescued Penny from her dilemma (and me from mine--I had only finished two chapters, and already I was stuck). Penny had just escaped from the men who made her sister vanish; she had hidden under the tables of a spice shop. Enter, Qiao Miao--the clever cat full of himself and his own secret wisdom. (I don't speak Chinese, but his onomatopoeic name intrigued me). 

When my younger son read that chapter, the antics of Qiao Miao evoked memories of Meowie--and I felt supremely satisfied. Isn't that what writing should do?  Make us feel and experience and remember? I felt lucky that a curious oriental cat would stoop to make an appearance in my story. 

I fear, however, that even now Qiao Miao is giving me a look--that same incredulous and disdainful gaze that Meowie bestowed upon me at 3:00 one morning when I swooped him up, set him on the edge of the kitchen sink, and sternly charged him with fulfilling his sole household duty--to kill the mouse trapped in the stainless steel basin.  

Meowie's look said it all: "You're kidding! You don't know how to do this yourself? You mean I actually have to demonstrate? Oh, all right, if you're really that dense." Then with one efficient stroke, he caught the mouse with the claws on one paw, snapped the spine with his teeth, and departed with an air of disgust, leaving the carcass behind.


I shall always be grateful--both for Meowie and for Qiao Miao. I am sure that Penny was grateful too, to  such a friend:



The sight of a cat startled her. It sat straight across from her, beneath the spice stands, staring at her curiously. Its almond-shaped green eyes shone like jewels in the slatted shadows from the bamboo shade. Its large ears twitching at Penny’s gaze, the cat turned its wedge-shaped head toward the bamboo shade, as if peeking between the slats to see if anyone was watching. Penny admired the cat’s fine, straight nose. Entranced, she drew another picture–one of the cat looking through the slats of bamboo, its whippy-pointed tail flicking in the air.

When she had finished, the cat walked daintily toward her and inspected the drawing in a disinterested fashion. Then it licked the fur on its neck and resumed its post. Not knowing what to think of its behavior, Penny stuffed her belongings into her backpack and took another sip from her water bottle. The cat cocked its head politely to the side and cast a questioning look in her direction, as if to ask, “May I?”

Penny smiled at the thought of the cat talking to her. How silly! But she set the cap of her water bottle on the ground anyway and filled it to the brim with water. The cat closed its eyes and nodded once, as if in thanks. Then it walked with precise steps to the cap and lapped up every drop. Penny held up the bottle to refill the cap, but the cat shook its head once and walked off, swishing its tail high in the air.

"Then God said, 'Let us make human beings in our image, to be like us... So God created human beings in his own image. In the image of God he created them. Male and female he created them." - Genesis 1:26-27

Reading those words brings me joy. I'm created in God's image! As a woman, I'm not a derivative of a derivative (man). No, I was created directly in God's image, an equal, complementary partner.

God is the designer and creator of the universe, the source of all wisdom and language, the righteous judge of character and actions. Because God created me to be like Him, I possess the ability to think and create, the desire to communicate with others, and a capacity to distinguish good from evil.

Writing high fantasy literature lets me mimic God in several ways.  Like God, I become the architect and engineer of a new world (see the map of the land of Hoi, above) and of unique characters (such as Grandmother Upstairs and Whimsy Gatan). Writing provides me with a way to connect and communicate with others, to share and sharpen my understanding of the world. The heart of the story demands a struggle between good and evil. In essence, I--like God--become the Begetter. From the viewpoint of my audience, I'm a supreme and invisible over-king.

When I first started writing Penny and the Seer's Ballad, I toyed with the idea of making the Begetter an actual character in the story (something like Aslan in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe); I also toyed with creating a triumvirate to reflect the Trinity (Grandmother Upstairs to play the part of the Father; Yo He to play the part of the Son; and Qiao Miao to play the part of the Holy Spirit).

Then I realized that logistically I would have problems creating a believable story line: Where is the conflict--the struggle--if an omniscient, omnipotent being is always there to fix things? And so the Begetter had to recede into a vague and elusive obscurity of sorts. He is a character of mystery, and it pleases me to reveal His uniqueness in stages. After the Begetter's name crops up several times, Penny learns the following:

“My family came from a faraway land ruled by the Over-King, the Begetter," Grandmother Upstairs began. "Perhaps you have heard of him?”

Penny’s eyes grew big, and she moved her head with a quick short nod.

“Good,” said Grandmother Upstairs. “The Begetter is not someone that anyone sees in person very often—at least not anymore, but nevertheless, he is a dear, dear friend of mine. I grew up with him as a child and came to love him with all my heart. He has strange ways that are nothing at all like our manner of doing things. We still keep in touch after all these years, though I often move from place to place. He sends his messages through the birds.”

“Like a carrier pigeon?” Penny asked.  “Gigi did a report on them for school.”

“Well, something like that,” replied Grandmother Upstairs.

“How do you know the messages are from the Begetter?” Penny asked.

Grandmother Upstairs laughed with a trilling tinkle. “My dear, I simply recognize the manner of his message. You would too, if you had spent some time with him.”

“But how?” Penny asked.

“How?” Grandmother Upstairs echoed. “It is something like your drawing of me, Penny. You captured something unusual about the way I looked. Neither Qiao Miao nor I had to ask you whose picture you had made. We both knew – we recognized that unusual manner. It was that way with the message yesterday morning.”

“Yesterday morning?” Penny asked. “When I was on my way to school?”

“Yes. It was quite urgent too. He insisted that I quit making banana castles and go immediately to the spice shop to rescue a small package of peony. I see now that he meant you. He has quite a sense of humor; it is one of his traits that delight me the most.”

“He knew about me?” Penny asked, astonished.

Grandmother Upstairs nodded. “Now, I assume that since he specifically said to rescue the small package of peony – that something important happened to you yesterday. I am most curious to know what.”

Although the first draft of my novel is basically finished, I have a lot of work to do to make this part of the story line consistent and cohesive. It's not easy playing God. It's actually lots of work!

"Some day you will be old enough to read fairy tales again." - C.S. Lewis

I can't remember when I first heard a fairy tale, but as a child, I distinctly remember spending hours listening to records of Cinderella and Jack and the Beanstalk and Little Red Riding Hood. I remember seeing a production of Hansel and Gretel and watching the Hans Christian Anderson film starring Danny Kaye. As a teen, I read fairy tales for diversion while babysitting the Cohen boys: I'd put them to bed around 8:00 or 8:30 p.m., and then there was nothing to do until 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. but to clean house, listen to musical sound tracks, or read the volumes of Grimm's Fairy Tales that lined the book shelves. I did plenty of all three, but the fairy tales especially stick in my memory.

Fairy tales seem to follow of a formula of sorts, one that appeals to the fairness of young minds and hearts. Such tales hold out the hope that good eventually triumphs: The kind Cinderella wins her prince, while the wicked stepmother receives her comeuppance. Poor, gullible Jack finds a way to support his mother, proving his cleverness and courage. Hansel and Gretel use their resourcefulness to survive their abandonment and are united with their loving father. A noble hunter comes to the aid of Little Red Riding Hood at the scariest hour.  Of course, without trouble and struggle, there would be no story, but there's security in the happy ending where all wrongs are magically righted.

As adults, we dwell in the real world: Life is cruel and often unfair. Many times there are no happy endings, only choices between the lesser of two evils. We become cynical and distrustful. Sometimes we scoff at the simple faith with which a child clings to his or her idealism: Such childishness is beneath us. We belittle ourselves for having hoped in something better and for having played the fool, for that's what we think we become when our hopes are dashed.

Yet C. S. Lewis asserts, "Some day you will be old enough to read fairy tales again." In other words, despite the disillusionment with the current world order, we will finally come to realize the truth of fairy tales: We'll again embrace the hope that goodness receives its just reward, that help comes to those who persevere in such belief.

Surely the faith of C.S. Lewis (1898-1963) underlies this philosophy. An atheist for much of his early career, he finally came to acknowledge and know God, partly through the works of George MacDonald (1824-1905, author of the children's fantasy novel The Princess and the Goblins) and partly through his friendship with J. R. R. Tolkien (1892-1973, author of fantasy novels The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings).

I'd like to think of myself as old enough to read fairy tales again. Though I've struggled with disillusionment and cynicism at times, I have always circled back to embrace the Almighty God as the source of all goodness. I believe in divine intervention and redemption. I stubbornly hope for happy endings. Am I crazy? Some would undoubtedly think so. I say, "Lord, help their unbelief!"

I think what I'd really love to do is to write fairy tales. I can't claim to be a literary giant like C.S. Lewis or J.R.R. Tolkien, but I can try nonetheless. The Begetter Tales dawned upon me slowly. The stories began to weave themselves together around 2008, when my first granddaughter was born. I thought of them first as bedtime stories about another land. Slowly, piece by piece, a novel emerged: Penny and the Seer's Ballad. The inklings of a trilogy started to take shape (Penny and the Song of Seven and Penny and the Beggar's Chant), but then I was distracted by the rich Legends from the Land of Hoi. The fairy tales of Hoi take time to form, but each tale brings me a warm and happy feeling when I finish writing it.

Will my stories ever be published? I can only hope. Maybe not in my lifetime--but I'm nonetheless inclined to believe in happy endings.