Con*Cept Schedule!

Here's where I'll be at Con*Cept in Montreal this weekend:

Friday
8 pm, Gatineau Room
Writing A Series 
(Marie Bilodeau, Violette Malan(m), Karen Dales, Jo Walton)

 9-11 pm, St-François Room
Blood and Magics - A Double Book Launch
Montreal launch of Destiny's Blood and Erik Buchanan's Cold Magics.  Yes, there will be treats AND door prizes!

Saturday
11 am, Grand Salon
Storytelling (English)
I'll be telling a bunch'o different tales.

Sunday 
11 am, St-François Room
Canadian Writers
(David Hartwell(m), Jo Walton, Marie Bilodeau, Glenn Grant)

Noon, St-François Room
Killing Your Babies 
(Tad Williams, Erik Buchanan(m), Marie Bilodeau, Violette Malan)

5 pm, Grand Salon
Storytelling (français)
Yup, first time telling in French!  And I don't believe in the halfway, dipping the toes in to see if the water's cold way, I'm jumping in with an hour-long set!

Aside from that, I'll more than likely be at the Dragon Moon Press table during the day, with author Erik Buchanan, or wandering the halls/bar when the dealers room is closed.  

Can't wait to see you all there!

Change of Plans

This weekend was supposed to be a Kymeras escape weekend (minus Sean Zio), so we could plan our set for the Boudicca show (National Arts Centre, January 20.  Be there or be square!)

But events move quickly, sometimes.  My car blew up.  Then the lovely Ruthanne Edward is down for a few days.  As far as I know, Kathryn Hunt is still intact, although a bit stressed with final preparations underway for the Ottawa International Writers Festival (totally worth checking out!)

So things change quickly and now instead of being away at a cottage retreat creating a set around a warrior queen slaughtering Romans, I'll be staying home.  The car won't be ready until tomorrow, and Roomy already has a full slate of pony plans, so she's busy.  (Last week we swapped the pony and writing rooms, to give her more room and give me more light, so she has many ponies to unpack.  She's going to count them, too, so that should be entertaining.  She says almost 500, I say more than.  We'll see...)

Anyway, this weekend can also be seen as a blessing.  I have lots of work left to do on Destiny's War, and now's the time to get some done!  Plus I get to rehearse my two storytelling sets for Con*Cept.  I'll be telling my first show in French,, so it's a bit nerve-wracking.  And I'm not quite sure why, as it IS my maternal tongue.  Go fig.

So it promises to be a relaxing weekend in the writing room, with occasional outings to visit Kymeras and make sure Roomy wasn't killed by falling pony castles.  Not to mention upping the word count - that deadline is coming up, fast! 

Happy weekending, everyone!

Ad Astra vs Parliament Security

I've dealt with them both, you see, and therefore feel I have a good grasp of both systems.  Why compare them?  Um, because I can?

First team:  Parliament Security.  Parliament is a big place where Canada is run, and it's nested on a Hill.  Quite pretty.  Their security team, incidentally, is also referred by some as the RCMP.  Check out the Parliament of Canada.

Second team:  Ad Astra Security.  Ad Astra is a con in Toronto - check it out.  Spent a weekend there.  Wicked fun - everyone should come next year.  Truly.

The teams:

Let's start with the RCMP, as it's the first one I dealt with on an up-close and personal level.

TEAM 1 - RCMP

I did not get lost.  I did not wander, I did not pry, and I did not even cry.  I did not use my wicked lock picking skillz, I did not open doors I shouldn't have, nor read things left about (okay, nothing was left about).  But I still was put under house arrest.

The event:  Meeting Prime Minister Harper with a bunch of school kids for photo opp.

The item:  I had a t-shirt to give him.  An extra large t-shirt, as his shoulders bear a mighty, mighty load.

The issue:  Incompetent press secretary sent us to wrong room and forgot to inform security of my presence.

Time spent in captivity:  Long enough to miss visit with PM and develop healthy appetite.  It was a pretty room, though.  Some big important papers had been signed there, to my understanding. 

Resolution:  Escorted outside with no apology or explanation.  Kids had fun, though! (They weren't in captivity with me. Thank goodness.  Mostly for my own sanity.)

Lessons learned: Bring snacks and a bottle of water.

TEAM 2 - AD ASTRA SECURITY

I did get lost.  I totally wandered and I even pried.  In the wrong room.  I cried some, did not use my wicked lock picking skillz (promised Roomy to be good), did read things that were left about and generally turned out to be confused and of questionable sanity.  Woke up with laryngitis the next day, so like to blame bugs in part, wine in other parts.

The event:  My own storytelling panel at Ad Astra, featuring moi and no one else.  When the one panelist doesn't show up for their own show, people notice (sci-fi crowds are swift, to be fair).

The item: I blame the wine.  I will always blame the wine.

The issue: See above.  Okay, really though, I got the rooms confused.  I have poor reading skills.  Sad for an author.

Time spent in captivity:  45 minutes with wine, whining to publisher Brian Hades about the fact that no one had come to my show.

When this woman comes for you, you hustle.

Resolution.  Body builder and writer extraordinaire Sandra Wickham stalked me in bar and hauled me off in her three-inch heels.  Meanwhile, Ad Astra security did not mess around, scouting the entire hotel for me.  As I ran to the (correct) room with Sandra, there was much recognition and joy by security that I'd been found (drinking).  Arrived in room with time for one story.  Launched in and managed to get unfrazzled quickly.

Lessons learned:  Read your schedule right, dummy.  And don't stiff your publisher with the wine bill halfway through your glass when the body builder comes to haul you to your own show.  It's a very applicable lesson for many different moments in life.

Points

I learned early on it's not a competition without a score, it's not a score without points, and there are no points without vague and sometimes inapplicable categories.  So here we go. 

Responsiveness
Ad Astra: 1 (I was searched for.)
RCMP: 1 (I was kept in a room.)

Ability to determine problem
Ad Astra:  1 (Storyteller missing.  Go.)
RCMP: 0  (Girl in room. She has a Harper-sized t-shirt.  Keep her there.)

Uniforms
Ad Astra: 1 (Although yellow is generally a difficult colour to pull off, it was just the right shade that most of their security staff looked quite lovely in it.)
RCMP: 2 (They had full weaponry and boots.)

Follow-through
Ad Astra: 2 (Extra point for learning lesson and randomly making sure I'd get to the right spot during following day.  Very smart..)
RCMP: 0  (I'm still allowed on Parliament Hill, I believe.)

Canadian-ism
Ad Astra: 2 (Very polite, made jokes and were in a jovial mood.  Kind of like the Canadian of legend who sips on a mug of hot cocoa after a cold day cutting down logs and hunting polar bears.  Effective, and happy being so.)
RCMP: 1 (Ya, that's right, I'm giving the Royal CANADIAN Mounted Police only a "1" on Canadian-ism.  I was their guest, in their house, and the least they could have done was offer me a glass of water.  Poor hosting skills are not very Canadian, in my opinion.  Not when there are polar bears everywhere.)

So, if I counted correctly (I also have poor numeracy skills), that makes:
Ad Astra: 7
RCMP: 4

And so, by my very questionable scoring system, the Ad Astra security team wins for being best security detail!  And that's why they got the box of timbits on the day following my disappearing act.

I feel I should add a third security detail to really get a feel for the systems.  We'll see when next I get into some sort of trouble spurred on by my incompetence and manage to attract security, and then I'll re-work the comparison!  In the meantime, here's a shout out to the Ad Astra security team:

Now if a badly hand-drawn and poorly scanned picture endorsed by the 15 year-old coconut that lives in my basement isn't reward enough, I simply don't know what is.

Nostalgia (But not really). Part 2.

Once back at Laurier, I made a vow to try harder.  I'd made it this far, and it seemed silly to give up now, just because of a language barrier.  So I strapped down, visited the writing centre, talked to my teachers, got used to people screaming "pamplemousse" at me once they heard my accent (and stopped asking "excuse me?"), and joined clubs to meet new people.

I in fact became an exec with the science-fiction club, "Skiffy," thanks to the enthusiastic invite of the then-president, Rick Henderson.   It was the start of something wonderful.  I loved Skiffy and always will.

Anyway, so about the people who kept me at Laurier.  There were four of them, actually.

The first was in my German class and an archaeology major, as well (because learning a third language in a second language you barely understand is a fine idea, my friends!)  But despite all the classes we shared, I didn't notice her until one day in the cafeteria, near condiments.  She was wearing an "Excalibur" shirt.  I had no clue who the people on it where, but I was a fan of King Arthur, and I liked the look.  So I complimented her on the shirt.  She thanked me and asked if I liked Excalibur.  I said of course I did (I do love King Arthur).  She then offered to lend me comics, which she will admit to this day that it is something she never does (after almost fifteen years of friendship, I can attest to that).  She has been referred to in this blog before, as roomy, since she's currently (or again, whatever), my roomy.  But because it's now her official name, I'll give her a capital "R" - Roomy.  Makes it more official.

Roomy introduced me to her high school friend, Ren.  Ren was quiet and shy and oh-so very tall, and a hoot to be around, so the three of us had a ball.

Meanwhile, on my quest to make more friends, I went to the archaeology club meeting and decided, for some unknown reason, to sit in the third seat of the front row, in a four seat row (I know, I know, sitting in the front row isn't cool, but I'm a keener, what can I say).  Three people came in together.  One short girl with almond-shaped eyes sat beside me, and her tall roommate squeezed in the empty seat on the other side of me (the room was full, they had little choice.  MWA HA HA!)  The tall girl did not squeeze into that seat gracefully.  Her legs went everywhere and so did she.  I made fun of her and we were immediate friends.  Her name is Kat.  And her roommate's name is Wess.

So I had two groups of two friends.  I don't remember the awkward getting to know each other phase.  The next thing I really remember is having a timbits eating contest against Kat, and trying not to choke.  The contest was a tie.

The team, à la felt.

It turned out that all of these friends loved science-fiction as well, and I'm pretty certain that's how the whole group met.  And when we did meet, it was magic.  All five of us hit it off amongst ourselves.  By Christmas, we had taken over the lounge in Kat and Wess' dorm.  We played pool, watched Xena, laughed way too much, teased each other, wrote stories, debated the value of red shirts, and yes, at times we studied.  In second year we all moved in together, except Ren, who was a business student and actually needed more study time than the rest of us delinquents.  And even then, Ren would come live with us in the summers when Kat headed back home for work. The five of us became a team. 

By year 2, we had taken over Skiffy.  And we had a ball.  We all received good grades in school, although I don't remember studying.  By year 3, the club was so active that we won Most Active Club award.  Anime nights, game release parties, Magic the Gathering games, movie nights, Capture the Flag games, storytelling, Kill vs Save Pikachu fundraising events... we did it all.  My brother came down quite a few times to visit (he saved Pikachu with a large donation), and was instrumental in our Final Fantasy VIII launch party (disappointing game, good party!)

Oh, and my team and I played games, watched movies, read books, spoiled plots, watched stars and talked about the future, held each other when family members passed away and made bad jokes on bad days and studied together and oh ya, we shouted at each other, too, and had wicked battles and always made up.  We napped in lounges, made football guys watch soap operas, stole each other's stuff and were just a general chaotic force of nature.  And we loved it.

By Reading Week of our first year in February, Wess and I decided to stay behind on campus and enjoy the week together.  We didn't have the money to take the train home, and I certainly didn't mind.  We had a blast and ate lots of beefaronis.  By the end of first year, my funds were tight.  Roomy's mom, who had never met me before, offered to rent a van, come up to Waterloo to pick me and my stuff up (and her daughter), and drive to Ottawa.  They live in Belleville, so that's three hours (times two) out of their way.  I remember thinking that this family was worth keeping.

And we all did.  Four years later, Ren and I graduated first, and we cried when we left our friends (following a repeat of the timbits eating contest.  Another tie.)  Ren moved  in with my mom and I, and when we both had jobs and could afford to live on our own, we got apartments in the same building.  And a cat!  We undertook our journeys in the "real world" together, trying to find our footing and careers in the vast sea of employment.  When the rest of the girls graduated a year later, we headed down to Waterloo to celebrate with them.  Kat headed back home to Amherstburg, near Windsor. 

Wess came up a couple of years later, and although her family lives in Ottawa, she moved in with me (I'm fun!)  We had a riot.  Just sitting and chatting by candlelight long into the night, convincing ourselves the high school behind our house was haunted, adopting random strays my brother brought into the house (he's useful, that one).

And then Roomy came up to do her PhD at the University of Ottawa, and she moved only an apartment building away.

And Wess moved out, to live with my brother (they shared cooties).  At their wedding, Wess' father joked in his speech that the five of us were together so often that they'd wondered if we were all going on the honeymoon (we didn't.  Cause ew.)

When Roomy's funding was drawing to an end, I invited her to join me in my apartment.  Why not?  It was big and her family's kindness from the end of first year was never forgotten.  How we managed to combine our two apartments into mine still boggles my mind. 

Ren then moved away, to be closer to work, since her commute was long and involved crossing a very full bridge.  With Wess and Ren now living further away, and our apartment developing what we fondly called Lake Bilodeau, we too moved, and we're not too far from our friends again. And we see them regularly, with and without husbands.  Girls' night once every two weeks!

And Kat? Well, she's still in Amherstburg.  She's married to a man she loves.  We all headed down for her wedding, they came up for Ren's wedding (freshly married for almost a year, now).  The best part is that all of the husbands are now like brothers, too (well, one of them IS my brother, technically).

Every time we see Kat, it's like no time has passed at all.  We were still the first she told when she found out she was pregnant, and the first she contacted when she miscarried.  And we all cried with her and toasted the unborn baby's life.  We're all going to be her children's aunties, after all.

All 8.5 team members, husbands and babies.

We see Kat at least twice a year.  We in fact spent a whole week together at a cottage this summer, somewhat but not really midpoint between our hometowns.  That's eight adults and a two-year old toddler, in a five-room cottage.  We had a blast again, and I can't remember a single argument.  And I capsized my roomy into the lake, too!

So that's what I was thinking of when I was writing about what kept me at Laurier.  It was the people.  These four, to be precise.  Other friends came and went, but some people became family.  They became a priority in my life, and I make time for them, no matter what book deadline I'm under or what storytelling gig is coming up.  Nowadays, our families are as mixed as our friendships.  My friends will go out with my mom, we'll celebrate occasions as one big family and we'll share joy and sadness. 

That bond that kept me going through university, that saw me happily going back to it after my first year Christmas, is still very much alive.  No crises or disaster needs to be faced alone, no bitterness swallowed whole, no scream go unheard with my team.  It's a wicked feeling, and it still keeps me going.  Rough days are easier to bear knowing that, although they are not always by my side, with one phone call, one e-mail, one Facebook update, even, they'll still rally and have my back.

We've all grown, changed, pursued different dreams, and I hope we continue to do so, and that our friendship continues to grow, as well.  It got me through university, it got me through other tight spots, and it's nice to feel as though it'll always be there, no matter what.

And that's why I entitled these blog posts "Nostalgia (But not really)."  I'm not feeling nostalgic for something I no longer have, since I still have it.  I don't feel nostalgic for days gone by, since I still have what was best in them.

It's not nostalgia so much as gratefulness for where I am today, and for the people who made it all possible, whether they were aware of it or not.

Art by Roomy

Nostalgia (But not really). Part 1.

I've been invited by my alma mater, Wilfrid Laurier University, to come and speak about how my Religion and Culture degree has helped me forge my path.  As part of my speaker engagement, I had to provide a biography outlining three things: What brought me to WLU, what I loved about it, and how I've used the learning.

Obviously, a religion and culture degree has proved very helpful in both storytelling and writing.  I learned enough myths, mythic structures, archetypes, cultural differences and textual intricacies to fuel another few hundred books.  So how it's proved useful was the easy part to write.  The before and during parts, however, were more difficult.

I mean, do you remember choosing your degree and university?  I do, sort of.  It's actually the time in my life I most used my diary, which means I have two entries on it (I have about twenty entries in all detailing my life.  I'm a terrible diary writer).  Last night, I popped open that shiny pink diary given to me by my godmother when I was maybe ten years old, to remind myself.  And wow, angsty.  You hate to look back and think you were an angsty teenager, but I really was.  I remember not being in a good place, and definitely wanting an "out," which was why I'd convinced my second high school (we moved after tenth grade) that it was okay for me to take grade 12 courses instead of grade 11.  I'm still not sure how I convinced them, but it worked, and although it accounted for lower marks, I still left home a year earlier than anticipated.

And I remember I wanted to go far.  Geographically far. Everyone else in my school was going to the University of Ottawa, since it's the only French (or at least bilingual) university in Ontario.  How dull was that!  And, I must say, at the time at least, options for French high school graduates in Ontario were very limited.  Quebec didn't make their universities accessible to us, and the only other bilingual university was Moncton.  And I didn't want to go there, either.

So my acceptance papers came in, including a full scholarship from the University of Ottawa.  I even rented a room from some nuns in Ottawa, ready or rather resigned to begin there in the Fall.  Then I changed my mind.  Wilfrid Laurier University offered me no money. It was a day's travel away.  And it was an English only school.  I'd been accepted in Archaeology (I later switched to Religion and Culture).

The two entries in my diary don't cover my actual decision.  I don't know if I felt I needed a fresh start, though I'd already had many of those in my day (at least five grade schools and two high schools).  I don't remember if I was mad at something or someone and decided to go further away.  Well, I was a teenager, so technically I WAS mad at everything and everyone, but I don't recall a specific event or reason.  But that's where I turned up, three days before the opening of the student dorms, in the town of Waterloo.

I remember my first class.  I had no idea what they were talking about.  Seriously no clue.  It was shingles, I later learned.  Roof shingles.  I think.  That's when I realized my conversational English wasn't good enough for university level classes.  The worst feeling in the world is taking a chance and feeling right away like the most basic of skills are going to undo you immediately.  I didn't know how to write an essay.  No clue.  I knew a dissertation, in French, but arguments are presented differently in an essay.  I was already on the verge of flunking, and I'd never foreseen this. I was the "smart" kid in high school.  I scored high marks without trying, even after skipping an entire grade. 

And yet here I was, unable to do the simplest of tasks, or understand the world around me.

It was scary, I'll admit.  And ya, I almost gave up.  I wasn't going to go home after Thanksgiving.  I took the train down, crying most of the way.  My family was proud of me for going to university.   They did what they could to support my goals, even if financial help was impossible.  I couldn't stand the thought of letting them down, and I felt sick to my stomach just thinking about it.

My bro. Who wouldn't trust that man?

I admitted it to my older brother.  Growing up, it was mostly just him, my mom and me, so we were close.  We moved a lot, and we didn't bother making too many friends.  It wasn't worth the effort, really.  And I loved my brother.  He never received his high school diploma, but he was working in what he loved: programming.  He was an inspiration to me, and still is.

So I didn't argue when my big brother looked me in the eyes, put his hands on my shoulders and said: "You're going back to university.  You're finishing your term. If you don't want to go back when you come down for Christmas, then we'll figure it out.  But right now, you're going back."  (I think he was actually that eloquent, too.  Rare occasion, really...)

I packed my bags, boarded the train with a lump in my throat, watched my brother's figure become so very small on the horizon as we rode away, and I was ready to at least give it another six or so weeks of battle.  But I didn't believe I'd stay.  I really didn't.  I wanted home.  I wanted people who had no personal space.  I needed to be able to perform simple transactions in my language.  And to be understood when I made jokes. Heck, I wanted to feel smart again.  It's amazing how much you lose when you can't communicate in your first language.

And I didn't want to lose those things again, even if only for a few weeks.  But I had promised my brother to stay until the end of term.

I did, and everything changed.  That's the stuff I couldn't put in my biography for the university.  Because what changed for me wasn't the learning or the teaching, though some teachers and the Writing Centre made a world of difference. 

What changed for me were the people.  With the simple act of commenting on a shirt and sitting in a middle seat, I met the people who saw me through the rest of university, whether knowingly or not.

But what made me stay at university is worthy of a whole other blog post.  Next Friday's rambling, I suppose!

Ragnarok and Roll!

Okay, I totally stole that title from poet Kathryn Hunt.  She's cool so she'll forgive me.

I just spent Labour Day weekend with Kymeras Kathryn Hunt and Ruthanne Edward somewhere near Almonte, in a house by a lake that you can only reach by traveling down a dirt road.  There, twenty tellers gathered with listeners to tell the full cycle of Norse mythology, from creation to Ragnarok.

If you don't know Norse mythology, you're missing out.  It's full of passion, revenge, love, hope, despair, and lots of battles and death.  The gods as extremely human.  Some need anger management classes, others experience regret, they grieve and they love deeply.

Friday evening started off with mixes of shower and sunshine, with an appearance by Bifröst, opening the way to the realm of the gods.  Bifröst is the great rainbow bridging Midgard, our world, to Asgard, the Norse gods' land.  (I also stole a bunch of pics from Kathryn Hunt... Thanks Kate!)

We then plunged into the cycle, starting at the beginning - creation in war and flaming swords.  This is Nordic, after all.  After some fantastic telling, we chatted and laughed and then retired to our tents to prepare for the next day's telling.

I totally put a picture of Ruthanne in her pajamas on my blog.  Totally.

Ruthanne and I were both telling on Saturday, so we spent time in our tent reviewing our source material and questioning Kate on the pronounciation of Nordic names.  Kate is very useful.  Telling an episodic epic is tricky.  Other tellers are telling different parts, of course, so it's important to get all character names, place names and events correctly.  Ruthanne was telling The Binding of Fenrir, and had at least twenty names to memorize.  The Norse named everything - rivers, places, Halls, lineages, weapons... you think of it, they gave it a name.  And, not knowing what names other tellers would pull out, the trick was to keep as many in your story as possible.  That way, you could really see the connections, which was part of the fun of building towards the end.

Sunday morning was fresh and dew-filled, and we were ready for a full day.  I can't count the different ways people died during this cycle.  Stabbing, spearing, whetstones dropped on heads for over-grieving, kicked into fires, poisoned... and those are just a few. 

The telling tent.

Coffee and program.  The necessities of an epic day.

Ruthanne doing an amazing job of telling her story.

Kate pausing on the telling stool, pondering the end of times.

I closed off the telling on Saturday with the telling of Thor's Battles with Hrungnir. I won points for most useless story, since it seems very random.  I called it my "boys being boys with battle and booze" story.  I was told by many that I made a most wonderful of drunk giants.  On that silly note, we broke for supper and the longest sing-along ever, I believe.  In eight languages, to boot.  I hear there's footage of our rendition of the Taco Bell Canon.  I will try to locate it.  We drank much wine, rejoiced, then broke under a starry sky to rest before the end was to come in the morning.

And come it did.  First with the Death of the most cherished of gods: Baldur.  The gods grieved and so did we.  We were on a path to destruction, and after spending a weekend with the gods, we weren't ready to let them go.

One of the best things of Norse mythology, in my opinion, is that their mythic system has an end.  Odin, the All-Father, falls to the mighty wolf, Fenrir.  Thor kills the great Midgar serpent, only to take nine steps before succumbing to its poison.  And the great fires of the sword come to cleanse the world and see it reborn once more.

By the time the surviving gods sit on a grassy field in the new world, where once stood the great halls of Asgard, few eyes were dry under that great tent.  With the crickets still chirping and the sun and cloud battling for supremacy above us, the stories had come to an end so powerful that it left twenty storytellers speechless.

I must admit it was draining.  Just like a weekend writing spree.  My mind didn't wander as I'd feared it might.  The tellers kept my attention, the breaks were well planned, and the cycle built upon itself until the inevitable toppling, and we all toppled a bit with it.

There are rumours that another epic weekend will take place in the next year or two.  It won't be Norse mythology, but whatever story it is, I highly recommend trying to go.  There is nothing like immersing yourself in a story with masters of stories, of singing with experts in folklore, and of coming to the end of a cycle with the voices of the tellers and your imagination painting a bright portrait.  It's an experience I certainly won't soon forget.

Norse FTW!

From rings of power, evil giants and crazy dwarfs, to frozen toes cast skyward to become stars, Norse mythology is overflowing with colour, battles and oddities.  This weekend, twenty tellers from all over Canada and beyond are gathering by Taylor Lake in Lanark County to tell the cycle of Norse Mythology – From Creation to Ragnarök.    The event is hosted by two well-known local tellers, Jan Andrews and Jennifer Cayley of 2 Women Productions.  And it should be awesome.

On Friday afternoon we’ll be setting up our tents and telling begins at 6.  I’ll be sharing my modest accommodations with storyteller Ruthanne Edward, who is one of the twenty tellers, and poet Kathryn Hunt, who is coming as a listener.  Throw in a Sean Zio and you’d have all the Kymeras in a very crowded living space!

Jennifer and Jan are setting up a big tent as our telling canopy, which is great since the forecast is rather bleak.  But it doesn’t matter.  Once creation sweeps us into existence, we won’t be able to let go until the end of the world in Ragnarök.  Aside from multiple meal and sleep breaks, anyway.

I’m telling the story of Thor’s battle with the giant Hrungnir, and I’ll be the last performer on the Saturday evening, just before 6 pm.  It’s a perfect closing story for a Saturday night, since it’s about drunk boys being stupid and fighting.  

Since the story is so vivid in its descriptions and at times downright silly for being a duel to the death, I’ve been having fun rehearsing it.  From drunken giants to head wounds to frozen toes turned into stars, this tale has it all. 

The whole event is wrapping up on Sunday at noon.    We might be cold and wet by then, but with any luck, we’ll have warmed up with Norse might!  Or a campfire.  Campfire might be more practical, actually. 

Or a combo?

Definitely a combo.

Have a great weekend, everyone!