Above, the folk song “Ormen Lange” (The Long Serpent). I think I’ve posted versions of this song a couple times previously, but in each case they were more authentic than this one. I believe the song itself derives from a Faroese chain dance song, and the original song structure is a little foreign to Americans. This version was recorded some years back by a Norwegian folk group called the Wanderers, who dumbed it down a little, making it something I personally enjoy a little more.
And why do I post yet another version of a song I’ve already bored you with (at least) twice? Because it’s about King Olaf Trygvesson and his long ship, and he was Erling Skjalgsson’s brother-in-law, and this post is my public announcement that this past Saturday, I completed my (apparent) life’s work. At least in first draft. I finished the job of getting the essential story of The Baldur Game all down on paper. Or screen. In written form, in any case. There’s lots of revising and reviewing and rewriting to do yet, but the story is tentatively finished. I know how it comes out. I’ve typed END at the end.
The author is generally the last to know whether a story is any good, of course. But I’m pleased. This is, I think, the book I always wanted to write.
If I have not created deathless art, I have at least realized my delusion, like a mad scientist in a B movie.
Above, milestones in my pilgrimage with Erling Skjalgsson. On top, me with Erling Skjalgsson’s memorial stone in Stavanger, sometime around 2003. Below that, me playing Viking at Hafrsfjord, on Erling’s turf, in 2022.
When I stand before the Last Judgment and the Lord asks me, “What did you do with the talent I entrusted to you?” my answer, I guess, will be, “Well, I spent about 50 years writing Erling’s saga.” Will that be a satisfactory answer? I don’t know.
Writing-wise, I’m deep in anticlimax territory now, just tying up loose ends. I don’t think I’ll be done with the first draft of The Baldur Game tomorrow, but it will be soon. There’ll still be plenty of work left to do, of course – editing, polishing, tying up plot threads. But the tale will essentially be told very soon now, the formation formed. A stage on my journey finished.
I don’t remember exactly when it was that I first settled on Erling Skjalgsson as the Viking hero I’d write about. Reading Heimskringla, the sagas of the kings of Norway, I always found him a puzzling character. The main episodes where he showed up were impressive. Snorri Sturlusson, the author, must have had a soft spot for him. We meet him first when his powerful kinsmen offer him as a bridegroom for King Olaf Trygvesson’s sister, and he surprises everyone by turning down the title of jarl (and the more you understand about Norse society, the more surprising that decision is). Then he gets mentioned here and there, first as a supporter of Olaf Trygvesson, then as an opponent of (Saint) Olaf Haraldsson. We learn that, to his credit, he runs a self-help program to help his slaves buy their freedom. He really stands out when he rescues his nephew Asbjorn from the king’s justice in a dramatic scene at Avaldsnes, And at last Snorri gives him a stirring, Alamo-style death scene. But there’s also the suggestion that he’s a traitor.
I realized Erling was local to me. Sola, where he lived, was not far at all from where some of my ancestors came from, near Stavanger. And Avaldsnes was where my great-grandfather Walker grew up.
But what clinched it for me was acquiring enough historic insight to understand what Erling was all about. It may have been reading Prof. Torgrim Titlestad (whose book I’d later translate) that helped me to get it, or maybe I’d begun to work it out myself as my political sensibilities matured. I honestly can’t remember. But Erling suddenly fit all the criteria I’d begun setting when I first pondered writing a Viking novel as a kid.
Of course it still didn’t come together until, sometime in the late 1980s, I guess, while I was living in Florida, Father Ailill burst on my mind. Ailill would be my bridge character, my hobbit – the Everyman who’d interpret the Viking world for the reader. I thought, “I can make this work.”
Remains to be seen, of course, but I like how it’s coming along.
When I’m not feeling melancholy about saying goodbye.
This morning, during my writing time, I committed to paper (well, screen) my conception of the Battle of Stiklestad, where King (Saint) Olaf of Norway died, in circumstances that remain contentious among historians.
Above is a video I managed to find on YouTube at last, which seemed to me worth sharing. It’s a Vlog post, not very sophisticated, describing the Vlogger’s attendance at a recent production of the Stiklestad Drama, which is performed every year in an open-air theater near the battle site (which, due to topographical changes, is impossible to precisely locate anymore). This play has been going on almost annually since 1954 (it was one of Liv Ullman’s first acting gigs). No doubt the script has changed over the years, as Norwegians become less enamored of their Christian legacy.
This appears to have been the first production after the Covid shutdown, and had the distinction of being the first time (as far as I know) that St. Olaf was portrayed without a beard. I can’t say I approve.
Also, I note that in the associated art exhibit, there’s a “tree” called the Verdenstreet (World Tree), where children are encouraged to hang prayers. This is an obvious bow to heathenism, and I can’t say I approve of that either.
But Stiklestad is on my mind (I had ancestors from the area) and I thought I’d share something about it today. Describing the battle was a surprisingly emotional experience for me, even if I’m not a great fan of Olaf. As I wrote my books, he grew in my sympathy. Also, I killed off a couple old friends (I’m not saying whom).
What’s left of writing the first draft for me is mostly mopping up, tying up loose ends. Then, of course, there follow as many revisions as it takes.
As Olaf himself (reportedly) said: “Fram!” (Forward!)
I’m reading another long, long book – I don’t know why I put myself through these things. This circumstance forces me to come up with creative ideas for the blog, and blast it, Jim, I’m an author, not a creator!
My work on The Baldur Game proceeds on schedule. I’m nearing the final climax – the Battle of Stiklestad. So I thought I’d look for a YouTube video about the battle. Informational for you and I can always use more local color. But, oddly enough, there aren’t any YouTube videos on the subject that I consider much good. Someone should address this need, which will doubtless become acute once The Baldur Game is an international bestseller and a Major Motion Picture.
But my searches led me to the holiday of Ólavsøka, the great national holiday in the Faroe Islands (it’s the celebration of the feast of St. Olav, not coincidentally on the anniversary of the battle). I’ve reviewed a couple of Chris Ould’s Faroes mystery novels (which I’m enjoying a lot) recently, so I thought I’d post a video about that event. But most of the videos I found were just shots of people in folk costumes walking through the streets of Torshaven. Perfectly good in their place, but I wanted something with a little more scenery. I finally found the video above, which I think rather nice. Here is another place I’d like to visit someday, though it’s becoming increasingly unlikely.
I hope you had a blessed Thanksgiving. Mine was just fine.
Giving books at Christmas has been a long tradition with readers. In the early 19th century, plenty of books sold in the weeks preceding Christmas, but none of them were published for the season. Often people bought attractively bound collections of essays, poems, or classic novels that they knew they would enjoy.
In one of his books on the industry, publisher Joseph Shaylor writes, “Between 1820 and 1830 there came into existence a series of Annuals which caused quite a revolution in the sale of books for Christmas.” British bookman Rudolf Ackermann came up with the idea, publishing Forget-Me-Not: A Christmas and New Years Present for 1823. They were published every year through 1848, having a circulation of 18,000 at the height of its popularity.
Another publisher released Friendship’s Offering in 1824, which found its way to America some years later as knockoff copies. Apparently, many volumes were hacked this way in America, even lesser works rebound and distributed under new popular titles (which sounds like clickbait to me). Friendship’s Offering may have published some higher quality literature than most. For example, Thomas Babbington Macaulay’s poem “The Armada” was printed in the 1833 edition. It ran until 1844.
Engraver Charles Heath launched multiple annuals, “such as the Picturesque Annual, in a guinea volume which contained engravings from the best landscape painters of the day,” and The Book of Beauty, edited by Marguerite Gardiner, Countess of Blessington and Irish novelist in her own right. Her social influence drew attention from many literary stars and would-be stars, including Disreali.
“The rise of the Annuals appears to have diffused a fashion for artistic and elegant pursuits, and helped to evolve a taste for literature and the fine arts. They were the principal publications of the year, and much time and consideration were given to their production.”
Booksellers have tried to inspire an Easter season of book-giving to no avail.
When it comes to translation choices, there’s not always a “right” choice, just the choice that seems best. How does literary intuition play into your work?
I rely a lot on intuition. It particularly kicks in when I’m reading the manuscript out loud. I’m listening for lots of things but particularly want to feel that there’s an ease to the reading and a rhythm to the writing. I know when they feel right but rarely know how to explain why they feel right.
Secular Morals: Seth Mandel writes the former director of Human Rights Watch “is what you’d get if Soviet ‘whataboutism’ were a person, a golem manifested by the chantings of Oberlin freshmen. . . . HRW and Amnesty International both had no idea how to handle a post-9/11 world because terrorism didn’t really fit into their worldview.”
Books: “Books are men of higher stature, And the only men that peak aloud for future times to hear.” – Elizabeth B. Browning, “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship”
Sometimes I have Big Thoughts, which seem to me important. It would appear self-evident, though, that if these ideas are any good, someone must have come up with them before me. And if nobody has, it’s probably because they’re not as good as I think they are.
But I forge ahead, in all the boldness of the simple-minded. I have a sort of an answer to the problem of Theodicy.
No, make that a proposal for an answer.
No, not even that. An approach to a proposal.
In any case, I’ve written about these matters here before, but I think it’s been a while, perhaps quite a long time.
The problem of Theodicy is familiar to many of you. It’s one of the really big questions – if God is good, why does he permit such horrendous evil to exist in His world? (Recent events in the Middle East have given us ample cause to contemplate this question, when we’re not weeping, tearing our hair, and stocking up on ammunition.)
My proposal for thought is that we ought to look at the universe as a Story.
Every writer knows that there’s no story without conflict. And conflict means pain. One of the hardest disciplines many writers must learn is how to torture their characters. Although I love reading exciting stories, I often fear I can’t bear the stress when a good author turns the dramatic tension (which means fear and pain) up to 10. When I’m writing, I’d much rather be nice to my characters (most of whom I quite like), but I know my stories would be degraded.
Does this help explain why there’s suffering in the universe? Is God telling a great story?
Now I can hear the objections – “That’s obscene! When we contemplate the evil suffered by innocents in places like Gaza, it’s simply an insult to suggest that God is using those people like toys in some cosmic story-telling game.”
To that I reply – very tentatively – suppose it’s not just a game. Suppose stories aren’t actually trivial?
Suppose stories are the most important things there are?
Suppose our universe is not just “a” story, but “THE” story – and that story is the glory of God, the music of the spheres, the liturgy of the Great Throne, the song of angels.
If that still seems trivial to you, I ask this question – “What can you suggest that’s more serious than a story – if you’re in it?”
And suppose – just suppose – you had an assurance from the Author that somehow – in some way you can’t comprehend – the ending would be happy?
The greatest displeasure of the largest number Is the law of nature. – Pao Chao, “The Ruined City”
Paul J. Pastor writes about The Kalevala, an epic poem written from Karelian and Finnish folklore, focusing on “the great bard Väinämöinen” who chooses to live
on the island with no words on the mainland with no trees.
After a long while, if I’m reading this correctly, Väinämöinen begins to sing the world into being.
Pastor applies this to our own small creative works. Silence, not just moments of quiet, but true silence that endures beyond our comfort can be “the great and difficult friend of the writer and the artist.”
We are not artistic dynamos. We cannot truly create anything of own mere will. We must rely on the Lord and his revelation, both general and specific. Noise, even a natural and healthy noise of life, can drain us—at least, it does drain me.
And yet what brings Väinämöinen, the bard of bards, into the fullness of his power is precisely that condition of emptiness that so disgusts or unsettles us. It is being in the boring-place, the empty-place, the still-place that something happens to him, something so vast that nature itself unlocks her most intimate secrets.
The great bard began singing on a rock so bare we would have trouble finding a similar one today, but we may find a deafening silence among ruins, a place where
. . . grains of sand, like startled birds, are looking for a safe place to settle. Bushes and creepers, confused and tangled, seem to know no boundaries.
These verses come from fifth century Chinese poet Pao Chao (or Bān Zhāo). In “The Ruined City,” he describes a vast plain with visible canals and roads cut into it, all leading to crumbled ends and weeds.
The young girls from east and south Smooth as silk, fragrant as orchids White as jade with their lips red, Now lie beneath the dreary stones and barren earth. The greatest displeasure of the largest number Is the law of nature.
This too is silence and a little despair; we need more than human hope to endure it. Can we throw seeds into the wind that will sprout in what time the Lord will give them? Kyrie, eleison.
Some friends of mine at a previous Midwest Viking Festival, in Moorhead, MN.
In case you’re keeping track, I passed the 60,000 word count on The Baldur Game this morning. Since I anticipate a final length in the neighborhood of 100,000 words, I feel as if I’m making progress. I’ve wrapped up Ailill’s and Erling’s adventures in Caithness, Scotland with Jarl Thorfinn the Mighty (a whole lot more happened there than I expected), and now I’ve got them in the Orkneys, preparing for the crossing to Norway.
If you’re in the Green Bay area, you’ll find me (God willing) at the Midwest Viking Festival on the campus of the University of Wisconsin-Green Bay Friday and Saturday. They have a Viking house there, which will anchor our encampment. I’ve been to this festival before, but only in its former venue in Moorhead, Minnesota – a somewhat shorter drive. I’m crossing my fingers that I’ll satisfy the authenticity standards.
I’ll have some books to sell, but get there early. Supplies are limited.
(Note, I know Green Bay is an odd place to hold a festival for Vikings. Another of God’s little jokes, I suppose.)
Today, I’m reading a book I’m enjoying very much. Actually I’m re-reading it – it’s an old favorite. I hope to review it tomorrow.
How’s the writing going? Not bad. Today I got back to laying down text, after several days doing research on Caithness and Orkney, where my characters are bound. I reached 50,000 words, which is half the length I’ve imagined for the book. So that’s on course.
Also, I finished revisions on a magazine article I was commissioned to do. This means, I’m reasonably sure, that I’ll have some money coming in at some point. Also a good thing.
Above, a nice YouTube video I found, on the Library of Alexandria. I remember a teacher in high school telling us about the great tragedy of its loss. According to this presentation, that’s all been overblown. Often by people who have have axes to grind (even some axes I grind myself now and then). But there’s less there than meets the eye, it would appear. No doubt much knowledge has been lost through the centuries, but the cataclysmic holocaust at Alexandria seems to be scholarly folklore.
It’s kind of comforting to know that scholars have their popular fallacies too.
This book review will, on closer examination, turn out to be a sort of bait-and-switch, a partial review embedded in an author’s journal post. I’m still plot-wrestling, and I continue in PAUSE mode, learning the geography and trying to figure out what happens next as I send Erling Skjalgsson home from England by way of the Orkneys (and possibly the Shetlands. Haven’t worked that out yet).
As I told you, I realized the other day that Erling’s journey home to Norway has to bring him into a confrontation with Jarl Thorfinn the Mighty of Orkney, who had a problematic relationship with King (Saint) Olaf Haraldsson, Erling’s enemy. Thorfinn had submitted to Olaf as his overlord, but he felt Olaf had broken their understanding by awarding part of the jarldom to his brother Brusi. He might very well be willing to listen to Erling’s suggestion that he transfer fealty to King Knut of Denmark/England.
However, I discovered a further complication. In reading the Penguin edition of Orkneyinga Saga, the saga of the earls (jarls) of Orkney, I was reminded that Thorfinn ruled not only the Orkneys and Shetland. He also ruled Caithness, the northeastern part of Scotland, an area heavily settled by Norwegians.
And Caithness brings us close to Moray, which was the home of Macbetha – whom I included, you’ll recall, under the name Macbetha, in my last Erling book, King of Rogaland. Macbetha, who wouldn’t have been king yet at this point, would almost certainly have been an enemy of Thorfinn’s. (Though I always think about Dorothy Dunnet’s novel, King Hereafter, which is based on the theory that Thorfinn and Macbeth were the same person. She notes that the annals telling about Macbeth never mention Thorfinnn, and Orkneyinga Saga never mentions Macbeth [well, it mentions an earlier King Macbeth, but he’s a different guy]. In the saga, Thorfinn does fight a mysterious Scottish king named Karl Hundarsson, whom some historians have identified as Macbeth.) Anyway, it would be impolite to my readers not to reunite them with Macbetha while we’re in the neighborhood.
So how will I work all this out? I’m thinking about it. I have some ideas.
In any case, I’ll review the portion of Orkneyinga Saga that I read. I confess I didn’t finish it (this time through), because it covers a lot of history much later than the period I’m dealing with. Some of it, I should note, is very intriguing, especially the conscientious objection of (Saint) Magnus Erlendsson during a raid on Wales, and his subsequent martyrdom.
But my concern was with the career of Jarl Thorfinn. Thorfinn is an intriguing character, bigger than life. Sometimes he’s sympathetic, sometimes emphatically not. His climactic conflict with his charismatic nephew, Rognvald Brusisson, involves some very nice plotting (indicating – probably – a fair amount of fictional embroidering) and dramatic irony. One also notes the appearance of the name “Tree-beard,” very likely where Tolkien found it. The saga also includes one of our sources for the disputed practice of the “Blood Eagle,” a cruel method of execution which showed up in the History Channel “Vikings” series. (I myself incline to the view that there never was such a practice, but that it came from the saga writers misunderstanding a poetic metaphor.)
Orkneyinga Saga is one of the most striking and vigorous of the sagas. It’s not up to Snorri Sturlusson’s literary standards, but it still packs a punch and lingers in the memory.
