Dee Marie's Blog: Merlin's Tale

At dinner parties, when the question of, "What do you do?" inevitably comes up, a small crowd always gathers when I answer that I am a novelist. The group grows larger and the room hushes when I add that I am currently working on the second book in my Arthurian novel (after all, everyone grew up on tales of Camelot). Yet, how quickly the masses dwindle, returning to previous merry conversation, franticly remembering things they had forgotten to do, when I add that the first book took me over ten years to complete.

Why did it take so long to write a simple retelling of a story, retold hundreds of times over thousands of years? In the beginning, I too thought the process would be an easy endeavor ... a vehicle for Merlin to channel his stories, transcribing events straight from the source. I soon discovered Merlin works in mysterious (and frustrating) ways.

A prime example (when writing the first book in my “Sons of Avalon” saga): while riding from a particularly gruesome battle, a young knight became extremely ill. His companion demanded that Merlin concoct a potion to ease his friend’s nausea. Before I could stop him, Merlin leaned in his saddle and grinned [I have grown to hate it when Merlin grins, it always means trouble], telling the knight not to worry, all would be well when they reached their destination.

"On the chalky hillside, above the rugged shores, grows an ancient herb that holds the properties to cure stomach ailments," even in his youth, Merlin’s words flowed with authority.

"No!" I groaned, wishing to reach in, grab Merlin off his pony and shake the smugness from his face.

"Excuse me?" blinking Merlin looked up, feigning confusion.

"I can’t take it any longer, I give up," frustrated I stopped just short of turning off the computer. Accustomed as I had become to Merlin's game of clue and quest, several of my deadlines had come and gone and I was becoming increasingly frustrated with his lackadaisical attitude toward my need to get on with my life.

Not unlike a movie director yelling, "Cut!" Merlin froze the action as he trotted his pony off the story set to have a private conversation with me.

"Merlin," I pleaded, "you have yet to disclose your final destination. I have just now found out that the knight is ill. And, no disrespect, but I wanted to reach through the computer screen and put my hand over your mouth when you boasted that you would cure the knight of a specific illness, with an ancient herb that only grew on a specific hill, in a specific coastal town."

"Is it lack of faith or lack of time that is frustrating you the most?" Without waiting for my reply, he slowly rejoined his men for the long trek to the seashore.

Without question, my faith in Merlin has been, is, and shall always be unconditional ... unlike Merlin, my life force is not ageless ... research takes times. Yet, until the end of his tales, I continue to remain his devoted scribe.

Dee-Marie
Author of the "Sons of Avalon" saga

How dare I, an American, connect myself with British lore? Let alone claim to have Merlin as a muse. Like all Americans, ancestry plays a big role. My father’s people were of Celtic decent, while my mother’s were French, not of Brittany, but not far from. They were a romantic people with a love of music, arts, a good tale and wine.

While I, my father’s firstborn, was coming into the world on the Pacific coast, my father, a career navy man, was sailing in the Atlantic waters. Soon after my birth, my mother took me to live with my grandparents, in the Avalon apartments atop Queen Anne Hill in Seattle, Washington.

The first two years of my life were spent in the loving care of a doting grandfather, a mystical grandmother, and an adoring mother...constantly bathed in a nurturing environment of love, laughter and music. Each night as my mother rocked me to sleep she would sing sweet Celtic lullabies, or tell wonderful tales of Merlin and King Arthur.

Is it possible for destiny to be imprinted before birth? Perhaps that is why I was whisked away to live at Avalon, secluded atop a Queen’s hill...to be contacted by Merlin so many years later...urged to write a story written a hundred times before? How arrogant of me, how absurd! I should re-title the novel “A Madwoman’s Musings.”

Yet, Merlin’s nightly whispers keep calling to me. I close my eyes and his words flow from lost memories of distance times. They summon me home to British shores. I feel both blessed and humbled with any inadvertent connection to the lands of Merlin, to the lands of Arthurian Legends.

Dee-Marie

Ten years ago, while deep in slumber, I felt a gentle tug upon my nightgown, followed by whiskers tickling my ear. “Arise, I have a story to tell you,” an ancient voice whispered. Upon his breath lingered the sweet scent of apples mixed with the lingering aroma of honey-mead.

Like any rational person would do, I pulled the covers over my head, rolled over and went back to sleep.

Yet, Merlin was persistent, and for a week, he returned each evening, awakening me in the predawn hours. I soon came to the realization that this was not merely a recurring dream, but somehow my bedroom had become a portal to the past. Over the next few years, the mystical gateway would allow access to wizards, fairies and knights in clanging armor.

That is how it all started…a whisper from Merlin; a request to transcript a Bard's tale!
Dee-Marie
author ~ Sons of Avalon: Merlin's Prophecy