Monthly Archives: February 2014

Whence Inspiration?

CalixtoIIhdr copiaEvery book is the product of a kajillion (give or take a gazillion) little twinkles of inspiration, intuition, or insight, but those key lightbulb-above-the-head moments, when you look up from whatever you were doing and know you have a story to tell are much more precious and rare.

PILGRIMAGE was the produce of two questions that combined into one lightbulb moment in the year or so after my son was born, when I was on a postdoctoral fellowship. This was back in ancient times, before the World Wide Web, Facebook, and Google. I used to spend my spare time connecting with other medievalists on those newfangled specialist listservs. One of my favourites had a “saint of the day” feature with a little biography, and one July 6th, the story was all about Saint Godeleva, patron of battered wives, whose Flemish husband had her murdered at the end of the eleventh century. The biography also recounted a late legend about Godeleva — that her husband had gone off on crusade to expiate his crime, and that he also had a daughter who was blind. What would it feel like, I wondered, to have a saint for a mother, who cured everyone except for you? That was my first question.

The second came from a manuscript, the Codex Calixtinus, to be precise. You can see an initial from the manuscript, showing Pope Calixtus II purportedly writing a section of the manuscript, at the top of this post. This manuscript contains a colophon, that describes the origin of the manuscript in an unusual way. It reads:

The Poitevin Aimery Picaud of Partheney-le-Vieux and Oliver d’Asquins and their friend Gebirga of Flanders gave this book to Saint James of Galicia for the redemption of their souls.

Now, figuring out the authorship of this volume is highly complicated because those who actually wrote the texts in it took care to attribute them to more important people, like Pope Calixtus, above. Our best guess is that it had several authors, and Aimery Picaud, whoever he was, was its compiler. Who then was Gebirga of Flanders, and how did an unknown woman become important enough to have her name mentioned in this work with its lofty pretensions?

That was my second question. And then, the light went on — Gebirga of Flanders became the blind daughter of Saint Godeleva, and I knew I had a story.

PILGRIMAGE — Some news and a description

As I wrote last October, my first novel, Pilgrimage, is going to be published by Cuidono Press, a new small press based in Brooklyn (I think those of you who enjoy the Middle Ages might be interested in its first released book, A Place of Light, on the origins of the Abbey of Fontevraud.) I am delighted to let you all know that my novel will be released this June.

And I think it is finally time for me to let you know what it is about. People who write talk about “conference pitches,” “elevator pitches,” etc. This is my current “dust-jacket pitch”:

For the rest of twelfth-century Europe, Spain was a far-off and exotic place, rich in silks, ivory, and gold, full of Muslims and Jews, and raging with battles between rival kings and kingdoms. It was also home to the mystical Christian holy site of Compostela at the western edge of the known world, shrine of Saint James. The saint’s tomb drew a perpetual wave of pilgrims, coming for adventure, seeking a miracle from the saint, or performing penance to expiate an old sin.

PILGRIMAGE is the story of one of those pilgrims. Gebirga of Flanders, the blind, dispossessed daughter of martyred Saint Godleva. She flees her callous family with a pack of pilgrims that includes a count’s daughter, bound for marriage, and a mysterious messenger with an unknown agenda, all bound for Compostela. The journey takes Gebirga from her home on the edge of the North Sea across the kingdoms of France and into the Iberian Peninsula, where she is caught up the swirling winds of political change, from restless, power-hungry kings and queens, to the Roman Pope. Beneath all the birthing of nations, churches, and ideas, PILGRIMAGE is a story of a young woman struggling with her station in life and trying to find her place in the world.

And speaking of dust-jackets, we are still working on the cover, but in the meantime, I want to point you in two directions. The first is to look up at the image in the header of this blog, shot by me in Spain at a place where one of the major scenes in the novel takes place. I discussed this place in my very first blog post, The Image in my Header. Next, look down. This is a painting I bought at the Hyde Park Art Fair several years ago because it reminded me of Gebirga’s journey from Flanders to Spain. I like to think those are the Pyrenees in the distance.
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