Guest Post: Time Warp Writing Part 2: Childhood Mythos J. H. Bardwell

Things were simpler when I was a boy.  Stories were black and white; heroes were good, villains were bad, and the first always trounced the second. Puberty brought shades of gray into my world and adulthood got downright colorful. Some of my long-time heroes turned out to be villainous, some of the villains were placed under a heroic spotlight, and who won depended on which person was telling the story to whom.  I object to such editing—we must acknowledge both the horror and the happiness without bowdlerizing our history—but at the same time I revel in the rich, vibrant palette our kaleidoscope of perceptions injects into what could have been such a simple black and white narrative.

I want to be clear that as a vision of red, white, and blue splendor, my memories of childhood Americana are unpure, undiluted fairytales. This is not a case of memories coloring perceptions or rewriting personal history, but of a man spreading tall tales, some of which were inspired by childhood.  This story is not the truth.  It is a story of how we twist truth like a pretzel, especially to ourselves. We all want to be the heroes of our own stories. My story exudes American culture as I see it: blue jeans, dogs, rifles, patriotic songs, and unfettered children running through the woods.  These were my thoughts as I wrote my forthcoming novel Appalachian Monster.  Sometimes, life is a fairytale.  Not the sweet polished versions we see in theatres, but the old school, Brothers Grimm tales mothers told their frightened children.  Don't go in the deep, dark woods.  There are monsters and witches and goblins.

Children want safety, but crave adventure.  One day they probe the fairytales and discover the fabled witches' hut is nothing but an old, rotten doghouse, the supposed sylvan darkness is broken by bright birds and cheerful flowers, and the far side of the deep forest opens onto the neighbor's manicured lawn.  Soon the children take all those familiar stories and invent or embellish, make their own fiction, populating the woods with their own black and white creations.  The doghouse becomes a witches' hut once more or maybe a castle.

My imagination ran more towards castles.  I used to spend hours crafting them on the beach and giving them names and histories.  I want to revisit that imaginary castle again, pull back the curtains, put up some streamers, and meet some old  friends.  The swashbuckling prince from my youth is probably a bald king with headaches and hemorrhoids now.  We have some catching up to do.


Thanks for reading!

J. H. Bardwell

Twigboat Press | Good fiction rocks the boat
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Tune in next week for Time Warp Writing, Part 3: Puberty Strikes Back.

Liked what you read?  Visit my blog at http://twigboatpress.com

Coming July 4: Appalachian Monster

Want to see my childhood myth?  Check out my new coming-of-age novel Appalachian Monster available for pre-order today and remember: this is a work of fiction.

            

Author Biography

J. H. Bardwell was born with stories in his heart and a pencil in his hand. To this day, he retains an odd black birthmark on his neck where he says the pencil poked him as they both left the womb. Raised in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the young man fled to see the rest of the country before the ink dried on his high school diploma.

Besides writing engrossing works of fiction, the author also enjoys aquaponics, making cheese, gardening, performing theater, and wood crafts. When not writing fiction or enjoying his hobbies, J. H. Bardwell works at a university where he teaches students to think critically and question everything. Then he teaches them to write. He keeps his degrees skinned and mounted on the back wall.