Mina Witteman – author | editor | teacher of creative writing

Kutná Hora View: Festive Death

Posted on June 24, 2010

View into Death

For a writer of scary stories, such as myself, death inspires. It is the ultimate dark for us mortals, the ultimate terra incognita. Some of us try to hold on to life as long as possible, trying to extend life into death by pinning their faith on a hereafter. Truth is that we don’t know, we just don’t know. We can stare at a corpse for as long as we want, but we will never know where the person it once was went (if it went anywhere…).

Silver and Bones

This spring I took my Writer’s Residence to Kutná Hora, deep into Bohemia and the Czech Republic. Kutná Hora’s story is a story of death. The discovery of silver in the twelfth century was a lucky windfall and made the town the second most prosperous in the area for years to come. But, as often, windfall is haunted by downfall. Black Death came along and the Hussite wars, leaving thousands and thousands of dead, flooding the graveyard of the small chapel of Sedlec. A half-blind monk was set to exhume skeletons to make room for new burials. He stacked the skulls and bones in the chapel. In the sixteenth century the mines flooded and together with repeated calls of the plague and the Thirty Years’ War Kutná Hora was swept of the map, burying mournful heaps of skulls and bones in oblivion.

The Schwarzenberg Coat of Arms

In 1870 the aristocratic Schwarzenberg family hired František Rint, a woodcarver, to rescue the thousands and thousands of skulls and bones from obscurity. Rint did it with zeal, creating a magnificent chandelier of skulls and bones, creating piers and monstrances, and livening up the chapel with garlands of skulls hanging from the vault. In honor of his employer he created the Schwarzenberg Coat of Arms. Those who cling to life frenetically may regard the results of his hard labour macabre, but to me it is a festive celebration of death and an inspiration.

Go and decide for yourself. It’s worth the trip.

Amsterdam View: Inspiration from a Rooftop

Posted on June 23, 2010

Inspiration from a Rooftop

There they were again: the roofers. Early this morning Stripes arrived. He leisurely awaited the arrival of Orange. Sitting on the roof-beam Stripes divided his time between staring at the bright blue skies and the usual morning myriad of summery-dressed girls cycling by far below him. When Orange arrived they, again very leisurely, set to work.

Yesterday they had a blast, up on that roof. The volume of their radio turned up, they were teaching each other the latest dance steps – Stripes’ got the rhythm, but Orange shows more creativity in his moves. After about an hour’s dancing under a scorching sun, they evidently earned a break and they sat down on the roof-beam, rolling what looked like a cigarette, but what turned out to be a six-inch joint. Smoking it definitely added to their happiness. Orange turned the radio towards the canal so that we could all join in. Stripes didn’t forget his manners and complimented my son, who was sitting in our window across the canal, studying for his finals: ‘Good hair, bro!’ Halfway the smoke their moxie kicked in and Orange dared Stripes to a balancing contest. Stripes accepted with a gracious bow. Their arms wide and with a close eye on each other, they inched forward until their feet reached far over the roof’s edge.

I couldn’t breathe as I watched, scared that even the slightest sound would break their concentration and send them toppling down five stories, smashing their skulls and bones on the cobblestones.

The inspiration? I am plotting a Young Adult novel starring some potheads… Orange and Stripes will be in it. I know some say that a writer should leave his cocoon for inspiration, but right here it seems I get all the inspiration I need.

Vught View: where it all started

Posted on June 22, 2010

Assault course, Isabella Military Fields, Vught

Going back in time, back to my birthplace Vught. I didn’t have much of a view from my room there. All I could see was our garden and our neighbors’ gardens. But when I climbed out of my window, into the old peach tree and onto the roof, when I sat on the rooftop I had the best view in the world. I could see all the way to the assault course on the military fields. We weren’t allowed to go there, but hey, we were children and the assault course looked like a giant’s playground, of course we went there. We would cut holes in the fence and race each other on the course. Until one day…

Imagine one summer afternoon. Imagine the concrete sewage pipes in the picture above closed on each side with sturdy wooden hatches. Imagine me sitting in my window sill and my brother and his friend daring me to race them on the assault course. Imagine me climbing down the peach tree in a sec. Of course I would race them. I would not only race them, I would defeat them, crush them.

The sun blazes down on my back, but I don’t mind, I am winning! I run and reach the concrete pipes first. I lift up the hatch and dive into the dark. With a muffled thump the hatch closes behind me. I take a couple of seconds in the cool dark pipe to regain my breath and crawl quickly to the other side. I put my hands on the hatch and feel the heat of the sun faintly seeping through the wood. I push, but the hatch doesn’t move. I push harder, but hatch stays where it is. Quickly I crawl back. If I hurry I can take one of the other pipes and still win the race. I push. But this hatch is now jammed, too. I push harder, I call out for my brother.

It seems like forever before he hears me. I tell him the hatches got stuck and ask him to help me. He refuses bluntly and it is the malicious ring in his voice that makes me realize that he locked me in and that he’s not planning on letting me out. I plead and I yell, I beg and I cry with frustration. I pound the hatch with my hands, with my feet, but it won’t move. And with every blow, with every bang my anger fades and terror takes over; terror that transforms the pipe into a grave, a grave that enfolds me like a giant’s hand and, bit by bit, squeezes all the air out of my lungs.

Deedee's Revenge

That’s how it all started. I wanted revenge, but couldn’t tell anyone without getting into trouble myself. So I decided on literary revenge instead and wrote Deedee’s Revenge (De wraak van Deedee), my debut as a children’s book writer.

Amsterdam View: Chez Caboodle

Posted on June 21, 2010

A Coot's Nest in Herengracht

When I look out of my window at Herengracht I see a fine example of recycling: a coot’s nest made of branches and everything else that floats in our canals. Every spring again it amazes me to see what we leave behind so carelessly and how these little black birds with their proud white facial shields re-use our garbage to build the perfect nest.

This particular coot couple squatted down on a small wooden board, that my neighbor had tied to the railing, and set to work at full tilt. They’ve been bustling and building their nest for ages it seems, schlepping in more and more wrappers and bags, plastic bottles, branches, some of it considerably larger than life. A couple of weeks ago they must have been satisfied with their hard work, because they nestled comfortably in Chez Caboodle. I haven’t been able to make out if they were rejoiced by offspring, and this morning the coot couple ‘left the building’, so I guess I will never know.

What I do know is that Chez Caboodle will slowly but surely deteriorate to being merely debris floating about in Herengracht. Or maybe, just maybe, another coot couple will spot it and rebuild it, and by doing so lengthen the life cycle of our leftovers.

Hello world!

Posted on June 16, 2010

Welcome! I am currently setting up my blog. There will be more to read real soon!