2 AM Disturbances

The book club was supposed to start July the Fourth, but seeing as that is a significant holiday, I'm not surprised that no one posted anything.  I myself, in fact, let the day slip away from me.  I intended to take care of it first thing in the morning, but I didn't give myself a reminder (as I warned myself I should).  And so, my friends, it did not get done.

Good news is that I am now prepared for this Saturday.  The book club will begin this Saturday the 11th and this round will continue for four weeks.  I explain what to do at the first meeting, which is this Saturday, but for now, get your book and get excited!!!

Also, my new blog is close to being "launchable."  I'm not totally happy with it, but I'm pretty sure I'm going to move over there before it's totally done and allow it to be a work in progress.  Reluctantly, I asked my boyfriend for a photo shoot – because I don't like being photographed and he loves photography – and so we spent part of Sunday shooting a camera at me, and it was actually kind of fun.  He's being looking through the photos and found some good ones, so those will be going up on the website soon.  I am breaking the barrier between me and you!  You shall truly get to know what I look like.  (Even sound like…??????)

In other news?  Um….  If you're into knitting, check out this page and knit with me!  "Knitting Thursday" every, well, Thursday.

Story time:

So last night, I woke up to loud music and talking just before 1:30 AM.  It was clearly coming from the vicinity of my black neighbors – I say black neighbors because, well, they're black.  Which distinguishes them from my other neighbors.  They don't live in my apartment complex, but in the apartments on the next property over.  They tend to talk very loudly and shout often.  I've been afraid to approach them because they seem so unfriendly….  But last night, they were making a ton of noise.  Or visitors of theirs were.  I didn't want to get up to check.  I rolled over and hoped to get back to sleep.  But finally, car doors slammed and the noise quieted.  But then my neighbors – husband and wife I assume – continued to talk and yell at each other the only way they know how.  And it was 1:30 in the morning.  She seemed to deliberately provoke him – she must be a very unhappy person or just really grumpy at 1:30 in the morning – and I sympathize.

Finally – I didn't hear the car pull up but I heard the voices over the radio.  Almost 2 AM and, I checked, the police had pulled up.  It almost instantly got quieter, although you could hear them still yelling at each other from inside their apartment.

Whew!  What a night.  Took me forever to get back to sleep.  The police stuck around outside for awhile, and some other people seemed to be hanging out, but it was hard to see because it was 2 in the morning.  I'm not sure what was going on.  But eventually I realized that I hadn't heard a sound for a little while and I assumed everyone had gone or went into their respective doors.  And after a bit longer, I fell asleep.

Tonight, it's pouring rain and I love it.  I like falling asleep to the sound of rain on the roof.

That's all I have for now.  Thanks for sticking around!

~Meggy

I would like to start a book club

I would like to start a book club.

My plan was to offer two book suggestions and tag other bloggers I know and love.  Then, every other Saturday (maybe every Saturday), I would do a post answering key questions about the book and synopsizing, reading my favorite bits, etc. – hopefully no more than 10 minutes long.  Ideally, only five minutes.  Although we'd be doing this as a group, each person could choose whichever of the two to three books.  And those who read the same book could discuss it.  The length of the book would determine how much we have to read each week, but I'm thinking a book a month, more or less?  Because I'm going back to school in the fall for my senior year, I may have to pick books that I'm assigned for my various English classes.  But I got the reading list for my American Novel class from my professor so I'm going to start on that early.  If you would like to participate and you have a similar concern, I'll take book suggestions and try to fit them into the list.  But as long as the group is small, I don't think I should offer more than two books.  If everyone is reading a different book, we can't discuss them.

So, the books for the first book club, starting next Saturday, are:

The Moviegoer by Walker Percy

The dazzling novel that established Walker Percy as one of the major voices in Southern literature is now available for the first time in Vintage paperback.

The Moviegoer is Binx Bolling, a young New Orleans stockbroker who surveys the world with the detached gaze of a Bourbon Street dandy even as he yearns for a spiritual redemption he cannot bring himself to believe in. On the eve of his thirtieth birthday, he occupies himself dallying with his secretaries and going to movies, which provide him with the "treasurable moments" absent from his real life. But one fateful Mardi Gras, Binx embarks on a hare-brained quest that outrages his family, endangers his fragile cousin Kate, and sends him reeling through the chaos of New Orleans' French Quarter. Wry and wrenching, rich in irony and romance, The Moviegoer is a genuine American classic.  –Amazon.com

The Memory of Old Jack by Wendell Berry

In a rural Kentucky river town, "Old Jack" Beechum, a retired farmer, sees his life again through the sades of one burnished day in September 1952. Bringing the earthiness of America's past to mind, The Memory of Old Jack conveys the truth and integrity of the land and the people who live from it. Through the eyes of one man can be seen the values Americans strive to recapture as we arrive at the next century.  –Amazon.com









If you're not interested, no hard feelings.  But this is going to go very well if I don't get anybody.  So if you're interested, please ask other bloggers as well!  Or non-bloggers that read blogs.

~Meggy

I Want It All

This is the first draft of a post for my other blog.  I'm not sure if I like my conclusion.  Please tell me what you think!

"Just because I love my job doesn't mean I don't love babies."

In the complicated, American culture we know and love today, women are being told that 1) you can have a career and a family, and 2) you can't really have both.  If that seems confusing to you, well, that's because it is.

I don't remember specific incidents in my life of hearing one or the other, but I know they were there because I'm familiar with the conflict.  I'm fairly certain it even comes up in children's movies.  The dominant view in my life, however, was that you could, in fact, have both.  Other young women had contrary experiences.  Take Kimberly Reeverts, for example.  She's quite upset that she's been told she can only have career or a family.  And she's going tell you about how she's choosing both.

Now I'm a feminist of a certain sort.  I won't go into the politics of different movements of feminism - let's just say I'm a fan of Emma Watson.  And I'm a fan of Reevert's freedom to pursue her dream and use her talents to both fulfill her and contribute to society.

What I'm not a fan of is the "I want everything, I'm getting everything" mentality. It's shortsighted

Right now, I live in an apartment with two roommates. I work approximately 7 hours a day, 5 days a week. Now, I like housework. I like making my space neat, clean, comfortable, and inviting. And I am responsible for no one but myself and I still have a difficult task of finding time to take care of myself and my space. If I had my own car to take care of, it would be harder. If I had kids, it'd be even worse.

There are days that I drag my feet through because my boyfriend and I are running all over and I really need some quiet time to talk to him. And it can be emotionally draining and tough on both of us. Sometimes I'm just not in tune to him. Upgrade that to two full-time jobs with kids. Holy crap.

I'm not saying it can't be done. It can be, and families that do it well are an inspiration to me.

However, Reevert's approach to the difficulty fails to be any kind of a solution.  She's studying hard to continue her education in literature, but now she's decided that she can't imagine her life without children – children that she, in fact, doesn't have yet.  I'd like to hear back from her in a few years to know if it's what she expected.

Because talking to them on the street is one thing.  Because balancing motherhood, professor-hood, and wifehood all at the same time is difficult.

"I started needing joy. All of a sudden I felt intense cravings for life experiences—quality life experiences. I need more and now. I need new and constant."

 But that, alone, is not a good reason to have children, especially if you don't have time for them.

Reeverts might very well be able to make it work, but the trend in the culture is to say, "ME!!! I WANT."  And we, in order to sustain our illusion, ignore the fact that children need their parents.  They need their parents to have time for them.  They need their parents to make them top priority.  Can they survive without that?  Yes….  Do you want them to?

I hope Reeverts all the best as she seeks to incorporate children into her life.  They are a blessing and I hope she is blessed.  But I hope she has considered that children have to be more than an adrenaline rush to her, because that's not what you're going to feel at 3 o'clock in the morning.  I hope she knows that children are more than profound simplicity and are often immediately, selfishly demanding.  I hope she realizes that her future children are a huge responsibility and when they move out of the house, they'll either think she's the best mom… or they won't.

Somebody's got to clean the house.  Somebody's got to make the food.  Somebody's got to run errands.  Somebody's got to take care of the sniffly little one.

Why do we, today, think that we can do everything?  Because we can.  And we think we should.

Reeverts doesn't have to have it all figured out and planned to the last detail before she starts on her family; but may she not be disappointed.

6 Summer Goals and a bit of awesomeness

Now that summer is here, I have a decently challenging to-do list:

1) laugh at people more (see #2) [will explain in more detail at a later time]
2) Read Anne of Green Gables
3) read C. S. Lewis' The Four Loves
4) finish reading The Iliad of Homer, The Aeneid, The Divine Comedy, and Anna Karenina (bonus: Augustine's Confessions)
5) plan a book club
6) finish writing (or editing) at least one novel

I'd like to give a shoutout to the gal over at Heavenly Aspirations, since she also wrote about her summer plans and I think they are kinda inspiring. :)  [UPDATE: Sarah over at A Free Mind also told us about her summer plans :) ]

I don't know about you but Pirates of the Caribbean always motivates me.

And then there's young Sungha Jung's version, which is also really awesome:

(Also, Enya Radio on Pandora is usually really great to listen to for inspiring and motivating music that won't distract you!)

The following is from a new idea I have.  Please let me know what you think!  I've had a lot of trouble writing for some time now, but I'm determined to break bad habits and put the passion back into my talent.  If you have something encouraging to say, it would do a lot for my confidence.  If you have critiques, I'll accept that, too, because I want to figure out where my problems are.

Here goes.  I think I might call this book Welcome to the Wood, but I'm not sure.

"Welcome to the wood," she said.

†

Hearing a voice melodiously mingled with the murmuring of the leaves in the wind, merely a whisper at first, he stepped off the road and forged into the wood.  The singing, a woman's voice, was deeply enchanting; the tune haunting.  He pursued it deep into the wood, marking his way as he went and noting landmarks, such as a great oak growing on a rock in a clearing as wide around as its branches.  But the voice was not in the direction of the clearing.  He veered away from it in the brush and weaved on.

At last he found her, harshly rubbing a cloth against itself in the deep brook.  Her black hair rested on her shoulders and tickled the ground as her slender body crouched there.  Her sleeves were rolled up to her ivory-white, sculpted elbows; her strong arms, fine wrists worked back and forth in the water.  She couldn't be more than 25 years old.  And at last he distinguished the words she sang: 

If the water is too cold…

Go right in and catch a toad…

But if the water, the water is too hot…

Throw him… throw him in, throw him in a boiling pot…. 

She stopped when he had come near and looked at him: long, hollow cheeks and nose; closely trimmed beard; clear, round eyes; long hair; young; sword nearly concealed by his cloak.  "Welcome to the wood," she said.  "It's a lovely day, isn't it?" 

"It is, madam," he said.  "May I ask why you've come so far into the wood to wash a cloth?" 

"I live in the wood," she said, wringing out her cloth.  "What have you come for?" 

"I heard your voice while taking a morning stroll, as I like to do.  It's an odd song.  I've never heard it before."

"The words are not original to the melody," she said, her eyes locking with his unabashedly.  "The melody, ages old, belongs to a song about a lost loved one.  It was taught to me many years ago."

His imagination was captivated by her elegant beauty.  "Would you care to walk with me?"

"I must take this back to the house," she said.

"I'd be honored to walk with you," he pressed.

Smiling, "I think perhaps not this time.  But if you walk in the wood often, I will see you again.  Fare thee well."

As she noiselessly moved through the brush, he moved to follow her.  But she was out of sight and he, an honorable man, would not track her like a stag.  Rather, after a few minutes, he found the road again and continued his walk, musing.  The leaves of the mountain laurel resembled the color of her pinafore.  The soft brown of a bracket mushrom was similar to her mysteriously wise eyes.

But slowly, a bitterness settled in his face; and turning, he retraced the road back into town and to his room at Greeneback Tavern.

I'm sorry to have been neglectful for so long – Thank you very much for coming back and reading :)
~Meggy

(Also, if you'd like, check out my other blog for a recent update (and writing experiment): Our Hearts Unhindered)

Eeyore

I… was going to write about something… but now I don't remember what.  Hmm.  Huh.  Befuddled.

Well!  Anyway, have you checked out my new blog yet?  I'd really appreciate it if you would!  And also, if you're on Facebook, follow the blog on Facebook!  I'm not exactly sure why… but I want to promote my new blog and make it something real.  I want to take my blogging to the next level.

I guess we'll see!

I suppose next time I'll talk about Franciscan households, intenting, and maybe post a vague reflection on a relationship that's finally crumbling around me.  Fun stuff.  Nothing you haven't already heard from me before.  But you'll want to read it anyway.  Because I'm just that awesome.  Yup.

Someone recently compared me to Eeyore.  I love it!  I'm totally like Eeyore!

http://www.winnie-pooh.org/eeyore-quotes.htm

"Eeyore, what are you doing there?" said Rabbit.
"I'll give you three guesses, Rabbit. Digging holes in the ground? Wrong. Leaping from branch to branch of a young oak tree? Wrong. Waiting for somebody to help me out of the river? Right. Give Rabbit time, and he'll always get the answer."
"But, Eeyore," said Pooh in distress, "what can we - I mean, how shall we - do you think if we -"
"Yes," said Eeyore. "One of those would be just the thing. Thank you, Pooh."

"I might have known," said Eeyore. "After all, one can't complain. I have my friends. Somebody spoke to me only yesterday. And was it last week or the week before that Rabbit bumped into me and said 'Bother!'. The Social Round. Always something going on."

Well.  Anyway.  I should be getting to bed about now….

Night all

~Meggy

Lost in a World

THIS article written by the Mad Elvish Poet was well timed.  When I read it, I was just beginning a new adventure in story writing.  I found it extremely helpful, if only because it inspired and motivated me to really give this book a fighting chance.  Because I know how intimidating a link can be, I'll repost a little bit of it here (I hope she won't mind!).

Of course, a simple discussion is not simple. The movements and tones and words will be dictated by where and with whom. For example, you could have a simple conversation in a courtly setting, where the characters will be stiff and tense, always watching for someone to slip up, always reading for double meanings. Or, the same conversation could happen in passing in a horse barn. See the differences? Keep track of hands and arms. They can do a lot to convey emotion. Also, a nervous person might fidget, shift his weight from leg to leg, or, if sitting, frequently change position.

I found this analysis (and the rest of it – you really should go read it) simplified the problem with dialogue and yet illustrated the complexity.

Then the other day, I overheard my sister discussing one of her characters with my father.  Apparently they were under agreement that this character was a bit disappointing for the fact that he was a replica of the Emperor from Star Wars.  So I suggested, "Come up with one characteristic that makes him… unique from all other characters."  And I was struck by the wisdom of my own words!  Perhaps, when describing characters, a writer should be thinking of ways to surprise the reader.  Make the description stand out in the reader's mind – make him remember the character, see the character in his nightmares.  …Or in his dreams, whichever is appropriate.  I just hadn't thought of it that way before.  Instead of just describing someone, make it so that the character imprints his image on the reader's mind.

I don't know – so many of my blog followers are writers themselves.  You've probably already realized this.  I just wanted to share it.

~Meggy

Is She This or Is She That?

If you're a fiction writer, you will probably flip over this.  I know I would.  I know I did.  I filled it out for one of my characters and it is really helping me get a grip on some of her eccentricities.  Because she is secretive and wants to be a wallflower, she tended to do so all too well.  She needed something to give her life.  And the following helped a lot.  I'll post my character sketch in a few days, but for now, I'll just post the outline so you can have fun with this.  (Hint: try answering the questions about yourself first)

Name

Age

Appearance

Occupation

Income

Education

Environment

Personal Chronology

Hobbies

Pet(s)

Religion

Ethnic Background

Class

Occupation of Parents and/or Children

Talents

Dislikes

Eccentric Habits

Phobias

Ability to Change and Grow

Food Choices

Favorite Clothing Items

Color Preferences

Sound of Laughter

Reaction to Touch by Strangers

Shopping Patterns

Size of Vocabulary

Aspirations

Favorite Setting

Number of Friends

Drinking Habits

Feelings About Smoking

Favorite Pain Killer

Method of Handling Change

Letter Writing Habits

Storage of Photographs

Musical Preferences

Integrity

Secrets

Jealousies

Animal Totem

Representative Symbol

Ugliest Fault

Most Powerful Memories

Degree of Resilience

Problem-Solving Ability

Means of Coping with Stress

Method of Defusing Anger

Resemblance to Real People

Resonance with Other Characters

I also suggest considering certain decisions you make about daily life and discovering how your character would respond to those choices.  For example, I'm deciding if my character would sleep in in the morning and when she would be most productive.  What motivates her?  How does she deal with unpleasant people?

(Taken from Take Your Characters to Dinner by Laurel A. Yourke)

~Meggy

Right Down to Tobacco (a short excerpt of my novel)

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The world has long looked upon the people of Wassying as a pretentious nuisance, one which sours the morning paper over breakfast.  Wassying is one of the loudest voices of discontent.  It is a major trading center, overflowing with crime and irate about it.  The people of Wassying – or the Wassy, as they call themselves – wrestle in the political arena with about as much qualification as a sea urchin, but they are not the least aware of their ignorance.  They have raised some of the best soldiers, but only once did any of their sons lead the way to battle, and then it was but a short road to humiliating loss.  (Their one consolation on that matter is that the General was killed, and so he is allowed to live on in their memories as a brave warrior, howsoever the truth says otherwise.)  These are the days of Wassying’s glory – this is the Wassy’s hayday.  And yet, the Wassy is one of the loudest voices of discontent anywhere; and for good reason, for Wassying was not always so disruptive.

 

It lies west of the Ronnidack Mountains, which were once called Ronir’dac from an ancient and mythical tongue and means “great divide”.  There are two main roads through the mountains, one that leads from the major city of Thornburg and one that leads from the southern town of Riffurge, which was once called River Forge because it was the safest place to ford the West River (where the Bloodwine Bridge now stands).  The southern road was always an easy one, but it is long and indirect if you come from an eastern city.  However, the northern road was not always so worn as it is now.  There was once a time when lives were lost on that trail in foul weather.  Not even the hardy people of Wassying tried their oxen on that trail in adverse conditions.  No one came or went in the winter months.  Wassying was but a little village out of the way – blocked on one side by the Ronir’dac and hemmed in by thick forest and the Brid River on the other side.

 

So it was that Wassying was left alone.  Only the men knew of anything outside of Wassying, for they went to Thornburg as everyone did then for military training, which is still a firm tradition held by the proud Wassy even today.  But the academy was rigorous and strict.  The boys rarely saw anything outside the high walls or beyond the roads they traveled from home to school.  They returned to Wassying at the end of their training with a false sense of worldly knowledge; but bless them, it did them no harm.  But in one way, you might say the Wassy were ahead of their time.  They were, perhaps, the first of the villages of Hidran to squeeze out from under the rule of nobility, for when Sir Price died, his wife moved to their townhouse in Thornburg, but their son was too young to handle the affairs of the town; the town fell under the jurisdiction of the local pastor (this was back when Wassying still had religion).  So while the rest of the Hidran cities still labored under the abuses of the increasingly fallible nobility, Wassying was already ruled by the people.

 

And what a simple people they were.  It is fair to say that they never guessed how different the world was outside their boundaries.  They never dreamed that what happened in Wassying was not happening all over the world; but then, they did not have such a wide range of thought.  Their philosophical perspective, if any perspective of theirs could be called philosophical, could not fathom a world beyond their immediate sight.  In word only did the world exist.  In thought, only Wassying mattered.

 

But the Wassy could not be properly illustrated if it was only said that it was a community of fools.  Not so!  They were wise, in their way, and many of them were very kind, selfless people.  Before Wassying became a major trade center, it was known for its hospitality.  In fact, it was once a tourist spot.  It was such a small, close-knit community that no one could help but comply with the basic rules.  There were occasional strangers in town, but they did not remain strangers for long.

 

The Wassy had their quirks, too.  The lack of Faith in Wassying is not a new development, by any means.  Many, many years ago, they left the well-worn path for a twisted one, which turned this way and that to support very odd beliefs.  The people of Wassying threw themselves into extremes and believed in power that wasn’t there.  Very superstitious, they were, and gypsies preyed on them like vultures.

 

But the Wassy weren’t demonic!  They were as kind and gentle a folk as could be.  There was never any trouble, save the occasional dispute over a lost lamb or a corner of land.  They fancied themselves much-to-do in the world, that is all; and of all faults, that may be the most deceptive, but it was not born of willful ignorance.

 

They liked their tobacco, that much could be said.  Back then, they only called it “smoking weed,” but it sure was fine.  There are not many true Wassying tobacco plants left anymore, but in its heyday, it brought in the money like rain.

 

But the story that is here related happened before the heyday of Wassying tobacco.  That is to say, the men smoked a great deal of it, but they weren’t yet in the habit of selling it....

~Meggy

The Water Lane

 

We are so close now.

Many a lover has rowed his dear down this lane.  Many a tired old soul has cooled his feet in this water.  Many a huntsman has satisfied his thirst from this spring.

It is a sad thing that my journey down this lane must be my last.  The blue sky is so azure.  The trees are so brown and green.  They have such life within them and without them.  They stand solemnly at attention to watch their princess pass by one last time.  They hail me as I ride silently by, my chin high.  The water is perfectly still, save around our boat.  It is the great, long mirror, stretching away to the future.

My face is set.  I know to where I go.  I know from where I leave.  I know that everything I hold dear is scattered all around me, like a child's toys on the floor, just out of reach.  I am an invalid – I cannot catch any of my toys in my hand.

My escort is around me, attentive and waiting.  They wait for my command.  They are tuned in to my every movement, almost to my very thoughts.  They love me as their treasure to protect, their charge to care.  They handle me with the gentleness required for a delicate glass trinket, rare and invaluable.  Do they not see that another will come?  I am not the last.  I am not the first.  They have cared for others besides myself; yet am I a jewel among stones, needing protection from thieves.

This I feel, that I will never return to this place.  It is here, and it is gone.  No, I have gone.  It is behind me.  I am gone.  It continues on, while I am gone.  It will not cease, but I have gone.

It is the pathway to another journey, beyond the hedge and undergrowth.  We near the end.  We are so close now, but this place will remain forever in my memory.

~Meggy

Writer's Tips

 

Whenever I meet a fiction writer, I usually take one safe step back.  Sure to accompany anything I say next with a smile and an amount of uncontroversial chatter, I fail to mention that I, myself, like to write fiction.  In fact, I avoid the topic of writing fiction.  Writers, particularly writers of fiction, tend to be very defensive about their work.  They can take a few spelling errors or a remark of criticism on the grammar, but if you contradict their so-called style then they get very angry indeed.

Being a writer myself, I understand how this works.  Don't for a moment think that I'm picking on someone.  (I made a comment about stereotypical homeschoolers yesterday and quickly had to remind everyone that I'm a homeschooler myself.  Yikes, that was a close one.)

One particularly nasty area is hidden inside schools.  When young writers are told how to write their papers, they tend to indignation.  After all, they write all the time.  What the heck is a "topic sentence" and who needs them?  Is there anything to be gained by writing "by the rules"?

My class was recently assigned a paper which could either be descriptive or narrative.  These lines cross over, of course, but I focused on descriptive.  Someone in my class, we'll call George, wants to write screenplays (isn't that cool?).  He's a fiction writer – yeah, I've taken that safe step back a couple of times.  When he got his paper back with a grade that was not up to his expectations, he was understandably disappointed.  (Just a disclaimer, it wasn't a bad grade, but it wasn't an A+.)  I read his paper, and it was good.  There wasn't anything really wrong with it, but it perhaps wasn't up to the standard that the textbook chapters set.  Since that was the standard that the professor was grading by, it's only fair.

So is there anything to be gained by writing the way the professor wants and not in your "style"?  Uh, duh.  Yes.  Captain Obvious statement of the year.  There is always something to be gained in putting your ways aside and learning the ways of others.

Writers struggle with this.  George probably struggles with this.  My sister, who has published a book, struggles with this.  I struggle with this.  Everyone struggles with this.  Human beings apply labels and titles to themselves and so assume themselves experts in that field.  There are exceptions, there are limitations, and there are saints; but generally speaking, this is the case.  Scientists are often made fun of for this very reason.  Writers suffer from the same problems.

Am I saying that all of George's writing should have more description in it and should sound like the selections in the textbook?  I don't know, to be honest with you.  Certainly, his writing should improve as he grows wiser and gains experience, but I haven't formed an opinion on whether his writing should include more description or more this or more that.  We have all experienced different forms of writing.  Austen is different from Tolkien is different from Funke (Dragon Rider, Inkheart, Thief Lord).  Writers who write about current times in current places describe things differently than writers who write about past or imaginary times in past or imaginary places.  I personally love the spell that is woven when there is extensive painted scenery, but that may not fit a book about a war with terrorists.  On the other hand, who knows?  What if all books told a story with more illustration?  Description makes things a little more interesting, conveys feeling and tone, and fleshes out the scene.

But how to describe so that description does those three things?  You have to use metaphor, simile, personification, and strong action verbs.  Consider:

• It was chilly.
• The wind and rain chilled her all through.

Which is better?  Honestly.  The first is fine for conversation or emphasis in a complicated paragraph, but the second tells a story all by itself, doesn't it?  I'm even cautiously willing to bet that every writer that reads the latter sentence will feel their imagination kick into gear.  (Notice that chilly changed from a predicate subject adjective to an action verb.)

As I say all the time to my siblings, don't be afraid to try new things and learn.  Or are you a selfish coward?  I know I am, but no one has to know that.  I'm going to improve my writing by trying ways which are not my own.  I'll outwardly be just as brave as a heroic protagonist, and in doing so, become who I pretend to be.

And you?

~Meggy

Time Circle

The clearing waited in stillness.  The wind blew through the thickly-green upper branches, but nothing stirred below.  The earth slept under layers of dead maple leaves.  Three tall pines sheltered the spot form the sun, but no living soul rested in the shade.

Her skirt snagged thorny blackberry bushes, low and lazy, without warning.  Long had those brambles waited at the entrance to discourage all but the bravest from stepping foot within, but time had disillusioned them and tricked them into retirement.

Young birch trees, startled suddenly out of their nonchalance, grasped desperately for her.  They caught naught but her golden hair, which slipped like silk through their fingers.  Time had tricked them, too, into pride and forgetfulness.

A moat of thin, brown leaves enclosed the clearing.  They cried out in crackling voices to be so suddenly woken from their daze.  Time had made them old and weak; they could not endure and their backs broke.  Even under so light a tread as hers, they did not have the strength to bear her across.

In the heart of the clearing, three pines stood watch in a circle like great pillars, no more than five feet apart.  The earth around them was bare and exposed; and time had baked sticky pine needles and dirt together to form a springy layer of topsoil.  It molded beneath her feet and sprang back, akin to walking on a mattress.

One last lonely, scraggly branch lived low on the trunk of a pine.  All the branch's companions had withered and died in the shadow of the canopy above, but this sole branch had survived by stretching out beyond the shade and shadows to where a hole in the roof let in playful sunbeams.  There, in that sunny haven, a tuft of needles sprouted and drank in the warmth.

On this lone tree branch hung a homemade swing – a simple two-by-four, dangling three feet from the ground on a thick bit of splintery rope.  The rope slithered up from one end of the swing to the branch, coiled up along it a foot or two, and dropped down around the other end of the swing.

The branch pitched and jolted under the weight of the swing's passenger; the tuft of leaves chattered.  A dry, grey rock beneath the swing acted as anchor, and her feet kicked against the rough trunk of a tree to launch backwards – one, sweeping motion.  Barren branches, pine needles, and patches of maple leaves wove a dizzying mosaic against the blue sky overhead.

All was still.  The smell of age and rot wafted stealthily in the air.  The distant rush of the freeway went by in ignorance.  Stray sunbeams danced with old dust; and together, they blurred the lines, softened the edges, and transformed the forest.  The clearing had become a creature – wise, and maternal, and very, very old.

It was secret.  It was still.  It was timeless.

Wrote this for English class recently and got a great grade on it.  What do you think?

~Meggy

He Was Here

First, go read the version at The Thoughts of the Mad Elvish Poet.

It was interesting to read her interpretation, because we both had the same "on the brink of something big" impression, but her style was completely different from the one I imagined – I couldn't resist trying my own hand and comparing the two.  I'm not saying that mine is better, just that the two interpretations are different.  I liked hers, understand.  I wanted to compare the difference that two different people saw in the same picture.  I really encourage you to read mine and then read hers (or vice versa) and maybe write your own, and see just how varied perspectives can be!

 

He was in here, somewhere.  He'd gone down, down, down – somewhere.  I didn't know where.  But he was down here.  Something drew me in here and I don't know why.  But I knew, somehow, I knew he was in here.  He'd been missing for almost a year – isn't that always the way?  Somehow I knew he was in here.

No trick of science could explain this to me – no reasoning would keep me away.  He was in here.  He had gone down, down, down.  He was in here somewhere.  He had drowned, and no one had been around to see it.  Why, I didn't know.  But he was in here.  He was in here.  He had drowned, he had died – and yet he was still here.  He was waiting.  He was still here, waiting.  He was in here somewhere, waiting for me.  He was waiting for me to come and find him.

I need only step in and find him.  I need only feel my way in and find him.  I need only run my feet carefully along the rocky bottom and find him.  He was waiting.  He was waiting for me to find him.  I need only go in farther.  I need only go in deeper.  I need only go in farther, deeper, up to my knees in the icy water.  He was waiting, and my skirt grew heavy.  He was waiting and I need only go up to my waist.  He was in here somewhere and I only needed to find him.

He was here.  He was waiting.  He was here, waiting for me.  I could see him.  I could see him down there.  He was down there, waiting on the bottom.  He was here in the murky water.  I could see him.  He was here and I could see him.  He was waiting here for me to find him and I could see him.  He was here.  He was waiting.  He was here.  He was here....

~Meggy

Nímmoh'ín

....

But it was not fickleness or lack of affection or even a lack of love for him which drove him from her mind; there were many important goings on in Wassying.

First there was an epidemic, which kept Dr. Jacobi busy for some weeks, well into November, just as the first snows were falling.  Kate offered her help wherever she could and soon found herself as stretched thin as the doctor, who came down with it himself before it was all over.  Almost everyone recovered, but they lost Mrs. Mason’s Trisha, aged five, and Mrs. Alford’s baby Emma, aged not yet one year.  The ceremony, for each was put together quickly before the ground froze solid, and it was a great community affair.
 

As the children were laid together in a barrow, Trisha’s sister Margaret and Emma’s sister Lilly sang an old burial song, the origins of which no one knew anymore.  It was in a language the Wassy did not know or understand, and the exact translation was long forgotten, but it went like this:

Pelela, pelela, pelelæ jah’esones
Ŧehloh cauŧuvav, iëmen elnon heï æċo
Rúd orætín hah élo
Planeg jokæ læjonahes jenàæl heï hesanaiën
Pelela, pelela, pelelæ jah’esones
Honem shúgélo f’élo en’lebenon’emen
En’la’élo’shúgeg roshengœ ŧenges

Loosely, it meant:

Peace, peace, peaceful may you rest
Beneath the earth, so dark and cold
Time hath taken of your breath
Locked it someplace concealed and old
Peace, peace, peaceful may you rest
But leave to those left behind
A memory soft and kind

It's a language that I've invented called Nímmoh'ín.  The accented 'i' sounds like long E, and the H, because it comes at the "end", sounds something like 'ache' in the German 'ache, du leiber' or like the Scottish 'loch'.  It ends in a raspy breath.  Don't let the O get drowned out -- it's long, but it does get slightly toned down by the H.

(The excerpt comes from a novel I am writing that I have mentioned in previous posts.)

~Meggy

A Letter from Audrey

Some time ago, A Wanderer In the Shadowed Land challenged us to write letters from literary characters, our own or otherwise, to get to know them better.  I thought I'd write a letter from one of the primary characters of the book I'm meticulously working on now.  She's a rather quiet person and even I don't know much about her so this was the perfect opportunity to get to know her better.  After writing the letter, I asked myself, Did I succeed?  Do I know her?  Well, I don't know.  This careful character is still pretty guarded.  But I'm finally figuring out what her relationship to Eva Locknob is, which is terribly important for later.

Dear Eva, If this letter comes to you under a name you do not know, it is because I changed my name at Brindleby to prevent anyone from tracking me here.  I am now in a little town called Wassying, which seems to be completely ignorant of magic altogether.  They think magic is either a myth or the complicated and outdated origin of the superstition to which they are so devoted.  I knew it would be safe place for me to hide, but I do terribly miss a society that believes as I do.

I have found evidence that there once was a vibrant magic community here.  There is a stone circle just outside of the old section of town, an area which long ago burned to the ground.  I was amazed to find that, instead of being abandoned, it was often used as a social meeting place.  I have been to several dances there.  --  I know it will not surprise you to hear that I have a suitor already, although it well distresses me.  The Wassy, which is what the people of Wassying call themselves, call us "swain", a word which I have not heard since Weatherby more than fifteen years ago.  Cedric Price is a handsome gentleman, and his manners exceed those of all else in Wassying.  The manners of Wassying are so very loud and comfortable that the whole place seems to be one family.  It is so different from what I am used to, but however superiorly gentlemanly Mr. Price  --

may be, I cannot make up my mind to be in love with him.  He left town on Tuesday, but first he asked me to take his mother's ring as a symbol of our pledge to one another.  Will I shock you if I admit that I did not take it?  I could not look at him and take his ring.  I am not aware of pledging anything and, I declare, he has never shown any interesting beyond a moderate respect.  Neither of us believe in superstition and he finds me sound of mind, he has said, although we disagree on matters of petitions, which he has resolved by saying in so many words that women do not have a full knowledge of such matters.  Leith still haunts my nightmares from time to time, and now more that ever, I with I was back at your inn.  I cannot seem to disspell him from my mind, although he has driven me even to open up my mother's books again.

Eva, it has been too long since Cedric left Wassying for Sidd.  I pray that you have seen him for I sent him to you.  But I have heard nothing.  No one else in town has either.  I do worry about him because, no matter how uncertain about marriage I may be, I still care for him very much, and he is so very foolish and young of mind.  He could not comprehend Octavius' full power, since he does not believe in magic, and he has no talent in negotiating.  The trip to Sidd from Wassying is, at most, fourteen days.  To have been gone a full two months and some is worrying, and I am not the only one who is concerned.  His best friend Ted is perhaps almost more concerned that I am.  he knows Cedric's naive nature far better than I and, he has confided to me, blames himself for letting Cedric go alone.  --  I have decided to come after him, and perhaps it would be wise for me to see Octavius.  i send this ahead of me, but do --

-- not bother to write in answer.  I am leaving as soon as may be.  Please expect me.  I have missed you very much and I hope you are well.  -- With all my love, Audrey

Unfortunately, the letter is blurry so I added captions.

I'd like to write letters for my other characters, so stay tuned!

 

"Guess that concludes negotiations."  I just love

these guys, don't you?  They possess everything

you wish everyone had: loyalty, bravery, simplicity,

oh, and awesome clothes!

 

~Meggy

Ted and Cedric

Hiya, everybody.  Before I get on to the meat of this post, does anybody get heartburn?  I get heartburn when I eat banana bread.  Searching online, I've found that some people get heartburn when they eat bananas, but I have never noticed heartburn after a banana, only after banana bread, and it is almost immediate.  Does anyone know why?  It's probably similar to why whole wheat bread makes my throat sore.  ???

Anyway, Ted is one of my favorite characters in a book that, actually, I'm writing.  He plays a deplorably minor role in the whole thing but I just love him.  He's an all-around good guy.  Are you allowed to love your own characters?  I don't know, but anyway, this is a section that I just wrote from a book that I have posted about before.  It has undergone so many revisions you wouldn't recognize it, and, at the least, the opening paragraphs will undergo many more.  But here is a section from the second chapter:

Cedric and Ted Carlyle headed home from an Underground meeting together that night.  Ted was humming and he was very cheery lately.  “What has you in such good humors?” Cedric asked him.
 

“I’ll tell you but it’s a secret,” said Ted.
 

“If it’s a secret,” said Cedric, “then don’t tell me.”
 

“Gee, what has got you so foul lately?” asked Ted.  “You’re always scowling.”

“I shall tell you if you promise you will not tell Mariah,” said Cedric.
 

“Why, Cedric, I would never tell Mariah something told in strictest confidence,” said Ted, pretending to be deeply offended.
 

“I never can be sure with you,” said Cedric, not unkindly, “and you know that nothing Mariah knows is long a secret.  And this is about Miss Mitchell.”
 

“Oh?” said Ted.
 

“I can not make up my mind what to think about her,” said Cedric.
 

“Explain.”
 

“She is so sweet, so sensible,” said Cedric, “but she hates The Underground.”
 

“Yeah, I noticed that.”
 

“The other ladies - present company’s lady excluded, of course - are too simple for my tastes,” said Cedric.  “Kate has a mind and she is wise and thinks deeply about things.  About everything , that is, except this blasted Underground.”
 

“You shouldn’t worry that I’d repeat this to Mariah with the kind of language you’re using,” Ted teased.
 

“Pardon me,” said Cedric.  “Do you think I could change her mind?”
 

“Miss Mitchell’s?”
 

“Of course.”
 

“Do you need to?”
 

“Well, she is wrong about this whole business.”
 

“Well, then, do you intend to?”
 

“I intend to try.”
 

Ted shook his head.  “But why, my friend?”
 

Cedric sighed.  “What is your condition?”
 

“Oh, I ordered an item through the general store and it arrived today,” hedged Ted.
 

“But you have had a bounce in your step for days,” said Cedric.
 

“I guess it was just the anticipation of it then,” said Ted.
 

Cedric sighed.  “Very well, I shall ask you right out, if that is what you want,” he said.  “What did you order?”
 

“A ring.”
 

“A ring?”
 

“Yep, a ring.  I ordered it special from a big city.  I’m going to ask Mariah to marry me.”
 

Cedric stopped in his tracks.  “You are?”
 

“Of course,” said Ted.  “Haven’t you noticed how much I am in love with her?”
 

Cedric tried to recall.  “I have noticed that you spend much of your time with her.”
 

“You know what your problem is?”
 

“Enlighten me.”
 

“You’re oblivious to much of what is going on around you.”
 

“Oblivious?”
 

“Well, not necessarily.  You could be naive.  One or the other.”
 

“That is very encouraging,” said Cedric, stepping forward again.  “I am glad you are my friend.”
 

“Hey, Cedric, why not make it a double wedding?”
 

“Who else did you have in mind?”
 

“What about you and Miss Mitchell?”
 

Cedric raised an eyebrow at his friend.
 

“Oh, come on, everyone has been expecting it for months.”
 

“They have?”
 

“Oh, come, my friend, you haven’t noticed?”
 

“No one told me so.”
 

“For all the prompting they have been giving you, my friend, they may as well have told you straight to get married right now,” said Ted.
 

“I think you are exaggerating to pressure me,” said Cedric, “although I cannot think why.  If I ever do decide to marry Miss Mitchell, I shall do it.  I will not need any prompting.”
 

“That is exactly why we are prompting you,” said Ted, and Cedric shook his head in bewilderment.  “If you are not looking to marry her,” Ted continued, “then perhaps you ought to let her know.”
 

“I beg your pardon?”
 

“It is not fair to the other men in the community if you do not intend to marry her,” said Ted.  “I hear Leith likes her very much.”
 

“Leith fancies Julia, and you know it,” said Cedric.  “Of course I intend to marry her.  You think I am some kind of casanova or something?”
 

“Well, so long as you aren’t serious about Miss Mitchell, I just thought the other men might take a chance with her,” Ted said.
 

“That sounded all wrong in every way,” Cedric pointed out.  “Anyway, I did not say I was serious about her.”
 

“Then what are you waiting for?”
 

“I am not sure I am interested in marriage just now.  I am not even sure she would want to marry me.”
 

“If you were sure, you wouldn’t have to ask,” said Ted.
 

“I thought of a proposal as more of a courtesy,” said Cedric, “a sort of game for the woman, part of the courtship.”
 

“Ah!  My friend,” said Ted, “I have always admired your sire for his great dignity and care in bringing you up, but now I see where he failed, and failed indeed.  You are much to proud.”
 

“I am not.”
 

Ted laughed.  “Well, in any case, I intend to marry fair Mariah, if she will have me, and I am sure we shall be delighted to have you join us, if you have the mind,” said Ted.  “Now, I’ve gone too far and I’ll have to double back.  I’ll see you on the morrow!”
 

“Till tomorrow, Ted.”

~Meggy

Some notes on Murder in the Cathedral

(play by T.S. Eliot)

This play tells the story of Thomas Becket's martyrdom, and is about temptation to avoid unpleasant things and, moreover, Christian mourning and joy.

This is an easy read as plays go and I recommend it.  You may take note:

Chorus:  These women are poor folk who relish being left to themselves.  Ever since the archbishop (Thomas) left, they have largely been allowed to sort of settle into a spiritual lukewarmness.  They dread Thomas' return because they know they won't be able to remain neutral.

Messenger: knows that there is neither war nor peace, but expects this "peace" will not last

First Priest:  He is fully aware of the proud nature of both the king and the archbishop; he is afraid for the archbishop and for the Church and worries that the people will "forget" their friend the archbishop

Second Priest: has all his faith in the archbishop; he wondered what the archbishop could be doing in France and what good it could do; he is glad the archbishop has returned and believes the answer lies with him

Third Priest:  He seems to be the wisest; he says the least; he sees the inevitable downfalls of temporal government; he recognizes that the king and the archbishop are like "the hammer and the anvil", and he knows that something must happen, be it good or bad - it cannot remain unresolved

Comparing the Priests:  The first is perhaps the least trusting in God of the three.  The second, on the other hand, has misplaced his trust.  He trusts that the archbishop will come out victorious.  He can almost see the archbishop conquering the king, coming out of the battle carrying a banner, victorious!  The third, those the wisest, lacks joy and seems to lack hope.  He does not know how things will end, but he know that will go one way or another.

First Tempter:  He is worldly; he thinks of comfort and easy living without strife against something; he tempts Thomas with the familiarity that he once had with the king; he proposes a sort of compromising of values

Second Tempter: thinks that the archbishop should accept the Chancellorship again, resigning his current spiritual position, in order to be of more influence to the poor, etc.; he tempts Thomas to value worldly power over the greater spiritual responsibilities that he now possesses

Third Tempter:  He obviously has a political agenda; he sounds like a politician; notice that he represents barons and tempts Thomas to allegiance against the king

Fourth Tempter: notice that Thomas did not expect this one, making it the most dangerous; pretends to think just as Thomas thinks; notice he quotes Thomas' words, making them seem to say what the tempter wants them to say; asserts that Thomas was right to avoid those temptations: if you want glory, be a martyr; he tempts Thomas to accept martyrdom for his own glory


As the play goes on, we see that all three priests stand on the same ground - they are scared, they fear for the archbishop, and despite their earlier attitudes, they all urge Thomas to do the same thing.

I have been "ve-wy, ve-wy naughty"

(My brother used to say that all the time^)

I don't know about you, but I have a couple of demons that will probably haunt me all my life.  Looking around at the world, I know I'm not alone and maybe you can relate.

One of these demons is manga.  Now, if up until now you've thought fairly well of me and you're now thinking, "Oh jeez!  She likes manga.  And here I thought she was a kindred spirit!", then I don't blame you in the least.  I don't know why I like manga - probably for the same reasons other people don't.  Some says its unrealistic and so I think, "That's like saying Picasso is a rotten painter."  Some of it is really beautiful - like one series that I took for granted until my little sister (who is a big fan of the series) took it out of the library again (if interested, it's called "Kitchen Princess").  And not all manga is blood and gore, or fickle love and making out.  But there can be no denying that it can be very unhealthy for you.  Still, I think writing them off completely, particularly if you like manga, is like writing off all novels because of one lousy one.

That said! ....

Manga is not really ideal - at least not for me yet - for reading in sections like a normal chapter book (given that it can be hard to put down chapter books too).  I haven't yet learned to read it a chapter at a time and then put it down.  So when I get a new book - or even one I've read before - a whole hour or more can go by before I put it down.  Thus, I can waste a lot of time on manga.

One of my favorite authors (one on whom I'm now digging up some dirt on so I should note that it is rare to stumble upon a Christian-moral type mangaka) ........  But anyway, one of my favorite mangaka (grammar?) is Aya Nakahara, but the only series available in the U.S. is "Love Com" ("Lovely Complex"), although she does have others.

Since I've dropped out of manga, so to speak, because I'm really busy, I haven't read any manga in a long time.  Recently, my sister decided that she was going to turn fanatic over "Kitchen Princess" for a while, and manga was brought back into my life.  I don't know what my thought process was, but I do remember that I ended up reading as much as was available online of "Kimi ni Todoke", instead of ordering the next book from the library.  Then I must have gone looking for information about one of Aya Nakahara's other series, hoping some progress had been made to translate it into English.  Again, I don't remember what exactly I did.  All I know is that I then ended up spending a great deal of time reading manga online.  I came across some stuff of Nakahara's that was just not cool, but I came across other stuff which was good (not as good as "Love Com", which contrary to common first impressions, has nothing to do with online relationships).

All I can really say, looking back on two late nights (ONLY TWO???  It felt like more than two days?!?!?!?!), is that I finished all the available material (that I would dare read) from Aya Nakahara a few hours ago - which was my goal.  I was really only interested in finding more of her stuff because a lot of second rate manga has managed to cross the borders of its own country.  And now I'm like, now what?

It's not even the time I wasted that really concerns me (because I did get everything done, somehow...), it's more like what some manga does do my brain that worries me.  Suddenly I start visualizing life in a completely different and irrational way.  And when you're reading manga online, translated by who-knows-who!, the language doesn't always come out clean.  Even though I skip over any foul words that I do come across, the bottom line is that too much manga for me isn't healthy.  One way to tell is how addicted I get once I get started.

Another problem I face: American graphic novels don't make the grade.

I don't know why but I just don't like American graphic novels as much as the Japanese ones!  One thing is the style, which tends be low key, less imaginative, and more realistic in American graphic novels.  The plots might be high quality, make more sense, and perhaps don't contain as much pagan philosophy and "barbarian" tradition (if you'll excuse me), but I may never know because they lack the imagination and eye-catching imagery that I find in "native" manga.

I know there must be some really good graphic novels out there, I just can't find them!  Probably the best ones are stuck in Japan - I mean, it's the popular ones that get translated and distributed worldwide and we all know how society picks its favorites.

Ah well.  If I'm careful and I don't start looking for manga from the "Kitchen Princess" people (which is a good start if you want a sampling of manga), I might just be able to resume my normal life right now and get back to work.

The point is, God forbid that I ever forget about those demons that are waiting for a weak moment to take over again.  You know what I mean?

And then, to top it off, I spend another hour or so writing in my blog!  lol!  I just finished Shakespeare's 'The Tempest'.  I'm not sure what to make of it - any thoughts?

~Meggy