Merry Christmas!

This beautiful Christmas song is written and performed by the lovely Hayley Westenra, entitled

"Peace Shall Come." 

 

Olga



Happy Birthday.

A Yearning

I want to put power in my words. I want to make my readers cry, make them laugh, make them feel like the characters feel. The music I listen to when I write, which I often try to make match the emotions of the characters, often has such power in the lyrics, in the singer’s voice, and yet…so often I cannot transfer that feeling through my fingers onto the keys and into words. How can I touch my readers? I want to do this so badly…I want to put power in my words. November is National Novel Writing Month. Why is it that this month, of all months, I have been writing hardly anything good?

Armistice

Today at 11:00 AM was the 94th anniversary of when the fighting finally ended for WWI. Being the lover of history and the era that I am, I dearly wish I could have honoured it with the 2-minute silence, but having been in church and not quite aware of the time, I didn't know, and the rest of my day was rather crazy. So now, in honor and memory of all those that died, Rest in Peace.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young.

Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow.

They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,

They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

 

-Laurence Binyon

 

stuck

I. Hate. Writer's. Block.
Especially when I want to write but feel no point in it because it turns out badly. Maybe it's just because I'm tired. One advantage (if it can be called that) is that I often write hilariously wierd things when I'm stuck. Sometimes.
Maybe I'll go look at that post I made ages ago about overcoming writer's block.

What to do when you are stuck

I came across something today that was very interesting. It said,

Make a list of what WOULDN'T happen next.

In the novel I am writing, I was at a very stuck spot where I wasn't sure where to go. I knew I wanted this character to change, but I wasn't sure how to make him change and have it be believeable because this character is very evil. I started making a rather lousy list of what wouldn't happen next, and got a brilliant idea. I may not use it, but I'll keep ploughing on. I think this technique works! 

Autumn Splendor

Yellow, mellow, ripened days,
Sheltered in a golden coating;
O'er the dreamy, listless haze,
White and dainty cloudlets floating;
Winking at the blushing trees,
And the sombre, furrowed fallow;
Smiling at the airy ease,
Of the southward flying swallow.
Sweet and smiling are thy ways,
Beauteous, golden Autumn days.

Will Carleton

I love that sun-warmed feeling, the beautiful blue sky, the flaming leaves of late September!

Writing Magic

I've been reading this book called Writing Magic by Gail Carson Levine, author of fabulous fairy-tale retellings such as Ella Enchanted, Fairest, The Two Princesses of Bamarre and others. The slim book featuring a hand with a pen writing Magic on some parchment with magical looking swirls on coming out of it holds lots of helpful tips for writing written in a practical but funny way. With a lot of writing exercises, advice and other such things broken down into subject chapters, it's a great help to any aspiring author!

Quote

"To read is to empower
To empower is to write
To write is to influence
To influence is to change
To change is to live."
-Jane Evershed

3:00 Thursday August 30, 2012

I wander the kitchen, bored. Standing on the edge of the step down into the living room, I observe a shaft of sunlight falling from the skylight onto a basket overflowing with notebooks. The ceiling fan whirrs and clicks above me, false wind in contrast to the rustling leaves outside. Through the smudged window I see the branches making dark patterns shifting on the sunny driveway. The fan, the wind and the wind-chimes blend together into one silence. Books and papers clutter the living room table, an incomplete to-do list, Christmas coasters, a red composition book and the laptop computer. I click the lid open to record my rambling thoughts. Behind me a disheveled bookshelf, a mess of wires on the floor to my right. The wireless modem cords make shadows on the sunlight against the white wall. To the left side of the computer screen I can see the branches of the hemlock tree in the front yard waving in the wind against the blue sky. Keys click. Moments are recorded. The last few days of a busy summer. There’s things to do. But for now, I let my thoughts ramble on.

Alix Poetry

A title, finally, a rather obvious one: "A Princess of Hesse: A Novel in Free Verse."
I THINK that's what this type of poetry is called.

7.

The beautiful flowers

Surround us

On the lush grass

The sound of pencils

Scratching on paper

As Ksenia and I sketch.

We talk like we’ve

Known each other

More than a few days.

Ella and Irene approach us

Sit down beside us on

The colourful blanket

Their skirts spread elegantly.

Ella tucks a flower

Behind my ear

I don’t feel so dreadful now

At the prospect of loosing her.

I see Nicholas come towards us

He kneels behind me

Praises my sketch

Teases Ksenia

Calls her a funny nickname.

I try to keep sketching

Not show the strange feeling

I get inside

From him being so close.

Ksenia asks if I have any nicknames.

Grandmamma calls me Sunny sometimes.

Nicholas asks if he can call me that.

It suits you, he says.

I glance warily at Irene

She looks dubious

But Ella is laughing.

No, I don’t mind, I consent

Feeling a funny little thrill

As I say it.

8.

Clinking glasses

Chatter

In languages I can’t understand.

The Tsar at the head of the table

His son at my side.

My cheeks feel hot

I wish I could go outdoors.

I look across the table

At Ella

Laughing with Sergei

Her beautiful eyes sparkling.

I’m going to

Loose her

Companionship

Guidance

Love

In just a few weeks.

To Sergei.

Before tears sting my eyes

In front of everyone,

I block those thoughts

Out of my mind.

I can feel Nicholas’s eyes on me.

I can’t help it

I turn my head.

Instantly

My face becomes

Even more warm

And I look down,

Unable to look him

In the eye.

Inwardly I smile

Forgetting for a moment

That he can’t see it.

But I’m too bashful

To smile to his face.

Yet.

　

　

　

　

More Alix Poetry

Poems 5 and 6 of Part One.

5.

I hug my arms to my chest

Trying to block out

The feelings of something being taken away

Of not being understood

Of being forlorn

Like the motherless little girl

I was, and still am.

Papa worries

Irene reassures

And all I want to do is

Stop the carriage from coming

Prevent it from taking

Ella away.

I don’t want to go

To a foreign country

To watch my

Sister

Mother

Friend

Get married

And stay there forever.

6.

The welcome is

So grand

Ella must feel so honored

And delighted

I feel conflicting emotions

Pride for beautiful Ella

And anger at the Russian people

Welcoming her.

She’s not their Grand Duchess.

She’s my sister.

The Tsar’s daughter

Nine years old

Takes my hand

And pulls me past the fountain

To show me something

In the gardens of their grand palace.

I follow willingly

Glad to have a new friend

And knowing that

Her older brother

Is watching me

Behind us.

Desired Things

Desiderata: Latin, "desired things."

"Desiderata"

-1927 by Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater
and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble,
it's a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantement,
it is as perrenial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit
to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Alix Poetry Continued

Poems 3 and 4 of Part One.

3.

The sun streams into

The linen closet.

I hand Irene a petticoat

And begin folding

My dressing gown.

If only they could just stay there

Everything the same.

I know Irene won’t

Understand

How I feel

Nobody will, I think,

Except maybe my

Brother Ernie, just visiting

From boarding school

And my best friend, Toni,

Far away in another part

Of Germany.

I know I should talk to Ella

About how I feel

Nothing has been the same

Between us

Since February

And now she’s leaving

Tomorrow.

But I want one last moment

With my beloved big sister

Here at home, in Hesse,

Before she leaves

And becomes a

Grand Duchess of Russia.

4.

Ella is right.

There are so many memories

Here in the parlor.

It is where

Vicky told us she was to be married

Where Ernie bumped his head,

Where Toni and I accidentally smashed a statue

Where I learned that Mama died.

I’ve lost so many people in my life,

I tell Ella.

I don’t know if I can bear to loose you too.

Her comforting words

Do a little to keep back the tears,

But as I lean my head

On her shoulder

I realize it’s the last time

I’ll ever feel her arm around me

In this room

When it’s her home.

Irene says she’ll always be

Our Ella.

She’s right

But something

A light

Is going from our home

And I will feel the loss

More than anyone else.

A Prequel to The First Dance

A prequel, (staring five years earlier,) to The First Dance. It doesn't have a title yet, but it's bascially just a bunch of ramble-poems from Alix's perspective.

Part One:

1884

1.

Engaged.

The word rings in my head

Making me dizzy.

Sister

Mother

Friend

She is all of those to me.

I can’t believe it

And I don’t want to.

2.

I balance the teacup

In a ladylike manner

Wishing I could throw it

Against the wall.

Grandmamma,

Ella,

Irene,

They’re all so happy.

But I don’t want to be.

Ella thinks Sergei is so

Wonderful

But I don’t understand

And I don’t want to.



A Rambling Poem

I check this page every day
Think I should post something
But nothing comes to mind
I close the page
Forget about it.
What's the point of
Seeking out something to post
Shouldn't it be from inspiration?
Even this poem
(Not even a proper 'poem'
More of a ramble
But it's my favorite kind of poetry)
Seems like it should have
More to it
But if I write anything
Without being inspired
What's the point of
Writing something
To write it
If it's going to end up
Badly written?

Victorian-Inspired Journals and Other Lovely Stuff

I'm finding myself swooning over all these beautiful little journals, card and tags and wanting to buy every single one!
Dorothy Jane

The Industrial Revolution: A Poem

What has happened to forkfuls of earth,

Tossed away to reveal new potatoes?

What has happened to flocks of sheep,

Put out to pasture on green hillsides?

Where are the lines of clothes,

Flying crisply in the wind,

While chickens peck on corn below?

Sunlight replaced by soot,

Fragrace of wild flowers,

Gone, now only smoke.

Majestic trees, leaves rustling,

Torn down, factories in their wake.

Peat and straw,

Wattle and mud,

Things of the past,

Their places taken by brick and concrete.

Shovels toss coal now,

Instead of dirt.

The men work in mines,

Not in fields,

The women in sweatshops,

Laboring over clothing not their own.

Fireside and garden foreign.

Children slave on in mills,

No happy frolicking in pastures,

Gathering eggs for Mother,

Chasing rabbits, collecting pebbles.

"And this is a 'better future',"

Mourns an old man and his wife,

As they sit thinking of their children,

In one of the last places

Pristinely idyillic pastures

Still intact.

How much longer

Until their home, too,

Will be gone?



Poem for the Romanovs Death

July 16/17, 1918. Rest in Peace.

A clod of earth is tossed over
The bodies still warm
They laughed so recently.
They’re gone now
Their spirits from this earth fled
At the hands of the brutal captors
Who could not see a loving soul.
Gone, yet dead only to this earth
Nor forgotten, for as I write this
I feel an ache in my heart
For the family who cried out in vain
To the sounds of the pistols
That terrible night.
They lived with forgiveness in their hearts
And I know that now,
They’ve beautifully forgave
The ones who held the guns.

It's not a very good poem, but oh well. In situations like this, it doesn't really matter if it doesn't rhyme or doesn't flow very well.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FsMZjo9sUG8 My video tribute. Better than last year's.

18th century automaton

Wow!
http://twonerdyhistorygirls.blogspot.com/2012/07/friday-video-marie-antoinettes-automaton.html

Diamond Snow, Part Two

“What do you think of our snow hill?” asked Nicholas’s voice, right behind me. I practically jumped, I was so startled.
“I…I suppose it is…very nice,” I stammered.
“Go with me the next time?” he asked lightly.
I felt like my face was on fire. “I…I…well…”
“Look out!” cried Ella as she and little Olga set off. It looked so much fun from a spectator’s point of view. Ella was laughing, and Olga was screaming in joy. Ella’s skirts were spread out and Olga sat on top of them. Well, that might work.
When they ended the ride, Ella came over to me and whispered into my ear,
“Come on, Alicky! Have fun! Aunt Minnie even went down once.”
I suppressed a giggle. The elegantly poised Tsaritsa, sliding down the hill!
“Alix, let’s go again!” said Xenia, tugging on my arm. I gratefully followed her.
This time, I sat down first in back, and Xenia sat down on top of my skirts. A little of my boot top was exposed, but this time I let it go. Ella’s had been too, and she was twenty-four and a grand duchess besides!
Just as Xenia pushed us off, I heard a loud, masculine whoop, and felt a pair of hands on my shoulders. Turning red again, I glanced back at Nicholas standing on the back of the sled, grinning. In spite of myself, I smiled, (once I’d turned my head back, of course,) and even let out a little squeal as we sped down the ice, ending all too soon in a heap where Nicholas practically flipped over, and Xenia rolled in the snow. I was left laughing on the sled, which I was glad of.
Slowly, as the rides down the hill - with Xenia, Ella, Kitty, Olga, Ernie…but never with Nicholas alone…I began to enjoy myself more. The nervous fluttering in my stomach subsided to nearly nothing, and I stopped blushing so deeply whenever I tumbled off the sled. I even began to look forward to each upcoming slide when I was climbing up the hill: eager for the breathless excitement and the thrill of going so fast in the biting cold. I thought it felt the closest to flying I’d ever come.
After what seemed my tenth slide, I took a pause, feeling breathless and chilly. I stood by a frosted tree, my breath coming out in white clouds, which reflected the puffy white whipped-cream clouds in the piercingly blue sky.
“Cold?” asked Nicholas, dashing up to my side.
“Yes! I’m used to it, though,” I rushed to say. “Hessian winters are very cold too.”
“Well, we can remedy that,” said Nicholas. He raced over to a footman standing stiffly by a giant, white-crusted bush.
“You there - what’s your name?”
“Vasily,” said the footman, expressionless still.
“Well, Vasily, fetch us…eleven cups of hot chocolate.”
“Eleven, Your Highness? There are only ten of you.”
“One for you,” said Nicholas.
Vasily remained stone-faced. “Very well.”
As Vasily walked away rigidly, Nicholas burst out laughing.
“I’ve never seen him smile, not once!”
I suppressed a giggle. My mind frantically searched for something to say. I tried to breathe deeply of the cold, crisp air. Catching sight of Mikhail and Olga packing snowballs, I wondered how the hill itself had been made.
“You…you don’t make the hill yourselves, do you?” I asked. The question sounded incredibly silly.
“Oh, no, the servants do it. The footmen! And they pour water on it, but you know that.”
Nicholas suddenly let out a strange “Aack!” and I, too, was tempted to say the same, for Mikhail and Olga began pelting us with snowballs.
And…I could barely believe it: formal Sergei was bending down and picking up a handful of snow. And my own sister, Ella, was daintily finishing a perfectly round snowball in her cerulean-gloved hands.
As Nicholas and I dodged the snowballs, I saw Vasily returning with a large silver tray with steaming glasses of hot chocolate. Then, seemingly out of nowhere - but I recognized that round, perfectly formed ball - a snowball hit his hat and knocked it off his head.
I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t resist laughing this time.
As the hot chocolate warmed us, Nicholas said to Ella,
“Mother wants me to invite all of you, including your father, for cards, music and zakuskas tomorrow evening at six, here at Anichkov. She would be pleased if you could come.”
“Of course,” said Ella, smiling. Her dark blond hair was wispy about her happily flushed face, and her hat was a bit askew. I’m sure mine was too. “I must return the favor, sometime, though. How would two days after tomorrow be to come to Beloselsky-Belozersky for tea at four?”
To my surprise, I was not nervous, thinking of these plans, only filled with delighted excitement.
When we finished our chocolate, Ella, Xenia and I went down the hill together. As we slid and shrieked, I felt like I was soaring. And the first time that day, I completely forgot about my ankles showing.
When we tumbled off, I lay breathless in the snow for a moment. I still felt like I was soaring, even when Nicholas held out his hand to help me up.

Diamond Snow, Part One

A sequel to "The First Dance."

I stood at the window of my room at the Beloselsky-Belozersky at Ella and Sergei’s Belozersky-Belozersky Palace. Across the Fontanka River I could see the Anichkov Palace, the destination of my sister, her husband, my brother, Ella’s lady-in-waiting and I that January afternoon. It was to be a sledding party with the children of the Tsar.
Apprehension and excitement fluttered in my stomach as Ekaterina “Kitty”, Ella’s lady-in-waiting, buttoned the last tiny button on the back of my dress. In a way my corset made my nervousness worse. I knew it was silly of me to be nervous, because I’d already seen Nicholas just yesterday, and everything had been all right. Still, it was my nature, and I couldn’t help it. I was excited, too, though.
I could not see the snow hill in the gardens of Anichkov Palace, but I knew it was there. The glaringly bright sun glinted off the trim of the grand buildings all around the St. Petersburg streets, and I was reminded of the first time I’d ever been to that city, when I was twelve years old, for Ella’s wedding. I still felt some of that awe. This time, however, the entire city was covered in the most beautiful snow.
“Come, Alix, if you’re ready.”
My boot heels clicked on the polished floors as I followed Ella and Kitty down to the entry hall. A maid helped them into their fur-trimmed coats; then me. I felt weighed down and too warm. The hatpin securing my hat to the knot of hair on top of my head dug into my scalp, and the high collar of my dress scratched my chin.
I pulled on my fur-lined gloves, apprehension and excitement fluttering in my stomach. I heard hooves outside the door, and Ella called out,
“The sleigh is here!”
Clutching the inside of my muff, I followed Ella, our brother Ernie, Ella’s husband Sergei, and Kitty out of the double doors into the snow-covered courtyard. The cold bit me fiercely in the face, and I knew my nose would be red by the time we got there. Bother.
Ella, Sergei and Kitty rode facing the driver; Ernie and I rode so it would be backwards. The satiny lining of my muff slipped against my leather gloves as I rubbed it between my fingers.
“Eager to see Nicholas?” Ernie asked casually as we rode over the Anichkov bridge.
“Ernest! Don’t tease her!” Ella scolded merrily.
I bit my lip. What Ernie said was true. I was eager to see Nicholas. And Xenia. I hoped that they hadn’t invited anyone else; that there wasn’t going to be a great crowd of strangers. If there was anything I hated, it was that. I couldn’t help it, I was frightfully shy.
“There’s the Anichkov Palace, Alix,” said Ella, pointing. The elegant beige and white palace loomed ahead. It was simple, for a palace, not at all opulent like the Winter Palace. “You remember going to the party there that Aunt Minnie had for all the young people back in eight-four, don’t you?”
I remembered that party all to well. I’d had to give back a brooch Nicholas had given me a few days before, on the insistence of my sister Irene. I did understand that it was improper to accept a gift of that sort, even if it was only very small, and not ostentatious, but I still felt the agony of having to return it whenever I thought about it now, nearly five years later.
I heard happy shrieks from the gardens as the sleigh drove into the courtyard, and then a furry form ran towards the carriage.
“Alix! Aunty Ella! Uncle Sergei!”
It was Xenia. Ernie leapt out of the sleigh as it drew to a halt and held out his hand to help me down. My boot slipped on the snow-caked ledge, and I dropped my muff.
“Here’s your muff,” said Xenia, handing it to me. “But you’d better leave it in the carriage, ’cause we’re sliding on the hills! You’ll fall off if you don’t hang on.”
“All…all right,” I stammered, placing my muff on the seat of the sleigh. Ella’s muff joined mine.
Xenia grabbed my hand and began pulling me across the footprint-packed snow towards a large, slick hill in the expanse of the gardens. Two sleds careened down the hill all at once: Nicholas; George and little Olga; and then Mikhail on his stomach.
Gingerly I stepped over another sled laying on the ground as Ernie ran forward to greet Nicholas, who was getting off his sled. Ella and Kitty followed with Sergei at a more sedate pace.
I felt a little fluttery as Nicholas clapped Ernie on the back, but then he came forward, clasped my hand and said the briefest of hellos, and then moved on to Ella.
I felt the slightest bit disappointed as I heard him calling out “Tetinka!” his nickname for Ella. It means ‘little aunt.’
“C’mon, Alix, let’s go!” said Xenia, leaving no time for me to be disappointed any longer as she grabbed a sled and began pulling it up the hill. I followed, trying my hardest not to slip and make a spectacle of myself. I was glad that there was not water poured on the back of the hill.
Standing at the top of the hill, I looked down at the slickness of it, and cringed. It looked like fun, and yet I knew that if Irene was here, she would scold me that especially now that I was sixteen and had come out, I must behave like a lady and not improperly.
I looked out on the sparkling whiteness, like powdered diamonds, and the white-coated, bare-branched trees. I so longed to slide down. Desire to indulge in fun wrestled with my natural instinct to remain ladylike.
“Come on!” cried Xenia, sitting down on the front of the sled.
Carefully I sat down behind her, arranging my heavy skirts. I winced, seeing it was impossible to sit behind Xenia without putting my legs around her, and thus showing my ankles and thus a bit of my leg. I panicked.
“Xenia!” I hissed into her ear.
“What?”
“My…ankles! Can’t you cover them with your skirt?”
Casting an impish glance at her oldest brother, Xenia did as I asked. I smoothed my bunched skirts over my knees.
“All right,” I said. “I suppose you can push off now.”
With a yelp of excitement, she shoved us off, and we sped down the icy snow at an alarmingly delightful speed. I clutched the sides of the sled, the wood cutting into my hands, cushioned by my gloves. I held my breath, sitting rigidly because of my corset. Xenia kept on shrieking with the thrill of it, but I couldn’t do anything but hang on for dear life. I couldn’t even enjoy it because I was so worried about my ankles, about being improper, about falling off!
When we got to the end of the steep, glassy-smooth snow hill, I climbed off as quick as I could, shaking the snow from my skirts and blushing furiously.
Ella was climbing up the hill now, with six-year-old Olga leading the way. I watched in anticipation, wondering what Ella would do, how she would proceed. I had always followed her example as a little girl, and I still looked up to her often.

A Poem for the Romanovs

In remembrance of their captivity...

We are trapped

The stifling air presses down

Windows painted shut.

Footsteps in the hall

Heavy boots

Remind us

That we are captives.

We can go

Nowhere

Now.

Not that we could

Ever go

Many places

Freely.

Comfort

Found in Sunday services

But abbreviated mass

Isn’t the same

As a church

With vaulted ceiling

Sacred hush

Richly colored icons.

Consolation

In each other

Our love for

One another.

Is it all that holds us

Together

Keeps us from breaking

Like so many china teacups?

Keeps us from smashing

Like a Faberge figurine?

Our love will survive

Stay strong

Keep us together

That much is certain

But how much longer

Will we last

Before the water engulfs us

Before we

Drown

Smash

                                                                            Break?

Apostrophes

One thing that drives me ABSOLUTELY CRAZY is mis-used apostrophes. Apostrophes are very nice, when used in the proper way. Like this:

Miss Tibble's basket.
I'm rather tired.
I wasn't there.

But when they are used wrongly...

We are going to the Smith's.
The 1910's.

Come on! It's not a contraction, like "we'll", or someone owning something, like "Lily's bonnet"! It's plural!

People in Paintings

Sometimes I like to look at old paintings and make up stories about the people in them. (i.e. those silly old weekly character posts.) This one I didn't even have to think - it just was there.

This little girl is in a huge mansion - just look at that expanse of scarlet carpet! She looks lonely - her parents are away all the time, they send her fancy toys, pretty trinkets, even a dog. But she wants something more, see her dress? It reflects that she doesn't care about any of those exotic knick-knacks. Her only comfort in the ornately giant house is the little dog.

Now I've put myself in a sad mood...

...but wierd hats never fail to cheer me up. Grand Lady has gone for a stroll in the woods when she comes upon a very strange child, with huge wings, a battered hat with a scraggly feather, and a box of trinkets hanging from it's neck. One has to wonder where this oddity of a midget came from!

Girl on a Red Carpet, Felice Casorati, 1912.
Hilda Fairbairn, Love the Pedlar, unknown date but early 1900s. Funny, I thought the painter was named Hilda Fairbairn Love, and the painting, The Pedlar.

Typewriter Mug

                                                       Christmas gift from two years ago...

How I would love a typewriter like that. Of course, word processors with erase and fonts and such are so nice, but nothing beats the thrilling historical feeling of using an old typewriter.

Titanic Centenary Week

One of my favorite books...It's not just about the Titanic but many other things as well. Nikola Tesla, spiritualism, journalism, time travel, just to name a few. Sherlock Holmes and his inventor Arthur Conan Doyle, Colonel Astor, even George Bernard Shaw and Queen Victoria are minor characters.

The story centers around the five Taylor sisters: Mimi, Jane (the narrator,) Emma, Amelie and Blythe, whose mother is a medium. Through many events leading up to this, which take up half the book, all five end up on that "Ship of Dreams", sailing towards a compelling ending.

Okay. That summary was bad. But it's a great book! Historical fiction, a bit of romance, science fiction...the only thing that irks me is the dress on the cover. So not 1912!!! And besides, it isn't the main character who wears a wedding dress!

Mayhap Maybe is More Medieval

All right. Mayhap just sounds so medieval. Guess what. It dates from the mid 1500s. Maybe comes from the 1300s. And then there's perchance. SO medieval. 1300s. So it is. And perhaps, it's more modern equivalent, (although unfortunately nobody seems to say perhaps nowadays,) is from the 1400s. So mayhap maybe is more medieval. Even though it doesn't sound as 1100s-ish as mayhap.

Another Story...

Another story...I'm bad, I know. But this story is not bad, for it is going so well. I have not been stuck on it at all, and I am 3/4 of the way done. Here is the summary, and that's all I'm going to say for the moment until it is done...although I will say that it needs a title, which is always my shortcoming.

Nottingham, England, 1173
 Fourteen-year-old Adele is lonely. Her widowed mother died two years ago, and she lives with an old carpenter, Master Grey, and his loathsome apprentice, Basil. When she meets the at-first-unsociable Gawain, Adele has found a friend. And what’s more, a refuge. When Basil kicks Adele out, she has a place to run to - Sherwood Forest. For Gawain is part of Robin Hood’s band of outlaws, who all welcome Adele. But then Gawain notices a strange similarity between Adele and one of the men in the band, and Adele learns a unexpected secret about her mother…and her life will never be the same again.

Musings

Spring has sprung! Or...is it summer? It sure feels almost like June, not March.

This was a fortnight and two days ago.

And the inside of a lenten rose in our yard a few days ago.

Bad thing is, frost is coming. Oh. Dear.

Divided: Emma is done...just awaiting editing and making-into-more-historical-dialogue. Divided: Judith is halfway, and I've ideas for Divided: Kate. Emma has a proper title, which is Secret Promises. Judith has three possibilities: Remedying Lies or For the Sake of Honesty or For the Sake of Truth or A Love Against Conscience. Four, I guess.

Funny random thing I learned recently: the search engine Yahoo! is an acronym for Yet Another Hierarchical Officious Oracle.

Inspiring summery painting:

                                               Edmund Blair Leighton - Sweet Solitude

Divided Dilemmas

Well, I've decided on the last Divided story's theme. The main character of the third in the trilogy will be Kate Something, whose older brother Henry marries Susanna, sister of Emma and George. It will take place in 1648-49, as 1649 was the year King Charles I was executed, and I thought that would create an interesting conflict for the story.

The problem is, it would make sense to have all three stories be written in the same tense and perspective, even if it's different people. I had started writing the first one, from Emma's viewpoint, in present tense, but I don't really think I want to write the second one, which I'm planning to be from the perspective of the Parliamentary girl, (Judith, I'm thinking,) who falls in love with George, Emma's brother, in present tense. I am getting a little tired of present tense, but I do want to finish Emma's story in present tense. I think. I don't want to go back and change it all to past tense, yet I don't want to have Judith's story be in present tense! Dear me, this is vexing.

Another vexation is, I truly cannot find any information that is helpful in the least about ways of speaking in the mid-1600s. At all. If only I knew a language professor! I know that little children were considered little adults, for the most part, in that time, especially high-class ones, and the poorer children who had lots of responsibility, and even though Emma is what I'd consider middle-class, I do think she should be precocious, (I love that word! and guess what? it dates from the mid 17th century! from a Latin word meaning literally "cooked ahead",) yet I do want her to have the voice of a little child. My, what a run-on sentence!
Presently the story doesn't sound too 1600s in the narration, in my efforts to make Emma sound like she is truly eight years old, but if one thinks about it, she is really almost half way to becoming engaged, in that time period's mindset.

Oh. Dear. I. Am. Vexed. And. Undecided. But I am so very inspired for these, if only I could decide upon a tense, and find out about 17th century language!!

English Civil War Stories

I have just started, (yes, I know, I have lots of stuff going at once,) a short story, (or maybe not so short,) about a little eight-year-old girl during the English Civil War whose family supports the King, but her elder brother does not.

For a little historical background here before I go on, the English Civil War was during the 1640s, (a civil war is in fact a war within a country with people of the same nationality fighting one another,) with the King and his men fighting the Parliament and their supporters. I'm actually not quite sure the whole reason for it, but my basic impression is that King Charles I and his wife and family were Catholic, and the King wished to make the country more so, but the Parliament opposed, so Charles tried to do without the Parliament by abolishing it. This did not work. The Parliament and the King quarelled a great deal until finally it became a war. Not the awfulest of wars, but still a war. Sometimes it is called several different wars, the 1st, 2nd and 3rd English Civil Wars, yet they are all linked.

So. History covered. The story takes place in 1643, towards the beginning of the actual war. I'm thinking of calling it "Divided", as the family of little Emma, the narrator, is divided, as the parents support the King, older brother George supports the Parliament, and the younger sisters, Susanna and Emma, are torn.

I am also thinking of writing a companion story about a young woman in London who supports Parliament along with her family, (London was Parliament's headquarters, so to speak,) who falls in love with George.

It would be a nice idea to write a trilogy of these 10-some page stories; "The 'Divided' Trilogy" has a nice ring to it, but I have no idea who the third would focus on.

In any case, the first one, narrated by Emma, is in the works and shall be posted when it is finished.

SNOW!

At last the snow from the snowstorm of sorts over the weekend is melting...

...but this is what it looked like Saturday...

...and Monday.

With rushing winds and gloomy skies
The dark and stubborn Winter dies:
Far-off, unseen, Spring faintly cries,
Bidding her earliest child arise;
March!

--Bayard Taylor, Victorian author, in poem "March".

It does come in like a lion, but let's hope it goes out like a lamb!

The still un-titled Cecily Birche is going along pretty well, but no bits to be posted. I did, however, get an extremely fascinating book called "The Oxford Dictionary of Word Origins" for my birthday this weekend, and I plan to post some of the entries...soon.

Cecily Updates

I've been rolling along with the unnamed Cecily Birche story...mostly. Sometimes it's a little hard to write in present tense and get the emotion I want without it sounding a little wierd. I don't know how to describe it other than too blunt, or too simplistic. For example,

Donovan is a little crestfallen, and I wonder if perhaps I should have not refused. Oh, this is all so vexing!

^Excerpt from what I just wrote a few minutes ago. The whole way Cecily states this, (and lots of other stuff,) in present tense, sounds just a little too straightfoward. Of course, authors want to be straightfoward and not make the reader puzzle out what they want to say. (Do they?) But Cecily is supposed to be seventeen, with complex emotions especially regarding Donovan and naturally loosing her family, although the grief isn't so complex, just very strong. Yet sometimes she sounds too...childlike, maybe?
If I were writing this in past tense, first person, I could word it like this:

Donovan was a little crestfallen, and I wondered if perhaps I should have not refused. Oh, this is all so vexing! I thought.

Or,

Donovan appeared to be slightly crestfallen, and I wondered if perhaps I should not have refused his invitation. It was all so vexing, how contradictory my feelings were.

Oh, this is all so vexing!

There, I've added one more bit to the original sentence.

Donovan is a little crestfallen, and I wonder if perhaps I should have not refused. Oh, this is all so vexing! How contradictory my feelings are!

Hmm.

                                                   Cecily? She looks a little too glamourous.

Defeating the Enemy of All Writers

WRITERS' BLOCK!!

This is for Johanna, a list of ideas I came up with to get rid of this awful dilemma. Do not be despairing, dear, I've been there too, many times!

Things To Do When You Have Writer’s Block:
1. Give the piece of writing that is giving you trouble a break. Then go back to in after a long hiatus. You might get a brilliant idea of how to continue, or you might think “this is ridiculous” and abandon it.
2. Make a character profile for your every major character, or write a spin-off of the present story. A short prequel or sequel, perhaps. Maybe take a personality quiz or question list from the perspective of the main character.
3. Listen to inspiring music, especially music with lyrics that might tell a story. It could inspire you for more of the current meddlesome piece of writing, or a whole new tale.
4. Read.
5. Write a story about a character from a favorite novel or film.
6. Write about a personal experience. Look through old diaries/journals for ideas.
7. Write something completely wacky. Just string random words together, or make up a ridiculous character. Or come up with a really silly title, or ask someone to do so for you. Perhaps that will turn into a really good story!
8. Write stories based on dreams you’ve had.
9. Look at an old, unfinished story you haven’t written on in simply ages. You might be inspired to continue.
10. Get a completely new perspective, get rid of distractions. Go write in a tree if you want. Just go write somewhere you don't usually.
11. Get a friend to write the first bit of a story for you. Then write an installment. Then send it back to the friend, who writes another installment, and sends it back to you. Et cetera, et cetera.

Good link here, too:
http://www.43folders.com/2004/11/18/hack-your-way-out-of-writers-block

The First Dance, Part Three

Part three, the last part.

As Xenia, Nicholas and their family bade their farewells, Xenia hugged me a bit too exuberantly and exclaimed,
“You must come sledding with us tomorrow!”
“Goodness, don’t crush her, Xenia!” Nicholas smiled at me. “But you truly must come sledding. There is a simply grand hill in the park, the soldiers have poured water on it so that it is so slick one fairly flies!”
“If Ella and Sergei do not have any plans…” I began hesitantly.
“I assure you, we will be there,” said Ella, who stood nearby. “We had planned upon it from the very start.”
“Until tomorrow, then,” said Nicholas, kissing my gloved hand once more.
“Until tomorrow.”
As I walked down the hall and up the stairs to my bedroom, it was as if my dance slippers had little wings, made of silk and pearls, perhaps, or spun snow that glittered as if with a thousand shards of diamonds, and never melted.
Dreamily I hummed a lively polka from the ball as I removed the hairpins from my coiffure and watched my dark blond tresses fall from their intricate style down past my waist. How well it had all turned out, beyond anything my nervous mind had concocted. The fluttering caged bird I had felt in my stomach from earlier in the evening returned, except not fluttering in nervousness, but in utter delighted anticipation.
There was so much ahead of me here, so many possibilities.
“Oh, thank you God!” I cried, rushing to the window and peering out into the night. A few stars glimmered in the darkness, but each and every one of them, visible and not visible, stood for all that I was grateful for, and all that I knew I would be.

Maybe it's cheesy, maybe it's sappy, it is probably very over-sentimental-romantic, but I really like the way this story turned out. Maybe because I never was stuck on it.
I have no idea what Alix truly felt, or anything about a ball held at Ella and Sergei's, but I was inspired for this, oddly enough, riding home from my grandparent's on New Year's Eve. I started writing it right then and there, because I had my laptop with me in the car.
There is one definite inaccuracy, as Alix and Nicholas first saw each other after four years at the train station when Alix arrived, but... Dramatic license!

Alix and Nicholas eventually married in 1894, and had five children: Olga, Tatiana, Maria, Anastasia, who famously "survived" (DIDN'T!) the family's eventual 1918 massacre, and Alexei, whose hemophilia caused Alix (Alexandra by then, having changed her name upon conversion to Russian Orthodoxy,) great stress and pain. Alexandra would be very misunderstood, (she was criticized for not caring for Russia and being proud and cold because of her excessive shyness,) and disliked eventually during WWI, (she was called the "German Woman" as she was half German,) but her and Nicholas's happy marriage has been called one of the greatest royal romances of all time.

It is hard for me to think of the princess in my story, if indeed she really was like I portrayed her, and even if she was not, being shot down by Bolshevik/Soviet soldiers with hearts of stone, along with her true love and beloved children, in a cellar in the Ural Mountains thirty years after she and Nicholas truly began to fall in love other than a childish infatuation. It was a true tradgedy, and Rest in Peace.

Alix in an engagement portrait, 1894.

I have lately been very much absorbed and interested by the early, pre-engagement life of this fasctinating, beautiful, shy princess with a mind of her own, and I would most certainly expect more stories on her!

The First Dance, Part Two

Part Two.

“How have you been?” he asked as the first strains began.
“Fairly well.” I smiled a little, feeling greatly awkward. “How have you been?”
“Oh, quite well. I’ve been doing lots of military events and such. Rather a bore at times. And you? I was quite worried about you, that you might freeze on the trip here.”
I laughed. “No, not at all.”
“How was Irene’s wedding?”
“Lovely.” I smiled as I recalled the happy event, and I began to feel a bit more comfortable.
“I wish I could have come.”
“Mm. I have a photograph if you’d like to see her dress.”
“I’d love to.”
“She wanted to come, but…being so soon after the wedding and all…”
Inwardly I cringed. This conversation was so dull, so shallow and, while sincere, at the same time very forced.
“Did you know,” Nicholas said suddenly, “that I wanted so very much to dance with you at Sergei and Ella’s wedding ball?”
“No…I didn’t.”
“Of course it was impossible, so I gave you a brooch instead.”
I laughed, but it sounded a bit strained.
“Wouldn’t it have been funny if Xenia had worn it tonight?”
“Yes, indeed.”
Bit by bit, Nicholas’s casual witticisms made me feel more and more at ease, until, all too soon, the dance ended, and Sergei came to claim me. After the dancing was over, (two more I danced with Nicholas, although one was so brisk there left no room for any conversation whatsoever, except for occasional warnings not to bump into something,) the guests retreated to zakuskas, light appetizers. I didn’t much feel like eating anything, partly because Ella’s lady-in-waiting Ekaterina “Kitty” had laced my corset so tightly. I stood talking with Xenia in a nook off the ballroom that was lush with potted trees and hanging vines. A strong, sweet smell radiated from an orange tree in full blossom.
I listened, amused, as Xenia chattered away.
“…and there’s a simply marvelous ice skating pond that is perfect for…oh! You startled me, Nicky! Don’t creep up on people like that, it’s awfully frightening.”
Nicholas had appeared behind Xenia, holding two crystal glasses of rosy-hued punch, and he now looked a bit sheepish.
“I didn’t mean to startle you, dear sister,” he replied in a jesting tone of voice as he handed us each a glass. The three of us were quiet for a moment as Xenia and I sipped the punch. I noticed Xenia glancing around with a sly look on her face, and then she said,
“Oh! I just remembered something I must ask Mamma! Don’t move, I’ll be back in a bit.” With that, she dashed off, narrowly missing spilling her punch on an elderly woman in lilac satin.
Her intent was obvious: to leave Nicholas and I by ourselves. Sometimes, Xenia’s impishness…although of course, there was nothing improper about it, as ball guests mingled not two feet away from us.
“I certainly hope that she does not mean, ‘do not move,’ in a literal sense,” Nicholas said, leaning against the wall.
“If she did, we would be in quite a dilemma,” I replied, surprised at my uncharacteristically witty response.
To my great relief, Ella came by and stopped at the nook.
“Alix, Nicholas! Do come, Kitty is to sing a solo from a new opera that has become popular in France.”
“A…cat singing an opera song? Novel indeed,” Nicholas said, un-slouching from the wall and peering over Ella.
“Oh, Nicholas! You are too funny. Kitty is my lady-in-waiting, Ekaterina!” Ella laughed heartily, and, snatching up my hand, led us to where Miss Kitty was preparing her little concert.
As Ella hurried to Sergei’s side, Xenia re-joined us and whispered to me,
“I hope it isn’t too high opera. I can’t stand high opera!”
Thankfully, Miss Kitty sang in a manner not too offending to Xenia’s ears, and after the concert was concluded, the ball came to an end.

The First Dance, Part One

The first installment of a story about the last Tsarina of Russia, Alexandra Feodorovna, while she was still Princess Alix of Hesse and her and Nicholas's courtship was just beginning. (I've taken to making covers.)

　I paced the floor of my room at Ella and Sergei’s, my white muslin ball gown swishing as I did so. I could feel my pearl drop earrings moving to and fro; my Louis heeled white satin shoes clicking on the polished floor. The diamond necklace that I shifted from hand to hand as I paced poked into my soft palm.
“You’re agitated, Alicky darling!” Ella took my hand to stop my walking to and fro. “What is it? You aren’t nervous, are you? You’re to see Xenia and Nicholas again tonight! I made sure Xenia would be allowed to come even though she’s only thirteen…”
I shook my head and pulled away from Ella’s grasp. I fumbled with the clasp on my necklace; focused on putting it around my neck and centering the pendant. I was not going to say that I was nervous to see Nicholas again after almost five years. I’d harbored a childish fondness for the Tsarevitch ever since I’d met him when I was twelve at Ella and Sergei’s wedding. But now I was sixteen and a half, far too old to feel that way for someone. I should be sensible, I thought. Sensible and greet Nicholas tonight indifferently, as an old acquaintance. Yet I could not do so. I’d been wondering, despairingly, if Nicholas still felt the same for me as he had that lovely June visit in eighteen eighty-four. It was obvious, even to me, a naïve, shy girl of barely twelve, that Nicholas felt the same, perhaps even more, for me. He’d given me a brooch, although Irene made me return it. I recalled the agony of having to give it back. He’d also sent some dried flowers for my debutante ball, he’d never once not told Xenia to include his regards in her letters to me. But still doubts plagued me.
It’s silly, I scolded myself. Silly, downright, absolutely silly. I felt Ella’s cool hand on my shoulder, and I turned to face her.
My beloved sister, so beautiful in her ball gown and brilliant emeralds. So selfless and kind, so lively and level-headed.
“You’re nervous about seeing Nicholas after four years, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“Oh, sweetest Alix! There’s no need! He has been so eager to see you, I assure you. Maybe not so much as Xenia,” Ella laughed. Xenia, lively Xenia! I could barely wait to see her. “Yet he certainly has looked forward to this. He’s no longer the teasing boy you knew, Alix. He’s a serious, very handsome young man. And you’re not a little girl anymore, either. His parents want him to marry Helene d’Orleans, but…”
I vehemently shook my head. “No. no! Ella, don’t speak of such things! I’ve only just come out. Please. Not yet.”
“Nicholas has a mind of his own, though. I shan’t say any more, Alix, I’m just warning you. I would not be so very surprised if…well, all I can say is, it would be very strange to have my nephew be my brother-in-law, too!”
I laughed nervously as Ella kissed me on the cheek and handed me my lily-of-the-valley eau de cologne.
“You look beautiful,” she said.
“So do you,” I replied.
My heart beat like a caged bird as I walked down the stairs of Ella and Sergei’s grand home, hearing the music distantly playing from the ballroom. My brother Ernie’s frank, teasing expression as he took my arm calmed my nerves a bit, but not completely. Sergei and Ella took precedence with Ernie and I following with Papa.
“His Highness the Grand Duke Sergei, Her Highness the Grand Duchess Elizabeth. His Highness Grand Duke Ludwig of Hesse. His Highness Prince Ernest Ludwig of Hesse, Her Highness Princess Alix of Hesse…” The footman sounded very imperious as he announced our names.
Nicholas and Xenia were not yet there. I felt out of place, and clung to Ernie’s arm nervously as I scanned the room. Nobody I knew, at all. Ella began to introduce some of her friends, but I only made half-hearted responses.
Then I heard it.
“His Majesty Tsar Alexander the Third, Her Majesty Tsaritsa Marie Feodorovna, His Highness the Tsarevitch Nicholas. His Highness Grand Duke George, Her Highness Grand Duchess Xenia…”
Ella and Sergei came forward to welcome the important guests. Then the moment I had been most dreading and looking forward to at the same time came.
“Alix!” cried Xenia, rushing forward and giving me a hug. “How grown-up you look! You sent us your confirmation photograph, but…! I love your dress! How have you been? I hope the journey wasn’t too awful. It’s so cold! I hope we can go sledding and ice-skating. I’m so glad you’re here!”
“Xenia, stop chattering!” Nicholas laid a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Welcome, Alix.”
He took my gloved hand and kissed it lightly.
“It’s wonderful to see you again after so long,” I heard myself say.
“Yes, four and a half years.”
We stared at each other for an awkward moment before I blushed and looked down. He was so much more handsome than I had remembered him being.
“If you aren’t otherwise engaged, Alix, I would dearly love to dance the first dance with you.”
Heat rushed to my face. Mentally I groped at straws. Why hadn’t Ernie stayed with me instead of going off to the punch bowl? Then it would be obvious to Nicholas that my brother had escorted me and that I was obliged to dance the first dance with my escort.
“Oh, Nicky! Don’t be so dim! She’s got to dance the first dance with her escort, silly!”
Nicholas stared at Xenia for a few moments. “Oh! Right! I’m sorry. The second, then?”
“Yes! Of course! I’d love to.” Silently I mouthed, “thank you,” to Xenia, who looked baffled.
Just then the orchestra struck the opening chords of the first dance. Ernie came rushing up to me, and clapped Nicholas on the back heartily, greeting him before we went off to the dance floor. I saw Nicholas’s mother come up to him with a dark-haired young woman in a pink dress. Nicholas, rather grudgingly, took her arm.
Ernie and I didn’t talk much as we danced. I was glad, in fact, to begin the ball with someone I felt endlessly comfortable with. Nicholas, in contrast to this, would be at once an agony of awkwardness, and yet at the same time, a delight, for I had wished for such a thing for a long while. All to soon and yet all to slowly, the dance came to an end and Nicholas came to claim me.

Next installment coming later. Forgive the sappiness of some parts!!

Short Story or Novella?

I've been wondering if I should start calling my stories novellas instead. Sure, I have written some proper short stories, such as Skating on the Standart, the Anne Boleyn one, and several others which I haven't posted but might soon. But "stories" such as Cecily Trilby Birche are not really short stories. It'll probably be over 30 pages when it's complete!


 Novella: short novel: a fictional prose work that is longer than a short story but shorter than a novel. *

Short story: short work of prose fiction: a work of prose fiction that is shorter than a novel.*

So... short story, or novella? Technically I don't call any of my writings short stories, just stories, but that makes it sound short. It will take getting used to, just like when one's been pronouncing something a certain way for a long time only to find out that it's the wrong way to say it, but I do love the term novella. It sounds so French, even though the roots of the word are in Italian and Latin.

*Encarta ® World English Dictionary © & (P) 1998-2005 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.

Cecily Trilby Birche & Title Problems

For quite a few months, I've been working on this story about a recently orphaned 17-year-old girl named Cecily Trilby Birche, who must move into a small flat in Detroit, 1906 and take care of her baby sister Eliza while getting by on very little funds. She has been searching for a job as her rent is getting close to being due and there is not enough money. A while after finding happily situated employment, Cecily embarks on a search for her estranged paternal grandparents, helped along by devoted friend Grace and persistent suitor Donovan.

Well, I was going splendidly, but on page 17, over a month ago, I got STUCK. Finally, last night, I thought of something, and voila! I am unstuck, mostly. I have only just began the though of the search for her grandparents, and I hope it will go okay from now on.

I have been writing it in first person, which I don't think I have ever done before. It gives me a new way of writing, but sometimes it is a bit tricky. I like it for the most part, though.

I do have to go through it and add more about Cecily's grief for her parents and 2 other siblings, which is hard to do without making it cheesy!

My one dilemma is a title. It always is. I can not think of a single thing to call it, which is most vexing. Any hints?

Forty-Nine Questions

1. High heels or boots? Definitely boots over those dreadful heels that are so high one can't even walk in them, but I would love a pair high heeled shoes have heels that are only an inch or so, like these: 1890s extant evening slippers!
 2. What time did you get up this morning? I'm not actually sure! Late.
3. What was the last movie you saw at the theater? The Young Victoria, almost two years ago!
4. What is your maiden name? Er, what might be my maiden name someday is my last name now, and that will not be disclosed!
5. What is your favorite TV show? I don't watch TV...
6. What do you usually have for breakfast? Hmm, eggs or cereal.
7. What is your middle name? Lianne.
8. What food do you dislike? I used to despise cooked carrots, but they're not so dreadful now. I guess what I dislike the most is horrid artificial stuff that shouldn't even be edible.
9. What is your favorite CD at the moment? Hmm, I am listening to The Celts, by Enya presently.
10. What characteristic do you despise? Er, hmm, I suppose inhumanity.
11. Favorite clothing? I wish I had a regency-era dress or a Titanic era gown!
12. Anywhere in the world on vacation? England!
13. Are you an organized person? Sort of.
14.Where would you retire to? I have absolutely no idea, that's putting the cart before the horse dozens of years too early!
15. What was your most recent memorable birthday? This last one, great fun if a bit crowded!
16. What are you going to do when you finish this? Eat lunch.
17. Furthest place you have ever been to? California.
18. Person you wish you could meet? Hmm, Enya and Roma Ryan, Julie Andrews, the actors who played the Pevensie siblings in the Narnia films.
19. When is your birthday? Beginning of March.
20. Are you a morning person or a night person? Night, absolutely! Except when I've had a dreadfully long day.
21. What is your shoe size? 7 1/2
22. Do you own any animals? A cat.
23. Any news you'd like to share? Hmm. I went for a bicycle ride in January, and several in Feb. so far!
24. When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up? An author. I still do.
25. What is your favorite flower? If you're talking about scent, lilacs or lilies-of-the-valley, and just for looks, there's too many beautiful flowers to say!
26. What day on the calendar are you looking forward to? Tomorrow, I suppose.
27. If you were a crayon, what would you be? I never really liked crayons. I prefer colored pencils, they're so much more elegant. I would say dusty rose, magenta, or periwinkle.
28. How is the weather right now? Sunny!
29. Last person you spoke to on the phone? My grandma.
30. Favorite drink? I have no idea...ice water?
31. Favorite Restaurant? I don't often eat at restaurants. Something that has healthy, yummy and not expensive food! Oh, but I do adore anywhere that has salads with lots of stuff on them.
32. Hair color? I've always called it light brown, but some people think it's blond.
33. What was your favorite toy as a child? My eight dolls! They were people to me, and they had personalities and were all siblings. I was their mother. Now I sometimes write stories about them as if they were a real-life family.
34. Spring, Summer, Fall, or Winter? Spring or Fall.
35. Chocolate or vanilla? Chocolate!
36. Coffee or tea? Herbal tea, or decaffeinated chai.
37. Wish you were still young? I still am!
38. Do you want to get married? I don't know...
39. When was the last time you cried? A little while ago.
40. What is under your bed? A little bit of dust, and sometimes my slippers.
41. What did you do last night? Ate dinner and watched part of a video of a play I was in last year.
42. What are you afraid of? I'm not sure. When I was little, I was terrified of fire.
43. Salty or sweet? Sweet!
44. Best quality you have? Being a pretty good writer, and maybe determination?
45. How many years at the current job? I don't have a job.
46. Favorite day of the week? Thursday, generally, especially during Spring and Fall.
47. Favorite movie? Pride and Prejudice 1995, Emma 2009, The Young Victoria, the Narnia films....on and on...
48. Have you ever had a crush on anyone? That will remain a secret!
49. Do you like finding all this stuff out about your friends? I suppose so!

Via dear Johanna!

Stuck, Stuck, Stuck!

Grr! The Dorothy Devereux story I mentioned 2 posts ago has run into a standstill. The opening bit I think turned out okay, but from then on! I just despise it when I can write something, but it turns out so awful and dully plodding that I just can't stand it! This is the opening bit:

My name is Dorothy Devereaux, and this is my story.
It isn’t a particularly exciting tale, but it is a story nonetheless and I am determined to convey it to the best of my ability, so that it may be known to future generations and not be mangled by confusion, rumour and misunderstanding.

Now, that turned out good. It sounds Elizabethan. But then... I think it might go better if I wrote it in third person instead of first, but I want it to be in first person. Grr. My characters are on strike, as a friend once termed it.

Dorothy and Penelope Devereux around the time of my story.

When I look at this painting, I get a rush of inspiration of a general idea of how I want the story to be, but the actual wording is what is so greatly vexing me at the moment.

More Quotes

More quotes, this time about writing, and my thoughts on them.

"We write to taste life twice." ~Anaïs Nin

^ This is, once I think about it, one of the many reasons I write. And not only twice, but dozens and dozens of times, with each story, poem or book.

"If there's a book you really want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it."  ~Toni Morrison

^ There are dozens of things that I'd love to read books about, but since these wished-for books do not exist, (or the existing ones are quite awful,) I either write about them or plan to write about them.

I don't know if there's such a thing as a book about how to write, but if there was I would consider it quite absurd, because:

 "You only learn to be a better writer by actually writing." ~Doris Lessing

 

"A writer is working when he's staring out of the window." ~Burton Rascoe

^ I daydream a lot. And often when I'm daydreaming, I'm thinking up a scene for one of my stories. And sometimes I'm staring out the window.