Cyber Monday and Christmas Gifts

I know some of you were probably thrown for a loop and shocked and possibly appalled last post to see that I had departed entirely from my classic tone, taken my tongue entirely out of my cheek, and sat down to something serious. My half-hearted apologies. You see, I can be sober when I've a mind to. But today is not a day for sobriety. I wish I had had time to remind you this morning, but I will tell you now:

Anon, Sir, Anon is 25% off in Kindle form today! Just follow the link, find the title on the list (and check out the other authors) and get your copy today. A big thank you to those who bought their paperback copy on Black Friday! You made the sale a success!

Five Glass Slippers has not gone off the market either, I will remind you. In fact, I received the terribly exciting news last week that Rooglewood Press has commissioned an audiobook company to record the entire book...I received the first chapter audio file of The Windy Side of Care and let me just say: it is so good. Imagine Alis' voice being read by an actress with a wonderful British accent...you are going to want this one. And I am especially pleased because a friend had just inquired as to whether any of my stories were in audiobook form and I had had to tell him "no." I'll have to update that information. My publisher tells me that the collection ought to be available in that format in early December! And if you buy your readable copy of the collection today, you can take advantage of Amazon's 30%-off Cyber Monday sale!

And just when you thought you had run out of my books to buy, might I remind you that Fly Away Home is still an option. In fact, I have sold more than a couple copies in the last two days, which is a lovely thing.

Christmas is coming. CHRISTMAS IS COMING. Outside of my family (which numbers twelve people, including my new sister-in-law), I have at least twenty other people for whom I will be creating or buying gifts. Let the games begin and may the odds ever be in my favor. Christmasing, to some extent, requires moneys and while I am not at all begging, I will remind you that when you purchase books from myself and other independent authors, you are likely directly affecting our gift-giving abilities. Just a reminder, because in this age of Big Companies, people don't think so much of local efforts. Beyond that, who doesn't like to receive a book on Christmas morning that they have probably never heard of? If you have a friend or family member who is difficult to surprise, they might think they know what book that is, but unless they've read all the back pages of Amazon or stumbled upon The Inkpen Authoress, they probably won't. And for once, you'll win. You win, I win, we all win.

"I believe Christmas has done me good and will do me good and so I say God bless it!"

And so forth. Do you remember the custom-made, tea-stained stationary I sold last year? I'm taking orders again because, let's face it, it's Christmas and letter-writers have "nice stationery" on their list and you don't feel like spending six dollars for a pack of blatantly pink hedgehog stationery at Target which just anybody could get and which doesn't have enough room for three sentences apiece anyway. Each "packet" of my hand-drawn designs contains 10 sheets of 8 1/2 x 11 stationery and will cost you $8.00, which includes shipping. You may follow that link and order any of the designs already stated, or we can chat about a new design custom made for you or a family member who loves to write letters. If you would like to purchase a packet of stationery, feel free to direct an email to theinkpenauthoress(at)gmail(dot)com and we can go from there.

FA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA!

Advent: The Paradox

photo credit: tatum teels

Lord, deliver!
Rend the shiver
As our swollen
bodies lie
In the dark net
of the "not yet"
where we, wandering,
fear to die.
From "Adventus"

I sit down this evening to write and my heart is full with so many things. I am happy because I have spent the last several days with the best sampling of family and friends. I am overwhelmed by the generosity of people who have not much more than we have ourselves, yet give lavishly. I am wistful because we are having our woods cleared and replanted and there is an ache inside me when I think of how pillaged it will look...how long those trees grew. I am grateful because I know what it is to love and be loved. I am cozy because the sun curtsied goodbye with the colors of saffron and I am cold because there is none of summer's riot to the show. I am perfectly content and discontent all at once, happy and sad, up and down, satisfied and yearning, peaceful and anxious.
Today is the first Sunday of Advent. It is perhaps the only month in the twelve where the paradoxes are realized in this old event of waiting for the coming. The coming of Christ. The re-coming of Christ. We are content, peaceful, gentled, joyful in the assurance that it will happen. We are unsatisfied, anxious, pacing, saddened that we wait yet a while longer. And the preciousness of this season for me is the permission to feel myself torn in half sometimes by the beauty that is not yet versus the beauty that is right now. I often find myself upset by the many, conflicting minds of me. Have you ever felt your soul wrung by the fact that though you long for heaven's joys, there are beautiful moments that belong peculiarly and perhaps only to earth, and you wonder if you'll miss them? Moments like laughing so hard that you choke on your lemonade; moments where you slowly freeze with a friend's arm thrown companionably around you while you watch the sun set and nearly suffocate with bonfire smoke; moments where an Irish beat pounds as you reel down and down and down a line that never ends; moments where the stars are so clear and close you feel as if you could reach up and pluck one. Maybe in the new heaven and on the new earth, we'll have lemonade and choke with laughter too. I'm certain there will be sunsets more glorious than any I've seen here. Maybe there will be wild Celtic dances in the timeless time and we'll never retire with aches in our sides. Maybe the stars will be ours for the touching and we'll wear them in our hair. Perhaps it will be all these things and more. I know that the stabs of joy I experience in these earth-moments are so precious to me because they are reflections of the joy to come. But there is a fierceness in me that clings to earth because it is home. It is not home, but it is familiar. The familiarity is a home in itself. Heaven is unfamiliar, or rather so familiar it seems strange, so homelike it is almost unrecognizable as home.
So I long for earth.
And then I hear news of wars, plagues, uprisings, children brutally murdered by psychotic parents, abortions, terrorism, pain. Pain everywhere. And when I think it cannot get worse, death happens. I know our souls are immortal, that we are beings created for eternity, but again, earth has a beauty of its own. Because I live here, I want to be comfortable here. I don't want to know that if one of my beloved friends or family dies, that I will never be able to see them again until eternity. I want them to be here to snort lemonade with me, to nearly suffocate around the bonfire, to make my arms ache with the force of a grand reel. People sicken and grow old and their bodies belong less and less to earth. I wait for things. I wait for many things. I wait for a man who will pledge his life to mine and sometimes the waiting is especially hard. Not because I am tired of waiting, but because the people who are growing old and sickening belong to my heart. I want my grandmother to be at my wedding more than anything. And while time wears down her body and her lungs grow weary, I am still waiting. There are no men. There are no weddings. Will there be no Grandmama as well? And in those moments I ache as I have never ached before with wanting eternity. No more wars. No more separations. No more death. No more sickness. No more strife and arguments and tears and financial worry. I sin again. And again. And again. I doubt, I stumble, I fall, I rise, I deny, I admit, I inflict hurt, I ask forgiveness. And some moments I hate my beloved earth with a passion deeper than all the rest. I long for Christ. To be in His presence and have all this blown away in the glory of Himself. I thought I wanted earth when what I really want is eternity and a life in His presence--literally. In His presence. Able to reach for His hand and wander an amber wood and just adore Him. This is the thing for which I was created and I realize that I'll never be at home on earth. Earth is just a passing-through. Glory is beyond. But the real kicker? I'm stuck here. You're stuck here. We're stuck having precious earth and wanting wondrous heaven. Loving heaven but clinging to earth. Aching for what we'll leave, breaking for what we know is before us. The End is withheld. For now. It is coming but it has not come. You aren't imagining the feeling of pacing a room you love, scenting change in the air, knowing that any moment the glorious unfolding will gloriously unfold. But the "will" is not the "has."

Advent is a paradox. Your paradox, my paradox. Christ's paradox.
Weakness and strength.
Baby and King
Here and There
Now and Soon
We are the "and" in these arrangements. We don't belong to either world yet. Too much alive for heaven, much too immortal for life. But we have been called to a paradox and who are we to complain? Life is the messy bits. Our call is to live the paradox and draw into it the souls around us. Advent is the time when we remember this. The ache under my breast-bone is not a bad thing. The love I have for this life and the passion I have for the next are not meant to be lived one or the other. Somehow they combine. Some messy, messy way they do.

Advent: the coming. I wait with open arms.

"For unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given; and the government will be upon His shoulder. And His name will be called Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace; Of the increase of His government and peace there will be no end." -Isaiah 9:6-7

Adventus Poetry

And sometimes you sit down to write a blog post and end up with a shard of real-homesickness that takes the form of this:

"Adventus"

Pregnant, weighted.
Breath is baited
Hope has faded
With the night
Silent, holy,
Wanting solely
To be healed from
stabbing fright.
What if all this--
love and peace-kiss--
falls in dust
of crumbled prayers;
Nothing left but
hearts that slam shut,
hands that claw
and empty stares?
Lord, deliver!
Rend the shiver
As our swollen
bodies lie
In the dark net
of the "not yet"
where we, wandering,
fear to die.
Filling tombs
And swelling wombs
And still we wait
and watch in vain;
Has Heaven, blank night,
Turned from the sight
Of our wounds
And formless pain?
Silence deepens,
Hillside steepens,
Voices roughen
Like a blow
Question pours out
stubborn, draws doubt:
Poisoned arrow
On a bow.
Waiting, clinging,
Sighing, singing
In our half-lit
chamber-tombs,
Lord, deliver!
Rend the shiver
Bring forth joy
From barren wombs.

"Heap on more wood! --the wind is chill;"

"Heap on more wood! — the wind is chill;

But let it whistle as it will,

We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.

Each age has deemed the new born year

The fittest time for festal cheer.

And well our Christian sires of old.

Loved when the year its course had rolled,

And brought blithe Christmas back again,

With all his hospitable train.

Domestic and religious rite

Gave honour to the holy night:

On Christmas eve the bells were rung;

On Christmas eve the mass was sung;

That only night, in all the year,

Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.

The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;

The hail was dressed with holly green;

Forth to the wood did merry men go,

To gather in the mistletoe,

Then opened wide the baron’s hail

To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;

Power laid his rod of rule aside,

And ceremony doff’d his pride.

The heir, with roses in his shoes,

That night might village partner choose.

The lord, underogating, share

The vulgar game of “post and pair!”

All hailed with uncontroll’d delight

And general voice, the happy night

That to the cottage, as the crown,

Brought tidings of salvation down.

The fire with well dried logs supplied,

Went roaring up the chimney wide;

The huge hail table’s oaken face,

Scrubb’d till it shone, the day to grace,

Bore then upon: its massive board

No mark to part the squire and lord.

Then was brought in the lusty brawn,

By old, blue-coated serving-man;

Then the grim boar’s head frowned on high,

Crested with bays and rosemary.

Well can the green-garbed ranger tell,

How, when, and where, the monster fell;

What dogs before his death he tore,

And all the baiting of the boar.

The wassail round in good brown bowls,

Garnished with ribbon, blithely trowls.

There the huge sirloin reeked: hard by

Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;

Nor failed old Scotland to produce

At such high tide her savoury goose.

Then came the merry masquers in,

And carols roar’d with blithesome din;

If unmelodious was the song,

It was a hearty note, and strong.

Who lists may in their mumming see

Traces of ancient mystery;

White shirts supplied the masquerade,

And smutted cheeks the visor made

But oh! what masquers, richly dight,

Can boast of bosoms half so light!

England was merry England when

Old Christmas brought his sports again.

’Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale,

’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;

A Christmas gambol oft would cheer

A poor man’s heart through half the year."

-from Sir Walter Scott's "Marmion"

Merry Christmas, dear friends all! Let us give "honour to the holy night" in a beautiful way. Christ is born to us! Alleluia, and may we never forget it! I shall say it again: Merry Christmas! And may your Christmas gambol oft cheer your "poor man's heart through half the year."

It has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!

It is so hard to believe that tomorrow is Christmas Day. It seems to me that each year I live flies by on swifter, wilder wings--I can scarce make myself realize that it has been a whole year since this time last year. December took me by storm and for quite some time I was labouring under the delusion that it was early December when we were already in the "teens". Oops. :)

There is much discussion among some circles of Christian society over whether we ought to celebrate Christmas during this time of year because it used to be a Pagan holiday. My answer to this predicament comes entirely from the mouth of Ebenezer Scrooge's nephew in A Christmas Carol:

"There are many things from which I might have derived good by which I have not profited, I dare say," returned the nephew, "Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas-time, when it has come round-apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that-as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!"

I do not worship my Christmas tree, nor do I celebrate the Winter Solstice. I am not leaving out cookies for Santa Clause, nor am I doing anything else questionable. At Christmas time, as all through the year (though in not so grand a degree) I celebrate the birth of my King, and I do think such an event is worthy of an entire month of celebration which--did we not use December--mightn't be carved out so easily elsewhere in the year.
I was out shopping with my older brother yesterday and found it amusing to wish everyone a "Merry Christmas" as I saw them, regardless of whether I knew them or not. The reactions were rather funny at times, as everyone sort of jumped and looked after me as much as to say, "What's she so happy about?"
It is true--I have an uncommon reason to be happy, and so have you. Because of the birth of a tiny baby--one who was born into obscurity, lived at odds with his society, died the most disgraceful death the Romans could conjure up--I have eternal life. That's something to smile about, be you white, black, young old, American, or something-else. In this best and most perfect "Merry Christmas", we have and escort into the Way Everlasting. It's a beautiful Christmas gift.

"And it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, "God bless us, Every One!"

"Mistletoe" :)

"Mistletoe"

Walter de la Mare

Sitting under the mistletoe

(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),

One last candle burning low,

All the sleepy dancers gone,

Just one candle burning on,

Shadows lurking everywhere:

Someone came, and kissed me there.

Tired I was; my head would go

Nodding under the mistletoe

(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe);

No footsteps came, no voice, but only,

Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,

Stooped in the still and shadowy air

Lips unseen--and kissed me there.

Snippets of Story, as borrowed from Katie. ;)

          "Lisette approached the wing-chair near the fire and cleared her throat. A wan, pale hand beckoned her forward. Lisette took a seat on a low bench near the hearth and turned her eyes to her master. All the benefits of wealth and rank had wasted in the person of Cyril Delgrade. He possessed all the graces of beauty, talent, and wit in a perverted state, and Lisette despised him for it.
           His eyes, that, in another man and another life could have been warm and jovial, flicked with an unhealthy, fitful light. His chin, if tempered by an active life would have shown him to be a confident, reliable young man, but was instead set in a constant, defiant square. The figure, if encouraged ever so slightly, showed promise of being strong and supple, but under the influence of pampered illness had relaxed until Mr. Delgrade was nothing but a sculpture of what might have been, a portrait of dissipated youth and vitality."
              ~The Master of Delgrade Heath

       "Has the O'Talley vexed you again, shrew?"
        Lisette ignored the question put forth and turned to Cyril Delgrade. "I had heard you were a gentleman. I was also told this was a fine house. I see you are a liar as well."
        "Aha! This fire is warmer than that you stand by. Come, throw sparks at me and see if you can light any flame of indignation in this piece of kindling before you." Mr. Delgrade laughed, delighted at causing anyone to feel a sliver of the sourness plaguing his every moment. He motioned to Lisette to bring the bottle she held in her hand. "So you do not count Delgrade Heath a fine house? Tell me why, if you will, Miss Allenham."
        It was less a request and more a command, but Lisette poured the medicine into a spoon with a steady hand and held it forth. "Perhaps in form, the Heath may be considered fine. But everything in it is twisted and cold with no more heart to it than the stones it was hewn from. Yes, there is elegance, but no beauty. There is provision, but no comfort. It is less a home than some hovels I have entered."
          Mr. Delgrade lounged back in his chair, his midnight-blue smoking jacket a painful contrast against the pallor of his skin. "Ah, but she is sharp on you, Old Beauty," he said, casting his eyes about the room as if caressing a beloved pet. "Still, what care I if she thinks it is less than the slums she came from? Miss Allenham was not bred to fine tastes. We must forgive her for that." The Parthean shaft leaving his bow, Mr. Delgrade took the spoon from Lisette and swallowed the contents, then tossed it on the tray at his side. It clattered against the other accouterments of silver with a sound like tiny bells."
          ~The Master of Delgrade Heath

          "Excuse me Mr. Delgrade, but I must give you my professional opinion."
           "On what topic? My house? Ah, but I didn't know they were letting women into the bricklayer-departments these days. What is the world coming to?" The mouth curved again into a teasing smile, but the eyes were languid as ever.
           "I was only thinking what an improvement it would be for you to sit in the sunlight for an hour or two each morning. Stay in this tomb and you're like to turn into one of those newts or frogs I was reading to you about last week."
           Mr. Delgrade picked at the gold stitching on his cuff-sleeve and shook his head. "The blind leading the blind, eh?"
            "I am perfectly serious, Mr. Delgrade."
             "And seriousness does not become your face, Miss Allenham. You are not so pretty you can spoil what looks you have by frowning. Get along with the reading and we'll have done with it."
 ....       "Then you are wearied with the Encyclopedia too? Let us pretend I am your nurse on the literary field as well--I prescribe a daily dose of Shakespeare to vary the monotony."
             "Can't abide the man with his everlasting tragedies and poisons and daggers."
              "But he wrote comedies as well, you know."
               "He wrote nothing that could remotely amuse me, Miss Allenham."
                "Because you refuse to be amused, Mr. Delgrade."
                "Que Sera, Sera, Senorita."
             ~The Master of Delgrade Heath

I have given you quite a dose here of my Heath, and I hope you enjoyed it. :) I decided that this story shall be given my second youngest sister for Christmas, and she is not on the computer much, so it is safer to post a bit now and then about this latest Christmas Tale. What do you think of it so far?

The Master of Delgrade Heath

I wrote 4360 words today...(I believe that was the W.C.) 4360 words of a gift for someone. I don't know who it is for, but I know that it is my yearly Christmas Tale, and it will be a gift for a friend or family member. That is why I can't disclose too too much information about this work in progress. I have grown to love my Christmas Tales. I let myself go to reckless abandon in writing them. The first was Fairfax and Cloves. It was nothing amazing, but I had fun writing it, I thought as little as possible about rules and regulations, and I wrote for the fun of writing and the joy of giving that fun to someone else. I have been in great need of writing such a piece recently, and so while I wasn't even sure I'd attempt a Christmas Tale this year, I have found I am attempting it and having good success so far. I wish I could tell you all about it in my new flush of authorship, but I cannot. All I will say is that I am going with the working title: The Master of Delgrade Heath. He looks something like this, "a sculpture of what might have been" as the main character, Lisette Allenham tells us.

 

I feel a deep compassion for this wretched man, and I am pleased to say that as Authoress, I have planned a happy ending for him. But it will take many words and a Christmas miracle of sorts of change him from the self-centered, ill man he is to what he was meant to be. Will his nurse, Lisette Allenham have anything to do with his reformation?

We shall have to see. I think so. And then again, I am not sure. There is very little decided in only 4,000 words. However, I know one thing. I like Cyril Delgrade, despite his cynicism and wasted youth. He has a soft side to him that I am discovering, and a biting wit. I like Lisette Allenham. She is faced with the perplexity of trying to cure a man who does not desire to get well. She's a strong woman, but she doesn't understand Mr. Delgrade. And...I've gone and told you more than I meant. Ah well. This will end up being a good Christmas Tale. I've got a feeling in my bones, and my bones are seldom wrong. After Christmas I will be able to post it for you, as it is not to be too terribly long a story. And have I mentioned I like this tradition of writing a story each Christmas? ;) Perhaps when I am an old woman I shall have quite a volume of stories laid up. Sing ho for The Master of Delgrade Heath, eh? :) And sing ho for the kind of cozy reading that is meant to beguile a winter's afternoon! ~Rachel

Nazarene Noon: a short story

Sorry for the unexplained absence this week! I was counseling at a girls' camp and had no internet access, for which I was very grateful, as it could not be a distraction! It was such a blessed time and so busy, but I had just enough time to scribble this piece about a Bible character the speaker spoke on. Tell me how you like it! :)

"Nazarene Noon"

 By Rachel Heffington

Mary took the earthen jug into her work-worn hands and turned it over. She felt the familiar warmth of the sun-soaked clay, the same ridges on the rim that had always been there. She smiled--an expression laced with tears--and marveled that the jug could remain unchanged after...Mary put her hand to her belly as a movement, gentle and soft as the spring's first butterfly, reminded her of all that had changed. 
She sighed and ducked through the low door-frame into the hot Israeli afternoon. The cistern in the garden, crowded over with a riot of almond-blossoms from Papa's tree, was where it had all begun. Mary approached the well with hushed footsteps, half-fearing, and almost expecting the angel to be there. She had never been more frightened in all her fifteen years, she recalled. First the blinding, flaming light, then the deep voice speaking in tones far richer than any Abba could coax out of his lyre. Mary had thrown herself to the ground at the first sound of the awesome voice. He told her not to fear, and all at once a deep peace, more encompassing and filling than any she'd ever known flowed through ever fiber in her being.
Then the angel, Gabriel, told her things so wondrous they could not be true, or so it seemed. Mary smiled as she felt the fluttering again. They could not be true, but they were true. She knew that more wholly than ever after the angel had spoken.
It was strange, of course, and Mary felt she must ask the question that crowded her tongue before it asked itself. "How can this be, since I do not know a man?"
The angel's countenance brightened with laughter till it shone, no longer like a flame, but with the joyful light of the year's first snow. Then the angel told her the strangest thing yet: the Holy Spirit would come upon her and overshadow her and, well....this.
Mary glanced up at the sun and rubbed her belly. "How are you, my King?" she whispered, then giggle as a tiny kick replied.
She filled her earthen jug with haste, spilling a little on the dusty ground, and returned to the house. She must leave early tomorrow morning to visit her cousin, Elizabeth, of whom the angel had also spoken.
Her cousin, pregnant? Elizabeth--with her wealth of iron-grey hair and deep smile lines, her calloused hands and bent back--to have a son? But if she herself, a virgin yet, was with child, who was she to question it? After all, stranger things had--Mary broke off there. She wasn't sure anything stranger had happened. She would stay with Elizabeth till her cousin's time came--three months at least. She would miss Abba and their quiet home, and Joseph. Oh, how she would miss Joseph! He of the warm brown eyes and gentle smile, the big strong hands that could do such delicate carpentry. Joseph of the courageous heart and just nature, who treated her with love and tenderness! How the news of her pregnancy would hurt him!
Mary bowed her head, the folds of her mantle falling forward and her thick, dark hair almost covering her face. She clasped her hands across her heart and rocked.
"Oh Lord," she sobbed, "Let it be unto me as Thou hast said! If I am never to be Joseph's wife I will not cry against Thee! But oh, do not let me despise me for what has come upon me!" Mary lifted her head and dried her years. Abba would be home soon and she knew he would be hungry.
She mixed flour and olive oil in a bowl, and stirred a pot of stew simmering on the fire. Should she tell Abba tonight? No, she would keep this news from her family a short while longer. She must tell Joseph in just the right way. By the time she returned from Elizabeth's house her condition would be too plain to be concealed.
What a day for the Galilean gossips! But God would not forsake her--she knew that. And despite the bewilderment and anxiety, the deep peace flowed again, and Mary smiled, knowing she was indeed blessed among all women.

Inkpen Poetry Day: When The Holly's In The Red

“When The Holly’s In the Red”
By Rachel H.

When the holly’s in the red
And the pine is in the green,
When the mornings all are frosty,
In a brilliant silver sheen
Then I love to go a’ walking
Rambling here and there, quite slow,
Plucking greenery and berries;
Wishing for a Christmas snow

When the holly’s in the red
And the pine is in the green
Then my heart is singing blithely
In agreement with the scene.
And I bring a bit of color
To my home from out-of-doors:
Sprays of pine and sprigs of holly
Glimpse of Yuletide during chores.

When the holly’s in the red
And the pine is in the green
I read novels by the fire-
Sweetest setting I have seen-
And the woodsy fragrance follows
As I make my way to bed;
When the pine is in the green
And the holly’s in the red.

It's About Time! :)

Sorry I've been so tardy in posting recently! I have been leading a decidedly un-literary life for the past couple of days. ;) Barring the reading of Barnaby Rudge in spare moments! :P Actually, I have been housecleaning, and reading for school, and attending documentary premiers, and percussion recitals, and plucking pin-feathers out of 130+ turkeys...eclectic mix, isn't it? :D
I also just joined an online writing critique group...Christian Young Adult Writers, and I'm so excited! I get to post my first chapter for critique on Monday! Of course, there is the creeping, uneasy feeling at times of what my poor little story will look like all crossed back and forth with comments. ;) But thankfully, all my reading of the Anne books and Little Women have not come back void, I am prepared to "sacrifice the best descriptions" if need be! :)

"A successful man is one who can lay a firm foundation with the bricks that others throw at him." ~Sidney Greenburg

I am trying to do some construction on this blog and get it looking much more refined! Less like a stark clinic and more like a cozy library in an Austen novel! :) So bear with any homeliness in the meantime! :) So Christmas is coming up pretty soon! I was wondering, what is your personal favorite Christmas story or book, besides the One and Only Christmas story that really counts (Jesus' birth! :) ? Leave a comment and tell me! :) ~Rachel

I Wish I Could Catch It Like a Cold! ;)

"No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader; No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader." -Robert Frost

As writers, we all have experienced that moment when we know we have accidentally written something wonderful! It may be only a sentence, it may be a twist in the story, but whatever it is, each author treasures that warm pleasure that seeps through your mind when you have penned it, and captured the moment. Suddenly your writer's cramp disappears, and for the next few moments, all else is oblivious to you as you scribble as fast as you everly can to secure your idea. This fleeting, illusive, rare feeling is what most people call "inspiration". I often look at famous authors' writing, and marvel at the creativity in their works. How did Baroness Emuska Orczy manage to write such thrilling books about The Scarlet Pimpernel over and over and still make them heart-stopping? How did Jane Austen manage to create such witty dialog between her characters? How did Lucy Maud Montgomery know that the perfect name for her red-headed orphan was Anne Shirley, and that she had to live at a house called Green Gables? How did Charles Dickens learn to describe so perfectly the little idiosyncrasies of humanity? How did Frances Hodgeson Burnett write about the transformation of Sara Crewe's attic in such a way that her readers can almost see the room for themselves?
I could go on for a much longer span of time. One thing I have learned, is that inspiration does not come when you'd like it to, and it only comes at times when you least expect it! :) Often the times I am inspired are when I am hanging laundry out on the line, or spreading mulch in our landscape business, with nary a pen or piece of paper in sight. So I hold fast the idea in my brain, mull it over, and by the time I get home, run up the stairs, grab a notebook, and begin scribbling at least the bare bones of it. Have any of you ever had a moment of "inspired-ness"? :) There are times when I read over my writing, and think, "Wow. That is actually a neat name." or "I actually wrote that? That's pretty good!" as well as times when I think, "Oh mercy! I ought to burn this!" :D I tend to have bits and pieces of ideas I hoard. Mostly names. Names of houses, names of characters, names of places.....I am saving them for the perfect moment, and it has not yet come! :) One name I have spoken of before is "Katharine Durrant". I think it is a beautiful, regal name...the problem? I have yet to write a story where a beautiful, regal, woman comes in to take possession of the name! :D I have named three houses in three separate stories "Windyside Cottage". None of the stories have made it to completion. The name of that cottage belongs to a place in my mind that I have not yet been able to recreate! Names do not stick if they don't belong to the character! :) I've learned that the hard way! At some point I will tell you my grand, name-thinking-up strategy, but that belongs to another post! :) Anyway, I am doing a post about inspiration, because I am scrubbing around for some in my brain, and as all too often happens, it doesn't want to come right now! Can you imagine the amazingly, awe-struck feeling the writers of the Bible would have had when God inspired their writing? I cannot begin to fathom that idea! :) I began a tradition last year of writing a Christmas tale for a gift to some member in my family. Last year, it was "A Tale of Fairfax and Cloves" for Sarah. I will post it in full around the holidays, but do remember it had absolutely no editing done to it, so it isn't extremely good writing! But I need to get some inspiration for this year's story, so I'm keeping my thinking cap on! I need one of Josephine March's "Scribbling Suits"! ;)

"Her `scribbling suit' consisted of a black woolen pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared for action."

So here's to brilliant ideas! Keep those pens scribbling! :)
Waiting for a good idea to stumble upon me,
Rachel