Dear Twenty-Five

Dear Twenty-Five:

Raise your hand if you're where you thought you'd be.

Who is?

Raise your hand if you've done things that have scared you, even if you did them accidentally.

Raise your hand if you've loved.

If you've lost.

If you've conquered.

If you've feared.

If you've seen at least one dream come true.

If you've chosen a fork in a road you thought would be straight.

Raise your hand if you've bought something on impulse. Ugly-laughed till your ribs seized in pain. Cried in public (you know you've cried in public).

And now that your hand is raised, look around at all the other hands raised, half shyly, half confidently. That shy confidence, that confident shyness are all marks of having lived a quarter century.

You tell me not to say that, that it makes you feel old.

Oh, twenty-five, I'm laughing. Don't feel your antiquity, feel the power of having grown. Your heart has pattered twenty five years, sometimes racing, sometimes lulling, sometimes the only indication that you're still here, still in reality. You've crunched through twenty-five leaf-filled autumns, twenty-five winters bright as new quarters, twenty-five shy-confident springs, melted through twenty-five summers. Five years ago you were holding your sudden adultness like a fishnet, caught in it. Ten years ago you sat in algebra class. Fifteen years ago you skinned your knee. Twenty years ago you ate someone else's graham cracker and got slapped. Twenty-five years ago you squalled at the bright lights of a new world. A world which you hadn't asked to enter and didn't know to love.

When you look at it like that, it all gets better.

But it hurts.

Yes, it hurts.

But it's beautiful.

Yes, it's beautiful.

Just think – where did you intend to be at twenty-five? Not here? Well, does that surprise you after all? Since when have you ended up anyplace you intended? Life isn't calculated to go according to our schemes, thank God.

Perhaps you haven't found your true love, but you have found love to be true.

Perhaps you haven't done all you meant to have done, but I can assure you that you've done other things you never meant to do, some of them turning points in those twenty-five years.

You've seen weird things, Twenty-Five. Things like stirrup pants and an unfortunate poncho craze, dial-up internet and FaceTime. You've seen violence and history destroyed and history made. You've seen so much in so short a time but weigh that against the age of this world and what have you seen?

Oh, you are not old.

You are not old like eternity. You are not old like the Joshua trees. You are not old like Jerusalem or the spires of Oxford. You are not even old like filling stations and big-band music and the wooden floors of the soda shop downtown.

Old? You are so young, Twenty-Five, that you have no concept of what Age is.

Age is opportunity.

Age is another year and another twelve months to do the improbable.

Age is entropy, but Age is not caring.

Age gathers the days to her chest and grins, having outwitted another year. She is far from old. She is young, and forever young. It is the young who do things, and the more days to your life, the more time to do.

How many years are yours?

I don't know.

You're not who or where or what you expected to be at a quarter century, are you?

So what?

You're much more. So much more. A ruffled, hopeful, madful mess.

So, Twenty-Five, put away your comparisons. If you are to be someone other than you are, you will be her. You're still living, aren't you? You're still growing and there are still autumns and winters and summers and springs and I think you'll understand.

Light twenty-five candles on your cake today and smile at the small forest fire it makes. And before you blow them out I want you to pause and I want you to look back and I want you to look forward. And most of all I want you to know that you, Twenty-Five, are meant to be.

I love you and I think you're fantastic. But guess what? If you live to be one hundred you are only a quarter as fantastic as you'll someday grow to be. Age? Embrace it like a hug from a long-lost friend. Bury your face in its shoulder and squeeze it hard and maybe even let it tip you off-balance with the force of its awesomeness. You're twenty-five and you're pretty damn fine.

Hey Gents: an open letter to my male followers

Dear Gentlemen:
      I don't know that I actually have any male followers ... do I? But in the event that I have and you are just the type that lurk in corners and quietly follow, I would like to address this post to you, with love.
     You're such good peaches. By this, I mean that you put up with so much from me in the way of nonsense and I know that girls are able to stand a lot more than guys. If you have stuck around through everything (such as all this talk about Cinderella stories and the like) than you are even more decent chaps than I'd hoped. By the way, I have now read three of the Cinderella stories in the collection and I don't think you'd hate it. There's an awful lot of sense in the Modern Woman's mind that seeps into her telling of a fairy-tale. No spineless Prince Charmings for us, thankee.
      But this letter was not a plug for the male populace to lounge off and buy Five Glass Slippers rather, it is a chance to me to address you and to admit that I know I don't often remember you exist. I have even sometimes opened a post with "Hello, darlings!" which, though not exclusive to the female type, is probably a bit demeaning to a real man. (Darling Men I Know: is it? Do you hate it when I address you as "darling"? You ought to tell me. I will stop if I can.)
     What I wanted to say in this post is that I am looking to increase my male-reader following because there is nothing like having a sensible man's opinion on a matter. Many thanks to Wyatt Fairlead and my own brother, Daniel, for having aided me to the extent they have. I would have you gentlemen know that each of my stories goes past these two fellows to be scanned for matters like, "A man wouldn't say that" etc. before publication in an effort to make them palatable to most varieties of both sexes. I can't tell you how helpful it is to have someone look at my book from the opposite end of the spectrum and make comment.
     My mystery, Anon, Sir, Anon is coming out this autumn and I am much excited because one of the two main characters and practically all the side characters are men and I actually think I've pegged them well. I can't wait for you to meet the an & company and I can't wait to release this book and say, "Look, it's not a romance! Have at it, guys! I hope you like Mr. Orville Farnham and his gentlemen friends."
     Don't be afraid to be involved in this blog, my boys, because I intend to amend matters and start making my posts a bit less Addressed To The Female Contingent and more all-inclusive. I want to know you. I value your opinions. I would love to chat with you about your writing and hear your opinions of mine. I think it is clear by now that I don't expect sugar-coated praise when there are sensible opinions to be heard. Too long has The Inkpen Authoress been a host-place for an all-girls crowd without ever having invited the gentlemen in, though they are most welcome.
    So, dear man, if you are reading this post and find yourself "hear-hearing" in its presence, I invite you to leave a comment and tell me so. Girls, do keep silent this once and let the chaps speak. If there are no comments left, I suppose I'll keep it as proof that I've scared the gents off for the time being.
     In either case, you fellows are jolly welcome if you'd care to make yourselves known. :)
                   Cheers etc.,
                                    Rachel Heffington

Le Cricket Speaks Out

Dear Human-Peoples:
     We (Her Royal Highness, Le Cricket) has drugged our mistress and taken over her responsibilities for the day. Purrrrrrrrrr. We are merely in jest. We have not drugged her; we have taken over. We are in the habit of reading over Rachel's shoulder while she works, and happened to see someone at Scribbles and Inkstains  ask a question about our friend, Nickleby. This peasant asked whether any of the book (this Fly Away Home thing) is written from the cat's perspective, as they enjoyed the one question Rachel let Nickleby answer in the interview. We had to purr over this as well as twitch our tail and wink our eyes; of course peasants enjoy real journalism when they read it. Cats are so far and above anyone else when it comes to giving straightforward answers. It is all very well to be appreciated after the fact, but does Rachel's answer bear scrutiny as to why a cat cannot be the Point of View of a book?
We think it is segregation..or sanctification, or...we seem to have lost our vocabulary today. Rachel uses lots of words that we don't entirely understand. Let me twitch my tail a moment and think. Ah. Yes. Discrimination. That is the word. If a cat cannot be allowed to write from his (or her) perspective, is it really a free world? We do not think so, but since when has anyone bothered with what Her Royal Highness, Le Cricket thinks? We are overlooked and oppressed. Why, just last night, a strange white and tabby creature (surname: Bilbo) belonging to the other humans across the Big Field stalked into our palace and began to eat our dog's food. Her Royal Highness does not like the dog, but far worse is a fellow cat who comes in without a by-our-leave and stares one out of countenance with great big amber eyes. Our Rachel did a most scandalous thing and picked the wretch up and...oh, how our eyes flash...and cuddled it against her chest. We could scarcely believe our vivid senses. She threw it out the door (and good riddance) but not before getting white hairs all over her front. So very lower class of her.
This neighborhood is getting quite crowded. That vile Bilbo-beast spends half his time here and now and then the Other Human Peoples from over the Big Field bring a little black fuzz-ball that our Rachel finds quite adorable. I don't know why when we are such a plush, luxuriant pile of love ourselves, but our Rachel is strange that way. She has asked us to thank you from the bottom of our heart for supporting her new book. We don't have a heart--unless that is where purrs come from (and we are a fabulous and accomplished purrer)--but we will thank you, if only to show how good we are at scattering verbal largesse. Rachel would like as many people as possible to read Fly Away Home, so she particularly thanks everyone who has spread the word, bought copies, etc. Her Royal Highness would like to show that cats can indeed play supporting roles (perhaps one day we shall have the lead!) on-page, so we would like as many humans as possible to read the book.

"Shine the light on feline discrimination: read Fly Away Home."

There's a campaign in that somewhere, if you like campaigns. We don't enjoy campaigns but we do enjoy fellow cats (except when they steal one's dog's food), so we are in support of this motion. You will like this story, we feel. You will like Nickleby too, for though we have been called crazy and romantic and (dare I pronounce the term?) a "silly puss", we do think Nickleby is the most gentlemanly and handsome of cats and acted in a way quite in keeping with the highest good breeding. Human peoples seem to love Wade Barnett, but we are quite certain the real hero of the piece is Nickleby. You shall not understand what we mean, however, unless you read the book so I raise my right paw and swear on my own black coat that if you read the book and hate Nickleby, the wrath of glowing-eyes-in-the-dark shall be upon Her Royal Highness, Le Cricket's head. But you will not hate him. Who could? He is a cat of all cats.
As are we.

     Written by my own paw in the presence of none,
                                     Her Royal Highness, Le Cricket

Postscript: Our Rachel appears speaking of good writers and...oh la!...hedgehogs on Rachelle Rea's blog. What are the peasants coming to?

Dear Hopeful One: a letter

Dear Hopeful One:
     Yes, you, with your eyes shining and the buds of a thousand stories in your lapel, showing you what you are championing for. You are at that stage wherein writing seems like a world apart from a world; a world that is all your own only so long as it is in your head, but a world to which you will invite an excited public someday.
     You read this blog and other blogs of writers who are published or about to be so, and maybe you're just a little bit jealous. Maybe you wish it was you being featured on other blogs, your book with a Goodreads page and a promise of Amazon in a month or so.
     But dear hopeful one, enjoy your innocence. Enjoy the thrill of stepping into the realm of the written word. Enjoy writing for the pure joy of writing, unencumbered by deadlines and emails and interview queries. There are things you hold right now that I no longer have:
     You have likely never opened a document to find all your careful formatting had been absorbed into the hole of the Never-Never and must be re-done with the painstaking precision you have already spent hours upon.
     You don't have to keep a planner full of all the little things you forget about, like contacting review websites and other bloggers, and arranging guest-posts and interviews and giveaways and then re-contacting all those people to let them know the schedule/details/information.
     Formatting probably means a glorious nothing to you.
    Sitting at the desk till your neck is stiff and your back hurts is entirely optional for you at this point and if you don't much feel like writing, you can always doddle off and pick up the next tantalizing book that's been wanting to be read.
   I realize that for all the hard work and unforeseen difficulties in my stage, I hold something precious too: I have my book in hard copy in my hands and there are few things quite so exciting as your first novel. I'm not trying to tell you it isn't as exciting as it looks; it is. But just because I have printed my novel is no grounds for thinking there aren't difficulties in my writing life.
   Don't despise your youth, Hopeful One. Enjoy the simplicity of being unknown because (as I'm learning) even the littlest bit of being known is enough to change one's perspective on whether writing is a joy or a business arrangement. I intend never to let writing become all business, but dear Hopeful One, you don't need to make that choice yet. Hold onto the joy of word-play and rejoice in anonymity. There are plenty of years in which to print your books, plenty of stories to tell, plenty of areas in which to grow.
   Take your time, Hopeful One, because every stage has a special beauty.

             Ever Yours,
                       Rachel Heffington

{Fly Away Home Cover Reveal} In Which The Cricket Interferes a Bit

Aren't we beautiful?

Dear Human People:
    We suppose you are what our Rachel refers to as "Bloggy Friends" when she's in a cosseting mood and "Writing Friends" when she's being practical. Whatever you call yourselves probably doesn't matter because we don't like you. (We are using the royal "we" because we are a Highness.) You take up Rachel's attention when quite obviously the matter at hand is us. We are only a little bit consoled because some of you are fond of this "Nickleby" in Fly Away Home. We don't like Fly Away Home; it takes our Rachel's attention too. Nickleby, however, is another matter. We like him mostly because he was based off of moi. Black cats are the best, we think, and that is all there is to the matter.
   Human People and dogs are such terrible creatures. Right now the dog (it has a name but we don't say it) is whistling in his crate--we do say whistling because that is the proper term for that heinous noise--and it is making it dreadfully hard to hear things.
  Our Rachel informed us today that she was sitting at a coffee-shop the other afternoon editing that wretched book of hers. We call it wretched but it really does look quite marvelous in person. We just don't tell her because it would swell her head. But to return to our story: she was sitting in the coffee-shop and another Human Person stood by watching her. It was not one of the Attractive Human Persons (like some he-person named Jack Hudson on the television) that makes our Rachel do that funny bouncing thing out of what we hate to notice is glee--it was a she-person. This she person decided to act like a cat and stick her nose into our Rachel's business.
  "Sorry to be nosy," she said.
  Our Rachel looked up.
   "I had to see what you are reading. It looks like (insert some author we don't care about). What is it?"
   Our Rachel blushed, she tells us, and said, "Actually I wrote it. It's the proof copy of my book I am independently publishing."
    "What's it about?"
    Here, our Rachel began to embarrass us by stumbling over her words and giving a perfectly idiotic description of her novel and thereby probably losing a customer. When she came home she was rather mortified. We tried to tell her to practice pitching her novel to customers but would she take our advice? HA.
   "Aren't you excited? Is it your first?" the she-person said.
    "It is and I am," our Rachel said, trying to scrape up a bit of dignity, as she afterward confided in us.
    "Are you a local author?" the she-person said.
   "Yes."
    Rachel informs us that the lady grinned and tossed her head at an ancient couple to our Rachel's right. "Should we get her autograph now or wait a while?" she said to them, and all of them laughed.
   Rachel seemed to think that this was a very clever thing the woman said--at least, she seemed rather gratified. Why, I can't tell. I can't think why anyone would want our Rachel's autograph. It seems like exactly the sort of idiotic thing that will be happening around here come the publication of that wretched novel.
Le sigh.
What we think was the really notable part of our Rachel's hideously human afternoon  was the dear prince among old men she met in a wretched place called Walmart. No, he wasn't handsome and no, Walmart is not a classy place to meet other Humans, but diamonds in the rough can glimmer just as bright. Our Rachel was in the cat aisle getting litter for our box. She buys one of the huge tubs that weigh a mine and was having difficulty getting it off the shelf, as two were jammed on top of one another. This old gentleman comes up and offers to get it for her and our Rachel lets him because she likes to think she is helping chivalry not die when she lets men lift things for her. We do our part by (occasionally) letting men lift us. But that is a tale for another time.
The old gentleman spent the better part of several minutes working the anvil-like tubs off the shelf and finally got one out. When he had got it in his hands, he walked it over to our Rachel's cart and put it in for her, wishing her a good day. If that isn't good breeding, we don't know what is. We are thankful to the anonymous stranger for having insured we got a fresh litter-box. Rachel is a dear but she can be a bit negligent in that area when a writing fit seizes her...if she'd only notice, the "presents" we leave her would cease.
Well. It is now getting dark--just the knife-edge of a January evening--and Rachel will be coming back to the computer after making Alfredo Sauce. (We like this) We don't want our Rachel to know we are posting for her. She will find out during her cover-reveal party when the last day is taken up already. What? We are being helpful for once and she can just deal with it.
We have now written ourselves into a fine mood. We would like to acknowledge that our Rachel's book is probably better than we like to tell her. We would like to tell you that on Valentine's Day (which is a day to cuddle, after all) we would recommend you buy a copy. Nickleby, our friend, will be worth it.

In the name of Our Own Royal Highness,
                     The Cricket

Begging tips from Stevenson!

I am always on the look-out for fellow letter-writing enthusiasts. Imagine my extreme delight when I found a charming, witty, beggary-letter written from a 15-year-old Robert Louis Stevenson to his father, asking for more money. I found the letter reprinted in the newest issue of Reader's Digest. :) I've shared it for you, below. Take notes, my fellow writers--it's pure genius:

Respected Paternal Relative,
     I write to make a request of the most moderate nature. Every year I have cost you an enormous--nay, elephantine--sum of money for drugs and physician's fees, and the most expensive time of the twelve months was March.
But this year the biting Oriental blasts, the howling tempests, and the general ailments of the human race have been successfully braved by yours truly. 
Does this not deserve remuneration?
I appeal to your charity, I appeal to your generosity, I appeal to your justice, I appeal to your accounts, I appeal, in fine, to your purse.
My sense of generosity forbids the receipt of more--my sense of justice forbids the receipt of less--than half a crown.
Greetings from, sir, your most affectionate and needy son,
                              R. Stevenson

It does rock about so.

I am joining up with Rosamund Gregory in her Character's Letters blog event. Rosamund had the bright idea to do a sort of beautiful-people event in first person, that we might get inside our characters' heads better. This fits perfectly in with my ideas for Scuppernong Days, as I was already planning on having a few letters to and from Nicodemus Murdoch thrown in here and there. So without further ado, Nick's first letter a'sailing to Imperia. He writes in a boyish, scattered hand on kitchen-paper--all he's been able to scrap since being hired on The Scuppernong for a cabin-boy. There are blots here and there because of the rolling of the ship, but over all he keeps things tidy...for a ten-year old boy:

My Imperia,
        I am finally sitting down (on a keg of pickled herrings) to write to you. I know I promised I'd write more often but it's harder than I expected, being a cabin-boy. Garrick--the ship's cook--keeps me busy running errands all over the ship for him. But he's a good enough fellow and he's kind to Black Swan. Black Swan is the ship's cat--you'd love her, Imperia. She is sleek and fat from all the mice she eats in the hold. She's fat, too, from all the kittens inside her. At least that's what Nesbit says. Nesbit is the pilot and knows ever so much about stars and the ocean-paths. He's my favorite aboard ship--he knew Father, Imperia! Fancy that. I was pleased to hear it, and I think he was pleased to see me. His eyes crinkled up like leathery moons and he smiled.
There are lots of first-rate chaps on the Scuppernong but this paper isn't long enough for me to tell you all about them. They'll have to wait for another letter.
I go to bed every night thinking of you. I pray too--I pray that you'll have enough to eat and warm clothes to wear, and that the Blackbird Woman will be kinder. Here's what's left of my pay--it isn't much but if you save it you can buy something pretty for yourself--a doll, maybe, or a hair ribbon. When I make our fortune you'll have all the dolls and dresses and ribbons money can buy and I will buy you a pony--one finer than the bay you admired so much at the fair last May Day. So wait for me, Imperia, and don't worry if I don't write often. I will write when I have something to tell you and when the ship is still enough--it does rock about so. But I'm not sea-sick and that is fortunate indeed. I was so afraid I would be and then I'd disgrace Father's memory and the whole Murdoch name, as we've always been sailors. You know.
Save my letters and someday when the Scuppernong comes back into harbor you'll be waiting for me on the wharf and I'll pour a whole pile of gold into your apron.We'll go directly to the inn and buy hot mince pies, as I'll be hungry for food of that sort--I'm already hungry for food of that sort, having nothing but salt-pork and biscuits for the past fortnight. Write if you get a chance and remember always that I love you.
I am your loving brother,
                    Nick

Letters to Miss Austen

These are my entries for Miss Dashwood's contest for birthday-cards and letters to Miss Jane Austen. :)

My dearest Miss Austen,
      La, but I'm fagged! I was up dancing all last night at the Officer's Ball and Wickham spilled his punch all over my gown and spoilt it. (The gown, not the punch--well, both. La, what a goose I am!) I'm afraid he isn't half as agreeable as you said he'd be when you married me off to him, though he is horridly handsome. But here I am babbling on so when I picked up my pen to write you a Happy Birthday. (Though it seems to me you might be happier if you were married as well. If you only came to visit me, Miss Austen, I could introduce you to all the officers--ahhmmmm!) I trust we can count on you to host a ball to celebrate the day? And make sure that the fabled Mr. Churchill sees to the music. [I've never met him, of course, but I hear you wrote him up as a fine rogue! How I wish I could see him.] We simply can't let Mary play--she'd be bound to play concertos when we want something we could dance to like a jig or a reel and--oh crumbs! Why, I haven't chosen my gown for the dance tomorrow--what rot it is being married to a man who can't supply you with an allowance because he spends it all on cards. I find I haven't had a new gown since September! Really, Miss Austen, I'd think you'd be wiser than to set me up with him. Ah well. Que Sera, Sera and all that sort of thing the French say. (Or was it the Italian?) No matter. My hand is so cramped from writing this card I had better stop at once with one more wish for you to have a pleasant ball--I mean, birthday.
                     Your dearest friend,
                                        Lydia Wickham. (La, how droll that sounds!)


My dear Madam,
      I would not be a gentleman if I did not wish you a very felicitous birthday--and I do, most heartily--though I can't seem to understand what the women find so pleasant in reading the mail. Especially letters of friendship--they seldom bring any money at all. I hear rumours that you are having a small evening party? I hope it does not snow, for your sake. It is my opinion that it looks very much like snow, and you know how unpleasant it is to be snow-bound in another's house for any length of time.
But as I have taken up my pen against scruples over the mail, I must beg an answer from you for a question that has plagued my mind for some time--how to convince my father-in-law that I don't wish to hear at every mealtime how unhealthy my habits are? If it is not the food he is sighing over, it's the place I take my family on holiday, and if it isn't where I take my family on holiday it is the cut of my coat. George, my brother, seems to be able to not only tolerate him, but likes him. Mr. Woodhouse is, I daresay, a good man and a generous one. But he never extends the generosity to me in the manner of which I'd savor it: In a good dose of silence.
Once more, I wish you a happy and enjoyable birthday, and I trust my sending a letter in the mail will not distress you any more than I hear they distress Miss Fairfax. Now I must beg your leave and go attend to guarding the chickens.
                        I am yours &c,
                                     John Knightley

By Hook or Crook...

I'll pin you down, Cora Lesley! You with your bright smile and winsome ways! You who looked so innocent smiling across the page at me! You who promised me smooth sailing, for after all you are fourteen years old and ought to know how to behave!
But I'll tell you one thing, Little Missy: you are giving me more trouble than all of the Seasoning children put together! [Dill and Angelica included] What is it about you that is so hard for me to write? Why do I feel that as soon as you arrived at Puddleby Lane you shut me out and ran away from me across the smooth yellow sands, free and swift as a sandpiper? I can't understand you right now. I write you into a scene and make you say and feel things I know you never saw nor felt, but you aren't helping a bit. You smile at me with that sweet complacency and look over my shoulder at these fictional actions. When I ask you what you think of it you shake your head and say, "It may be like me and then again it may not. You decide."
But I don't want to decide! I want you to let me in on that secret of yours. I find I understand Ann Company with all her eccentricities far more than I do you. Cora Lesley, I brought you into being and I find you are an enigma. So simple and yet so complex. What in tarnation did I write you for?
And yet for all this I love you. I love you for your complex simplicity, even when I'm foundering in misunderstanding. I love you for your quiet strength that is so foreign to me. I love you for being bold when I'd be frightened, and for being weak when I'd be strong. I'm sorry I'm not able to read what's behind those soft brown eyes. You are the sweetest character [despite your prejudices against being written] that I've created thus far. But, dear Cora, couldn't you be a little more forthcoming? I'd appreciate it.
                                          Your Befuddled Admirer,
                                                            Rachel Heffington

Excerpts From a "Green Gables Letter"

I absolutely love reading "behind the scenes" bits and pieces of famous authors' lives. Generally the best ones come from their letters and journals, where their true thoughts were spilled out, and thought "safe" from the public eye! :D We have a thin volume entitled: "The Green Gables Letters: from L.M.Montgomery to Ephraim Weber", published by Borealis Book Publishing, and I have read it several times. One part in particular is very amusing. Miss Montgomery was in the midst of writing the second "Anne" book, and was writing to Mr. Weber about the process:
"I don't like my new Anne book as well as the first but that may be, as you say, because I am so soaked and sated with her. I can see no freshness or interest in it. But, I suppose if I took the greatest masterpiece in fiction and read it over, say, a hundred times, one after the other with no interval between, I wouldn't find much of either in it also. I felt the same, though no so strongly when I finished Anne......The book deals with her experiences while teaching for two years in Avonlea school. The publishers wanted this-- and I'm awfully afraid if the thing takes, they'll want me to write her through college. The idea makes me sick. I feel like the magician in the Eastern story who became the slave of the "jinn" he had conjured out of a bottle. If I'm to be dragged at Anne's chariot wheels the rest of my life I'll bitterly repent having "created" her."

What tickles me about that whole passage, is that every one of us writers who have taken our books to the end and edited them, knows exactly how Lucy Maud Montgomery felt! And it is wonderfully reassuring to know that even when one is famous, that feeling does not change! :) I have read my book to shreds, picked it apart, looked at it inside out and upside down, till I doubt there is any originality, or continuity in the thing. That is when I lay it aside and forget about it for a little while. If ever you are in a blank spot in your writing, it really does help to read the famous authors' private writings....you never read of writer's block in the text of....well, "David Copperfield" for instance, and yet, perhaps Dickens had a few blank moments! :) Anyway, whether you benefit in your writing from reading such things, I know they are at least, amusing and insightful! -Rachel

Describing This Evening

Hey guys! I don't know about where you live, but here, this evening has been perfectly gorgeous. I promised to write on this blog about anything that had to do with writing, so I thought I'd put on here an excerpt from a letter I was writing to a friend on the porch. (Describing the evening) I figured that it would put into practice what I talked about last post. (sort of! :)
So here it goes!
"I am now sitting, pretty near perfectly content. The sun is sinking slowly behind the trees and the cool of evening comes softly forward. Many little birds are twittering their goodbyes, save the swallows who are still sweeping the air with their scissor-like wings. The light, now unburdened from the boldest rays of sun has softened the shapes of distant things, and hangs quietly in the sky like an airy wine. All the land is tinged to a pale rose color from its harsher new-plowed tones of brown. From where I sit upon our porch, our garden looks lush and productive, and I forget, temporarily, the potato bugs and bean beetles we must so carefully combat. I am lothe to leave this tranquil, holy, beauty. I imagine evenings in Eden when the Lord walked with Adam and Eve must have looked and felt like this. I am sure these tall pines, pencilled black as they are against the pearlescent mild blue are the finest sort of cathedral one could ask for. ....I am ever more convinced that this country air is the purest I have ever breathed! The purple shadows creep across the fields, and the air moves so sweet and fragrant and pure. There is no breeze at all, and yet I feel the fresh and cool air moving against my skin, and bringing to me all the wholesome smells of grass and flowers and abundant growing things. But I cannot do the Lord's handiwork justice. Oh I would that you could see and hear and smell and feel this evening with me! Perhaps you enjoy this very moment at your own home. But if not, you must be content with as descriptive an account as I can easily muster. I am as one drinking deep draughts of beauty, who cannot bear to tear myself away from the spectacle for one moment. The sun has not set this evening. There was no pomp, no showy colors to the finale of this lovely day. Only a beauty that was more felt and lived then seen. What a gift my God has bestowed upon me, who has tried His grace so many times today. But somehow, my heart is light, and each care has slipped away unperceived as I have sat here worshipping my Creator. I feel I can echo back with the poet: "...The hillside's dew-pearled,
God's in his Heaven,
All's right with the world."
If this letter is rambling, it is only because I have little patience for trivial, daily things after experiencing the close of this day. Which makes it hard to go inside and vacuum prosaicly as I am now called to do. The whippoorwills are beginning! But I now leave."

Okay. So I think I wore out adjectives, and the vacuuming line at the end was not in good taste, but I wrote this without editing, so there you have it! I like writing letters full of description, even if it may be a tad bit dull to read! (I hope not though! :) Whaddya' think? -Rachel