BOO.

Hello, poor lost readers of mine! Well, I suppose you aren't the ones lost now, are you? I certainly did not mean to leave the country for two weeks without warning you, but The Fox Went Out was keeping you so happy, I felt I left you in good hands.

A hundred thanks to each of you who read this unusual story and liked it and furthermore left me a comment to tell me so. You make a writer's world go round. Especially when said writer has been in a bit of a bog writing-wise out of which the only thing to come so far has been a whack-a-do story such as The Fox Went Out. We hope that upon our return to America and the banishment of jetlag, we shall soon be up to our elbows in Scotch'd the Snakes and making real progress forward.

If I haven't worked on any of my novels, I have been writing. I believe I made it through ninety-seven pages in my travel journal in two weeks. I haven't the foggiest how many words that represents, but it felt good to write something definite every single day. During our ten-hour layover in Moscow I sat near a young man with red hair and freckles who was reading Laura Hillenbrand's Unbroken. This immediately made me feel friendly toward him, even though he looked like the red-haired boy from Pleasure Island in Pinocchio who turns into a donkey. If I was not quite so "ick" from having been traveling for so long already with a ten-hour flight ahead of me, I would have tried to strike up conversation. As it was, we discussed the flavor of purple Skittles in Romania and that was that. Not exactly kindred spirits despite the book. His friend leaned over to him:
"You're a fast reader."
Redhead looks up. "Huh?"
"You read fast."
"Oh, yeah." He stirs as if he was personally jolted out of a Japanese prison camp and air-dropped in Hawaii. "Yeah, I started this book on the train from Prague."
"Mmm," the friend says.
I sit back and smirk. Well 'scuse me, Mr. Hoighty-Toighty. We've resorted to nation name-dropping, have we?

Anyway, I have so much to tell you. I have a lecture prepared on Doing Research Before Entering Things, I could share excerpts from my travel journal, we could discuss your reaction to The Fox Went Out and why it worked (or didn't) according to your current feeling. We could discuss the new Rooglewood Press contest with its GORGEOUS cover (Five Magic Spindles, anyone?), the fact that it is author Clara Diane Thompson's birthday ("Give her a drink! I...I mean a hand!"), or that I was entranced by a piece of flash fiction I read on the side of my Chipolte's cup which could have been jetlag or really good writing.

There are many things. I have missed you, dear creatures. So glad to be back, so glad to catch up. May the wordcount ever be in your favor and may I soon forge a way through the slough that is my current WIP.

Marking the Kindred: Experiences While Traveling

Lucy Maud Montgomery once claimed that she was a "book drunkard" ... a very apt term for those of us who can't seem to stay away from books. Even while travelling, I found myself drawn irresistibly to them. I helped lead our eighty-four campers into Colorado Springs to visit Garden of the Gods, the Air force Academy and Focus on the Family and of course made my way to the bookstore if there was one. At Focus on the Family we had a chance to visit Odyssey and Whit's End, the art gallery, or the bookstore; I utterly ignored the WodFamChocSods and came out of Focus quite a lot poorer in cash though richer in books with Tramp for God (Corrie Ten Boom's after-story), A Man Called Thursday and The Innocence of Father Brown by G.K. Chesterton, as well as a copy of The Weight of Glory by C.S. Lewis that I was given for my birthday (July 20). At first I was concerned about space in my suitcase, but having toted along two pairs of shoes for a friend which I had deposited in CO Springs, there was enough room.

Perhaps one of my favorite things about travelling is getting to mark and observe other readers. There is little more satisfying that hearing the stewardess announce that all cellular and electronic devices must be turned off during take-off and landing and settling back into your not-so-comfy chair with your paperback and a smile. I also like spying on what these fellow book-drunkards are reading. We had a rather long layover in Reagan International on the way home and it was only as we were called to our gate that I noticed a cheerful-looking older woman with a copy of Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand on her lap; how I wished I'd seen the pair before! We could certainly have had a very interesting conversation. After getting situated on the plane prior to landing at Reagan, I noticed that the man sitting beside me not only had a prosthetic, bionic-looking leg, but his other leg had chunks out of it too, and he was reading a book called The Four-Hour Work-Week. The cover was embellished with golden palm-trees, leaving me to wonder A.) what sort of life he'd led so far B.) what he was planning to do with his life next. He texted someone named Kristen before takeoff and after landing, so I can only guess she's his S.H.I.E.L.D. contact and he spent quite some time at a place like Tahiti. (Phil Coulson's son?)

I just love speculation. I haven't forgotten last year's experiences with dropping a copy of Winnie-the-Pooh onto my seatmate's feet and having him fold himself like a Jacob's Ladder to collect it for me, and it sets me to wondering what sort of person my reading choices mark me out to be? It's such a fascinating thing to think on and wonder over. For instance, I was reading The Weight of Glory at the same time this man was reading about working four hours a week. He stole a look at my book, I peeped at his. I mean really, people, it's like optic eavesdropping: it happens. And yet for all his peeping and my peeping, we never actually spoke to each other. Had he never heard of C.S. Lewis? One would think that if he had, he might have said something friendly such as, "Such a great book," or: "I love C.S. Lewis." And if he hadn't heard of Lewis, what sort of shell had he grown up in? I, on the other hand, might have extended my remark on his really cool leather bag to include his strange choice of reading material and inquired further into Tahiti. But no, I turned shy and didn't wish to bother him anymore (he didn't respond with much animation to my compliments of his tote of choice) and kept to myself.

I recall reading an article recently wherein the author spoke on being a bit daring and extending our interactions to the point of commenting on an article of clothing, a piece of statement jewelry, or the book they are reading. It is amazing what sort of random and yet not random connections it is possible to have if one is willing to extend the right hand of fellowship.Also at Focus, I purchased a t-shirt with the phrase "It is well with my soul" emblazoned on the front in a pretty font. I bought it specifically as a pretty and fashionable conversation-piece, hoping to elicit a remark or two to see who might recognize the song and provide with me a counter-sign. The one who ended up making my day was a TSA agent. She remarked on loving the shirt and the sentiment, but what was even better was her remark that the story behind the song was precious. I'd found a kindred-spirit without even trying.

So be willing to start a conversation or be the conversation; find your fellow book-drunkards and hymn-recognizers and be available. It's such a rich feeling to know there are people like you in every corner of the world. 

"A Gentleman Arrives by Carriage."

Hey-low, people!

    This is just a very quick note to let you know that I am absent from home (and therefore absent from the blogosphere) for eleven days, starting today. That means that The Inkpen Authoress will probably be rather a quiet spot during the interim. I'm off working at Generation Joshua's iGovern East camp where, among my other responsibilities, I will be acting as the journalist and writing the daily newspaper, leading a tour of kids through Washington D.C. and spending my July 4th in the same, going to the Spy Museum. Confession time: I have wanted to be a spy since the age of ten or twelve and to go to this museum is an unofficial bucket-list item. :) So happy about this.

Can't wait to get back in town and to you, but I'm also super blessed to be a part of the GenJ Leadership Corps and working in the lives of these high-school students. God always blesses the week beyond our dreams and though we're technically there to teach them the inner workings of America's political system, shining the light of Christ into their lives is the actual goal.

So. See you in a week-and-a-bit and until then, take gobs of care and if you're American, have a blast on Independence Day. (I'm also a pyromaniac. I love fireworks.)

The Dangers of a Traveling Writer

It really isn't safe to be a writer, to travel abroad and tell people about your work.

First of all, it's harder than you'd think to pitch your novel in simplified English. If you've worked up a perfectly-worded pitch that takes you exactly twenty-five seconds to deliver, chances are that the wording will be too complex for most people you meet. (You know we exhaust every double-meaning of every word in those hellish pitches.) If you haven't worked up that perfectly-worded pitch, you're still awash. We're writers; our greatest weapon is our command of the English language ... but when your "foes" are impervious to glances from your English Weapon, you're sort of drifting in dangerous waters.

One evening early in the trip, I found myself sitting in the back of a little car as a young Romanian man drove. Two of my teammates, Matthew and Oliver, were with me and we had just finished an evening service at a church near Arad. As we puttered through a village and took a roundabout, I chatted merrily to our driver (who spoke excellent English) about wanting to learn Romanian as my second language. He smiled quietly at me through the rear-view mirror and told me that I had much better take Spanish; I would find it more useful, he said, for visiting Mexico.
"But I don't know anyone in Mexico," I said somewhat petulantly. "I have friends in Romania!"
"Don't you have Hispanics in Virginia?" he asked.
"Well, yes."
"Then you see. So tell me more about your writing."
(Here goes, I thought.) I managed to eek out something that sort of resembled a description of Fly Away Home but it was dashed hard. I mean, how am I to know what the 1950's were like in Romania and how much of what the 50's were like in NYC needs explaining to the person who has an idea of vintage Romania in his mind? Would our driver know what I meant by "glitz" and would he even be interested in the premise of my novel or was he simply being polite? There is nothing for making you weigh the value of your words like trying to cross a culture barrier, I tell you.
My American companions were rather silent during my conversation with our driver but I was not going to let my spirits be dampened by their lack of gregariousness. My Romanian acquaintance smiled at me again through the mirror and clicked his blinker on, slowing before making a turn.
"Are you going to write a book about Romania?"
"I would love to someday," I said, leaning into the topic willingly. "For now I'm keeping a journal and writing about everything that happens and everyone I meet. Someday I'll fit it in a book."
After my eager pronouncement, he smiled at me and I heard him say, "Well don't forget to."
"Forget to? I would never. I could never."

My American companions remained silent.

Flip a few pages in my travel journal to the next day when I was finishing up a surprisingly triumphant round of bowling. Oliver sauntered over to me with a silly smile on his face.
"Hey Rach," he said, "did you realize that when you were talking to Vlad last night, he said 'Don't forget me'?"
"No, he didn't!" My heart thudded to a halt and slowly jerked back into business as I realized the import of Oliver's words.

"Don't forget me."

"Forget to? I would never. I could never."

Speaking about your career as an authoress in a foreign country is dangerous. It can get you labeled a flirt and it can make you the laughing stock of your teammates. Thank heaven I soon saw the humor in the situation and helped Oliver make "I wouldn't. I couldn't," a catchphrase in our group that lasted to the final days. Nothing like laughing at yourself, right?

Oh golly. Only a Rachel, darlings. Onnnnnnnly a Rachel.

"You and I Remember Budapest Very Differently."

Hello everyone! I am home in America in one piece with another hundred pages of travel notes with which to bolster my inspiration in the days to come. After not having written terribly much, it felt good to sit down and write and draw every single day. I was able to meet quite a few people (and observe quite a few others) who will someday elbow their places into my writing. There is an especially embarrassing story connected with one of the men which has now probably given him the impression I'm the most determined flirt who every made her family ridiculous. The ordeal has certainly cemented in my mind the fact that I would never forget him ... I could never. ;)

A grand hello and welcome to my several new followers! I am always excited to have new blood on the blog and you are quite welcome here. I hope you find your stay enjoyable.

In the days to come, I will share a little more about my trip to Romania, the two real live castles I met, and the fact that Jennifer Freitag is self-publishing Plenilune. Good heavens, people. You are in a for a cattywampus. For now, I would only like to say cheers, thanks for the prayers and good wishes for my travel, and that watching pedestrians in the middle of a summer storm is a terrific way to get a laugh and heaps of character notes. Ceau!

Hanging out with a Roman head on the Danube.

Six Things Every Writer Should Bring While Traveling

I am about to leave for my trip to Romania. I will be scheduling a post to launch the day I leave, and then I'll have it fairly quiet around here until I return from to the country on May 27th. Few Days More means lots of lists: packing lists, To Get Before Leaving lists, To Do Before Leaving, etc. (These, in addition to my daily lesson-plans lists for my nanny-job) There are quite a lot of lists one can make before leaving  for a Grand Adventure, isn't that so? It came into my mind as I opened up Blogger this morning: "So why not write a list of the things a writer might need while traveling?" Thus, I did. Tell me if I've left something off.

#1: A travel journal

This is the place where you will host your brain for the duration of the trip. On last year's missions trip, I scrawled, scribbled, and sketched every spare minute. Some might say my devotion to this leather-bound volume was a little extreme, but the one night I gave up writing every little thing down, I couldn't sleep. The brain of a writer was not mean to see and not save. Your mind will be far too active while you are trying to sleep if you do not give it a paper outlet.

#2: Four good pens (at least)

I swear by Pilot G2 pens, an expensive habit formed in me by an acquaintance with Wyatt Fairlead. There should be a slogan: "Friends don't let friends use G2 pens," because they are addictive. A pack of four pens at Walmart is over $5.00, but I consider it worthwhile. Is there anything more frustrating than a scratchy, balking pen? I wonder if Paul's thorn in his flesh was an empty, scratchy prison-pen which was the only thing he had with which to compose his letters to the churches. MURDER, I say.

#3: One Beloved Book

Contrary to the claims of many readers/writers, you will not be in the mood to read while traveling by plane. (I am assuming that you will be traveling by plane. If you are on a long road-trip, this point will likely be different.) I have traveled much in the past several years and every time I have brought a new book, I never read it. Excitement, distraction, and weariness are the key reasons why you will not form a close friendship with a strange novel while traveling. Rather, pack a book you know backward and forward. You want the kind of book that you can enjoy and understand while halfway asleep on ten-hour flight with turbulence. The old familiarity of such a book will help soothe those very components that would keep you from enjoying a new title. Believe me on this: I have tried bringing a shiny new book I've been longing to read and have formed grudges against said book by virtue of having been distracted, excited, or bone-tired while making the attempt. Better stick with Winnie-The-Pooh. (I think I am bringing The Wind in The Willows to Romania, since Abigail has The Grand Sophy.)

#4: Chocolate

The stand-by comfort food of the editing/rewriting stage, chocolate is a must while traveling. I have a Chocolate War Path, actually. I brought a medium-dark chocolate sea-salt bar for the flight over. (Ten hours; I'll need sustenance.) Next, I have a 72% dark chocolate bar that will last me the first week, as this more bitter, darker bar is harder to gobble. Third, I have an 86% cocoa bar that is like coffee-grounds, it's so dark. I happen to like chocolate this dark, but it is the kind you nibble bit by bit. This bar should last me the second week and the days traveling homeward. Sound like a strategy. I find it amusing how my stratagem skills are limited to chocolate-supply.

#5: Reading Lamp

Let us say you don't feel like having the airplane light scalding down on you from a giddy height while reading on the plane. Or maybe you're in the middle of your trip and can't sleep but don't wish to wake your companions by flipping on the big old light. (There's no knowing how many watts these foreign lights will zap at you.) Having a little, secretive clip-on reading lamp is like having a super-power. Plus, it'll make a good flashlight if you're out creeping around in a dark space at any point in time.

#6: Washi tape & one Sharpie

You never know when there will be a physical something you want to tape into your travel journal like tickets, a feather, a coin, etc. I came home with some pressed flowers, some gold off a convent-chapel's door handle, and the like for which I had no paste or tape. Washi tape is perfect for this sort of thing and comes in itty bitty compact rolls for perfect traveling size. (Unfortunately, it does not come in clear. Sometimes Scotch-tape is the best after all) Washi tape weighs almost nothing and is easy to stick on and take off on a whim. You'll love it.

As for the Sharpie, must I explain? Everyone who does not bring a Sharpie always ends up wanting one at some point in the adventure. I smuggled in a Sharpie last year against such an occasion and sure enough, by day two, one of the team members was looking for a Sharpie. Plus, it's nice for doodling on un-doodle-able things such as fingers, arms of airplanes, paper, and water-bottles. (which item does not belong?)

There it is: The Short-List for Travelling Writers. Bon voyage, darlings!

Globe-Trotter: In Which I Leave American Soil {Again}

The spring is always a time for new beginnings, goals for the rest of the year, and impossible projects. But nothing is entirely impossible, is it? Especially when God's hand is in it. :) Some of you will remember that I went to Romania on a missions trip last year. If you want to read more about that mind-boggling trip, click on this link and it'll take you to the posts about it on my other blog!

I kept a meticulous travel journal while there which has proved to be amazing to look back on...

This year we are going back! Our tickets are purchased, and I will be leaving for Romania on May 12th for another two-weeks' trip! Absolutely cannot wait... Last year, I was full of the excitement of a first trip out of the country. This year, I am filled with the tremulous excitement  of going back to a place my heart loves well...

This year, we are leaving most of the cities behind and forging deeper into the mountains to more churches, more villages. We're going to TRANSyLVANIA, people! And I have it on good authority that we are stopping by two castles on the way, including the one wherein lived Count Dracula. (The man. I don't think he was a vampire. :P)

As I said above, we have bought the tickets, but our team still needs to raise over the half the funds needed (about $1800 total per person) by the time of our departure. I know God will provide as He did last year with just the right amount of funds at just the right time, but I would really appreciate your prayer for wisdom as to how to raise the money. 

This year we are pairing up with our friends' church to go. I think it's such a cool thing that two American churches are able to pair up and travel to a couple dozen Romanian churches. The world-wide body of Christ is such a beautiful thing. I will be keeping you updated as to what fund-raising schemes we are up to (if any of you have ideas, by all means pass them on!) and for now, if you would like more information on the trip, how you can pray, and any other information, please head to The Missions Trip Blog for more! I know God will provide...I look forward to seeing His hand. :) Cannot wait to set foot on Romanian soil and again see these beautiful beautiful people. <3

Pace, darlings. 

Pay Up, Globe-Trotter

"Where HAVE you been?" Their voices were cold, accusing, and I knew I was in for it.

"I've been....I've been..."

"Don't say busy," the Larger One warned, his breath coming in chilly-looking puffs from his over-red nostrils.

"I was about to say gone," I corrected. "I've been gone, that's what."

"Ohhhh. Gone." Their eyes commiserated with one another as if to say, 'That's no excuse at all, but I suppose we must take it.' "Well, next time at least tell us."

I nodded, relieved that All and Sundry hadn't booted me off the blogosphere and blotted me out of their minds. "Next time I'll tell you."

"Is that a promise?" the Larger One inquired.

"It is."

"And your word is good?"

"It is good."

"Then," he said, "I suppose we must forgive you."

-Pay Up, Globe-Trotter (an unofficial series of reprimands to Myself from Me)

I have been globe-trotting once again and instructing 130-some students in the mysteries of Political Involvement as Youth in America, and shepherding their hearts toward Christ, and buying more Wodehouse and Machiavelli and a bit of Shakespeare to balance it out. I did forget to tell you I was leaving, but you see, I didn't think there was much purpose in posting about writing when I hadn't been doing it in practice because that is called Deception in most nations and is generally frowned upon. I have, however, been doing a lot of Conversation and much Converting. I have found a mutual Wodehouse-Lover quite by accident when we were lolling about my brother's apartment and said Lover of Wodehouse made fun of me for adoring Scotch accents and then promptly remembered The Coming of Gowf, which he then proceeded to read amidst much chuckling from me and the rest of the assembled company. Then, after having taught kids how to be a lobbyist (or, rather, how to discern whether you ought to take money from a particular lobbyist or not) I lobbied feverishly to convince the very wise and learned minds of Jeremiah Lorrig & Co. of the worth of Winnie-The-Pooh. I could hardly believe that anyone of so broad and genteel a mind could have managed to grow up and entirely escape an acquaintance with A.A. Milne. I remedied that by having another unacquainted friend read us a bit. They laughed even harder than they did over Gowf. I think I have converted them. This pleases me.

As far as the production of Writing, it has been very slow in practice, but productive in the fact that I've been thinking and reading a great deal, and my store of expendable-matter is now finally filling back up. I'd quite drained it a month or two back. I failed to mention to you that beyond my novel-writing, I am also going all-tackle into a non-fiction book that you can read about in this post. I am excited about this very different way to use my talents that will, hopefully, be fruitful. It is a project I need to read myself, and thus I sort of have fallen into having to write it as well.

In addition, I have been rummaging up all sorts of peachy ideas for Fly Away Home-themed this-and-that which you might be able to buy someday. I will keep you updated on all things pertaining to that. I am in the process, actually, of making some rather large decisions. (Don't get too excited, I haven't been offered any contracts.) In other news, I would like to do a plug for two friends. First off, Mirriam Neal:
She is releasing her pro-life, gripping, threatening, victory-claiming novel, Monster. I was so excited to hear that this novel was finally coming out because by Jove! I read the first edition and cried. It is such a good story. Dark and terrible at moments, but so full of light in the end! It's a book I think every American needs to read since we are facing large decisions about the preciousness of Life. Please buy a copy when it comes out. You can read more about it here.

Also, my details-loving friend Rachelle Rea (whose work I totally recommend, as I've experienced its healing scourge) has started in as a freelance editor!  I may or may not have mentioned her already, but of all the beginning-editors I know, Rachelle has the credentials. She's done unofficial editing (but professional quality) for several years, and if you're needing an extra brain to coincide with your own when it comes to judging your book, please give her a chance! In closing, (because Alfredo-sauce-making calls) I will leave you with this Cleverness of Wodehouse which I happened upon on the drive home. It says it's about portrait-painters, but I swear he meant Aspiring Novelists:

"A portrait-painter, he called himself, but as a matter of fact his score up to date had been nil. You see, the catch about portrait-painting--I've looked into the thing a bit--is that you can't started painting portraits till people come along and ask you to, and they won't come and ask you to until you've painted a lot first. This makes it kind of difficult , not to say tough, for the ambitious youngster."

-Carry On, Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

P.S. How would you feel about another contest?

Home from Europe!

Hello, fellow writers! I am home from Europe, changed in so many ways. I know everyone says that, and it annoys me to have to admit it, but if I am to be honest I must acknowledge that I am not quite the same person I was two weeks ago when I left America. My soul expanded, for one thing, and if you have not felt that tearing, joyful, painful feeling of a soul's expansion, I do feel sorry for you.

 I was true to my word and wrote in my travel journal religiously, recording anything and everything for future enjoyment. At the end of the two weeks I had 104 pages. So there. Here is proof from one of the four cameras that were constantly catching me filling the notebook:

Many places were inspiring to me, writing-wise, but I think perhaps the place that most caught me off-guard and will end up in a book was the cathedral, Maria Radna:

From the outside, it was grand and imposing. 

This basilica, built in 1520, was massive. I stepped through the immense wooden doors and the temperature dropped twenty degrees and my breath came in puffs, and I was dizzied with the splendor. It's hard to  get an idea of just how huge this place was. Put it this way: When I tipped my head back to look at the painting in the topmost dome, I tipped over because it made me too dizzy. Furthermore, the photo below is half-way down the length of pews in that gigantic sanctuary:

I was torn between complete admiration for this gorgeous place, and sadness that the glory of it is so passing, and the people who trust in the glamour will find themselves grasping wind. Behind the big alter-thing, there was a door. A DOOR! and then up in the ceiling were a series of random numbers and letters....my mind immediately began chucking and whirring like a Dutch-watch. Mark my words: Maria Radna will resurface in my literature someday. I promised.

Another event that inspired me to no end was the night we had dinner in a gipsie mansion. No lie. The pastor of the village-church we were visiting that night was friends with a gipsie man who had offered to open his home to us. It was....bonkers. We ate off of real silver and drank out of real gold, and stood under behemothian porcelain chandeliers that I expected to crash onto my head in a Xerxes-esque manner any moment.

(This is only about two-thirds of the house)

Our hosts were so generous and kind...and I laughed my head off when they closed the heavy oak doors of the dining room and a village pastor asked us to sing "I'll Fly Away" while he played the guitar. The incongruity of it all was so hilarious. But we did. We sang a Bluegrass hymn in the dining room of a legitimate gipsie-mansion, surrounded by a sea of rum-bottles. 

At the end, we took a group photo on the elaborate staircase. Again, these photos aren't quite giving credit to the enormity of the house. I was so blessed by the gipsies' hospitality, especially since they are Orthodox, and the Orthdox hardly ever even talk with the Baptists. Definitely a special night.

There were many other things that will end up in my books someday, I am sure. So many things that I will tell you in small doses. I am so glad I purposed to write in my travel-journal, and that I got so many pages. I won't forget, this way. Little impressions and memories that can't find a way to come out in words just yet. People I met and places I saw. Oh my goodness. I can now heartily recommend travel for giving one inspiration. Not just the fact of gathering experiences to incorporate in writing, but also the very fact of getting up and about. Gaining thoughts and impressions and emotions that might never show up directly in a book, but will forever color your heart. Yes, travel is a very good thing. 

Now the business at hand is to find where the dickens I left off with my writing. I had given myself a break of nearly two months as I focused on preparing for the trip, and I was stuck finding comp titles for Fly Away Home, and I was in between a dozen stories if I was one and....well, I won't fret my head. I'll just start writing because you know, and I know, that that is the only way to be a writer. :)

Off I Go

I don't suppose it's quite fair to drop off the face of the planet without a word of explanation.

I also hardly think it's fair-game to expect a girl who is leaving for Romania in two days to be able to have written much of note in the weeks leading up to her departure.

That is my alibis. Leaky as a sieve and it would hardly stand up in court, but I know you to be of a forgiving nature so I suppose you will let me slide this once. And notice I haven't only been neglecting this blog: none of my blogs have seen anything of me of late, and that is the best way I could find to handle the fact that life has had no time to include blogging or writing. I have done so little writing that it's embarrassing. Thus, the second reason I have left The Inkpen Authoress to shift for itself: I thought that there is nothing more idiotic than speaking when you have nothing to say. Since I haven't written lately, there is not much honesty or wisdom in pretending I have and hoping I can fool the lot of you. But you are writers and you can't be easily fooled.

I will become a world-traveler over the weekend. Sarah teases me about saying I am "going to Europe," but two stops in Paris, two in Budapest, and two weeks in Romania seem to me to constitute the expression. I may never make it back to Europe in my life (though let's hope I do) so it behooves me to make good what of it I expect to see while gone. I have high expectations. Of course I'm nervous. Of course I'm stressed. Of course I feel an awful lot like Bilbo leaving Bag End and wondering if perhaps home wasn't nicer than an adventure after all. But I know that God has lead me this far and He will lead me beyond, and so i am looking forward to my Continental Fling.

So what does a writer pack for her Gallivanting? I hoped you would ask.

This writer brings:

• Altoids (which thrill her because of No Mere Mortals) and Tic-Tacs (because the white ones smell just like a baby-doll she owned as a child) and Trident Original Gum (because its taste is associated with her brother who is a comfort and is not going on the trip)
• A leather travel journal and no less than 4 extra-fine-tip G2 pens
• A Severe Mercy by Sheldon Vanauken and The Hawk and The Dove Trilogy by Penelope Wilcock, and Winnie-The-Pooh. (her fellow-travelers will laugh at her, but she thinks it might come in handy one night when Home seems very far away)
• Clothes and clothes and clothes because she doesn't like to be seen out of fashion
• Her brand new sheep's leather Baccini hobo-tote which makes her feel positively European, and was a gift from the almost-sister-in-law's-sister
• A tape-measure because no one knows when someone will want one
• A Sharpie because again, someone will want one and she will be Mary Poppins and have it to their Astonishment and Surprise
• Lemon Luna-Bars because she doesn't want the trouble of trying to exchange money in the Parisian Airport to buy lunch during a one-hour layover in which she must switch airlines and find her new flight
• Celestial Seasonings herbal-tea sampler which includes Peppermint tea (for anyone's upset stomach), Sleepytime Tea (in case anyone has insomnia), Camomile tea (in case anyone is stressed and needs to take a relaxer), and some other obscure variety which will definitely come in handy.
• Striped neon stocks (which are a comfort since they are perfectly absurd)
• Toenails painted like slices of watermelon (which is a comfort for the former reason)
• Light, natural eyeshadow and mascara (because she won't be among people who wear much makeup but she still wants a face)
• Comfortable shoes (so she can climb those possible castle-ruins without blisters ruining her concentration)
• Sweaters (because who doesn't like a cute, cozy sweater?)
• Copious amounts of hairpins (because this writer has a lot of hair that always will blow in the wrong direction)
• Jeggings (because as much as she hates them,{and looks wretched in them} they were all Walmart had left of the leggings she was told to bring to wear under her skirts against the cold weather)
• Plum-colored Peacoat (because it's news, and it's chic, and it's something she has always wanted)

As a writer, what do you carry when you're on holiday? I would love to hear in the comments, and I will see you all in two week's time with lots to report from the Continent! :)

Snips of March

Like Jenny, I decided that I would jump the gun and post my snippets of story--I'll link up with Katie once she officially starts the event...

Well, it seems that February was a very original month for me--I wrote gobs of Gypsy Song and began three plot-bunnies: Madeleine, The Traveler, and Rockingham Shambles. You will get a little taste of all four books today, so prepare yourselves. :)

Fitz-Hughes stepped onto his mahogany chair, glass aloft. Sir Roger Guillbert filled the glass with dark wine, then bowed and stepped backward. Fitz-Hughes held the chalice higher. “Thou wilt have riches, my people. Thou wilt have land. Thou wilt have women, if thou likest them.”

Laughter replaced the beating and the men shouted. “Hear, hear!”

“Thou wilt have a new life and new glory and the people of Scarlettania will know that the blood of Gildnoir is redder, richer, deeper than their blood!”

Wild shouts and hurrahs, howls and hooting beat against the night air and Fitz-Hughes remained silhouetted by torchlight, handsome and cruel as the devil himself. 

-The Scarlet-Gypsy Song

Adelaide’s heart skipped several beats at the sound of the voice and its words seemed to cling to the air of the glade. “Oh don’t you…” she seemed to stand, suspended in time with hours to ponder the meaning of those insidious tones. But a moment later from the blue shadows of the forest, the long, light figure of a man sauntered out. He ambled toward them, bow slung across his back and sure sunlight sifting through the golden glory of his hair. His eyes were blue as the feathers on a jay’s back and held that same cock-sure air of the saucy bird

-The Scarlet-Gypsy Song

The world was tall today. Sometimes the sky seemed to lean downward and the earth to rise up and Charlotte felt that she might be caught between the two and smashed flat twixt the lowering clouds and rising hills; but today the world was tall.

-The Scarley-Gypsy Song

 

Diccon felt a strange sense of urgency—why he felt he rode against the sun and the turning of the world he did not know—it was as if there was an appointment to keep and some invisible hand urged him onward.

 -The Scarlet-Gypsy Song

Even now as he kicked off his boots and wriggled down into the warm skins, he dreaded that horridly cheerful Cockcrow—the morning reveille. Why anyone in their proper mind would stand out in that dreadful first-light, when the sun wasn’t even awake, and rummage everyone else out of bed with an overly enthusiastic tune was beyond him. “It’s like…it’s like a brass band playing at the gallows before an execution,” he’d told Bertram.

Bertram had said ‘no it wasn’t—it was quite different than that.’ But to anyone who liked sleep, it was one and the same.

 -The Scarlet-Gypsy Song

Lad had raised his eyes to the distant hills as he spoke of his beloved Lady. He turned to Bertram again. “But tha’ has an Author in thy world, son of Macefield. He’s a good Author. His pen never runs dry and His words are allus true. He never makes mistakes or leaves off in the midst of a terrible trial. Tha’art a fool not to treasure that—not to bless thy buttons it is so and tha’ hasn’t an erring, fallible pen scribbling thy destiny for you.”

-The Scarlet-Gypsy Song

I wandered in the park for some time after my interview with Aunt Kate, and wished for the thousandth time that a journalist made more money with the Post. It was just enough—without debts—to keep a fellow alive and just too little—without debts—to make him presentable.

-The Traveler

It was dark inside—that familiar dusty-dark that settles upon any place containing reams upon reams of paper and a generous allotment of ink-stained wood. Sharkey sat at the one desk, his hair awry and his paper-cuffs covered in notes from his latest assignment. He was scribbling feverishly and I felt young pangs of jealousy—he’d just got done covering an immense court-case containing scandal and diamonds; just the sort of thing the public would drool over.

-The Traveler

Soon the bitter, pungent smell of the coffee filled the little office and the pot percolated with that satisfying purr that is warming in itself. I began to feel my debts shrink in the warm embrace of that smell, and they had almost squished themselves into a manageable size when the door of the office burst open and the rest of the boys tumbled in.

-The Traveler

Our voices had escalated, I suppose, for I heard a shuffling from the other room, the sound of a chair scooting across the floor, and a moment later Mr. Clutterbuck stood in the doorframe. He was immensely fat—fatter than Beetle, even. So this was my first glimpse of his face—it was not much of a face. The features were all too small. His mouth was a slit and his eyes were smaller, darker slits, and his nose was a blob so that what you could see of him from behind his newspaper was rather all that mattered. It gave me a queer feeling to see Mr. Clutterbuck like this—faceless, as it seemed.

-The Traveler

There was never a question of whether my Lord and my Lady were suited to one another—whether, in another time and another life they might have been happier with a partner a bit more…lively—nay! Would a sensible man ask two wax figures in a museum whether they might be happier living in a zoo?

And thus it is that I repeat: My Lord and lady Sybilrude were happy. “Happy, in what manner?” you might ask, and I, being acquainted with the family from the moment they entered the door of Rockingham Shambles, might answer you with an equally unanswerable reply: “In the manner they are accustomed.”

-Rockingham Shambles

 

“My Lady, what is Rockingham Shambles?”

“Why you dense thing—Rockingham Shambles is our house.”

“I—I know, m’lady, but…”

“Then why did you ask?”

“But, begging your pardon m’lady, how did it come to be called Rockingham Shambles?”

Lord Sybilrude looked up from his employment in doing nothing, and squinted. “It was Rockingham-at-Ambleside at one point.”

I coughed. “Yes, m’Lord. But how—”

Lady Sybilrude stifled a yawn. “Oh la, Knobbs—you are a dense domestic.”

“Yes, m’lady. I was only wondering—”

“Well don’t.”

“Yes, m’lady.” And that was all I could get out of her. If you have more success than I, you must send me a cable immediately—I really would like to know.

-Rockingham Shambles

“My word, Maddie, how pretty you look this morning.”

So she was in her petting mood today. Lady Susannah reached for my hand and pulled me forward, touching my cheek with one of her slender, white fingers. It was not that the affection and kind words were unwelcome—God knows how I longed for kindness! Only that they fit Lady Susannah worse than that trifling pet-name fit me. I was Madeleine—she was a vain, self-seeking woman and not even my youth could mask her faults under a kinder description.

-Madeleine

 

I raised my eyes to the panes of the tall windows and gazed out onto a broad expanse of lawn; made mysterious and mystic by a silver mesh of the frail mist.  The elms in the lane reached their bare branches toward the drive, the sky, the woods behind them as if beseeching help from any source and my soul went out to them—poor, tortured trees. Their roots rambled, unsettled in the grass as if they had half a thought of uprooting themselves and wandering to a happier place, but they could no more leave Whiteroe than I could. And so I felt a kinship with them and I mentally calculated how long it would be before Lady Susannah’s nap.

-Madeleine

A New Nonsense Project!

I love nonsense. I love the brilliant twists and turns it takes. I love the flash and swing and jolliness of the words. I love, more than anything, the surprise of nonsense--you never know what you're up against. But what I cannot stand is nonsense without a point. Lewis Carroll (And therefore, Alice in Wonderland) makes me simply dizzy. That dashed caterpillar who weaves wreaths of smoke and idiocy around everyone gets my goat. I suppose it's a tad clever, but it confuses the pididdle out of me.
What I like is the sort of nonsense you might find in Ogden Nash's poetry:

The Germ

A mighty creature is the germ, 
Though smaller than a pachyderm. 
His customary dwelling place 
                                                     Is deep within the human race. 
                                                                                                 His childish pride he often pleases 
                                                                                                   By giving people strange diseases. 
                                                                                                   Do you, my poppet, feel infirm? 
                                                                                                     You probably contain a germ. 

It's ridiculous and clever and hilarious all in one. Or the nonsense you must certainly find in Winnie-The-Pooh:

...'There's something in one of the Pine Trees.' 'So there is!' said Pooh, looking up wonderingly. 'There's an animal.' Piglet took Pooh's arm, in case Pooh was frightened. 'Is it one of the Fiercer Animals?' he said, looking the other way. Pooh nodded. 'It's a Jagular,' he said. 'what do Jagulars do?' asked Piglet, hoping that they wouldn't. 'They hide in the branches of trees, and drop on you as you go underneath,' said Pooh. 'Christopher Robin told me.' 'Perhaps we better hadn't go underneath, Pooh. In case he dropped and hurt himself.' 'They don't hurt themselves, ' said Pooh. 'They're such very good droppers.'

 That, my friends, is called Grand Nonsense and it is that that I love. All this to say, there is a way that Is and a way that Isn't, and I vote for the Is. That being said, I wanted to announce one of my newest Sprouts to you. (Sprout. n. or adj. meaning New Project, plot-bunny, inspiration, etc.)

This Sprout, at present, has a humble name: The Traveler.

 It is a book that chronicles the windings and travels, adventures and acquaintances and whatnot of a young fellow--a journalist--(nameless, to help things feel mysterious-er than ever. ;) who, in order to avoid bankruptcy, must take up a bet from his fellows journalists that he can't visit every region of the world in a year and send them back an entertaining story of his experiences in each. He takes up the bet, he takes up his things, and off he goes into the far reaches of the Victorian-era world. That is the basic plot of The Traveler, and I will keep it as my Relief-Project to work on when everything goes batty with my other W.I.P.s :) The flavor is decidedly Dickens-ian. It is also decidedly nonsensical. I love it already. You will be hearing plenty about The Traveler in the weeks and months to come so there is nothing else to be said! Cheerio.

"I asked you, Young Man, how much you're in for?"

"Fifty-pounds, Auntie."

Aunt Kate turned pink on her cheeks and white around her lips and looked altogether apoplectic for about five minutes. I slouched in my corner, wishing to goodness that I could disappear and never come back—never see Aunt Kate like this, never have to pay up to the Boys for all my stupid debts, never have to look myself in the “I” again. No, I do not mean “look myself in the “eye”—that is quite a different matter than looking in the “I” which is rather too close to the “me” and the “myself”, and once you’ve looked into those three it’s all up with you.

 -The Traveler