15-day Challenge: Day Three: First Times, and The Bird Woman

15-day Writing Challenge Day Three: {First Times}

Oh mercy. You had ask this, didn't you? I must admit that until I was at least twelve, I hadn't the slightest inclination toward being a writer. Well...I had dabbled in poetry. Ahem. I can recall one very silly verse that I blush over now.
"I think my favorites books
Are Where The Sidewalk Ends
Or Where the Pigeon Flew...
How about you?"

Oh puh-leese. This is *so* utterly ridiculous. I believe it was an attempt at a tribute to Shel Silverstein...but I'm sorry. I never ever ever had or have since heard of a book called Where The Pigeon Flew.
And then there was Molly Ann McGee and something about bugs in candy or sweets...? *Unpleasant Shiver* When I was twelve I moved on from there to my first novel: A Year With the Manders, for lack of a better title. I can assure you that anything that is possible in the way of illness, accidents, calamities, scrapes, and confusion happened to the two main characters. *Slumps on desk and pounds head*. Really, it was a horrible hash of vague remembrances of Anne Shirley, Laura Ingalls, and my own budding sentimentality. Of course I had a French girl in there, and since I didn't know any other French names, she was christened Antoinette. :P There was something about Scarlet Fever (a must for any self-respecting novel, I then thought) and a death...or two....and an attempt at mystery...and a week home alone, and various other silly adventures. I had no concept of plot or characters or anything, and I prefer not to recall it.
It really wasn't until my Seasonings story that my writing took wings. :)
*Phew* glad that terrible "first-time-phase" is over. :P Now you may read a little vignette about my morning at the market and a lesson I learned...

"The Bird Woman"
By Rachel Heffington

It's noon at the Saturday farmer's market. I've been here selling our produce and baked goods since seven, running off of a twelve hour day of preparation, four hours of sleep, and a slice of zucchini bread. Not much to go on.
I start zoning out, trying to ignore the intense pain in the bottoms of my feet, the stiffness of my back, and the all-too honest reality of the fact that the day's not over. It's been a good day, despite my exhaustion. Most of the baking we slaved over yesterday has sold. Many of the gorgeous flowers in the five-gallon buckets lining our stall have been wrapped in wet paper and carted off by proud little girls, polished moms, or comfy grandmothers.
In my half-comatose state I hear Dad peddling the remainder of our baked goods: "Ma'am, please step over here. I've got something for you--something I'm sure you've never tasted. Italian herb bread made with fresh herbs, not dried. The flavor's unique--much stronger than what you've ever tasted." He pauses, sample plate in hand and gestures to me. "It's a new thing Rachel's trying. She's modest, but she makes a great loaf of bread."
I muster a smile, commanding the corners of my mouth to curve up. I've heard the spiel so many times I could quote it backwards, forwards and upside down. I blush each time I hear it, for my personality is not that of a salesman. I would quietly offer samples, and quietly sell the loaves here and there. But I have to hand it to Dad--we're almost sold out, thanks to his efforts.
I drag my donkey-ing thoughts back to the market, rattling off a string of information to a wondering customer. These people are blessings--if we didn't have them we'd never sell anything--but they have to be educated. Many don't know an apple from a cucumber.
Over the morning I've become adept at managing to appear interested in the stories our customers have to tell. They've ranged from the strange--"I'm gluten intolerant so I can't have any baked goods. If I wanted to commit suicide I'd walk through a bakery eating everything, then run across the street to a pasta shop!"--to the downright weird--"Your kidney filters a half-cup of blood every hour."
I wonder, through a haze of vague thoughts, why that piece of information is necessary to relate to an exhausted seller of vegetables, but I remember just in time that my job is to be pleasant and helpful. I straighten my back and tuck the loose strands of hair back into my sagging up-do.
The last customers have dwindled away toward the other stands, onto more engaging company. The napkin covering the sample-plate flutters off, and for the hundredth time this morning I replace it, pinning it down with a crumb-spattered knife. I glance at a man's watch as he fingers through our basket of cayenne peppers, red as the blood filtering through my kidney--strange thought, that. I grimace and try to corral my thoughts into something worth thinking. Only a couple of minutes have inched by. Still the better part of an hour to go.
And then I see her.
If I had not bothered to look down I would have missed her completely--a tiny old woman, frailer than frail, and only attaining the towering height of four feet with the help of a pair of black high-heels. They always remind me of the Wicked Witch of the West, only cheerful and spry. I don't know her real name--I call her the Bird Woman.
Her keen blue eyes open wide as she approaches, and a real smile lights my face as I catch sight of her lime-green ankle socks. Lime green, and ankle socks? On a little old lady who is nearer ninety than anyone I've seen for a long while?
"I like your sign," she says in a chirruping voice, like a merry little cricket. "The Lord is good."
At first I am confused, and then I recall our farm's verse: "Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good."
Dad understands first. "He is good indeed. If He wasn't, we wouldn't be here."
The Bird Woman's eyes twinkle. "If He wasn't, I wouldn't have these!" She shakes a bag of peaches bought from a stand down the way and laughs. Such a chirping, dry, sparrow-like laugh I've never heard.
I grin and uncover the sample plate, letting the napkin blow across the table. "Would you like to taste a Welsh cake?"
"Now what is a Welsh cake?" She pricks her way along the table in her patent-leather heels and stops at the canister of Welsh Cakes. Her head barely reaches the top, and I can just see her round blue eyes.
"It's a sort of cross between a shortbread and a tea-cake...it's great with coffee or hot tea." I give the description with more enthusiasm than I've felt all morning. The Bird Woman is such a novelty.
"And do they keep well?"
"Yes, they do well if you keep them in foil."
"Oh!" It's more of a chirp than an exclamation, and she flutters a little to the side. She pulls a little wallet from some pocket in her lime-green shirt and lays it on the counter. Her gnarled fingers, decorated with several gold rings extract a few bills from the inside. She flicks through them like a finch picking through a pile of crumbs. "One, two, three! I'll take three dollars' worth!" Her eyes crinkle up and she giggles and cheeps as she hands the bills to me.
As I dole her cakes into a paper bag and hand them across the table, I feel a queer sensation as if I was feeding seed-cakes to a little starling. The Bird Woman tucks the cakes away, smooths her white, wavy hair and flutters off to the next stand. As I watch her departure I realize I'm still smiling. The Bird Woman has reminded me of a most important truth. The Lord is good.

Indefinable, and Day 2 of Writing Challenge

To begin with I give you Day Two of the 15-day Writing Challenge! :)

Day Two: Your Favorite Male Author

Why, oh why, oh why must these question be so difficult?! I cannot choose just one favorite male author. It's a physical impossibility, I think! :P But I suppose I can limit it to two:

1. Charles Dickens--his brilliancy never ceases to amaze me. The masterful way in which he sketches the foils and idiosyncrasies of his characters and Victorian society is stunning. He has a wicked sense of humor...he's entirely quoteable. :) And I can say I know him pretty well, having made my way through several of his novels:

Little Dorrit

Bleak House

Nicholas Nickleby

The Chimes

The Cricket on the Hearth

The Christmas Carol

Great Expectations

Barnaby Rudge

A Tale of Two Cities

And David Copperfield, which I am almost 1/2 way through. :)

2. Close second behind Dickens is C.S. Lewis because....he's amazing. His writing says the things my heart longs to find words to say. I have never read a more beautiful allegory than The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. Some of the times I yearn for Heaven most is when I'm reading the ending bliss of The Last Battle. It's beautiful, and reflects the relationship Lewis had with his Lord and Savior. :)

And now I find I must leave you on a bit of a sober note, for last night I was pen-slain. Ahem. ;) I read something that completely challenged my opinion of my own writing and caused me to wonder if I was a writer after all. The only remedy for that was, I felt, to write about it. And so I did. :) You can read the musings of my bewildered pen below. And though I am not quite so gloriously dismayed this morning, I thought I'd let you read it, that it might encourage or sympathize with one of my dear readers. ~Rachel

“Indefinable: a confession of beauteous pain”

By Rachel Heffington

I sit down to the computer and pull my chair closer to the desk. It is a new writer’s blog—new to me, a least—which I am visiting. Scrolling through the recent posts, my heart warms to this author. “She has good imagery and technique,” I think in my settled, complacent mind. I click on a page marked “writing” and prepare to read a cute paragraph or two about her literary endeavors—something like the page I have on my own blog.

I read her descriptions, then settle myself in to scan through her sample chapter. The first words capture my attention. Beautifully written, neatly-turned sentences.

All at once the sheer talent of this author hits me with blinding force. Her descriptions are perfect, her imagery flawless. I am captivated by the bewitching flash of her turns of phrase and my heart aches with…a feeling indefinable.

Indefinable, why? Because I have realized, with shocking, white illumination that my pen, my mind, my imagination is too feeble to even define the sensation, let alone attain such splendor.

The hour’s work I had been so proud of yesterday shrivels, pales, and wizens into a shabby child’s picture-book challenging a leather-bound, gilt-edged novel. I shrink from this realization as one does from a celestial light.

This writer’s words are beautiful, and yet painful to me. Like one who tremblingly steals a glance at a sight too lovely for mortals, I continue to read the singing lines, the shimmering prose.

How can I ever think I am a writer after seeing such an example? My heart throbs at the thought that my beloved passion already has one who can serve it better than I myself can.

And yet, the pain is purifying; it has touched the deepest chords of my heart, and evoked a melody pregnant with longing. Longing to be a better writer, longing to spin such webs of enchantment over my readers.

I can see I have only dabbled on the surface of the great depths this writer has dredged. My words are pretty and quaint, hers beautiful and knowing.

I will never be such a writer, will I? And yet a few drops of the purifying light cling to my heart like the fairy-lamps of the fireflies in the many-hued dusk. The ache her words awaken is not a new ache. I am familiar with the sensation, for it keens in my chest when I gaze on the evening sunset cupped in the hands of the pines—a goblet of golden light spilling onto an azure cloth in the banqueting hall of the heavens.

This writer has done what I have not yet managed to do: She has found words in which to liberate the beauty on wings of passionate expression…

Her pen has cut deep. It has shaken the very foundations of my craft and shown me how very transient my writing is. It has caused me pain and made me question my fitness as a writer.

And yet it is strange. I cannot despise her for it. No indeed. The wound is like gold thrown into a furnace, that the dross may be purged. And perhaps my wondering heart may take comfort in the imagery: my writing and talent may be, in some part, valuable. But I must welcome these cuts to my pride, these wounds in my flesh, that the gold will emerge from the wondrous pain a purer and lovelier piece of craftsmanship.

15-Day Challenge: Day One: Favorite Character

Well, I have resisted the urge to dive into this blog event since I hadn't even heard of it till it was already well underway. But when I saw that Katie was beginning today I thought, "Why not make it a duo and at least I won't be alone in my tardiness?"
So today I begin Lerowen's 15-day Writing Challenge! :)

Day One: Your Favorite Character You've Written

This is going to be rather a difficult question for me, as I've never been able to efficiently pick favorites of anything- Animals, colors, books, movies....characters. I stand there making things difficult by actually thinking about the question, and I end up with a long list and nothing definitive. But I have to say that I constantly come back to the black-sheep characters. The people who are contrary, difficult, untidy, and utterly lovable. Of course I love my good characters. My leads and the characters one is supposed to love.

But no matter how hard I try to make them my favorite characters, often they aren't. That being said, I must choose one favorite character from my stories teeming with people. My choice? The character that holds a special place in my heart and is unforgettable, even after their story is edited to pieces?

Dill Vervain Octavius Seasoning

One cannot help loving this fellow, the fourth child in the family of A Mother for the Seasonings. He's bluff and cheery. He's the middle child. He's wonderfully frank and loves a good meal. He's roguish, he has a dimple (or two) and brown eyes. There is a refreshingly preposterous side, yet he's desperately loyal to his father and family....most of the time. Dill is the perfect mixture of man and boy. He doesn't fit in the typical Victorian-era qualifications for the perfect child. He's always coming out with something unexpected, and he uses slang. I enjoyed writing Dill so much that I was rather sad to see him go. I had to worst possible time trying to pick *one* scene with Dill at his best...but it had to be done. Witness this moment as Basil, the eldest, is watching his siblings get ready for one of the outings in their mother-hunt. :)

“Why in the blue blazes do we have to wear our best?” Dill glared at Rosemary as she took his “special occasion” suit from the bureau.

“Because Dill, we must look ship-shape for Miss Watkins today.” Rosemary unbuttoned his nightshirt and helped him wriggle into the tight suit.

“I look like a mushroom.” He frowned and gazed with a fierce eye upon his reflection in the mirror on the bureau door.

I resisted the urge to laugh. The comparison, though odd, fit Dill to a “t”. His cream-colored knickers, buttoned tightly down to his knees, were met by white stockings. A pair of suspenders suppressed his belly, strangled in a starched white shirtfront and collar edged with lace.

I smoothed my own dark suit with a complacent smile. Boy, was I glad to have graduated from those nonsensical clothes.

“Well, if you do look like a mushroom, it certainly isn’t anyone’s fault.” Rosemary pulled Dill towards her. “Let me brush your hair.”

“Must you?” Dill moaned and flopped in a chair.

Rosemary brushed and pulled Dill’s rakish curls, coaxing them into a dubious state of tidiness. His appearance gave me the fleeting impression that he looked like a lopsided dandy.

“There. You look fine.” Rosemary dampened her fingers in the basin and tried to flatten the last stubborn curl.

Dill raised his eyebrow and sighed.

I leaned against the bureau. “Truly, Dill. Miss Watkins will have no heart to refuse us after she sees you.” Whether Miss Watkins would accept the proposal out of sheer admiration for Dill’s appearance was doubtful in my opinion.

“Don’ forget your hat, Dill.” Fennel skipped up to him and placed a white sailor with long blue streamers in his hands.

Dill groaned as Rosemary clapped it on his head.

“That’s it. I look like a hideous mash of Tom Sawyer and Little Lord Fauntleroy. I can’t go visiting in this.”

Ah. That's my Dill. Gotta love him. :) ~Rachel

Puddleby Lane Excerpt: Chpt. 13: The Other House

Greetings fellow writers! My pen, a rather weary and bedraggled, but triumphant pen salutes you. In between the gardening, harvesting and sorting for farmers' market, baking of eight loaves of zucchini spice bread, peeling of 25 potatoes, washing of a myriad of dishes, mashing and whipping of said potatoes, and all the other duties faced by a girl of my station and capacities, I have written a chapter of Puddleby Lane. It follows close on the heels of Cora's arrival to the lane and her new home. The first night she had seen a light glowing in The Other House--a place that is known to be entirely deserted. She is intent on ferreting out this new mystery. Thus my chapter. Now, I am laying myself bare for your much-cherished opinions. Do you think I do well in my description in this chapter? I wanted to instill a cob-webby, delicious, tingling anticipation in the reader as they walked through the scene with Cora...did I succeed, my friends? You must tell me, and tell me true. I know it is just a first draft, and there's room for improvement. Thus, I am allowing you to read chapter 13 of Puddleby Lane: Adieu, mes chers.

Chapter Thirteen: The Other House

Cora’s eyes fluttered open to view a sodden world. Torrents gushed down the roof, hardly stopping to travel down the window panes but careening instead off the shingles and onto the ground below. Through the drops the wind had tossed against the panes, Cora viewed a beach that looked more like Impressionistic art than sand and shore. She shivered and pulled her things on, adding an extra sweater. She was still not used to waking in cold rooms. Beaumont Street had gas heating; Puddleby Lane was a wood-fire or nothing.

She had slept better last night. Cora stretched and yawned, then perched on the top of her humpback trunk and surveyed the room, half-dreaming, half-alert. The sensation of sitting in the peace of her room—the rain beating atop the roof and the wind trying the panes with feverish hands—was a luxury of the highest order. Cora fancied her room to be a sort of ship’s cabin, what with the water streaming from the eaves and the dull crashing of the bay still heard beyond the sounds of the storm.

She leaned her head against the wall. What would Puddleby Lane bring today? Maggie needed help finishing the unpacking and things of that nature, she knew. But after? Cora’s gaze travelled to the little dormer window and a rain-streaked picture of the Other House through the portal. She had to find out what that light was about. She just had to. After the work was done, she’d ask Maggie to let her explore a little. Maybe during Dot’s nap when she wouldn’t have to cart her around. Tucker could come along. He’d be a comfort if anything too mysterious began happening. After all, there was safety in numbers…right?

* * * * * *

“But, Maggie, it isn’t really raining that hard.” Cora threw her hands out with a desperate gesture and peered out the window.

“Yes it is, look—I’m surprised we haven’t floated away by now.” Maggie pointed to the rain, still pouring off the roof and crossed her arms. “Why are you so eager to get away from the house?”

“Tuck and I still have some exploring to do, Maggie.”

“Yeah, Mama, can’t we?”

Maggie shook her head, but her mouth was no longer so decided. Cora swooped in to seize the moment of indecision. “Listen, Maggie, we won’t go any farther than Captain Boniface’s house, if we even get that far.”

Maggie walked to the window and stared at the storm. The two anxious creases between her eyebrows showed and she bent toward the windows as if listening to the gale. “I don’t like it, Cora.”

“Maggie, it’s just a storm. Please?” Cora grabbed her sister’s hand and pressed it.

Maggie seated herself at the kitchen table, sighing, and warmed her hands on her cup of tea. “I suppose. But take the umbrellas and try not to get wet.”

“Thanks a million times over, Maggie!” Cora flew from the room, lest Maggie change her mind and call them back.

“Oh! And mind you stay away from the waves. I’d rather not have to go fishing in this weather.” Maggie’s voice was nearly drowned by the force of the storm as Cora opened the front door.

Cora hadn’t realized the storm was coming straight off the bay. A wild, determined breeze forced its way into the hall and she had to wrestle the door close. The wind threw itself against the door, howling and trying the knobs, then swept up next to the dormer windows and sulked, making disconsolate noises and shrieking now and again that it had been put off.

Cora raised her umbrella and helped Tucker with his. “Careful, Tuck.” The wind bent their umbrellas and threatened to take Tucker’s away, little boy and all, any second. Cora tried to keep the wind from turning the umbrellas inside out, but it was useless. “All right, Tuck,” she yelled. “Let’s make a dash for porch of the Other House—I’m sure we can figure this out there.”

Cora grabbed Tucker’s hand and they ran through the rain together, umbrellas bouncing along behind, buffeted and twisted by the hands of the wind.

“Gee, let’s hurry, Tuck.” Cora’s hair stuck to her face in wet strands as she tried the latch on the garden gate. The Other House rose, a formidable giant, and watched the proceedings with none too friendly an eye. Cora worried as she brushed the rain out of her face long enough to steal a quick glance upward. She wasn’t sure what it was that frightened her, but the sensation of being watched by the house was unpleasant. “Oh, come on!” Cora’s wet hands were stiffening in the cold and her fingers felt numb and useless. At last the latch gave way and Cora pushed Tucker through, grabbed the bent umbrellas, and dashed to the porch.

She gasped for breath and held Tucker close to her. Maggie was right. The storm was worse than she had taken it for at first. They never had gales like this in Greensdale. Everything seemed so much wilder and more powerful at Puddleby Lane.

“What do we do now, Cora?” Tucker slumped against the faded outer walls of the Other House and grinned.

“Don’t know. We can’t exactly go inside…” Cora turned to look at the door and wondered. “Tuck…”

“You wanna try?”

“If you do.”

“I’m game.”

“Right.” Cora passed her umbrella to Tucker. “Ann Company says no one knocks at Puddleby Lane—wouldn’t that mean the doors aren’t kept locked?”

“I guess.” Tucker stuffed the twisted remains of the umbrella in an empty flowerpot on the edge of the porch and turned to Cora. “Well, aren’t you gonna try it?”

Cora nodded and turned toward the door. A calm resignation, akin to that she imagined one would feel when heading into a lion’s den, flowed over her as she made up her mind to enter The Other House. She recalled Ann Company’s hesitation to speak of it, and her final reluctant admission that she was scared. Why scared? Because she had heard so many tales of it. Tales that haunt the Brocken, and whisper down the Rhine…The phantom strain of poetry coursed through Cora’s mind, an unbidden but fitting refrain.

But she would not waver in her pursuit. There was a mystery to be solved. The cold brass of the knob zapped Cora’s skin as she put out her hand, and she quivered. Not from quite from fear, not from excitement, but from the knowledge that the unknown and the answer to her mystery must lay behind the door. She twisted the knob but it stuck. For a moment disappointment washed over Cora’s heart like a crashing wave from the bay, and she knew just how much she wanted to solve her mystery.

“Here, let me try.” Tucker dried the knob as best he could with the tail of his shirt and got hold of it with both hands. “Ready?” He wrenched. The knob hesitated then turned, and with a short kick, Tucker and Cora tumbled into the front passage of the Other House. The wind changed directions and sucked the door closed with a hollow bang. All at once the noise outside muffled and Cora could hear the pounding of her heart. Adrenaline rushed through her veins and she grabbed Tucker, holding him close and gasping for breath.

“Lemme go, Cora.” Tucker twitched himself out of her grasp and sat up. His blond hair was dark with rain and his skin glowed ghostly pale in the darkness of the house. The front shutters were, of course, closed, and the only light entered through a row of little diamond-shaped panes running across the top of the door.

Cora stood, her entire body shaking, and helped Tucker up. Why was she being so strange? Why did this house act upon her in such a queer fashion? She knew just what Maggie would say. It was because she had let herself, with her wild imagination, build a lavish mystery around it. Her thoughts had been filled with the Other House all day and night, as if there weren’t a hundred other things worth giving her mind to.

“Cora, you goose.”

She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud till Tucker laughed. “Why’d you say that?”

“Because I’m just a little bit scared.”

“You are?” Tucker’s blue eyes demanded an explanation.

“Well, it’s such a gloomy place, and you know I saw a light in the window.”

“Ann Company said it couldn’t have been real.”

“Whose side are you on?” It peeved Cora to have her story questioned. She had seen a light and she would ferret out the reason behind it.

“Aw, don’t be mad.” Tucker hugged Cora. “C’mon. What are we waiting for?”

Indeed. What were they waiting for? An invitation from the glowering, shuttered eyes? Cora turned her back to the windows and squared her shoulders. She was being nonsensical, and if the Captain or Frank saw her, she’d be the laughing stock of Puddleby Lane. “Well, let’s go.”

Cora crept through the house with Tucker close behind. It was situated like their own cottage, only in mirror image. They found nothing in any of the rooms they passed—parlor, kitchen, hall—and Cora began to wonder if there was no mystery here after all. They started up the stairs not daring to make noise least it should awaken something. Echoes. Or spiders. Or—Cora screamed and jumped behind Tucker.

“What? What is it?”

Cora sobbed and laughed at the same time and pointed with a trembling finger to the piece of the parlor visible between the rails. “It was just the woodstove. It looked like someone crouching in the corner.”

Tucker bestowed upon Cora a look that spoke volumes of impatience. “Is that all?”

“Let’s just hurry upstairs.” Cora led the way on tip-toe, sliding her hand along the dust-covered railing. Once-beautiful Oriental carpet ran down the stairs, places in it faded to pastel hues from the tread of many feet. Cora avoided these worn patches—it was only a notion, but she hated the thought of putting her own feet in the steps of people long vanished.

“Why isn’t there anything here?” Tucker’s voice broke the stillness and Cora could have sworn she heard a rustling.

“What do you mean?” Cora whispered.

“There aren’t any chairs or tables or curtains or anything.” This even louder declaration seemed to summon the attention of the eyes in the pea-cock print wall-paper.

Cora clapped a hand over Tucker’s mouth. “Hush. Not so loud, goose.” She beckoned to the top of the stairs and put a finger to her lips. Tucker shrugged and continued on behind her. Cora hardly knew why silence was vital. She knew it, and that was enough. Some faint impression that the house was watching and disapproving of their entry caused Cora’s heart to pound and the blood to rush to her head.

If she didn’t stop soon she’d faint—what a mess that would be. Cora pinched her arm and stepped up the last three stairs into the hallway. “Right….which way to the room where I saw the light?” she said under her breath.

Cold talons of fear gripped her heart and stroked it, whispering icy cobwebs into her thoughts. Cora grabbed Tucker’s hand for moral support and went up to the door in the center of the hall. From what she could remember, this was the position of the candle. They stood for a moment, Cora’s hand on knob, her heart in her throat. The roar of the gale outdoors seemed to swell louder, challenging her entry to the room. A shred of wind, torn from the main body of the storm, lingered under the eaves and wailed, wringing its hands and crying to be let in.

“Why does it do that?” Tucker whispered now and shrank close to Cora.

“I don’t know.” There was no sense in lingering. Her trepidation could not grow more enmeshed with her excitement if she had weaved it on a loom. “Ready?”

“Wait.”

Cora froze. “What?”

“What’ll we find in there?” Tucker pulled away from the door and put one arm on the stair-rail.

“How should I know?”

“It won’t be anything…scary, will it?”

“No, silly. I only saw a light. It’s not as if it’s—”

“A robber’s lair?”

“Right.” Cora squeezed her eyes shut, twisted the knob, and stepped through the door.

:D :P :] They're so very juvenile! ;) > B)

Good morning lassies! :) I am rather full of new knowledge this morning:

• I *am* killing off the character, and my sisters are revolting against it
• My hour-a-day writing pledge is serving me well and I'm getting about ten first-draft pages an hour with it. I think that's pretty good for starters, don't you?
• Dreams where you are stuck in the shower all night because your little brother won't bring you a bar of soap are not conducive to waking up early to write... ;)
  

But I must come to confess. I have committed the cardinal sin of writing...this...this is hard for me to say aloud...let me take a deep breath...*lets it out*...okay. Ready?

I am guilty of Once-upon-a-time accidently
using emoticons in my STORY!

There. It's out. I quickly erased them, but they were there, horribly leering in black and white over my novel. I don't know what came over my fingertips. I guess they are just so accustomed to typing in emoticons in blog posts, emails, chats, and all that that they forgot to leave it at the door when in the presence of The Authoress. The whole emoticon business bothers me. I mean, it's like you have to have a whole party of smiley faces dancing around your words as if you no longer trust the understanding of your fellow man and think he must have huge red arrows pointing to the meaning behind everything...

I am a big believer in words so carefully crafted and spun that they need no explanation. Words so finely woven that even if our heads can't understand them, our hearts can. Writing that doesn't need emoticons punctuating it because the emotion is already pulsing through the scene. Girls, let's all try to be that sort of writer. Not the sort that needs extra help from the semi-colons and parentheses.

(Now, despite my great temptation to do so, I discover I had better not end with a smiley face. Just know I'm smiling, okay?)

To Kill or Not to Kill?

As I sit down to type this blog post there is one accusation pulsing through my brain:

"You are a murderess. You are a murderess."
It is disconcerting to say the least, and was put there by my sisters.

All that is a highly unusual way to begin a blog post, but the fact is, I need your help. I need your best writers' advice, and ASAP. You see, I took the liberty of plotting out Puddleby Lane on paper beforehand, and from the very start a particular character has been doomed to death. I can't tell you which one, for that would spoil the story entirely, but suffice it to say, someone will "pop off as y'might say."

Yes, there is to be a foreseeable end for this particular fellow. Killing him off is not an "easy way out because I'm tired of him" action, like the girls in Anne Shirley's Story Club employed. No. From the start this death has been planned for him, and it's rather necessary for the storyline I have plotted. I could get around it I suppose, by having him severely injured, but isn't that a little cliche?

You ask, "Why are you suddenly having qualms about this action?"

I had not counted on falling in love.

I had not calculated just how special this character is, just how much Cora loves him, just how much I love him. To have him killed now will be painful. I know I will drop a few tears as I write his death scene.
It comes to this: Why did I have to write this character so well? Why did I have to let myself get attached to him and make him indispensable? Why? He's only a side character, and I had to fall in love! *smacks forehead*
I could have made him dull, reserved, boring. No. I couldn't be content with that. I wrote him with the best that was in my imagination and now I'm afraid that killing him off is an unconscionable action that I'll never live down. My sisters will not speak to me if this character is nullified. I might get threats. I might get the cold shoulder. They recommend I get rid of poor, sweet little Dot over this character!
Thus my predicament. What do I do with this indecision? Stick with the original plan? I don't mind so very much killing off the fellow, since it is an honorable death I have planned...and it helps the plot along a great deal...HELP ME!
The severe injury case is still plausible and would work in the same way, but it would give the book an altogether entirely story-book happy ending that publishers mightn't like so much. Can anyone give me advice? How do you feel about killing off characters? I am beginning to wonder if I like the planning beforehand scheme. At least I could have come up on this ending for this character all of a sudden instead of having it lurking in my brain during the whole story. But no, I have known he is to receive his sentence since the first words of Puddleby Lane. I suppose I should just be a brave girl about it.

The Liebster Award, and several other things of note

I am feeling fine as frog-hairs today. How are you? :) I am in a mood when anything is possible, even the coming of Autumn, though the temperatures and sulky face of August deny it.
My high good humour was, I believe, occasioned by the signal honor my dear fellow writer, Katie, from Whisperings of the Pen, who quite astonished me with. She bestowed upon me and my 'umble blog (to quote Uriah Heep) the Liebster Award.
I realized I just impaired my honor as a writer with that jumbled entry, but it is That Kind of a Day, you know. A day when knowing how to spell Tuesday doesn't count after all. ;) And so I will trust that your opinion of me is not much dissipated and we move on!


The goal of the award is to spotlight up and coming bloggers who currently have less than 200 followers. The rules of the award are:
1. Thank the giver and link back to the blogger who gave it to you.
2. Reveal your top 5 picks and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog.
3. Copy and paste the award on your blog.
4. Have faith that your followers will spread the love to other bloggers.
5. And most of all - have fun!

Right-o! This sounds like something I am quite capable of doing, even on a day when Things Don't Matter. ;)

1. Whisperings of the Pen- I know Katie has already received this award, but I had to give it back to her. When I first set a toenail on the edge of her blog I thought, "Oh wow...this is how I want my blog to be!" :) There is the perfect composition of gentle wit, humor, beauty, and some rather posh writing. A must visit. :)

2. Living on Literary Lane- Elizabeth Rose is only fourteen, but her blog always makes me smile and wonder how I could become a better writer myself. She's great fun, and possesses horse-sense you mightn't expect from a young lady of that age. Plus, she has one of the best play-lists I've come across, and she loves tea. How much better can you get?

3. Chosen129- My good friend and fellow-writer, Angela Bell, is the proprietor of this wonderful blog. She has chosen to dedicate it to pointing fellow young-adults to Christ, and I wholeheartedly applaud her in this venture. The posts are always thought provoking, and timely. Give it a look! :)

4. I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud- My dear friend and Kiwi pen-pal, Felicity, is the authoress of continual delights over here. As you can tell from the title of her blog, she reads poetry. Good poetry. And a person who reads good poetry and loves it, and is able to transfer her delight to you merely in a breath, is worth associating with. :) Her posts are always first-rate offerings.

5. E.J.'s Library- Elaine Dalton's blog, and a great one for haunting, if you are inclined to favor the haunting of blogs. ;) She posts book reviews weekly, links to the most interesting of her internet finds that week, snippets of her own writing, and other odds and ends that are most diverting. :)

So there you go, everyone! That completes the pleasant business of the Liebster Award. Thank you again, Katie, for bestowing such an honor on my head. :)
I now will proceed to have two random observations and/or points:

1. My writing has been extremely unfocused recently. I do not have Writer's Block, but I can seldom manage more than a page a day in Puddleby Lane. This is entirely unacceptable for obvious reasons, so I seek to remedy it by starting a new schedule:

"I believe we're part of his exercise regime; a mile's walk and a daily scolding of Emma is just what Doctor Perry prescribes." ~Emma, 2009

But no. In all seriousness, I pledge here and now to work on Puddleby Lane for an hour each day. A concentrated hour, with none of the popping over here and there to look at Katie's new post or turn on Pandora or anything of that trivial nature. An hour conducive to brilliancy. ;) I just need to take my mental belt in a notch and buckle down to real writing. Oh. By the by, Flounder is turning out to be quite different than I expected! He's a big baby, rather like a queer Mr. Woodhouse, and is a little selfish and fussy while being nice at the same time. I hadn't thought it of him.
He's immense fun to write, however, since Cora's first thought of him was of how Dickensian he was...I can give my pen leave to write a Dickensian character. Thus we have Flounder. :)

2. It is almost Fall! I can feel it, no matter what you might think from feeling the temperature. The Gypsy Winds are lurking, ready to dance out at any second, and the mists are starting to hide in the hollows and hang in the fields, and the world seems to know the tide has turned and is preparing itself for the riotous dance of the Autumn.
Snatches of all my best poetry (which somehow all relates to Autumn and Winter) floats through my head and I find myself quoting it:

"Oh Gypsy Wind, ye have returned
To come and tell us all
the gladsome tidings that ye bring:
'Tis very nearly fall!"

-and-

"September's step-sister to August
And she hasn't October's rich blood..."

-and-

"November is a lady fair
Clad in a scarlet gown
With copper scattered in her hair
And gold spun in her crown..."

-and yet again-

"When's the holly's in the red
And the pine is in the green
When the mornings all are frosty
In a brilliant silver sheen..."

*wistful sighs*....I have to admit. Autumn and Winter bring me alive. I love the spring and the new birth and the gentle hues creeping across the countryside, I enjoy the beginning of summer with its picnics and emerald greens spattered with gay dandelions...but toward August I begin to fade as surely as the grass, and it takes the Gypsy Winds to awaken me. It takes the Autumn's riot of color to bring me to life, the bracing air, and the gorgeous royalty of it all to instill in me the sense of being wholly and entirely alive as I realize I never was the rest of the year. Ah yes. I could (and have) easily wax poetic about this most beautiful of all seasons. :) ~Rachel