Winter’s Child – Part 2

Once he was alone in his office again, James reached back down into his desk drawer and this time brought out a hard back book with a shiny new cover. His father’s book. The book he had yet to open. He didn’t need to, he knew exactly what was in there.

At one time he and his father had been as close as two people could be - fishing, hunting, hiking, just spending time together because they enjoyed each other’s company. He loved listening to his father’s stories about winter’s children, the mythical beings that lived on the mountain, high up during the summer months, only venturing down when the cold of winter enveloped the land.

They were tall and slender, beautiful and alien with hair of gossamer, pointed ears, and skin of ice. They were white, icy white, blending in easily with the winter landscape. They didn’t talk, but they could sing. It was their song that supposedly lured people into the woods where they froze to death.

There was a row of leather bound journals in his father’s house, family histories dating back to their ancestor Josiah Preston, who was one of the first settlers on the mountain. In every case there was a mention of winter’s children. But where James viewed them as a source for wonderful stories, Joseph viewed them as historical accounts. It was to Joseph’s everlasting disappointment that James never embraced the belief in winter’s children.

When Bethany Preston’s body was found, deep in the woods with no good explanation for her having left the safety of her car, for a fleeting moment James had believed something could have lured her to her death. Maybe not one of winter’s children, but why else take the chance?

But then one of their neighbors mentioned a hunting cabin not far from where she was found. Not many outsiders knew about it, but Bethany had been born on the mountain. She must have been trying to reach it before the storm got too bad. This explanation made much more sense, even to a twelve-year-old boy. It made sense to everyone but Joseph.

James started feeling uncomfortable around his father and his obsessive talk about winter’s children, and soon he started feeling embarrassed by his behavior, especially when they were out in public. For Joseph’s part, he couldn’t understand why his son was being so stubborn in his refusal to see what was, to him, the truth.

Joseph’s steadfast belief in winter’s children drove a wedge between them, and the gap only widened the day James showed his father the plot of land he’d purchased to build a house on. He thought his father would be happy for him. He was building on the mountain instead of purchasing one of those cookie cutter subdivisions that were springing up like mushrooms in damp weather. But nothing could have been further from the truth.

“I would think my only son would know better,” Joseph said. “You’re too high up. No good will come of this, mark my words.”

“I think you’re overreacting,” James said. “This spot is perfect. Look at that view!”

“The view may be pretty enough,” Joseph admitted, “But you’re too close to the deep woods out back. You’ve no protection when trouble comes your way.”

There was no need to ask what kind of trouble. There was only one kind of trouble as far as Joseph was concerned. Things only got worse when Joey, James Joseph Preston III, was born.

“You need to move closer to town,” Joseph insisted. “You’re too vulnerable up here, just ripe for the picking.”

“What makes you think that?” James asked. “Why hasn’t anyone else ever mentioned these winter’s children of yours? You’d think after all these years, someone else would have spotted them.”

That had the desired effect of shutting Joseph up, but the rift between them seemed even wider than ever after that. Periodically James and his wife would have Joseph over for dinner, and everything would be fine until the subject of winter’s children came up, as it inevitably did.

James sighed. It was all so much water under the bridge now. Maybe with the publication of his book Joseph would finally get winter’s children out of his system. It was possible, but highly unlikely.

Onda Mel Verse Form

This is a verse form invented by Renelda Nielsen Gibson (Feb 2 1903 - Sept 26 2000), but other than that there is very little information about it. I did discover Renelda had over 2000 poems published in various magazines, and published eight poetic booklets, but nothing about the Onda Mel verse.

This poem is an octastich, which means it has eight lines. One site claims it’s written in two quatrains (four line verses), but every example I found showed it all in one verse.

One site has the syllable count as 8, 4, 4, 8, 8, 4, 4, 8 while a second site has the syllable count as 8, 4, 6, 8, 8, 4, 6, 8. Both sites, however, agree that the rhyme scheme is a, b, b, a, c, d, d, c.

Schematic:

xxxxxxxa
xxxb
xxxb
xxxxxxxa
xxxxxxxc
xxxd
xxxd
xxxxxxxc

OR

xxxxxxxa
xxxb
xxxxxb
xxxxxxxa
xxxxxxxc
xxxd
xxxxxd
xxxxxxxc

I found this form surprisingly easy to work with, despite the varying line lengths. I don’t know if the original verse was meant to be written in more than one stanza, but all the examples were just singles. However, I decided to give a two-stanza Onda Mel a try. The first verse uses the first rhyme scheme, and the second verse uses the second rhyme scheme.


Second Sight

There are things unseen all around –
the spirit realm
can overwhelm
those of us who are still earthbound.
Just take a step into elsewhere
with open eyes
and realize
how very much there is to share.

Just look into this other world
and then you’ll see
the possibilities
as one by one they are unfurled.
What wonders are in store for you
but have a care
do not get trapped in there
or you’ll become a spirit too.

Nothing But Time

Time is a slippery thing: lose hold of it once, and its string might sail out of your hands forever.
― Anthony Doerr

How tragic it is to find that an entire lifetime is wasted in pursuit of distractions while purpose is neglected.
― Sunday Adelaj

Time is free, but it’s priceless. You can’t own it, but you can use it. You can’t keep it, but you can spend it. Once you’ve lost it you can never get it back.
— Harvey Mackay

Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, the hours are going by. The past increases, the future recedes. Possibilities decreasing, regrets mounting.
― Haruki Murakami

Sometimes I lie awake before getting up in the morning, and I have to try to remember what day it is. Don’t worry, it’s not a sign of dementia or Alzheimer’s. It’s just really easy to lose track of time when all you have is nothing BUT time.

It sounds like a strange thing to be complaining about, doesn’t it? Having too much free time on one’s hands. But sometimes it can be a real problem for me.

And no, I don’t want suggestions of what I could be doing with my time. I know all the things I could be doing, but when the depression gets bad I don’t want to do any of them. At least I’ve learned not to beat myself up over my lack of accomplishment on these days, because that just leads to a downward spiral.

This is where making lists comes in handy. They help keep me focused on keeping busy, which helps stave off the depression. Too bad it doesn’t work for writing though. And I sort of fell behind in my list making the last couple of weeks, so I haven’t really accomplished all that much. Or at least that’s the way it feels.

Fortunately, I bit the bullet and made myself a new list. Now I just have to generate enough get-up-and-go to start working my way through it.

And that, apparently is the key – keeping busy.

Research has shown that free time makes a person feel better, but this feeling levels off after two hours, and begins to decline after five. Less than two hours of free time will stress you out, but more than five will lower your sense of well being.

A study made in 2016 showed that having too much free time can lead to boredom, anxiety, procrastination, and depression. The lack of focus and discipline it engenders can cause you to adopt bad habits.

Experts agree that when faced with large blocks of free time you should deal with it by considering it an opportunity. You can learn a new skill, or take on a new hobby. Scheduling activities to do each day will not only activate you, it will give you a sense of accomplishment.

Just like I said – you need to keep busy or you’ll end up in that downward spiral. Like I am right now. And let me tell you, once you’re on the spiral it’s really hard to get off it again. So use your free time wisely.

What would you do if you had nothing but time?

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

WORDAGE REPORT

THE WEEK IN REVIEW
In describing last week in one word, it would have to either be distracted or disappointing.

Disappointing in that once again I didn’t get any writing done aside from my blog posts. It wasn’t so much that I couldn’t have made time, but the distractions were many and towards the end of the week the black dog of depression sank its teeth into me and ate my ambition.

The distractions were, as I said, many. First up was a doctor’s appointment on Monday that was rather disappointing, especially when you consider how long I had to wait for it. This was one of those doctors who don’t listen and does not take into consideration that everyone is an individual and they may not respond to treatment in the same way as others do. We disagreed (strongly) about my treatment, and I came away feeling very discouraged. But I was also filled with determination to prove him wrong.

Another big distraction were the fires burning all around us. I live in a (no longer) small town on the north shore of Lake Ontario. Though Canada gets its fair share of forest fires, we have never been bothered by them before. This season, however, our air quality was severely impacted.

The first half of the week the mornings especially had a sepia tone to them because of the smoke. People were advised to stay in as much as possible and if they had to go out to wear a mask. School children were kept in at recess. When I went out in the car I had to wash the front and rear windows to get the powder fine ash off of them.

I gotta tell you, the colour of the light outside was kind of cool the first day or so, but then it devolved into creepy rather quickly. The fires in Quebec and northern Ontario weren’t very close to us, but there was still talk about what people should take with them if they needed to be evacuated.

Other distractions included a stitch-in at the library, a walk along the board walk with a couple of former gym buddies (the air was okay that day), taking my father-in-law shopping (twice), and a PA Day on Friday.

Of all the distractions though, I liked the last one best. I always love spending time with the granddaughter. She’s a really great kid. A little mercenary when it comes to helping out, but she’s got a really good heart.

NEW WORDS:
2128+582+344+882=3,936
DOWN 733 – words from last week

No surprise I was down on words. I didn’t have any problem writing my blog posts, I just didn’t have as much to say I guess. This week’s installment of Winter’s Child was 400 words less than the first installment, but the first one contained a 500 word introduction so I actually did better.

I think I only managed to start one day in my office, and my list making fell right off the map. At least I’m still keeping up with my morning pages though. They might be full of gibberish, but I’m doing them. Now, if I could just start writing a little bit more.

I did pull out a book of prompts I was given a few years ago. There are still plenty of prompts left in the book – maybe they can give my creativity a jump start.

Goals For Next Week:
Find a workable routine to generate more words.

EDITING:
0 hours

I am still stubbornly clinging to the hope that one of these days I’ll actually start editing something. Will this be the week? Maybe. I’ll have some extra time to do so.

Goal For Next Week:
Figure out the prophecy; get editing Elemental Spirit.

POETRY:
This time I actually had an idea for the poem to go with my form of the week before I picked out the form. I’m just happy I was able to get them to work together. Just because you get an idea for a poem doesn’t always mean it’s suited to a particular form.

My poetry group has been trying to have a business meeting over the last couple of weeks, last week it was canceled because we’ve finally reached the time of year where we can meet outside but we were still under the air quality warning. I’m pretty sure we’re going to try again this week on Tuesday, and then there’s a poetry reading on Thursday.

Goal For Next Week:
Find another new poetry form to share. Expand on the other poems I started.

CRAFTING:
I started the picture square on my sampler while at the stitch-in at the library, and then I didn’t like the satin stitch I was using on the stem of the flowers I was working on, so I had to pain-stakingly pick it all out again. One step forward, two steps back. *sigh*

I was supposed to get my baker’s rack on Wednesday – the father-in-law hired some movers to move it because he wasn’t having much luck pinning down his neighbor – but the job they had first thing in the morning ran longer than expected, so they didn’t have time.

They gave us a new day/time of Monday morning, so cross your fingers for me. Meanwhile, the father-in-law gave my four pairs of pants to him for him. I’m planning to hold them hostage for the safe delivery of my baker’s rack. :-)

When the granddaughter was here Friday I took her measurements so I could start her dress. And I double checked to make sure she wanted the sequins (she does). I’ve never sewn with sequins before, but from what I’ve seen, garments using the stretchy sequin material are usually pull on. I’m not going to be able to do that with this particular dress, and I have no idea how I’m going to get a zipper into it. Well, I do have an idea, but it’s going to be a pain in the butt.

Goal For Next Week:
Continue with my sampler; go to Fabricland for the netting for the granddaughter’s dress.

WHAT I’M READING:
I haven’t made much progress in One Dark Window, by Rachel Gillig. My interest waned a bit when I discovered the story is continue in a second (and probably a third) volume in the Shepherd King series. But I got distracted when I was writing about heat levels last week with Hot Spell, a paranormal romance anthology, and read that from cover to cover.

On my Kindle I ready Montana SEAL, by Elle James, and I’ve just started Bride Protector SEAL, which is book #2 in the Brotherhood Protector series.

There’s a big difference between a serial type series and a regular series. I usually try and avoid the serial type, unless I can buy all the books in the series at once. Otherwise, you’re left hanging with an incomplete story. The Shepherd King series is the serial type. The Brotherhood Protector series is a proper series, whereby the books are connected by the story thread, but each book can stand alone.

Goal For Next Week:
Maybe spend a little more time reading.

THE WEEK AHEAD:

With any luck (*knock on wood*), my baker’s rack will be delivered on Monday and I can get it all nicely set up in my craft room.

Tuesday I have the Annual General Meeting with the stitchery guild. This includes lunch at the golf course followed by a stash sale.

Then, starting Wednesday, I’ll be house sitting for the daughter while she and her family are in Halifax. Their dog is young enough he still needs to be crated when no one’s home, which means I’ll be feeling majorly guilty every time I have to go out – which shouldn’t be too often. It’s going to be weird though. She only lives a couple of blocks away, so it’s not like I’ll be going away for a week. And it would certainly be easier if I could sleep in my own bed, but even though the dog will be in his crate while I’m asleep, that wouldn’t feel right either.

On the other hand, my house is full of all my stuff, which is distracting. Maybe I’ll get more writing done at the daughter’s. Yeah, and maybe pigs will fly. LOL

I’ll still be able to do my morning pages though, and I can take my hand weights to work out with. Not sure what I’ll do about riding the bike though. I had thought I’d be walking the dog a couple of times a day, but apparently he’s a couch potato and I just need to take him out in the back yard a few times.

My list kind of went out the window, and I’m not sure that this week will be the time to try and get it back on track, but we’ll see.

The daughter doesn’t have network TV, only streaming services, so maybe I’ll be able to get a little more stitchery done. And by stitchery, I mean my sampler of course. I don’t want to be schlepping a bunch of stitchery supplies back and forth between houses.

So next week will be interesting, if nothing else. But I can’t help feeling that the track I’m supposed to be getting back on is slipping further away.

Winter’s Child – Part 1

Professor James Joseph Preston removed his glasses and placed them on the podium with his notes before addressing the 25 or 30 students scattered through the lecture hall.

“Are there any questions?”

Several hands rose in response. He pointed at random. “You, in the red sweater.”

The young man in question stood, arms clutching a book to his chest. “I have two questions, actually.”

James nodded, a slight smile on his face. “All right.”

“First, can I get you to sign my book? And second, are you planning to write a sequel to In Search of Winter’s Children?”

The smile turned a little brittle around the edges. “First of all, you have the wrong Preston, I am not responsible for that piece of trash. And second, I would think with your grade point average you would be better served to focus your attention on your studies. Class dismissed.”

James ignored the mutters coming from his students as he packed up his briefcase. He left by a different door, and headed straight to his office. Waiting inside, feet up on his desk, ankles crossed, was his friend and colleague Ben Robertson.

Ben took one look at James’ face and grimaced in sympathy. “Let me guess, another one of your students wanted you to sign your father’s book.”

“Feet off the desk,” James said.

Ben did as he was told, slowly and deliberately. “You might as well get used to it,” he said. “Paranormal is big these days, and your father has a way with words.”

“A way with bullshit you mean,” James said with a snort.

He sat down in his chair on the other side of the desk and reached into the bottom drawer for the bottle of twelve-year-old scotch he kept there. He held the bottle up, and at Ben’s nod, set it down on the desk and reached back into the drawer for a pair of glasses. He poured them each three fingers of scotch and passed one of the glasses to his friend.

“Here’s to turning an obsession into profit,” he said, raising his glass. Ben raised his in turn and they both took a sip.

“Obsession is a little strong, don’t you think?” Ben suggested. “I mean, sure, it was his life’s work, but his research was well organized.”

“You read that thing?”

“Well, I may have skimmed through it,” Ben admitted, “Purely for academic interest, you understand. It’s a local legend, after all.”

“With no more basis in fact than the tooth fairy or Santa Claus,” James said, taking another drink.

Ben hesitated, then said tentatively, “He presents his case very logically, with well organized examples. You might want to give it a read before damning it outright.”

“Winter’s children have been a family obsession for generations. You can trace it right back to Josiah Preston, one of the first settlers of this mountain. It’s been a bone of contention between me and my father for years. He just can’t understand why I haven’t jumped on the crazy train to join him in his delusions.”

“You’ve never had any interest in winter’s children?”

James shook his head. “I enjoyed the stories he told when I was a boy, but that’s all they were, stories. Stories designed to scare an impressionable child into staying in the yard and not wandering off into the woods.”

“That would make an interesting topic for a thesis,” Ben pointed out. “A generational story told so often it turned into an obsession.”

“It wasn’t the telling of the story that had my father become obsessed with winter’s children,” James said, topping up their glasses. “It was the death of my mother.”

“Well don’t keep me in suspense,” Ben said when James paused. “Tell me what your mother’s death had to do with your father’s obsession.”

“I was twelve,” James said with a sigh. “Mother had driven into town for meeting with the ladies auxiliary of the Baptist Church. Father told her not to stay too long because it was going to snow. He had a sixth sense for the weather.”

He paused to take a drink.

“Anyway, the snow hit when she was on her way back. They found her car the next day, pulled over to the side of the road. The driver’s side door was open and there was no one inside.”

“Where did she go?” Ben asked.

James sighed heavily. “No one could understand why she didn’t stay with the car – she was born on the mountain, she knew better. They searched – she was found almost a mile from her car, deep in the woods. My father decided that one of winter’s children lured her away.”

“That must have been hard on you.”

“You have no idea. No one believed him, of course. They put his ranting down to grief over losing his wife. But that was the beginning of his true obsession – to prove winter’s children were real.”

Rondine Verse Form

The Rondine is a 16th century French form, a descendant of the Rondeau, much like the Rondel, Rondelet, Triolet and Villanelle. It’s written in two stanzas, a septet (seven lines) and a quintet (five lines), which makes it a poem of twelve lines.

There are eight syllables per line, except for the seventh and twelfth lines that repeat the first four syllables of the first line as a refrain, known as a retrement. There is no set meter or subject matter, but there is a rhyme scheme of a-b-b-a-a-b-R, a-b-b-a-R, the R being the refrain.

I’m not sure if a schematic helps or not:

Rxxx,xxxa
xxxxxxxb
xxxxxxxb
xxxxxxxa
xxxxxxxa
xxxxxxxb
Rxxx

xxxxxxxa
xxxxxxxb
xxxxxxxb
xxxxxxxa
Rxxx

This was an interesting form to write in. I kind of like how only the first four syllables are used as a refrain. And given the fact that we’ve been experiencing smoke from fires raging out of control around us for the last several days, I found the subject of today’s example quite easy to decide on.


World on Fire

The sun looks small, hanging so low
rising just above the treeline.
The red and orange and pink combine
to give the sky a pastel glow.
Surreal landscape down below
the dull pale orb with red outline—
the sun looks small.

Fine ashes from the fires blow
trapping the world without sunshine,
just sepia skies that combine
the worst of fear, the tales of woe—
the sun looks small.

Heating It Up

Writing the erotic scene is both easy and difficult. It is easy because the reader wants the erotic scene, more than any other to succeed. The reader invests his cooperation, his personal energy, and his furthest extremes of credulity. Not to put too fine a point on it, the reader is likely to have an urgent, palpable stake in the matter at hand and to hope feverishly for a satisfactory outcome.
The erotic scene is difficult because the writer wants, or ought to want, to make the scene as good as possible for the reader.
— Lars Eighner

Life is very full of sex, or should be. As much as I admire Tolkien — and I do, he was a giant of fantasy and a giant of literature, and I think he wrote a great book that will be read for many years — you do have to wonder where all those Hobbits came from, since you can’t imagine Hobbits having sex, can you? Well, sex is an important part of who we are. It drives us, it motivates us, it makes us do sometimes very noble things and it makes us do sometimes incredibly stupid things. Leave it out, and you’ve got an incomplete world.
— George R.R. Martin

Let’s talk sex . . . in writing, that is. As I’m sure you already know, there are several different levels of heat (AKA sexual content) in romance.

1. Clean
This is as vanilla as it gets, completely devoid of eroticism. If you’re lucky the couple might hold hands, or maybe even have a single kiss at the end, but that’s as far as it goes. The emphasis is on the love story, not the physical manifestation of that love.

Most Inspirational or Christian romance novels are clean and so are many historical or Regency romances. Goodreads has a list, if you’re interested. I remember reading a time-travel romance set in Scotland and it wasn’t until I reached the end that I realized it was also a clean romance.

2. Sweet
Sweet romance is just what it sounds like, sweet. The butterflies in the stomach or sweaty palms are because of feelings of love, not lust. There may be a little hand-holding and kissing, but anything else is strictly behind closed doors, and only after a declaration of love.

You can find sweet romances in just about any category, but mostly in Young Adult, Historical, Contemporary, Suspense, and Inspirational. Barbara Cartland was prolific in her sweet, Historical novels. And I should know, I read hundreds of them. :-D

3. Warm
This is a step up from sweet, with more kissing and more hints about sex but it still doesn’t show it. There might even be a few tingles, but only hints about their urges. The emphasis is more on the emotions than the act.

Look for a warm romance in the Harlequin Presents line, as well as Young Adult and Historical romance.

4. Steamy
We’re finally getting to the good stuff. You’ll see sex on the page, but never anything wild or crazy. The kissing is more sexual, an expression of lust, leading to arousal. The language can be more explicit, though not vulgar.

Steamy romance can be found in pretty much any category – Historical, Contemporary, Suspense, Paranormal – and many old school romances are usually in this heat level.

5. Hot
Open door sex scenes are a must in the hot romance. They should be emotionally charged and explicit in their descriptions, but vulgar language is still kept to a minimum. The sex should both help the story evolve and thrill the reader.

You’ll find your hot romance in a wide variety of categories. Check out Silhouette Desire, Harlequin Temptation, and Dell Ecstasy Supreme.

6. Erotic
This romance has intense sexual scenes that could include kinks and fetishes. The sex is more explicit, as are the descriptions. Emphasis is placed on sexual activities, and not just the main characters but side characters as well. This is the level where many of the darker romances and menage books fall.

You’ll find erotic romance most often in contemporary or paranormal romance. You can also check out Harlequin’s Desire and Blaze lines.

When I first started out writing, several of my stories were vaguely romantic, but they were very clean romances. I can still remember struggling with a scene in which I had two characters hug. It took years before I became comfortable writing about sex.

But since then I’ve left the clean and sweet behind, and written comfortably in all the other heat levels. Yes, including erotic. And no, I haven’t tried publishing anything erotic yet. :-D

So, what’s your heat level when it comes to writing about sex? Inquiring minds want to know.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

WORDAGE REPORT

THE WEEK IN REVIEW
Life is a yo-yo, always up and down, up and down. Or maybe that should be a roller coaster because you never know when there’ll be an unexpected, sharp turn among all those ups and downs.

The weather turned hot and humid last week, but rather than energizing me, it seemed to suck all the energy out of me. Fortunately, before that happened, I got my planting done. The vegetable gardens are in (all except the tomatoes – I’m waiting to see if my neighbor is going to give me the plants his wife started for me after catching me lopping off the remaining asparagus), including the five flats of impatiens I planted in the front garden.

But the rise in temperature had another unintended side effect. I have a very large, south facing window in my office. And not only does it heat up in here pretty quickly, if I have the window open, that hot air leaches into the hallway where the thermostat is and triggers the central air. It doesn’t cool my office down, mind you, just the rest of the house. I’m going to have to get a fan or something for in here because even with the window closed it gets really hot in here.

So I guess I’m going to have to train myself to work in my office right after breakfast instead of lounging around, dawdling, frittering away my mornings. :-D

Aside from the fact I didn’t get much in the way of extra writing done last week, it wasn’t a bad week writing-wise. My blog posts are becoming less of a struggle and I even got the new serial started. I believe I mentioned the struggle I had with it in my introduction on Friday.

I think the reason I had so much trouble with it when I first came up with the idea is that it was always meant to be a longer story. I think the longest version of it I have is around 4500 words, which really isn’t long enough for the amount of story to be shared. But let’s not forget, I came up with the idea when I was young and new to writing, and I thought writers could only write one thing so I decided I’d write short stories.

We’ll see how it goes now that I’m older and wiser.

NEW WORDS:
2417+728+352+1202=4,669
UP – 335 words from last week

Up a bit from last week, mostly due to me rambling on for last week’s wordage report, and the long introduction to Winter’s Child. I kinda feel that unless I come up with some extra words this week, the word count will be down again.

Starting earlier in my office might help with that though. On the other hand, for me it’s easiest to get into the habit of doing something if I just do it without giving it much thought, like getting up early to exercise. If I don’t exercise right after doing my morning pages, I’m probably not going to.

I don’t know how well this is going to work for writing. I can’t just do it without thinking about it, writing requires a certain amount of thinking. So you see my problem here. Ironically, mornings are usually my most creative time. Well, early mornings and late evenings.

Goals For Next Week:
Find a workable routine to generate more words.

EDITING:
0 hours

I am still stubbornly clinging to the hope that one of these days I’ll actually start editing something. Maybe after I get a morning writing routine established.

Goal For Next Week:
Figure out the prophecy; get editing Elemental Spirit.

POETRY:
Picking out the form for last week was pretty easy, as was researching the form and writing about it. But what took forever was trying to figure out the first line of the poem to go with the post. I spent two hours on it, but once I found the first line the poem went embarrassingly quickly.

I wasn’t sure of it at first, but I kind of liked the Catena Rono verse. And I definitely liked the flow of the poem I came up with.

Goal For Next Week:
Find another new poetry form to share. Expand on the other poems I started.

CRAFTING:
Not much to report here. There was a stitch-in at the library and I started the next square in my zentangle sampler. After much internal debate, I decided that having nine zentangle squares was going to make my head explode (trying to figure out what stitch to use next), so I decided that every other square was going to be a picture square. The one I’m working on right now is a spray of sweet peas.

Still no word on when I’ll be taking possession of my baker’s rack. I don’t know what the hold up is, but I have to say I’m pretty disappointed. After the rush to get that room cleared out and the father-in-law getting it all trussed up and ready to go, I thought he stay on top of the delivery. But I guess for him it was more about getting it cleared off, and with it folded up it doesn’t take nearly as much space in that room.

Goal For Next Week:
Continue with my sampler; start thinking about the granddaugher’s dress for this year’s father/daughter ball.

WHAT I’M READING:
Again, reading was not a real priority with me last week. I finished The Little Flower Shop, by Lori Foster and have just barely started One Dark Window, by Rachel Gillig.

And once again I was a little slack when it came to riding the bike, but I did manage to finish Rule of Three, by Kelly Jamieson.

Goal For Next Week:
Maybe spend a little more time reading.

THE WEEK AHEAD:

I have a doctor’s appointment on Monday, and there’s another stitch-in at the library on Tuesday. On Wednesday I have an early morning walk scheduled, and Thursday there may (or may not) be a business meeting with the poetry group. It was supposed to last week but had to be postponed.

I really need to do something to shake myself out of this writing funk I’m in. Hopefully I’ll be able to take advantage of my office in the mornings while it’s cooler and get some actual work done.

I was doing so well with my daily lists for a while, but somehow they kind of went sideways. So I’d like to get back using them. Maybe I can just put “work in office” on my main list and then do a separate list for the things I want to accomplish in my office.

My bullet lists of daily happenings (to make it easier to update my journal) also petered out, so I’d really like to start that up again. Seeing all that white in my day planner is a little disconcerting, but I guess “napping” or “fooling around on the computer” don’t make for interesting entries.

There’s no reason I can’t do a little more stitchery at night when I’m watching TV. If I don’t feel like working on my sampler there’s always a blouse or two to embellish or I could start working on the granny square afghan I’m intending for a birthday present.

I know that the track is there, but I think I’ve got to get the weed whacker out to clear the path to it.

Winter’s Child – Introduction

There’s a bit of a funny story that goes with this tale. I might have mentioned that this is one of my earliest story ideas. But you also know I have a penchant for saving everything, so it only took a couple of tries checking out various USB sticks to find the folder with the files I was looking for.

I copied the folder onto my desktop and opened one of the document files, and it was only a page long so I closed it and opened another. This one was accompanied by a window asking me what I wanted to open it up with. I picked Wordpad, thinking it’s pretty universal, and while it did open the document, most of it was gibberish.

This wasn’t good. So I closed it again and tried a different one, and this time when the window popped up I picked PDF. And . . . got a message that it couldn’t open the file because it was corrupted. Then I saw that most of the files in that folder now had the PDF extension on them. This was really not good.

I clicked out of the folder and went back to the USB stick. Suddenly all of the files labelled PDF on the computer are PDF on the stick too. Really, really not good.

Crossing my fingers, I went back to my office and fired up my other, older computer, found a different USB stick with the files I needed, and tried that one. The files opened without any problem.

Here’s what I think happened. When I first started writing I used Corel WordPerfect, so the early versions of the story were saved in that. My newer laptop has a much newer version of Microsoft Word, so it could neither recognize nor convert these old WP files. I’m pretty sure I’d updated them since my days of using WordPerfect 5.1, but I could be wrong.

Whatever. The point is, problem solved. I saved the files I needed as Word files and they open up no problem on the newer computer. Whew! Now the only problem is sorting through the various versions. Apparently every time I made a change, no matter how insignificant, I’d save both the old version and the new version. So many redundant files . . . *shudder*.

I believe I also mentioned that this new story was based on an old poem of mine. Confession time. This poem was written in high school, before I knew jack about poetry. The assignment was to pick an article from a stack of newspapers the teacher had, and write poem about it. The article I chose was about a child lost in the snow. I know, I was weird even back then.

Anyway, we’ll start with the poem, and then on to the prologue of the story.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

THE FRIENDS

He had been gone
since early morning
leaving behind:
a mother
in hysterics
a father
who suffered ulcers
and siblings who
seem always
to find fault.
His friend had been
inviting him
since early fall;
so he went exploring
Winter.
His friend showed him ice
and frost pictures
and finally
she embraced him
and Winter
enticed him
to sleep.


Prologue

When settlers first came to the forest-covered foothills of the mountain, they were completely unaware of the Others who dwelt there. They cleared small plots of land and built their log cabins; they put up split-rail fences and called the land theirs. By the time the Others were aware of the intrusion, they were powerless to stop it.

The fact that humans had encroached on their territory took them by complete surprise, they weren’t sure how to react. Before this, humans had been considered a lower life-form. So the last remnants of the Others remained elusive, hidden, and gauged these newcomers carefully.

When their race was young, the territory of the Others encompassed an entire continent. They had no name and needed none, for their very existence set them apart from the other lifeforms. Though they never developed technology as we know it, they were a highly civilized, intelligent society.

Their ancestors roamed the land with the great lumbering dinosaurs, watched the soaring flight of the pterodactyl with envy, and witnessed the killing frenzy of the carnivores with revulsion. By nature they were a gentle, pleasure seeking race who had reached their peak and begun a slow, inevitable degeneration. Yet still, when the ice age came and the lesser beasts began dying out, they still had the creative spark to seek out ways to survive.

But the colder it became, the more of their race died. Their attempts to halt or change the weather were fruitless and they soon abandoned ideas along those lines. Their calculations proved they could not outlast the cold should it come to either building well stocked shelters against it or even hibernation. Relocating was pointless as well.

And so it fell to a small group of knowledge-seekers who had always kept apart with their rituals and experiments. By human standards they would be considered scientists, or at the very least alchemists, though their research would not be understood by the human mind.

They had seen they signs of impending disaster long ago and they knew that the others would fail. There was only one thing that could save them, they must adapt to the cold. They must change themselves. And so began the Great Transformation.

Not all were able to survive the Great Transformation. They very young, the infirm, the very old (and they were already a long-lived race), all of these were left to die in the encroaching cold. They died knowing their race would survive, though it was doubtful this gave them any comfort.

The transformed welcomed the ice age. They reveled in the cold that enveloped their land. The change had taken them from creatures of sun and warmth to creatures of ice and cold. But the price! Of the race who numbered well into the millions, only a few thousand remained.

They were tall and thin with pale, pale skin, long narrow limbs and hair of gossamer. Their metabolism adapted to their needs. The cold no longer mattered to them. The earth had changed, and they changed with it.

The ice lasted for thousands of years, but suddenly, the ice was spent. It began to recede, heralding a new era for the world. The race that the Others became lacked even the rudimentary knowledge to fight the changes now taking place. They had truly become children of the ice and snow.

As the ice receded, so did their territory. A few hundred years more and they staked claim to the mountains, the higher the better. And there they stayed, fear keeping them close to their territory – fear of being caught too far from their cold of the mountain when the thaw came.