Could a coming-of-age or finding-yourself narrative still apply to me?
At 27-years-old I still feel like I’m solidifying my identity, I’m still filled with self-doubt, I’m still trying to find my place in the world. The internal struggles I’m facing in my late (-cringe-) twenties aren’t actually that much different from what I struggled with in my late teens or early twenties. I suspect my youthful ignorance actually left me feeling more confident about my abilities/identity than I feel now.
When I think of adult genres, especially contemporary or literary fiction, I think of characters who are established in their careers, perhaps they have some love troubles, but their life seems to be fairly settled until the events of the novel stir things up a little.
But where are the messy twenty-somethings? What about the people who still need to do a little⎯or maybe a lot⎯of soul-searching?
This is what my most recent book kind of deals with. My protagonist is a 22-year-old who’s never taken a risk and thinks herself satisfied with her quiet existence, though she secretly is terrified of mundane existence and wishes for some magic. In essence, her life needs a wake-up call and for her “real” life to start, she’s going to need to find the magic in herself.
I know this story. It’s an over-exaggeration of my own inner struggles. And I can’t be the only twenty-something who feels this way. Could I?
I’ve received feedback from two other writers who suggested my book might work better as a MG (middle grade). It’s not a completely ridiculous suggestion; the writing is fairly whimsical and it’s a fantastical adventure story with magic books and antique clocks.
But, why do kids ages 8-12 get the monopoly on whimsical fantasy stories?
I know there are YA/Adult aged stories with a whimsicality and lots of magic… Neil Gaiman, Alice Hoffman, and Dianna Wynne Jones have done it. And I’d like to do it too.
Maybe I’m mistaken, but I feel like there’s this idea in the YA genre that a book has to be dark, gritty, and tough in order to be good. At least, that’s what I’ve noticed with a lot of popular YA books in the last 5-10 years. With the immensely popular Hunger Games series and the Shadow Hunters and books where everyone is a fairy assassin or at least a little murder-y.
Could there be space in there for a slightly lighter⎯though still a tiny bit murder-y⎯fantasy book?
I think so.
There’s a reason books like Alice in Wonderland, Anne of Green Gables, The Hobbit, and many others like it are still enjoyed today by all ages. There’s a timelessness to them and a desire, perhaps, for a little bit of light and whimsy to contrast with harsh realities.
Sure, Alice in Wonderland is a kids book, but it’s not just enjoyed by children. Anne of Green Gables was, in fact, not written with children in mind, though the writing is quite whimsical and the subject matter is light and happy.
So I’m not going to age-down my novel because I see no need for it.
Maybe my book won’t fit with what’s trendy right now, but I love it. I enjoy the lightness of the writing style and the fact that my main character isn’t angry all the time and wants to kill everyone that looks at her funny.
Let me have my whimsy. I think the world needs more of it!
… That was a lot of the word “whimsical” in one post.”
“Books are good company, in sad times and happy times, for books are people – people who have managed to stay alive by hiding between the covers of a book.” – E.B. White
It may come as no surprise, especially if you’ve been around my blog a while, I like books. A lot. A lot a lot.
I like books so much that many of my life choices have been based around them. I studied English Lit. and History in University for the books and reading. My life goal is to become a published author.
Even if I don’t actively read a book on any given day, there is a good chance that I’ve thought about or passively looked at a book. In the last couple days, I had a conversation with my dad about how I dreamed of expanding the bookshelves in my bedroom to accommodate a bigger library. The dream was dampened by my desire to have wall space for artwork, but the desire to have a big library is alive and well!
Right now, books are a life raft in the sea of chaos that is the world right now. They provide a much needed escape from reality as well as a chance to learn and grow with all the new-found free time.
But my love affair with books began long before this crisis and even before university. There were always books in my house growing up and I remember being read Goodnight Moon before bed. In fact, I was read to sleep well into my childhood. That comes from having two delightfully nerdy parents.
As a kid growing up from the late 90s-mid 2000s, I was in the midst of the Harry Potter bonanza. While I never did a midnight release party, I was an avid reader of all of Harry’s adventures. I’m fairly positive I would’ve continued to be a reader without the Harry Potter books, but they certainly solidified my bookish existence.
Books have always been an escape for me. I’ve always had an active imagination and a sensitive, high-strung spirit. So the hum-drum of life, especially as a somewhat sheltered child, seemed somewhat unsatisfactory. Where were the adventures? Where were the extraordinary people? Where was the magic? In books.
The fact that magic (the Harry Potter, bibitibopityboop kind) was created in someone else’s imagination and actually wasn’t real left my little soul so disappointed. But growing up has dampened that disappointment some, though I never get tired of escaping into books for a good dose of magic.
And I’ve found there’s magic in real life… if you know where to find it.
Anyway, I was a fairly quiet teenager with a small circle of friends, so books remained a constant even as I drifted away from childhood interests. Vampires were the craze during my high school years⎯thanks, Twilight⎯and I’m a bit embarrassed to admit that I ONLY read books about vampires for a while. But, reading Twilight as a shy twelve-year-old continued to reinforce my literary habits. And I’m not the only one who’ll admit that there was something weirdly addicting about those books.
English had always been my best subject, because⎯you know⎯reading, so it seemed like a natural choice to go to university for English. Though, at this point I had also decided I wanted to be a writer and English seemed like a good way of building up my skills in that respect as well. With a double major in English Literature and History, I was set for 4 years of reading and books.
More so now that I’m out of school, I’ve realized that books are so much more than simply and escape. Without the structure and resources of school, books are the next best learning tools.
In the last couple years I’ve discovered how much I want to learn and grow as a person. It sometimes makes me regret not continuing on to a Master’s program or beyond, but then I remind myself that the world is full of easily accessible and sometimes completely free ways of learning: books.
Isn’t that wild?
The only flaw I have is that I’m too excited to read things and I always end up reading 5+ books at a time, which leads to me only finishing books after months of reading. While I’ll never be someone who can read 100 books in a year, I do enjoy seeing how many I can get read. This year, I’m aiming for 35.
Books make up such a large portion of my life as a writer and someone who simply enjoys reading, I even have a dream of one day opening a used bookstore. Despite Amazon taking over and killing all the independent bookstores, I truly believe that there will always be a place for bookstores. People will always need books and people to sell them. Faceless corporations can only do so much. But I will not turn this into a rant about my hot/cold relationship with Amazon.
I could probably write a whole small book one why I think books are amazing and why the written word is so important, but I’ll suffice with this little blog post.
Do me a favour today: pick up a book, even for five minutes. And next time you need to purchase one, consider an independent bookstore (or at least an online bookseller that’s NOT Amazon).
May has been a bit of a blur. It felt like the month only started yesterday, but here we are over half-way through already. I guess time flies when you’re in government-mandated social distancing?
But the silver lining is that I still have lots of time for reading. Though⎯somehow⎯I’m still reading at my usual snail’s pace. Maybe one day I’ll actually read a book within the month that I started it, but today is not that day.
As per usual, I’m reading a bunch of different books. I’m proud of my genre distribution lately, as I’ve not just settled into my usual default fantasy books or Anne of Green Gables. One goal I had for my reading habit was to branch out more into different genres, especially some nonfiction. And what’s my favourite genre of nonfiction? Books about books!
This tome sat on my wish-list for a while before it was very kindly gifted to me. Then it sat almost reverently on my shelf until I picked it up recently.
You can probably guess from the title, but it’s a book about twelve historically significant Medieval manuscripts. The reader is taken on a journey to where the manuscript itself is held and allowed a glimpse into the world of historical writings, where not many but a select few get to go.
This book is one big geek fest for me, as someone who studied medieval history and literature and just LOVES books. I can’t get enough. Just the descriptions are enough to send my geeky heart aflutter.
I highly recommend this book if you love medieval things, especially books!
This is the final book of the Shades of Magic trilogy and, quite predictably, I’m a mixture of sad and excited. I’m very much looking forward to see how the book ends but I also don’t want to get there because that means the series will be over.
Very much like the second book, which I read in April (and actually finished in April), I’m continuously wowed by how much I simply enjoy the story and the characters. Of course, I have a big bias towards the fantasy genre in general, but this series had all the things I never knew I needed in my life.
Roselle Lim is a Canadian writer who I follow on Twitter and Instagram because I just love supporting my fellow Canadian women writers. When I first followed her, this book wasn’t out yet, so I watched with eager eyes as the book went through its final stages of being published. And to continue to support my fellow writer, I picked it up the day it came out.
Then it sat on my shelf⎯like most books I buy do⎯until I finally decided that it was time to read it. After a year and a half. Sorry, Roselle.
One word of caution for those who read this book (and you should): don’t read it while hungry! It’ll get so much worse! This sweet book is so full of delicious sounding recipes and food descriptions that I always come away with massive cravings.
Despite leaving me feeling like I need to hire a personal chef to cook me some amazing food (because god knows I can’t), I’ve been heartily enjoying this story about love, loss, and rediscovering community. It also has a sprinkle of magic, which I’m always here for.
Instead of following books specifically, Jorge Carrión takes the reader on an international journey through bookshops big and small. As with the medieval manuscripts, I enjoy finding bookshops wherever I travel. So this book is basically a way to visit various bookshops without having to leave the comfort of my home. It also provides me with ideas of places to visit when we actually can travel again.
Gosh, I just love reading about books and book-related things.
That’s it for May!
As usual, this list doesn’t include books I started in earlier months and am still reading now. I hope this provides you with some inspiration for your own reading lists.
I’d love to know what you’re reading right now! So leave a comment and let me know.
I remember the time I first heard the legend of Bricton; I was twelve years old and playing with other kids around the neighbourhood. We were daring each other to jump from different crumbling stone walls and to jump over the biggest puddles. Most of us wore sweaters that were big enough to fit at least one other person inside. Our rubber boots always had a habit of coming off as we jumped in a puddle.
“They say the town is dying,” a loud boy announced to the group from the top of a moss covered wall.
“Who is they?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.
The loud boy shrugged, jumping from the wall before darting off with another boy to play tag.
Another boy came up to me, looking grim. “Once upon a time,” he started, “The town was ruled by an angry warlock. He had all the churches built to worship him, but no one ever attended. To punish all the people, he left and cast a spell so no one would ever come to the town again.”
Everyone sighed and rolled their eyes.
“They say it’s the stranger,” one of the girls whispered to another, “I heard he brought the curse to the town. He steals young girls in the night and does a ritual with their dead bodies.”
“That’s all lies,” I said. “The stranger doesn’t do anything.”
Not so long ago, a mysterious man wandered into Bricton. At first, he was just another person in the town. Us kids would see him walking to and from the market square. Pa said he saw the stranger at the pub, chatting up the bartender, the locals, and pretty much anyone.
“He seems fine to me,” I stated loudly. I’d never seen him do anything but what everyone else did in town.
“They say he’s a wizard, or a ghost. Something unnatural,” said the boy.
I stomped up to him. “That’s stupid! Nothing’s gone wrong here, so how do you know it’s cursed?”
He turned towards me. “Traders don’t come here anymore, outsiders don’t go to church.”
He pointed at the sky. “Have you ever seen it rain?”
“Then why are there giant puddles everywhere?”
At dinner that evening, Pa came home all flustered.
“What happened, dear?” Ma asked him as she took his patchy brown coat.
“That stranger. He got into a fight with Jim,” Pa answered as he sat down at the kitchen table with me.
“Who started it?” I asked as a swirled around the mashed potatoes on my plate.
“Jim did. He kept saying that the stranger was ruining the town. Jim threatened him.”
“But, the stranger hasn’t done anything wrong,” I said indignantly.
Pa nodded. “I’m just worried about the effect he’ll have on the kids.”
I frowned and crossed my arms over my chest. “He doesn’t even come near us.”
Ma clicked her tongue against her teeth and shook her head. “I saw him talking to Lily Evers one morning. She’s only fifteen.”
“What happened with the fight?” I asked, trying to divert the conversation back.
“The stranger just left. He looked angry, though.”
Ma seemed to pay no attention, and put her hand on her forehead. “What will we do, Shara’s almost thirteen. What if the stranger takes a liking to her.”
“I’m right here, Ma.”
Ma and Pa looked at each other, using their secret language I didn’t understand. I just frowned and shoved a forkful of potatoes into my mouth. Even if the stranger tried to talk to me, I doubted we’d have anything interesting to say to each other. The only appeal he had for gossip was his “newness” and mystery.
After a few minutes of silent conversation, Pa looked at me with stern eyes. “I don’t want you going out to play with the other kids, anymore. You will help your mom around the house during the day.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but the look in Pa’s eyes made me decide against it. With a silent nod, I ate the last of the potatoes and excused myself from the dinner table.
My bed made a satisfying groan as I threw myself down onto it. They couldn’t make me stay home, they weren’t the bosses of me. Frustrated tears stung in my eyes and a rubbed them away.
From the bed I could see the world outside my window. It was dark, the sky twinkled with tiny sparks and the town twinkled with windows coming alight. Without another thought, I stood and walked over the window. I opened it slowly, listening for any sound of my parents’ approach. The tiniest of squeaks from the window made me freeze, but my parents didn’t appear.
I remembered last summer when I used to sneak out to see Billy. He had been my best friend until his family moved away. He always came to my window and hit it with a pebble or two. Together, we would run through the quiet streets, laughing to ourselves for being so clever. My parents never did find out.
It was easy enough to slip out of the window and I hit the ground with very little noise. I crept away from the house. A small breeze seem to guide me down the road, towards a loan bench under a lamppost.
Sitting on the bench was a man wearing a black trench coat and black heavy boots.
I stood there watching him for a moment, wondering if it truly was him. I approached slowly, noticing that, under the light, he looked a lot younger than I thought he was. I didn’t ask questions, nor did I want to. I sat beside him without a word.
“I didn’t cause the business to die,” he said to no one in particular without turning his head or looking at me. Up close, he looked younger than I’d originally thought. He didn’t have the deep lines on his forehead like Pa and there was a child-like wonder in his gaze.
I didn’t say anything. Should I be scared? I thought. I didn’t feel scared. “Are you going to steal me away?” I asked, trying to ignore the shake in my voice.
He laughed as pulled his hands from his pockets and rested them on his lap. “No,” he said.
“Did you curse us?” I asked, as a sort of timid feeling crept into my chest.
“This town was cursed before I came here,” he said, taking a few breaths before continuing. “As long as people from the outside consider this place good enough for them, it’ll stay intact.”
“Other cities don’t like us, though,” I stated, matching his posture. “Hardly anyone comes here anymore and lots of people are moving away.”
“The people will slowly disappear. The town will be empty. Haunted.”
“That’s a lie. Just like all the boys say. It’s not true.”
“Why would I be lying, child?” His eyes held a sincerity I could not deny.
“If the town is cursed, what are you doing here?”
“I’m a type of a ‘caretaker’, to keep this place alive,” he finally looked at me and smiled.
“What if I don’t want to disappear?” I asked, gripping the bench beneath me as if it was an anchor holding me in reality.
His smile became bigger. “You could become a caretaker like me.”
The forest in Spring was a sleepy sort of place. Even the dappled sun between the branches was like light filtering through drawn curtains. Birds chirped freely to remind the sleeping giants it was time for waking. The trees stirred from slumber and stretched towards the glow.
A rabbit scampered through the sparse underbrush, feeling a vague sense of relief for the coming growth. Food in abundance was a promise on the wind. The smell of damp earth was the smell of renewed hope.
This feeling spread through the soil as the trees shared their greetings, secrets, and nutrients. Soft conversations between roots; that interconnected system of infinite wisdom beneath the stand. The crowns were still bare, but a whole world existed below.
The wind was a sigh of relief as it passed gently in the weave of branches. A cloud, heavy with rain, drifted by and left puddles as it went. Small streams burbled and bubbled with rain and newly melted snow. A cheerful robin, just returned, hopped about the puddles and looked for worms amongst the mud.
As the trees woke and leaves unfurled, a joy returned to the hearts of all the beings there.
Happy Earth Day!
This is just a happy whimsical thing I whipped up to celebrate. This is also part of a project that brings together artists, writers, and other creatives for the Earth and celebrate 50 years of Earth Day. You can read more about it here.
Do you ever feel like everyone in the world knows more than you about everything?
Okay. Well, maybe not everyone. But many many people.
I often feel like I’m missing out on some great knowledge, though it only seems to be some vague idea of knowledge and not actually something tangible. Maybe I haven’t read enough books. Maybe I haven’t spent enough hours researching.
It could be my utter lack of being able to articulate my ideas into some sort of coherent sentence. Even in university, my ability to pontificate about the theme of my paper was fairly sparse. And my ability to pull random facts and anecdotes out of my brain is non-existent except for random moments where tidbits about Henry VIII’s wives are not needed.
Does this mean I’m not smart enough to write anything but these weird little rant-y blog posts?
Should I keep all opinions to myself lest I have to defend it with words I don’t have or ideas I can’t seem to bring forth?
Where are those pesky words, anyway? Where do they live in my brain? The inaccessible parts that can’t be reached for the darkness and cobwebs.
What books should I be reading or not reading or thinking about or daydreaming of being one day? Is there a limit to the knowledge one person can cram in one’s brain?
Sometimes I wonder about all the information I could fit into my head if it wasn’t filled with endless song lyrics and cat memes. Would I have more room for discourse on the emergence of the YA genre in the 1940s or how Catcher in the Rye and The Outsiders were the major catalysts of the genre becoming a popular one? Maybe not.
I guess Socrates would be proud of me for admitting my own utter lack of knowledge. The first step to learning is admitting one’s own ignorance.
After the longest March ever, we’ve finally made it into April. Time seems to have resumed a somewhat normal pace. At least in my house. We seemed to have settled into self-isolation/social-distancing/quarantine groove⎯as much as one can settle in.
As always, books are a source of comfort and escape during this harrowing time. Now I have almost endless time to sit down and devour a book. Last month was very much “nonfiction” month, but I missed my fiction. I’m a fiction lover. April seems to have brought a happy compromise between the two.
I did see the movie before I started reading this. But that shouldn’t be held against me, for I’m quite enjoying reading this book. It was actually given to me as a gift by a family friend. After finishing my somewhat whacky self-help book, I wanted to stay inspired so I grabbed it off my shelf.
Now I’ll probably never hike the PCT, but reading about it has been a treat. I’d like to consider myself an outdoorsy person, but I’m certainly not THIS outdoorsy. But it’s nice to live it through someone else and travel with them on their emotional journey.
This was one I saw highly recommended when I went searching for a book on mindfulness. Now is as good a time as any to become more mindful and delve into that realm of thinking. While it seems a bit “hippy-dippy” on the outside, it’s actually quite grounded.
My relationship with myself has always been a bit rocky, but I can’t help but feel hopeful as I start in on this book.
This edition is actually the first two books in the Moving Castle series in one book. Given to me by my parents a long long time ago. I’m a bit ashamed to admit I’ve only ever read Howl’s Moving Castle and never the second book. Maybe that will change this time?
My initial thought for picking this one off the shelf was to help me with my new novel that I’m working on. It has some similar elements and I wanted to read through to make sure my book wasn’t getting TOO similar. But I enjoy the story immensely, even without the practical reasons.
This is the second book in V.E. Scwab’s Shades of Magic series. The first made the cut as one of my favourite books that I read last year. I was trying to have discipline and get through other books I was reading before starting it, but this month I was finally able to start.
Obviously, the book was under a lot of pressure to wow me after the first in the series was such an amazing start, but it hasn’t disappointed so far. I’m immediately invested in the characters and excited to dig into the story.
So that’s it for April. Obviously this doesn’t include the books that were started last month (or even earlier)! This is a good month for nice comforting books and hopefully you find some inspiration for your own reading list.
As always, I’d love to know what you’re reading. Leave a comment and let me know what’s on your shelf this month.
My cousin Rose was getting married in Old Bricton.
This might not seem significant but, for anyone who lived in the surrounding towns, it was. Old Bricton was a local legend. The town never made the news, though it was talked about. Whatever we heard, it was usually another business going bankrupt, or the plans to demolish a church. The plans never amounted to anything.
Old Bricton was a labyrinth of cobblestone streets and stone buildings, looking much too old to be standing. Some streets were so narrow you could lift your arms and run your fingers along opposite walls, while some were so wide, they allowed thirty people to stand side by side with breathing room.
I ran my fingers along a cold brick wall, as my mother hurried me along towards the centre of town.
“Be careful not to get your dress dirty,” she said as she marched along, the click of her heels echoing. She didn’t look at her surroundings, but kept her eyes fixed on a point ahead of her.
The day before the wedding, my father went on a “sudden business meeting” with his new attractive boss. He was hoping to get a “promotion.” So, it was just me and Mom walking through the streets of Old Bricton ourselves.
“Careful of that puddle!”
I stopped mid-stride and looked down at my feet. Sadly, my mother’s idea of a puddle was a tiny splash of water. I looked up at the sky and practically clear except for a few wispy things.
“Did it rain earlier?” I asked.
She shook her head. “It’s been sunny all week, you know that.” She didn’t seem to notice that she had just told me to watch for puddles.
I examined the rain-darkened brick around me. The buildings and the roads were like trees soaked after a storm. Even small patches of fuzzy moss poked out from corners. It had been raining, somehow, though I knew Mom was right about the weather.
The centre of Old Bricton wasn’t what you’d expect. There were almost no shops, too many inns and an over-abundance of churches. The churches were ancient stone giants, standing five-hundred feet tall. Each embodied the town; crumbling, but still standing against all odds.
We arrived at an intersection with four towering churches on either corner. Each was large enough to take ones breath away, if given the chance. Before I had a moment to look, I was pulled into a dark and widely detailed cathedral.
Everyone was there. My aunts and uncles stood around awkwardly, making conversation and trying to forget where they were. My female cousins stood in a corner, all dressed in pastels; soft and light colours. They looked at me and raised their eyebrows.
I looked down at my dress. It certainly wasn’t a rosy pink or a soft lavender. It was long, shimmering gold. Much more bold than my cousins would dare.
Even with the sun coming in the high windows, the nave seemed to swallow light. It had the potential to be beautiful, but it was too dark to see. Something else also caught my attention and caused the hairs on my arms to stand. The ceiling was hundreds of feet high, yet everyone’s voices were muted and caused no echo.
“When you get married, Sophie,” Mom began as we walked deeper into the Cathedral, “the ceremony will be held in that charming church in our neighborhood. It has so much more character.”
I didn’t respond but silently shook my head. Mom didn’t see as she was a few steps ahead, nor did she understand how wrong she was about me and the church. The one she labeled “charming” was a 50-year-old mid-century megachurch monstrosity without a smidge of character in it. But it was familiar and safe. That’s what mattered.
Mother dragged me into a room at the back where cousin Rose was getting ready, insisting that we had to help. Rose was already dressed when we arrived, and just about ready anyway.
She looked at Mother then me, then gave a knowing smile. Of all my cousins, she was the one I was closest to. We had a deep understanding and a love for all things odd and extraordinary; including this town and all its churches.
“Why don’t you go exploring?” Rose said as she walked up to me in her sparkling white dress.
I shook my head. “Mother would kill me if I left, and I’d probably get lost.” Not as if it was a bad thing necessarily, but if I was gone for more than five minutes, I’d be in so much trouble.
She patted my shoulder. “Go on. I can keep your mom busy for a while.”
I got up from my chair by the door as Rose went to distract my mother. Wasting no time, I slipped out of the room. I looked back at Mom in time to see her chatting with my aunt, unaware that her only daughter was leaving.
The inner hallways of the cathedral were much darker than the rooms occupied by the wedding. I had to keep my hand on one wall so I didn’t run into it.
A tiny breath of a draft danced along my arm, ushering me further into the building. My hand found a wooden railing and my foot found a staircase. I eased onto the first step, the wood underneath it groaned and creaked, but felt sturdy.
I heard noise above me and stopped. Looking up, and a tiny window gave me just enough light to see the flight of stairs winding up. It looked as if there was a shadow standing a few flights up.
I took off my shoes and then padded up the stairs, trying to be as quiet as I could in case someone was actually there.
Quick footsteps echoed down to me, moving upward.
I attempted to follow, taking two stairs at a time. My dress limited my speed and I silently cursed it. By the time I reached the top the landing was empty, but there was only one door in front of me.
The door opened slowly with a soft squeak. I poked my head into the room, but all I could see was dust hovering in mid-air. It didn’t float to the floor like dust would; it swirled around slowly, as if it were dancing.
As soon as I stepped into the room, all the dust fell to the floor like snow. My feet left footprints on the floor behind me. The room was large, each corner was a dark and mysterious cave. But, one in particular held a shadowy figure. Whoever it was, they were facing the wall, clothed all in black.
I hesitated, recalling what my mother used to say about strangers: Strangers are dangerous, especially those from Old Bricton.
The mysterious person mumbled something inaudible. They didn’t look at me or turn around.
“What?” I asked, not moving from my position close to the door.
“You should not be here.” It was male voice and he turned around to face me.
“I’m not stealing anything,” I said, “and I wouldn’t have come here if you hadn’t run away.” Though, that was partially a lie. I might’ve come in my exploration, but certainly not on purpose.
I could hear him breathing loudly until he said, “Do you know what happens when people come here?” When I shook my head, he continued, “If people from the outside go places they should not, someone gets hurt.”
While that statement was somewhat disturbing, it didn’t deter me. “I like this town better than my own home.”
“No one likes this town, anymore.”
“I do,” I repeated.
“Interesting,” he said. “Most from the outside do not bother to explore outside of their ‘little bubble.’” He stepped out of the shadows, and looked surprisingly younger than be sounded. His skin was chalk-like under the grey light coming in from the windows.
“Are you a ghost?” I said aloud without thinking.
“You could say that all the remaining people here are ghosts, made so by the world that turned against them.”
“What happens when someone moves in?”
He took another step towards me. “That does not happen anymore, the only people who come here are tourists and contractors.”
“The tourists are usually disappointed, aren’t they?”
“I would not say that. They tend to get lost in the city’s individuality.”
My stomach dropped as I caught on to the second meaning in his words. “You mean, the tourists never leave, do they?”
He shook his head and took another step, he was close enough now that I could see the grim smile on his face. “It is how the city survives, smart girl.”
I knew I should have run, but I didn’t want to. I thought of my mother, who was still downstairs, my cousin, and of my dad, who was probably being seduced by his boss. I knew I didn’t want to be apart of that life.
“I want to stay, but I won’t be a tourist.”
He nodded in recognition. “I understand. You will fit in here.” He reached out his hand.
I took a deep breath, sure of my decision, before taking his hand. It was cold, but I wasn’t surprised.
“I must warn you,” he said, “the deeper you get, the more lost you become.”
In the coming months, I’ll be publishing one chapter a month from a story I’ve been working on for a while. If you followed my blog posts back when I was in university, the first few chapters will be familiar. But I wanted to finally get the thing finished.
The Tellings is a story about a ghost town where people visit but never leave. There’s a secret magic that permeates the ground, but it’s failing. Those who are left feed it as they can, but a force is moving to reclaim what was taken. It’s spooky, it’s moody, it’s full of magic.
So hold on to your hats because the first chapter is coming very soon.
It’s almost been two years since I started THIS blog⎯I’ve been blogging for years before on a different platform. When I posted for the first time, I had a grand idea for what I wanted it to be. I wanted to write lots of book reviews, share my experience in writing/querying/publishing, and posting plenty of short stories.
Looking back, I’ve only somewhat succeeded. I’ve written a handful of book reviews, though I’d like to write more. Certainly I’ve shared my experience with writing, that seems to be the one thing I do regularly. But, I’ve only ever posted one story and a couple of poems here.
Is it worth continuing to update my audience on my writing life, when I don’t even post writing for them to read?
My close friends and family, who know what I’m working on, read my updates with proper context. But what about people who don’t necessarily know me? What if they’ve never read anything of mine before?
So many of my creative projects exist outside of this blog: my paintings, my novel, etc. Then what is this blog for?
At the moment, it’s just been a place where I can vent my creative woes. Basically it’s just an online diary, with occasional book reviews/recommendations.
I want this blog to be so many things. To be a place where I can share the outpourings of my brain, fictional or otherwise. But the life updates and personal posts seem to leave me feeling like I’m not truly being creative. Where are the poems I long to write, the stories I want to tell?
Now, this doesn’t mean I don’t have plans. I’m in the process of editing some long-lost stories to post as a serial style novel here. Though, as per usual, it’s procrastination central over here. But, I’d like to get the first chapter up by the end of the month or, at the latest, the beginning of April. So… stay tuned for that, I guess!
Perhaps, instead of focusing what I wanted it to be and being disappointed that it’s not, I should do my best to make it what I want. That’s basically the story of my life: stop worrying and wanting and moping, and start doing!
Perhaps it’s the all craziness that’s going on right now: coronavirus, economic recession, etc. So let’s all do our best to stay positive.
On a happier note, I made a loaf of bread from scratch for the first time this week. Specifically, it was a loaf of sourdough.
I’d been wanting to make a loaf of bread from scratch for a while but hadn’t gotten around to it until now. As I wrote in a Medium article about sourdough bread and mindfulness, it was a recipe I found in a French cookbook that finally inspired me. It provided a step-by-step guide on how to get a sourdough starter going through to the baking, even including a troubleshooting page.
Getting the starter going was a little intimidating, considering I was basically growing the yeast I’d need for the actual dough. But it worked! It bubbled and ate and eventually was used to make the dough.
Making the dough was an adventure. Buckle up!
The recipe, written by a professional French baker who has been baking for years and knows exactly what he is doing, told me to make the dough by mixing all the flour on a worktop then pour the wet ingredients into a dent in the mountain of flour. Do you know what happens when liquid is being held in my a wall made of flour? It leaks.
Liquid and flour went absolutely everywhere. In the process of trying to block the leaks, more leaks occurred. The mound was leaking, I was covered in wet flour water, it was all over the floor and the countertop.
Eventually, I managed to grab a bowl and scoop as much as I could into the bowl. Imagine: I’ve got a big metal bowl suspended between my stomach and the counter, as I try and shovel flour and liquid into the bowl while it slowly spread farther and farther on the counter. I could only reach so much with my short little arms.
It was then mixed together in the bowl on the floor. While the counter was covered in gross flour water, which dripped down the cabinets and onto the floor. But, in the end, the dough was made!
I made the biggest mess in the entire world, but the mess eventually made into bread. Of course, after some time rising, and some kneading, and all the things a dough needs before it becomes bread. And bread it indeed became. Somewhat successfully.
The loaf has a fantastically crisp crust and a wonderfully robust sourdough flavour. It’s a little dense, but that can be remedied through experimenting with different flours and rising times. Despite that, I’d call my first attempt at bread a decent success. It was eatable at least and it looked like an artisanal loaf of bread. More importantly, it’s inspired me to continue on this bread-making journey.
So more bread adventures will be had in the future!