Connections

I was remiss with a post last week because I was enjoying good friends and great conversation on Stingray Point in Virgina. I'm so used to Internet connections all over the place that I didn't prewrite my post to automatically publish on Sunday. I just assumed (always dangerous) that I could post from the cottage.

While I was away, I did absolutely no writing, not a single word scribbled down, despite the ever present Casey journal and a stack of paper in the living room. What I did was listen to my friends talk about books. There was literally a two hour discussion of a Linda Howard book that her avid fans didn't enjoy. They analyzed what they liked and didn't, why they forgave her that one book and made allowances for trigger points that the author knew nothing about. Those readers have a strong connection to that author's work. They enjoy not only her characters and storylines but her writing style as well.

Robin Sorrentino is a brilliant storyteller. Sitting in a circle of Adirondack chairs and listening to her describe the next project, George's Book, was so much fun. She pointed out the island across the way which served as inspirtation, used her entire body to describe his journey and made us laugh with all of her research questions. We might not all be agile enough to hide out in the trunk of a car but we'd all fit. Just not all at the same time.

It was fascinating to listen to everyone share their love for reading; for good books and excellent story-telling. At any given time over the weekend you could enter any room of the cottage and see someone reading. There were even a few occasions when one person would be reading aloud to others.

As a writer, stuck alone in the attic with only your characters for company, it's easy to lose track of your audience. We get so focused on the words on the page, on making a particular scene shine or another scene come to vivid heart-stopping life, that we lose sight of who we're bleeding on the page for.

It's one thing to write for yourself; and honestly I'm my first reader, I need to feel/enjoy/engage with my project. In order to be a successful author, the connections have to radiate across the sky to bathe a multitude of readers in the warm glow.

That awareness came home with me. I was able to keep an open mind when Kate, my brilliant critique partner, told me how difficult it was to connect with Nea. Demons by their very nature are not sympathetic creatures. Understanding what made her so nasty might make it easier for the Reader to go on this journey with her. So the prologue is written.

Casey is so darn easy to connect with that his story naturally flows. As his journey is ongoing, the challenge will be knowing when to stop writing and just continue to live with him.

Soundtracks

I'm sitting upstairs at my desk, listening to Ky barking his head off (what a visual) at the apartment door. Casey had raced up the stairs and had his head poking through the cat door. He has a strong need to be acknowledged by me first thing every morning.

Right now I can hear him playing downstairs in my parents' living room. He has this funny step-clump stride that comes from the brace hitting the floor. The only time he is silent is when the brace is off. I can hear him pounce on his toys, the crash of the bookcase when he flings his stuffed bear into it and the step-clump bounce move that he does when he's playing ball.

My dad claims he likes to balance his earth-shaped Planet Dog ball on top of the Pilates ball. I've never seen it myself but nothing would surprise me where Casey is concerned.

I mention all this because it's an interesting back drop of sound while I work on the first draft of his story. Unlike my other work, this one is ongoing. Even when I'm not at the computer recording Casey's progress we're living the book. It's happening right now as I type. Sometimes I have to stop writing and go experience it.

When I listen to him play, or watch him leap across the room onto Ky or hear the distinct step-clump on the wooden stairs outside my door I'm reminded that Casey's story isn't just about the medical. It's about what it means to live with him. Day in, day out, through frustration and triumph, he's a blur of energy and exuberance. All he cares about is playing with his pack, getting his belly rubbed or leaning on his people. Figuratively and literally.

Step-clump. Step-clump. Step-clumpstep-clumpstep-clump. This is the soundtrack for his book.

New goals

Hell to Pay is off with my critique partner. I am confident she is completely engrossed and unable to put it down for even the tiniest of instants.

In other news, Stashaholic is visiting this weekend. Which of course means we had to got play with yarn and fibre. A wonderful shop opened up in Jordan Village last week. It's a spinner's delight. The Fibre Garden has a wide range of sheep fleece (we found the Scottish Blackface that I picked up from a field in Scotland) as well as bamboo, silk, corn and milk fibres. I bought a lovely ruby red bamboo to spin with Ky's soft black and white fur. Casey may be telling his story but Ky's creating a sweater. No, it will not have that wet dog smell.

As always, a visit with Stashaholic results in good conversation, our own stimulus of the local economy and a renewed fervor to write the sweater book. The research stage has been a lot of fun.

While I play with our purchases, my next writing goal is to finish the first draft of Casey's story. In the next two weeks. My darling nephew is moving west this week so I'll need a big distraction. I can meet that goal.

Which title do you like best?
Heal, Casey
Casey Heal
Heal Casey, Casey Heal

Deadlines and commitments

Long before I wrote for the newspaper, I wrote to deadlines. They were usually self-imposed but they were a good practice. I still operate that way. Without a publishing contract, it would be very easy for me to write whenever I felt like it. I've certainly slid in my productivity a time or two. But this is a business as well as pleasure, so I impose deadlines.

Whenever I dally too long on research or goof off with other things, I give myself a writing goal. Last week was creeping along until I realized I had a writer's meeting tonight. So I sat down every day to input Hell to Pay from the page on to the computer. At the same time I was playing with Casey's story. I intend to have a rough draft of his saga on paper by the middle of October.

Today's deadline looms. I'm making great progress towards it. If I don't meet it then I'll finish up by Wednesday to give the ms to my critique partner later in the week. Barring the discovery of any great plot holes or character deficiencies, I'll be sending that project out at the beginning of next month.

It's important to make and meet deadlines, even self-imposed ones. That commitment to your craft can make all the difference in this business. You're more likely to get the book written.

Douglas Adams was always one of my favourite writers. But his legendary inability to make a deadline means that readers were denied a great deal more of his work. Not that I have the audacity to compare my writing to his brilliant perspective but that deadline flaw keeps me at it when I'd rather be sitting on the porch drinking a glass or three of wine. Due to Adams's sudden death in 2001, The Salmon of Doubt remains unfinished. A book published under that title contains several short stories, interviews and essays and the eleven chapters from the unfinished sequel to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. It's an unsatisfying end to a story that has spanned thirty years, every medium available in his time and a great deal of joy.

It also serves as a valuable reminder to reject his famous quote, "I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by."

Crash

After finishing the revisions on HTP last week, my productivity hit a wall. I did go to Niagara Falls and wander around Alex's place, took a few pictures and stared at the water rushing over the edge. My friend Theresa completely understood the siren call of the river but agreed that it's difficult to express the strength of that call without actually experiencing it. That conversation gave me something to consider when I'm inputting the changes this week.

Casey's story is progressing in the journal. In reality, we went for another brace adjustment and a swim. He's holding his leg up more than I think he should so I'd like to put Pilates back into his routine even though the brace gives him more flexibility now. I suspect his therapy will be ongoing throughout his life.

Wednesday was our anniversary. It's been one year since that brown bundle of fut bounced through the front door and completely rearranged our lives. There have been some tough times but all worth it to see the joy on his face as he greets each morning.

My writing goal this week is to get back to the computer and actually input all of the work I've done this month. HTP first, then Casey's journal. I can see the pages falling off the calendar. Where has this month gone?

Can't talk. Writing.

I've been using Twitter (over there in the right of my sidebar) to keep track of my progress. It's been good. In fact, I might actually finish the edits on Hell to Pay late tonight or tomorrow. I've been handwriting Casey's journey. Pretty pleased with myself.

After this, I'll be inputting everything into the computer. And that's where I fall down. I've been changing desks, painting office furniture and trying to get outside to enjoy the end of summer. Who wants to be stuck at the computer any more than necessary right now?

But I set myself a challenge. To write every day for as long as Maggie Shayne is on her 40 Day Challenge. That is her non-negotiable deadline. I jumped on it for support. I'm honestly not sure where we are in the timeline but I'd guess about halfway. It's my goal to have the first draft of Casey's Journey, and the final version of HTP by the end of the 40 days.

So while it's always great to chat with you, I have some work to do. We'll talk again soon. I have to go write.

Pirating

I was driving in rush hour traffic on the DVP in Toronto the other day when a line from The Art of Racing in the Rain came to me. "The hands go where the eyes go." I couldn't remember if the quote was your hands/eyes or the hands/eyes so I looked for the book when I got home. Couldn't find it anywhere. I must have lent it to someone. I loved that book and shared it with everyone who expressed an interest. I work at a library. Lending books is something I do.

My nephew maintains that burning music is the same thing.I'm fairly rigid about copyright law. I don't want my stuff stolen so why would I steal? Karma pretty much rules my life. Burning music and movies is not the same as sharing a book. I've had many a debate with friends and family on the subject of pirating. The word "pirating" doesn't say it all?

In the case of books, either the library or I have bought and paid for those books,CDs and movies. In several cases, we've paid for a special license in order to share them. When you rip a file onto your computer, the artist/publisher/studio wasn't reimbursed for that property. And if everyone pirates and no one pays then the artist/publisher/studio will go bankrupt. In that scenario there are no more books/music/movies. It's a simplified black and white equation. There have been many arguments made for pirating. I just don't buy any of them.

I am constantly amazed at the number of artists/performers/writers who pirate other people's work. I don't understand it. If you really don't want to pay for that article, then go take it out of the library. Don't steal it off the Internet. If you want to share it with someone then tell them where to get it or buy it for them as a gift.

Is pirating different from taping/TiVoing/DVRing your favourite television show? Those shows aren't for sale. Revenue isn't being lost, unless you count the fact that people zip through the commercials. Is the primary difference borrowing versus keeping?

The sale of Intellectual Property, is hotly debated by people far smarter than I. Computers and the Internet make everything so accessible. That doesn't make it right to take. Educate yourself.

Jumping down off today's soapbox. Kinda high. Anyone want to sell a ladder?

After writing the above I went surfing and stumbled across this post that explained it all from an author's perspective. Piracy sunk a series.

Unexpected sources

One of the things this week has reminded me of is the fact that the more frequently you write, the more productive you are. Not just because obviously you're increasing your output by sheer persistence but also because you gain momentum.

That said, I've just spent a significant portion of the day outside trying to repair my pond. It's leaking but darned if I can find the source of it. In an effort to see all four sides of the structure, I ripped out some weeds, a giant pumpkin plant that had migrated from who knows where and long vines of honeysuckle that trailed into the pond.

I don't wear gardening gloves. I love the feel of dirt squishing between my fingers and beneath my nails. I like separating roots by feel rather than tugging til they snap. I enjoy the green stain from crushed leaves and the way my skin carries that aroma long past a thorough scrubbing with soap and water. There are disadvantages to that practice.

Today I learned that honeysuckle is stronger than I thought. It sliced across my fingertips and my palm when I tried tugging one tender young vine from the ground. Holy smokes, it was tough. You could make rope out of it. Or use it to garrote someone(I'm reading Jeffrey Deaver novel at the moment). My fingers are screaming at me.

Because I've been in writing mode (diligently making my goal every night before bed, if not sooner) I wondered about other plants and how they could be used as weapons. While Bracken and Bryna have been shoved to the background, I couldn't help but think of the world they inhabit and how they would use the resources at hand. But if the plants are living things, would the H/H sacrifice the vegetation to stop their enemy?

Shoot. I did not want to get sucked into their story. I've been doing great this week with Casey's. But I love when one unrelated activity leads me back to writing.

I just spent a great twenty-four hours with my friend Elen. We talked about writing, drank wine, ate real stovetop popcorn and brainstormed. One of the things I enjoy most about her company is Elen's word choices. She used reciprocity in a sentence in such a way that I rolled that word around in my head all morning long. She inspires me to step up my game and stretch my vocabulary. She renews my faith in humanity, in writers, in the industry. She reminds me that writers are some of the most prolific readers as well and that if we can entertain each other we're doing well.

I showed her my spindle and Icelandic fleece. We discussed the sweater book in detail as well as the way I'm being pulled in at least three different directions. Elen had some great suggestions for how to deal with that. I'll explore those over the next few days and see how viable they all are.

We also spent a considerable amount of time poring over each other's vacation photos as well as Jon Gustaffson's photography. He's quite talented and should update his website more often. Regardless, his creativity never fails to ignite mine.

All of that combined to send me home with a renewed enthusiasm and purpose for writing. I have several different avenues to explore as well as a concrete plan and some goals.

Maggie Shayne is writing a book in forty days - and blogging about the process. You all know how much I love a writing challenge. She's doing a great job of meeting her daily goal. So I'm going to play along at home. From now until Maggie reaches her goal, I'm going to write, or edit, five pages a day. Once in a writing regimen, it will be easier to stay on track.

It begins tomorrow. Anyone else want to join in?

Write what you know

For the past fifteen years, I've been trying to think of how to write bout an interesting four month period in my life. One of my concerns was libel but if I only told my part of the story I might be able to avoid that. I've never be sure where to start. Chronological makes the most sense but isn't necessarily the most interesting. I tried fictionalizing it once but got frustrated when what really happened messed with my plot, or vice versa. So I turned it into a great ice-breaker conversation at parties or with people that intimidated me.

For reasons beyond my control, and against any sane rational arguments, I had lions and a tiger living in the garage where I lived. It was a very bad idea, and poorly managed but the cats and I did our best with what we had. I'm not sure if it was the sound of my voice, the companionship or the subject material but they would listen intently every night, gathering to the ends of the pen where I sat on the haystack reading Outlander by Diana Gabaldon.

This week I lost my last tangible link to that time frame. Hera, the tiny little Tabby cat that taught me everything I know about felines, succumbed to kidney failure. That's her in the header when she was about a week away from giving birth to four kittens. Seriously. She was always tiny.

She was a stray living in my neighbour's barn when she first crawled beneath my garage door. Fortunately, I was in there tending to the lions. Unfortunately, I wasn't fast enough to scoop her up. One of the guys who was supposed to look after the big cats, grabbed the kitten and stuck her in front of the adolescent male lion's face. Zeus sniffed the kitten and she retaliated by popping him on the nose with her wee paw. He was horrified and jumped to the back of his pen.

Eventually I had to keep her in the house because she was fascinated by Zeus and his sister (that's his tail in the left of the picture) Sadly this is the only photograph that remains of the lions and Hera(who else had the temerity to face down the all mighty Zeus). When the lions moved on from their temporary hide-out, Hera remained with me.

She was a tough little spirit disguised in a tiny package. She had the heart of a lion, and more courage than Zeus. She reminded me every day that things are not always as they appear, that we're more resilient than we can imagine and that resilience comes from being flexible. Bend what you're given to make it work.

The other night I dreamt that she was curled beside Zeus's belly, the two of them sleeping, and I knew beyond a doubt that it was time to let her go. I'll miss her head butts.

Maybe some day I'll be able to tell the story of lions in the garage. Until then, I have some great memories about the kitten who punched the lion in the nose.

Symbols

For as long as I can remember I was looking for my special ring. I knew it was out there somewhere. I rooted through junk tables, flea markets and jewelry boxes. I didn't know what it looked like and assumed it was a ruby. Not sure why that stone other than its dark hue appealed to me.

Almost twenty years ago my mom's friend was sorting through necklaces, rings, bracelets and earrings. I don't remember what we were even talking about but she handed me a plain silver ring and suggested I try it on. It fit perfectly. I have ridiculously large man hands so that was no small feat that. The friend looked at me, looked at my hand and told me to keep the ring. It had been her grandmother's back when she worked at Balmoral Castle eighty years ago. Of course I refused to take it. It was this woman's family heirloom. But it looked like it belonged on my hand. It felt like it belonged. And I stopped searching for my ring because there it sat; no ruby but mine never-the-less.

I rarely take it off. For a variety of reasons, many of which I can't explain, that ring is part of my identity. There are times when it melts itself into my finger and I have to remove it for both of our sakes. It is almost a living symbol of endurance and persistence.

On Thursday it caught on a case of canned dog food while I was at work. Emotion swamped me. It took a couple of days for the injury to my hand to reveal itself but there was enough force in freeing the ring that this is what it now looks like...

My wrist is sprained as is my ring finger. I'm typing for the most part with one hand. I'm ambidextrous enough that my hand-writing and most other activities are passable. Driving is more difficult than I expected. I'm managing. It's only a sprain. But the split in the ring...it's quite likely it is repairable. It will be smaller which means it won't fit on my finger anymore.

I feel naked and vulnerable without it, emotionally as well as physically. I've tried wearing other rings but they don't feel right. I spent so much of my life looking for that one ring that it's irreplaceable. At some point, another ring will come along and forge a bond with me but not yet.

I'm reflecting not only on the way we found each other but the many stories this ring has told me over the years. Hopes lost and found, long journeys, multiple owners, star-crossed lovers, a link to the past, to other lifetimes, a pledge of loyalty and troth.

An inanimate object to you, a repository of my life.

Ring Update - the jewelry repair shop now has it. In ten days it will be back in my possession and on my finger. They are going to add silver to maintain the size. They suggested I reshank it but that reeks of a prison term to me so I declined. It actually means they replace the band that fits palm side on your finger and holds the decorative piece together. My finger and hand are a tad bruised and it's now been a week but thanks to an incredible massage and adjustment, I can type again. Whee! No excuse not to write. Except I'm taking Casey for a swim in the pool. So it's research. If you can call it that.

Progress

I was at a family reunion yesterday. When asked what I was writing now, I answered with my typical three projects. I really do like all three of them. Very much. That's why I bounce from one to the other to the other. I like the characters, I like their stories and the plots. When I get stuck because I need to do research on Iceland I play with the spinning wheel. Then I get all tangled up in fibre and go play with Casey. When he smacks me with his brace one too many times, or digs up my garden or knocks me to the ground in his enthusiasm, I go back to the nymphs. And so the cycle goes.

Yesterday though I noticed how my voice changed when I gave outlines of the three projects. We've had so much success with Casey lately that his is the story I'm telling the most often. I've got more pages written on it, although notes-wise all three projects are equal. His story also has the most photographs attached, and I do love playing with my camera. I've been playing with before and after shots of his leg for Niagara Dogfest. A couple members of Casey's healing team will be there. He's going to show off his progress.

While it's true that a picture paints a thousand words, it's my job to explain how, apart from learning how to focus, this
became this.


It's such a joy to write.

Excuses, excuses

My word count was low this week, as was my progress. I had planned to finish a read-through of Hell to Pay before passing it off to my critique partner. I had not planned on getting called into work a few extra shifts, two sleepless nights and a thorough mutiny of my brain cells.

Not much got done. But as I was walking out to my car last night after working twelve hours, my first thought was, "I can't wait to get home and write. Write? Who am I kidding?" I was hard-pressed to say my own name at that point. I'm not twenty years old any more. Those double shifts take more out of me than I'd like to admit.

Next week won't be much better. I'm hoping I get more sleep so that I can at least tolerate the work hours better. I have been carting a small notebook around with me so that any random writing thoughts get recorded. There's absolutely no way I'm trusting my memory at this point.

I don't even have the energy to drive past the Brooding Tree to get back into setting.


What do you do to keep the writing in the forefront when life tries to push it out of the way?

Options

Most of you will remember last summer when Stashaholic and I spent a crazy weekend watching documentaries, drinking wine and searching for Highland Cows.

I actually took this photograph in Scotland but we didn't travel that far

That was the weekend she became obsessed with a sweater and I with an Icelandic fleece. It was also the conception of two of my current projects and one big dilemma. As I've previously mentioned, I'm now spinning. Stashaholic completely enabled me with the gift of the lovely spindles in my header. Several weeks ago she introduced me to this lovely girl, who has yet to tell me her name but now that we live together I'm sure she'll tell me soon.


This is research. Honestly. I cannot write about spinning if I don't know how to spin. While the sweater book was intended to appease both of our obsessions. I did get to spindle some nice Icelandic fleece...

... but I still want to go to Iceland and pick up some fleece straight from the source.

I have a lot to learn about spinning. A lot. It's hard to write the experienced character's viewpoint when I haven't a clue what she's talking about. Filming that learning process could make for a good how-to video. The making of that video could be easily quite entertaining. Every time I watch this I think how much easier it is to fictionalize that whole process. Writing only requires pen, paper and my imagination. Film-making is a team effort. So far I haven't convinced any of the players to join the team. I'm not sure I should try.

Perhaps it's best to wait until the book is written before I worry about film options.

Priorities

Typically writers aren't the best housekeepers. It's a bit of a cliche but it's based on priorities. We focus on those things that require our personal attention. Anyone can clean our house, but we're the only ones who love our families in just that special way. Or write the stories that we do.

We are unique. Not just as writers or families but as human beings. And sometimes we have to make choices that encompass all of our individual characteristics, foibles and passions.

After a great night of good conversation with another creative friend, I realized that I've completely abandoned Hell to Pay. I finished the edit, put it aside to give to my critique partner then started on the three projects currently vying for my attention. Then life happened. I went to Scotland, started a library course and bought a spinning wheel(more about that in another post)

Hell to Pay needs to come out for another read-through before it's sent out to find an audience. Alex and Nea deserve at least that much. Playing with Bracken and Bryna has kept their story closer to my memory than if I was working with characters they'd never met. They're quite an interesting couple and their challenges were unusual. I had lived with Alex for so many years it was nice to focus on someone, anyone, else for a change.

It's time to give him back the attention he needs. Hell to Pay has moved to the top of the writing priorities. Just as soon as I clean the house. I need room to spread out the papers for editing. See, it's always about writing.

Summer Solstice

Writers are well aware of the importance of setting and time periods for their stories. Culture, climate and world events can add tension and drama to the simplest of stories. The subtext adds depth.

Energies are different throughout the year. Winter blahs can't compete to summer frolics. Spring is bursting with life, Autumn fades into winter. There is a reason we discuss life in terms of seasons. No matter how Goth some people look, they don't have the weight of life experience someone in their winter years carries on their stooped shoulders and lined faces.

There are other rhythms within the seasons; days, nights, weeks, weekends. They all give off different energies which can further be defined by the season of your life. There's so much going on in every moment that the context of time is interesting to me.

If you're a plant-based life form Summer Solstice holds great significance for you. You're at the height of your growing season, and power. If this is a novel about identity, Summer Solstice can be either a good beginning or fitting climax. Use the energy surrounding the longest day of the year to heighten the character's drama or increase the plot's tension.

Bracken is in the summer of his life. But he's failed to reach his full potential. While I'm easily influenced by the season outside my windows, it's important to nail down exactly what rhythms have the most influence on him. Regardless, he's a plant-based life form and the sun's strength is crucial to his growth. How would he survive without it?

Life, art and the whole ball of yarn

I need a writing challenge. While all three projects are progressing as far as research goes, words are not filling pages. Part of it has to do with the work load I came back to; part of it is lethargy that lingers from my throat infection; and part of it comes from other commitments. Not that I'm complaining; we make our priorities. Some are easier than others to meet.

One of the best things I've found to keep my mind on writing when my hands are otherwise occupied is to surround myself with objects, artifacts and photographs that remind me of the current wip. Casey is easy enough. I pet him every single day. And admire how well he walks with his new brace. In all likelihood that is the project I'll finish up first. I'm able to see the big picture on his story, and why it's one for me to tell(as opposed to other people who work in animal rehabilitation). I need to take some action photos of him playing in the yard.

As for the other two projects, Stashaholic is visiting for her college reunion. Many years ago, I hired her to work as my sound editor. Several of her classmates worked on that film in other capacities. It was a blast to meet up with them last night and realize how much I still love to tell stories. I simply use another medium now.

So does Stashaholic. Watching her spin fleece into wool, then knit it into a sweater is wonderful. Each fiber has its own story, can only be told in a specific way. Not all of it translates well into mittens or scarves. Some of it actually begs to be a lacy wrap or dressy sweater.

She brought her spinning wheel and several fibers with her as well as one sweater, a sock, and a shawl for me to work on. Reading through her spinning magazine is like walking into a buffet. There's almost too much to take in. Wheels, bobbins, fiber, twists, drumcarders and the list goes on. Fortunately, Callie has more to learn than I do, and so far the research is fun. There are a lot of textures to keep my mind on that story. I now have my own bag of Icelandic fleece to play with. Stashaholic finds it coarse. I like it. That probably says something about both of us. We haven't had a chance to play with the fleece I gathered from the field in Scotland. Soon.

Until I start a writing challenge that will brook no excuses, I pet the yarn, fondle the fern's leaves(Bracken considers it his due)and drool over the photos of an Icelandic summer.

I had the most incredible visit with my Great Grandpa in the town he emigrated from - Dunfermline. This is us at the train station. The experience was too personal to relate here. In fact, I'm still processing it a week later. I understand so much more about my life choices after that journey.

The entire trip was an eye-opener. It's not so much about how much I learned as much as it was the things that I had confirmed. Good research, anecdotal images and great intuition served me well for the Scottish scenes in Hell to Pay. What I didn't know is how prevalent Bracken fern is. It grows everywhere - with great tenacity.
It gave me some great insight into Bracken's character. I also bought a fossil of bracken fern. I was impressed with how much information I gathered for Rootless Trees.

In the Land of Sheep, the Sweater Book was never far from my mind. Fleece was littered all over the ground. I stuffed my pockets with as much as I could carry. That led to some research about how to clean it so that it would be safe to bring home. I might not have enough to actually do anything with but it will be fun to play with. It's interesting how soap and water changed the texture somewhat. Of course that was all research as Callie and Tess need to clean the fleece they get from the Icelandic sheep. It was a time consuming process but fascinated me. Water really loosened the fiber so that I could pick out debris. Drying loosened it further. I'm anxious to actually spin it and see what happens to the colour and consistency then.

Walking along the Royal Mile in Edinburgh a couple of days later, I found just the tool to try it with.

These are the sheep from whom that tuft came.

The trip to Scotland was a well-needed vacation with several friends. Who knew it would turn into an excellent fact-finding mission as well? Every moment there was a joy. 1900 pictures and I repeat last week's post but honestly these moments, and blog,are supposed to be writing related. The rest of it was was not as blatantly so but don't you think this guy's story would be interesting?



Thanks to Sheena, Tracey, Moira, Gordon and Theresa for being amazing hosts and showing me how incredible a country Scotland is

Celebrating Writers

It's refreshing to be in a country where writers are not only appreciated, but revered. Edinburgh, in particular, knows how to celebrate their rich history with wordsmiths. There's a Writer's Museum devoted to the lives and works of Robert Louis Stevenson, Walter Scott and Robbie Burns. Literary pub tours leave from the museum every day to explore the literary connection with a variety of pubs in the area. The sidewalk is engraved with quotes from many authors who have entertained in the years since these great men. The Elephant House was not only the alleged birthplace of Harry Potter. It is also frequented by Ian Rankin and Alexander McColl-Smith.

It's hard not to be inspired by the attention that writers attract around here. This may be a holiday but Bracken has really come alive for me here. I didn't get to his home just outside Dunkeld but a walk along Loch Lee gave me a great sense of his character. Bracken fern is prevalent along there, growing abundantly and with tenacity in some instances where it clung to the rocks. The stags we saw to the right of the trail were magnificent; not to mention the damage their hooves do to the young ferns.

What really made that day a writing experience was the fleece I found at the bottom of the keep. Every few steps there was another clump. After awhile I had stuffed my pockets as full as possible. I doubt there's enough to make a hat. As I desperately wanted to safely bring it home, I emailed Stashaholic and asked her how to clean it. There I was, in my friend's flat with buckets and soap and towels cleaning and washing the fleece. There was some interesting vegetation in there - and some other stuff I didn't examine too closely. I did make notes for the Sweater Book.

Do you think Walter Scott hid in the hills or went raiding in order to give authenticity to Rob Roy?

Roots

After some discussion with Kate my critique partner, Rootless Trees is moving locations. It actually increases the conflict to move from North Carolina to Niagara. The move was precipitated by my complete lack of knowledge regarding that state.

Brynja and Bracken started speaking to me once I made that decision. While his roots are in Scotland, Bracken's past is in Niagara. Brynja has no idea where her roots are. In the process of searching for her past, she's running away from all that is familiar.

While I can't trace my lineage back 800 years like some people, I have a good sense of who my people are. As you read this, I'm walking the land of my forefathers. I've taken a backpack and a suitcase in search of the start point for my Grandpa's trunk.

I plan to tromp all over Dunkeld, Dundee and Dunfirmline to explore Bracken's roots and my own. All these years after first hearing Grandpa Fenton's stories about his homeland, I'm experiencing it for myself.