We're roasting here so I thought I'd offer some relief in the form of a snow poem, the one that recently was published in The Rose & Thorn Ezine.
Letter to Steven, from a blizzard
Brother the snow is in the teeth of the town
In spots unexpected, heavy and wet
Tourists lift their knees through its graceful blanket
Looking cold and embarrassed
Natives greet it like a drunk friend
Dress and go swiftly on the with the day
Two women just urged me home
Everyone is leaving their posts
So I shouldn’t be surprised
When weighted branches break free
And crash noiselessly
Like some mute angel’s gesture
I'm edging up on writing the novel again...walking home yesterday I passed a "Free" box on the curb, full of a motley collection of books. As I had just set down a mystery the night before in anguish over the lack of editing ("What Came Before He Shot Her" by E. George), I stopped and sifted through the computer books to find an untouched paperback of "Wuthering Heights".
This is just the sort of thing I love, books falling into my hands, since I am very often at a loss for what to read. This is because I feel remiss for re-reading things I love (I think I should reach out and find new things to love) but most often when I read new works, I am disappointed, although not always.
Therefore, this kind of cosmic Bronte placement allows me to indulge in a classic like this without feeling that I'm backsliding. Also the introduction had a good description of the Bronte's lives, and even better, there is a forward BY Charlotte Bronte, dispelling the myth that WH was written by her and describing Emily and Ann in exquisite sisterly detail. It's a tender and serious portrait of two sorely missed and loved siblings, but also a polite rebuke to the literary establishment that rejected WH almost totally.
The description of Emily Bronte made me think of the main character of my novel, and gave me more insight on to her, what might be driving her and where she might end up. The wheels are once again turning.
faithful readership of this space has likely lost hope of ever seeing another post...i have been wrapped tightly in the web of everything-other-than-writing this summer, and have just now wriggled my exacto knife out of the pocket of my jeans, and begun hacking away at the binds that have kept me from my real work. it feels like real houdini stuff, down to the underwater-tied in chains-and a padlock detail. i never wanted to make this blog one about my whole or personal life, so rather than posting about non-writing things, i chose to not post. but i'm back, or getting back. i'm hoping you'll return here too, readers.
at 11:15 AM