I’ve been ruminating over the last little while about writing something a bit more lengthy (okay, well, tossing the occasional thought in that direction) as I’ve had an idea tip-toeing around in the back of my head for some time. Now, thinking about it ‘aloud’, as it were, I realize the idea has been lying dormant for years.
It first came to me while living in Ottawa, which was at least 4 years ago - and I’m sure I had it in mind for a couple of years before that. I don’t remember how it came to me but I wrote a short paragraph, the seed, if you will, that was never fully planted. I had problems trying to figure out how to begin, not having ever written, what I considered would become, a book - and - because it would (have been) be very lightly based on a real person, in another time, there would be research necessary and the whole thing began to feel far too complicated, not to mention daunting, as a starting point for an aged but ever-hopeful budding writer. Instead, I put it to sleep and went about my business - that did not include writing a novel - or writing much of anything else, for that matter.
Since I’ve started this blog, the idea has returned to me - though I still don’t think I’m ready for as great a task as a novel. I know, I know - If Not Now, Then When?
But perhaps there is another story, or stories, I should tell first. Perhaps there is a collection of stories that all dance around the same campfire. It is this that has got me slowly starting to weave together a few thoughts that would become the basis for another piece of work. Unfortunately, I can never seem to find the time to sit down and begin a serious outline. Like with much else we add to our daily routines, the time will just have to be made - I mean, look - a month and a half ago I wouldn’t have thought for a second that I could find the requisite time to dedicate to this blog - but now, I write daily - the time was created for it.
So, how hard will it be to schedule another few minutes a day for this project? As hard as I make it, I suppose.
I’ll plan on making it easy and leave the hard part to the actual creating/writing of the tales. That is how it should be, don’t you think?
In the meanwhile, here’s the paragraph (or one similar…):
“Charles”, Mary turned her head away from the fire and hung the ladle on the rack as she straightened up, her face shiny from the heat. “Would you be a dear and get some more wood please? I haven’t got the pot quite hot enough and I fear your dinner will be spoiled.”
Charles was seated at a small work table in the middle of the cramped kitchen with his back to the fire trying to take advantage of the additional, if dim, light cast in his direction. The lamp on the table in front of him required a new wick and he hadn’t had time that evening to change it, having arrived home from the Assayers quite late.
“Of course, Mary. Why, I should have done it before, upon entering.” He got up from the table, eager for the distraction since the verse he was working on did not seem to want to come together. He put his pen down on the table and resolutely closed the folio on the last line he had written.
His sister smiled at him and after gathering the carrots she had just cut, scraped them from the board with the sharp edge of the long knife she often used. It was her favourite. She didn’t really know why, other than the fact that it had a good blade and its weight and heft felt quite good in her hand, as if it had been made especially for her. In fact, she wouldn’t use another knife though there were others available in the sparsely furnished kitchen.
Mary watched as Charles, his brow furrowed from the lack of result with his work, turned toward her before going out the door and his face smoothed into that which she had known from his birth; the smooth unlined surface of her younger brother. His lips turned slightly up at the ends, and he left the room.
Mary turned back toward the pot hanging over the fire and started to stir the stew she had been making, with the knife. “Now, what a silly thing to do!” she said aloud and laughed to herself , her voice finding its roots in the depth of her stomach and rumbling in a most unholy way. She slowly drew the knife from the pot and held it in front of her face.
She could just make out one half of the distorted reflection, as the blade, its shaft perpendicular, glinted with the light. “Very silly!” she said again and turned the knife sideways so that only her eyes were visible in the blade.
She stood staring at this partial reflection and thought to herself that it was like looking through the slats of a fence, or perhaps a peephole, through which could be seen the occupant of some world that she longed to be a part of. The eyes could certainly not be her own, she thought. No, they were too dark, too rimmed with grief, and sagging with exhaustion to be her own, the young Mary ____. She was but a young girl and the eyes staring back at her were most assuredly those of someone much older than herself. They were the eyes of someone longing to be free and desperate to enter her happy existence, her home, her life…
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