I Know I Said I Felt Stephen King-ish, But This is Ridiculous

It was one of those cool, foggy summer days. The kind where you can smell the ocean in the air. A Stephen King day. That's what I like to call it. A day that makes you think about The Mist, or Salem's Lot. I love these days. Great for reading, great for writing.

So I tweeted that I felt very Stephen King-ish. One person replied and asked "are you going to read him, write like him, or get out your axe?" Maybe all three, I thought. The possibilities are endless.

Indeed, the universe had other ideas. Perhaps if I'd remembered that Mr. King was run down by a careless driver I would have stayed at home, safely reading The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon. Instead, I foolishly ventured into the city.

It was a quick errand at the local shopping centre. I had just stepped out onto the crosswalk to enter the building when a dark grey sedan turned into my lane. On the left hand side. "That guy is going to hit me," I thought.

And then he did.

Luckily I'd been watching him, and luckily I jumped out of the way. I had to put my hands on the bonnet of his car to get out of the way, and he still didn't see me. I yelled at him that he 'almost' hit me, but he just drove on. Stupidly, I didn't get his licence number. I guess I was too shaken at that point. I didn't even think about it until later. But I was lucky, lucky. I ended up with just a nasty scrape and bruise on my leg, and a few scratches on my arm. And a good story.

The moral of this story my friends: Be careful what you tweet.

The Faerie Dance

      Long I’ve waited for the chance
      To see the faeries in their dance

      Come they now, so pale and fair

      In the early summer air

      Away with us, they beckon me

      Away beyond the elder tree

      Along the faeries lighted trail

      Beyond the dusky moonlit veil

      And knowing not whether I should

      I follow closely through the wood

      Through the evening’s misty chill

      They lead me to the woodman’s hill

      An apple tree stands at its crest

      This is where the faeries rest

      A quick repose ‘mid fallen fruit

      Then away again toward fiddle and flute

      Haunting music of wind and string

      Calls them to the faerie ring

      There they frolic to and fro

      Among primrose and mistletoe

      Before they stop I steal away

      For at first light I’m bound to stay

      Back to my bed before the dawn

      Safe before they know I’m gone

      Yet in my dreams I see them still

      Deep in the woods beyond the hill

      Tiny little specks of light

      Dipping, twirling in the night

      I tell you now, if you’ve the chance

      Away with the faeries to see them dance

Hitting the Road

Every spring I'm bitten by the travel bug, and I usually take that as a sign to get away. Camping at a Provincial Park, or jetting away to somewhere completely new - it doesn't matter to me. This year the bug bit hard around mid-April, and has been nibbling away. It may explain the Doldrums, I don't know.

We have a family vacation coming up to Hubby's home province, and we're planning another in the fall for just the two of us. Somewhere a little further afield. I can already feel inspiration creeping back.

Next to writing, travel is my favourite indulgence.

What I would really love is to hear about your favourite travel experiences. Leave me a comment about your most memorable travels. After all, isn't it all about the stories?

Writing the Ghosts Away

Cathy Webster posed this on her blog, in response to being tagged in the meme "What Writing Means to Me." In it, she discusses the ups and downs of writing, and the inspiration and discouragement that comes from reading the masters of the craft. It's an interesting read.

Since being tagged in her post, I've thought about my writing and how I can explain what it means to me. To do that, I looked at the things I like to write. Some of it is purely for entertainment, but most of it comes from somewhere else - a deeper, often darker place.

Since childhood my favourite stories have been the spookier folktales, stories about fairies and phantoms. They find their way into my own tales quite often.

I can't really explain why I write, other than to say that I have stories that need to be told. Not 'need' in that it would be a loss to humankind if they are not written, but 'need' in that they insist on taking up space in my head until I exorcise them onto paper. The most insistent of these stories are often the most difficult to write. These are the stories that study sadness and despair, or observe the darker side of human nature.

So what does writing mean to me? It means seeing beneath the surface, telling the side of the story that isn't told. They may not be pretty, or happy, or bright. Maybe that's why they need to come out.


It's taken me so long to get to this post, I'm sure most of you have already been tagged. I would love for anyone reading this to post themselves - What does writing mean to you?

Canada Day

A fabulous day in my home town. The pictures say it better than I can.