Thursday, July 23, 2009

Free Write 1

Free write- A word from the dictionary can inspire a lot.

Mantilla-Woman's scarf for the hair and shoulders.

Don't know why but i picture a woman with her back to the audience, so we can't see what she looks like exactly but she is tall, slender, with a waist that shapes her body like an hour glass. She stand next to train, not just any train but one of those old fashion steam trains. Her read scarf is wrapped around her head covering her hair and it pulled tightly around her neck. Its not just any read its scarlet, bright as any scarlet scarf can be. It makes her stand out from the crowd of gray charcoal dresses and suits. Why she stands next to the train I don't know is she waiting for a loved one to get off, is she trying to decide rather to run away. She could have a small suitcase and she is trying to decide rather to leave the home she has always loved and seek new adventure in the unknown or to cash in her ticket and return to the quite life, the simple village where her mother is hoping to marry her off to a Baron who is almost 30 years her senior. She doesn't love him, but the man she did love died in the war. The Baron is rich to be sure but with out love what kind of life can that be, she asks herself. We can not see her face, so we don't know if she is sad or if she is happy. All we know is she is standing the on the platform, the conductor is calling "all aboard" and now she must decide rather to run or stay.

Everyone has to decide to run or stay. We can't actually stay still, life will come to us. If we stay we do nothing. So one must run into the future or liver out the patterns of the past.

If she is to be a heroine, a great one she would run away into the unknown and embrace a new life. No great heroine given the option to run returns home, not if returning home meant she would have to marry a man she does not love. That is why Charlotte Lucas is not the heroine of Pride and Prejudice because she married Mr. Collins, Elizabeth Bennett is the heroine because she settles for nothing but the very best in life. She marries Mr. Darcy, she marries for love. I am not trying to say all heroines must fall in love. Heroines can be heroines in their own right. (But isn't love the greatest motivation of all.)

This woman, tall and slender could have never known what it is to love a man. Maybe her parents died and she is not of age to be on her own so she must go live with an aunt and uncle. If that was the case I think she be wearing a black scarf to show mourning. No she is definitely wearing red. Not a red dress though. But her red scarf makes her stand out from all the crowds of gray and tan that shuffles around her. She is standing still as what seems like the world is passing by. No one really notices her either, which is odd because on most days she would usually make a man's head turn but today on this platform she is just standing there waiting to decide.

She doesn't have long to wait because once again the train conductor is calling "all aboard." She must go. She must pick up her tiny suitcase with only two dresses nicely (delicately) folded in it. She must pick it up and walk, no run to catch the train and take this journey. But all I can see is her standing. Why doe she stand? Doesn't she know that her ticket is only good for this train and if she doesn't get on this train and if she doesn't get on it she will have no hope for a life. (A life that means something.)

Go! I want to yell.

But I can't make her move as the writer, the creator of this image I can't make her move.

Maybe she is waiting for her love. He didn't die in war, no he is still alive, they promised they would run away together. She is waiting but he isn't showing up. Now she is nervous. Is he going to come for her, he promised he would, he promised he would so why isn't he coming. Maybe the Baron bribed him off. Maybe this love of hers was a servant to the Baron, maybe his whole family was and if her love runs away with her, he will fire his who family. It makes since if his mother or sister is sick and the Baron pays for the doctor and the medicine. Her love should be something like Joe, or Kelby.

She is trying to see his face. His face his clear to me. He has light chestnut hair with a little curl that touches that touches his right eye brow. His eyes are a soft blue that makes you able to see the whole world in them. Very romantic. She used to be just friends with him, they would push each other in the river bed but one day as they are pushing each other he kisses her. It is a soft kiss but it sends butter flies to her stomach. The next day her gives her a daisy, which is her favorite flower. Most people would only see it has a common weed but she sees it has freedom because daisies just grow where ever they chose, they are wild and live solely but nature. No rules to follow, no propriety to observe. (Her name should be restricting sounding. When you hear it you know know she is being "caged" up.)

I have only seen the movie but in "Tuck Everlasting" Winnifred says she needs a new name one that is not overly used. She is referring to her name being called by her mother. What is a good "restricted" name? all the names I like (Emmy, Daphne, and Fiona) all sound too freeing. Fiona is pretty but I know I got that from the The Tea Rose.

Martha is too old fashion. Ugh! I would hate to give my heroine an old fashion sounding name.

Charlotte is pretty but not too old fashion, makes me think of the character in "sex and the city" refined and proper.

Maybe her family was once rich but now they have to marry off their own daughter to regain some wealth. How could a girl run away from that. Rose from "Titanic" did. One must follow ones heart over ones pocket book she says relieving her mind.

"All aboard!"

What will she do? Kelby is not coming. She knows that now.

Her name could be Fiona, I like it. Fiona Harrington and Kelby James.

She has auburn gold hair it used to be long and curly but now it is chopped short in hopes no one will recognize her. She has gray eyes that sparkle when Kelby walks in the room and shine like stars when he kisses her with out warning. Though now, standing on the platform her eyes are red from all the tears you can not see the gray eyes.

She thinks"Life isn't suppose to be like this."

Life is suppose to have a happy ending. She picks up her suitcase, makes her way through the crowd like a never ending maze. He heart pounds faster, her pace quickens with excitement. And just before the train leaves she climbs on. The conductor with his Walrus like mustache smiles at her and tells her he is glad she made it on. She can't smile back but as soon as she sits down she undoes the scarf and we see for the first time what a beauty she is.
What it is...
What I pictured

Not quite the same is it? Oh well funny what you can think of when you simply find a word in the dictionary.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009


Hey guys,
I am sorry I haven't written in a bit. I started this blog to share my writing and I started it with full force but I must admit that I have hit that all unbearable problem of writers block. I would like to say I have been reading a lot, 7 novels, this summer. But I have also been working a lot and spending my free time with friends. I ashamed to admit it that I have not kept my writing a priority in my life. Life has gotten in the way. But as this is a "journey through writing" it is only right to explore the process of writing which should always include lots of reading and sadly includes lots of walls in the brain and right now I am looking for the door. (sorry to be too cliche).

I think the problem is I have set the bar for my own brain too high. This summer I have accomplished a goal of reading all Jane Austen's six novels and I have read all to date books of my new favorite author Jennifer Donnelly. These authors are very different but one day I hope to write like them. They both help me to escape, they both hold me captive till the last page, and they both shoe happy endings. Happy endings are very important to me like Broadway musicals happy endings give me hope in the world that things will work out, that people are good at heart, and there is always a reason for pain and heart ache. (Call me a sentimentalist.) Any way having read these great works make me want to write like them and sometimes its hard knowing I can not. That might be the reason I am stuck I have set the bar too high.

I wish I could write honest emotion like Austen or twisting stories like Donnelly. I wish I could spend hours writing a way with perfect composition.

I have always love to write ever since I was a little girl. I have a memory of having a pink little journal with a precious moments girl on the cover and going to my best friend brother's soft ball game and spending the whole time writing. I also remember letting my younger sister read my story and her spend the whole time correcting my grammar and since then I have not let many people read my stories. So though I have always loved to write not many people know about it because I have never felt confident in myself to share that side. But it is the one side I can explore, escape and be myself by being other people. (odd as that sounds).

So once again, I am sorry for not writing more. My story might change but please be patient with me and let me take you on my journey through writing.


Thursday, July 2, 2009

Where do I start?

~~~March, 1906~~~

The world is always telling me to write what I know, and by the world I mean Miss Allen my teacher who is the only one who encourages me to write. And while I want to be a great novelist like Austen, or a Bronte, even Edith Wharton would be nice. I fear I know very little outside novels and the made up worlds and made up people that exist in them. All I know is Norland Park has been my home for the last seven years since my father's death. I live here with my two sisters Amelia, who is three years older than me and thinks she knows everything, and my younger sister Mathilda who seems determined to know everything about everything and go off to college when she is old enough. She is right now thirteen and I think she is so determined she will do it. I also know they look exactly like mother, Fiona, who has deep saphire eyes with golden auburn hair. Where as I have soft gray eyes and common brown hair that my mother calls chestnut. The only thing I like about my looks is that I look exactly like my father, or so my mother said, I can barely remember what he looked like. And mother doesn't talk much about him so it seems hardly right to badger her with questions.

So where to begin my story?

At my father's funeral seems to tragic and all I remember is every one wearing black with somber looks. My mother wore a black veil to block the stern cold look she had on her face. She would not cry in public. She waited till we got home then locked herself in her room for two weeks. I can not think think that father would want us to remember his life in such a sad way, But I never said a word, even at ten years of age I know not to question mother's decission.

I still remember the dress I wore, it was starched so hard I could hardly move, and it scratched me around the neck. Once the funreal was over I ran down to the creek and found my spot. A spot I could hide and find comfort in. It was an elm tree that had to be to be a hundred years old with a sturdy trunk that dipped almost into the creek, it was easy to climb and up the tree I felt comforted and protected from the world below. I named the tree Miss Taylor, it was the one name I could think of that seemed peaceful and gentle.

Amelia thought it was silly the way I name things as if they were humans or even pets. But I didn't think it was silly I could tell almost instantly moving to Norland Park I would have little in common with other girls my age. They had perfect ringlets, and smiles that made them look as if they had no pain in their lives. Even at a young age I loved to read and write ans Miss Allen took a special interest in me, and that made me different. Miss Taylor, was the perfect person to talk to and she would never think I was odd.

But where to begin?

Most novels begin with some one coming into town or the main character moving away. We had left Boston seven years ago and I hardly remember it, except the rose color wall paper in my room, the victrola playing in father's study but loud enough the whole house could hear. I also remember smoke in the air from the smoke stacks of industry, This is what most people call progress.

I would rather be here, where there was no smoke in the sky and on a day like today the valley smelled of fresh pine and molasses. It was a cold breeze that carried this smell down off the hills and into our parts of the woods.

I can't begin my story with us coming to Norland Park because most of that time I have chosen to forget. I also can't write about some one coming into town because besides our cousins we get very little visitors. They usually came during the summer and it is March now, a cold March too. A March that hardly felt like Spring was around the corner but winter would last forever.

It is too cold to go to the creek, and so I stuck indoors only to look further into the valley where Norland Creek runs through or look up in the hills where a bit of snow sits on the top of them. The gray clouds hang so low it looks as if the sky could touch the top of the trees.

So far the day has been peaceful which is usually nice but a story needs action, conflict, something to make it great.

Usually I wait for stories to come to me but Miss Allen wants me to submit a story for a young readers magazine. I write a lot of stories, so many I can't keep track of all the composition books I have filled and all the ones mother makes me throw away because all they do is collect dust and clutter my room. So she says. The problem is I have never finished a story, because life doesn't just end it keeps going. I will also admit its hard for me to concentrate long enough on one story to finish it, my head soon leaps to another idea that inspires me. But now I must finish this story, I must so I can get my story published and be a real author.

What to write about?

I can not write about love for in all my seventeen years I have never been in love. And the only time I have been kissed was by Buddy Parker who then pushed me into the creek. Its not quite what I imagined when I think of Mr. Darcy trying to woo Elizabeth Bennett. Of course I am not blind I have always had a crush on a boy but boys never pay attention to me. I say I am too plain to notice but Amelia says its because I read too much.

"A boy doesn't like a girl who is smarter than them," Amelia said to me once.

Of course Amelia has never read a book and didn't have a love so maybe she didn't know about boys either. All she did was read trivial magazines that were to help girls become women. I hardly doubt they did any good except to make women more silly. There were enough silly girls in the world and I was determined not to be one.

That was the one thing I did know, I did not want to be silly. I wanted to see the world and read all the great works of literature. That is what I knew I wanted to escape. Though right then it seemed impossible.

Where to begin?

I ask myself again.

Perhaps my name would be good.

My name is Emmy Cromwell.

I am sitting in the breakfast parlor because mother thinks its the best room for our afternoon tea. She likes the view of the drive. My mother always pretending we are unexpectedly have callers. We stopped having callers when Grandma Danford became too ill to receive them that was about two years ago.

When we first arrived at Norland Park, some of mother's old friends came to pay their respects. No one could believe how young a widow she was and felt sorry she was left with three girls to raise entirely on her own. Mother took their respects with gratitude and grace in a way I could never do. The town gossipers also came to see if it was true that Cromwells were let in Norland Park. Mother also recieved them with kindness. But once the newness of our arrival wore off guest only trickled in by obligation to Grandma Danford. She never made any one forget the respect she deserved with her position in life. I think the town was grateful of Grandma Danford being ill because they no longer had to trudge their way to Norland Park to make the oh so tedious calls to Norland.

Tedious they were indeed. Why mother still longed for them I will never know.

Besides the nice view of the drive and the lawn beyond that, the room always gets the best sun. It had a cream color wall paper that when the sun hit just right showed a flower pattern to it. It had a nice size table to seat six, a bench seat in the window and two over size wing back chairs in the corners on the opposite wall of the window. Two portraits hung on the wall by the door both of my grandparents the year they married, and one large painting of an English haunting party. The scenes were all so dark in palette it made the room a little more grim to sit in.

I sit by the window seeking inspiration from the view. Amelia sits in one of the wing back chairs because she hates the chill from the draft of the window. She is reading one of her magazines as we sit and wait for Mattie to come home from school. With out Mattie there I admit we all sit in quiet loneliness. Every once in awhile Amelia will read something from her magazine and mother will either respond with "that's nice" or "that's interesting." Never being too concerned with what Amelia or I are doing. But at least mother responds I take no interest in what she is saying. I must keep my mind focused on this story if I ever hope to begin.

Maybe I will be lucky and Mattie will have some town news that will spark my interest. She must be caught up in something. The clock in the hall has just chimed in the four o'clock hour and Mattie is still not home.

I am always waiting for a story, I note to myself.

How do real authors write? Do they just sit around hoping for a story to come to them. Or maybe they are so talented they don't need to wait, they always have a story.

I usually have a story but most of the time they are foolish I know they are not any good and nothing compared to a great work of literature. Having read some great works and trying to copy them makes my stories seem even more unimportant. Miss Allen says all of us have a voice inside of us. She says embracing that voice makes each one of us unique. I will admit in this moment I don't know my voice. But I know if I don't write I will burst. It is my one way to truly escape even if I never leave Norland Park.

Maybe the best way to start off is with the truth.

My name is Emmy Jillian Cromwell, I am seventeen years old, and for the last seven years maybe more my life has been a fraud.

Up coming...
How Fiona Danford and Jonathan Cromwell meet.
The truth about Emmy Cromwell's life and why its a fraud.


Hello all,
I am using this summer to read a lot of inspiring novels and maybe write a story of my own. Its just my first draft but I would love to get my stories out there. Especially since a lot of my close friends live out of town I would like them to read my stories.
Also I would love construction on my writing but I know it is only a first draft so I am not expecting things to be perfect.
I will keep you updated on my story set in the early 1900's in Western Massachusetts. So far its about a family left peniless when their father dies so they are left to live off the good graces of their Grandma Danford.
I have sort of made an outline for my story but I really like to let the characters take me a long with them.
I know my stories might be silly but one of my favorite authors Jennifer Donnelly "Because I love words and stories so much... Because I would be greif stricken every day of my life if I couldn't write."
And I know if I don't write I feel I will burst because being a writer is the only thing I have wanted to be since I was young.
So here is my chance of writing.
Love you guys,