A beginning... The continuation of the story

A beginning- summer 1908

There was a time when we were all happy and innocent to the ever changing world. As children we could all be who ever we wanted to be and we didn't have to follow the rules of society. Back then it didn't matter if Parker was the heir to Norse Castle and was best friends with Ethan who was the son of Norse Castle's head cook. The gang of children would spend our summers in the Back Woods wading in the winding creek that divided Norse Castle and Southerton Greens. I remember it was here we could be a thousand miles away from everything or every one with only our dreams to play out.

My brother Marcus, who was then thirteen years old had stolen the copy of father's atlas and had perched himself on the large rock we had called the Captain's Throne. Marcus claimed that if one stood on this rock one could see all the way to the next county. He and Parker would stand on the rock proclaim that one day would see the whole world. I was seven and at that time standing on the rock I could only see the dense trees of the Back Woods that surrounded me and I felt sure at that time I would never want to leave Southerton. But Marcus made it very clear one day he would get off that rock, head down to London where a train or boat could take him any place he wished to be. Today however in the middle of summer the boys were much too young to leave their tiny bit of England. The boys or "the explorers" as they called themselves were Marcus Harrington, Parker Welford, and Ethan James and all of them sat admiring the new atlas our father had brought back from London two weeks ago.

Our new atlas was stiffed leather bound, with clean cut pages that had gold trimming on them. I admired the book for its grand appearance. The boys admired the book for the new country lines that had been drawn since the last atlas was published.

"Every day people are discovering new lands, and we can be the next ones," Marcus spoke daringly to his comrades.

Laurel, who had tried to climb the rock in her mint green dress and her flower pinned hat, could not make it up to stare at the pages the boys had been entranced with. She could barely see the pages through the tiny cracks the boys had between their arms. Laurel had always wanted to be a part of "the explorers" but could not manage a way to keep up her modesty and be an explorer. Laurel was then eleven and was at the age mother said "she had to practice her delicacy." I was still fortunate to be young enough to trump around climbing rocks or to swim in the creek and right then I hoped I would never have to practice my delicacy. If Laurel had truly wanted to be a part of the explorers she would have hiked up her dress and climbed on top of the Captain's Throne and prove to herself and the boys she could be just as tough as them. But the truth is Laurel didn't really care about being an explorer she only cared about catching a glimpse from Ethan who seemed to have captured her heart in early spring. She had done all she could to make Ethan love her. That morning she had spent two hours primping herself for our daily hour or so in the Back Woods. She had made sure every curl was in place and even put on mother's rouge and mother's perfume. Sadly though at that time I think Ethan cared two straws about Laurel and I had heard him snicker about how the rouge made her look like a clown and the perfume made him want to chop off his nose.

Fortunately for Laurel mother would never notice some missing items as she and father were off yet again to Scotland for a short holiday and were not due back for another fortnight. They had left the day after father came home from finishing his business in London. We were always at the care of Nanny Mugabe who every day after lunch took a long nap and expected us to do the same. Instead as soon as the weather turned warm us Harrington kids would run all the ways to the Back Woods not stopping for any breath. It was here and only here we found solitude and we grasped at it every chance we got.

Besides Ethan's harsh jokes I overheard Ethan barely noticed Laurel that day because of father's atlas and Laurel was left to her own devices of picking wild flower petals to determine Ethan's feelings. A waist of a good flower I thought. Maybe because I was younger I couldn't understand why my sister liked a boy especially when it was so clear he did not like her. Ethan James, actually had a crush on Susan Sedley, who was once a friend of Laurel's but that friendship was dissolved when Laurel found out Ethan, kissed Susan at the May Day fair. Of course Laurel didn't hear the fact that after the kiss Susan gave him two hard slaps. But for the past few weeks Laurel had heard nothing of Susan from Ethan and that made her hope he could like her. I quietly laughed at Laurel's behavior and how idiotic it all seemed.

The only boy in our gang who was not involved in the explorers club was Kelby James, who for a year older than me took much more an interest in fine works of literature than exploring distant lands. I didn't want to be an explorer either; I wasn't old enough to think about one day leaving Southerton. It had been a part of our family since King Charles the second. It wasn't anything grand compared to Norse Castle that had been built in the days of Queen Elizabeth but it was a prized estate. One that I in my small age still found nooks I could hide in for hours. My ancestors took Southerton Green from a lonely country home used as a hunting lodge of the third cousin of King Charles to its grandest scale being built in modern architecture when Napoleon was emperor. My Grandfather Harrington used to tell me of the grand days that seemed forgotten by everyone. I promised him I would recapture the grand days and bring them back to Southerton. Of course by 1915 I would learn of the Harrington finical destitution and would know to become once the grand family we used to be would be utterly hopeless. But right then in 1908 I thought no family could be better off than us Harrington's at Southerton Greens with a house in London and a mining factory in Wales.

"Fiona! I want to play!" My little sister Gloria called from the banks of the creek.

Gloria, my younger sister, who was then four, still, had her baby fat including puffy cheeks and stubby legs. No one seeing her then would realize she would become England's high class model by the time she was sixteen. She would always long for adventure but she would be kept from it mostly because of her age.

"I am not playing!" I yelled back to her.

I was panning the stream for gold. My legs were up to their knees in icy water soaking most of the skirt of my dress. My dress turned from a soft blue to an ugly brown as the mud splashed on me. I was bent over with one of cook's pie pans scrapping the bottom sand hoping to find any sign of gold. In one of our history lessons we had learned about the California Gold Rush of 1849 and I had hoped that our creek could be lined with gold but no one had ever dared to see. I knew why no one dared to look the water was almost a numbing cold and their seemed to be little success no matter how long you looked. Grandfather Harrington told me you just can't read history you must act on it, looking back on it I doubt standing in a creek is what he meant but at seven years old you could still have silly adventures.

"Fiona! I want to play!"
"No you can't, mother says you can't come in the creek."
"Please!"
"Laurel, you have to take care of Gloria," I pleaded.
"No! You promised you would do all my chores and one of them is caring for Gloria when mother is away."
"But," I moaned.
"Do want me to tell mother you broke the China rose teapot?"

I wasn't trying to break the teapot. I grumbled to myself that I really didn't think it was my fault that Pippin came running through the room as I was trying to host a tea party for my doll who I pretend was Queen Victoria. But apparently I broke the teapot and Laurel being the only witness to the incident had blacked me into doing her chores for a month. Years later I would find out Laurel told mother anyway but mother did not punish me because she hated that tea pot. The China rose tea pot was Grandma Harrington's and passed down to us but mother had always hated it and was glad when it was broken. If I had known that then I would never put up with Laurel's behavior.
Laurel finally noticed that my dress had become soaked and practically ruined with mud stains.

"What are you doing?" She yelled to me.
"Panning for gold like they did in California,” I said back.

Hearing this Ethan chimed in "there is no gold in that creek and if there was Lord Welford would have already dug it up."

"What does my father need with little rocks no bigger than finger nails? Fiona girl, if you find any gold you can keep it." Parker said pretending to stick up for his father, who was known in Parliament as being one of the cheapest Lords in the House. Penny and Pence Welford, I had once heard father call Lord Welford in one of his fights with mother.

“I agree with Ethan," Laurel said "there is no gold in that creek and you have ruined your dress for something that doesn't exist. Now get out of that creek and act like a lady."

By now all attention was shared between me standing in the creek, Laurel standing on the grassy patch of the creek bank, and the boys watching us fight up on Captain's Throne. No one had noticed at that moment Gloria had made her way into the creek and was getting to the point the water was close to her shoulders. None but Kelby James, who had been lying in the grass enjoying a bit of warm sun and strawberries to his delight. Kelby had seen Gloria make her way into the creek and slip on rock, going under quietly without a gasp or splash to get our attention. A large splash got our attention as we turned to see Kelby jumping in to pull Gloria out of the water. In slow motion I watched Kelby grab her out, laying her limp body lie across her arms as he ran to Norse Castle.

"See what you've done," Laurel pushed me "Gloria could have died, and it would be all your fault."

"My fault?"

"Yes. You were supposed to watch her."

"Well you’re older!" I pointed out the obvious but it was all I could do to defend myself.

"You promised you would do my chores. Why can't you just grow up?"

"Girls! Stop being such nit wits, arguing will not help!"Ethan yelled over us to quiet us down. "We should make sure Gloria is all right," he said a little calmer.

We both knew he was right and we both lowered our heads as the boys passed by us to run after Kelby.

Without thinking Kelby took Gloria to his mother, Mrs. James. Mrs. James would know what to do; she was the type of woman who knew everything. She was a cook, a seamstress, and a midwife if she was needed. Mrs. James always kept a calm head when things got nerve racking to the rest of us. No one at Southerton would have known what to do and they would have sent a telegram to mother and father before calling a doctor. But Kelby's instincts were right going to Norse Castle for Mrs. James jumped right into action when she saw Kelby busting through the kitchen door. She quickly cleared off the work bench and made a bag of flour a pillow and her apron Gloria's blanket while Kelby fetched for a large towel. She pulled out what seemed to be a magic concoction and poured barely a drop down Gloria's throat. I could see all that was happening as Parker pushed Laurel and me into a corner to prevent us from getting in Mrs. James' way.
But then we heard it. A wonderful, pitiful, sore cough coming from behind Mrs. James' body. Gloria had woken up and now was coughing up all the water she had swallowed.

I remember clearly Laurel taking a deep breath and putting her arm around me. As if at that moment all our fight was over and we would be happy from this time forth. Looking back on it I am sad to say our fighting did not cease and we were not always happy. I could tell the story otherwise but I want this to be as accurate as possible.

The End

It is funny how we picture our lives are going to be when we grow up. As children we see ourselves falling in love, getting married, having children and during all these dreams we see smiles on our faces as if in life we will always be happy. I pictured Kelby and I sitting in a little flat, with a fire roaring, he would be sitting in a chair and I would be by his knee. I never pictured my life like this.

My dearest,

I have ordered us a simple state room on the Northern Star Liner it leaves from Liverpool on Monday. We will sail to New York as man and wife and no one can stop us. I promise. Meet me at the Euston station for the 6:15 train to Liverpool. I will be waiting to take you into my arms and away from all things long ago.

All my Love,

K.J

I had never imagined I would be engaged to one man nearly twenty years my elder and being forced to run away with the man I loved. I had also never imagined love would cause so many nervous knots to form under my belly button.

It had been a week since I had heard from Kelby but the plan was in motion I could feel it. I looked the letter once again then folded it up and slipped it into my white cotton glove. For the last week in August I felt a slight chill or maybe I just shivered from the excitement. Either way I had to act confident and brave of I was ever going to pull this off.

“Name?” the ticket master asked.

“Fiona James,” I was happy to say without hesitation.

“Well Mrs. James,” he said noticing the little tin ring with a piece of glass in it. This was the ring that had replaced Lord Welford’s gold band with the large ruby. “Here is your ticket.”

“Thank you,” I said softly blushing at the fact he called me Mrs. James.

I looked down and read.

August 25, 1919

Euston to Liverpool

I took a deep breath. It was all beginning.

“Have a good trip,” after that he didn’t pay me any attention.

I walked directly to platform three as directed. I had expected and hoped Kelby would be there with his arms crossed, acting as if he was mad at me that I was running late. But he wasn’t there at all. I sat down my small suit case which held two delicately pressed dresses and my porcelain doll Camilla Jane and decided to wait.

I didn’t know what time it was when I left the house. I was so nervous the whole night I hardly slept a minute, when the first but of sun came into my room I quietly got out of bed tip toed down the stairs and snuck out of Laurel and Parker’s house. I walked briskly down to Kensington High Street before I called a cab, hoping I hadn’t woke any one up, least of all Hilde, Laurel’s new pup. My heart pounded with the thought Kelby and I would be half way to Liverpool before they notices I was gone. This journey could not have been better planed as Laurel and Parker had been out late at Lord Chamberlin’s ball and they would sleep till noon. I told Laurel I hadn’t been feeling well, she said it was just nerves but thought it best for me to rest as much as possible.

“Lord Welford would want a bright and chipper bride,” she would say with a good laugh.

Laurel, my older sister by four years, was so different than me sometimes I felt I barely knew her. She took after mother in both actions and looks. Having stark black hair with emerald eyes and perfectly defined cheek bones. She had become Mrs. Parker Welford almost two years and would be the next inheritor of the Lordship title and Norse Castle. Laurel used to not care about riches or having fine jewels and minks to wear but that was before Ethan died. Now society teas, grand balls, and theater going were all she thought about. I guess I give my sister too little credit before the war, before our father’s poverty was known Laurel had always felt entitled to the best in life and I never did. I would miss her I told myself.

Maybe in a few years Kelby and I could return to England. We would show mother and father how well we were and she would accept us into the family. Surely by then Lord Welford would find somebody else to love and marry and he would be happier with her than he would ever be with me. Then somehow we would be a family again, a little patched together but a family none the less. It was a nice little dream but I didn’t tell Kelby about it. Kelby dreamed of a life in Americas and never thought of coming back. He claimed we would make a new life and a new family for ourselves. It would be a family that accepted all the parts of us, they wouldn’t try to push us apart and they certainly wouldn’t make us marry people we didn’t love.

“Who needs these old sticklers, it’s a new era, a new world, and we are going to embrace it,” he said to me the night he proposed.

The station clock chimed in the six o’clock hour. Fifteen minutes before the train would leave and Kelby still wasn’t there. I took the note from its hiding spot and read it once again to give myself a little reassurance. Then fiddled with my ring in a nervous habit realizing how much time had passed.

I hear Kelby’s voice “That ruby would have fetched a fair price.”

“I know,” I say to Kelby even though he’s not really her.

I would have always felt guilty about stealing a ring from a man I never intended on marrying. I shouldn’t have taken it in the first place, I tell myself. Mother would have been raving mad had I not accepted Lord Welford’s ring. Of course what would she say when she finds it lying on my pillow. I took a big break I couldn’t care right then about mother’s reaction. Mother didn’t care about me when she promised me to Lord Welford when she knew I was in love with Kelby.

The looming sense of time hung over me, and I began to worry Kelby might not show up.

He had to show up I couldn’t travel to America by myself. It was his idea. He promised we would have a new life. I would no longer be the penniless daughter of a once fine gentleman bound to marry Lord Welford. He would no longer be the Lord Welford cook’s son with two shillings to his name. Kelby said in America, they didn’t have a stupid caste system that held people in their places, he said in America people could be anything they wanted to be. No one cared who you were only what you made of yourself. He had to come it was his stupid dream. My whole body could feel I was holding back tears. I was nervous now that Kelby wouldn’t come. I would have to return home and I would have to marry Lord Welford.

“He is probably buying you flowers,” I told myself to keep calm.

“Can I take your luggage, Lady?” a porter asked.

He looked as if he was twelve and had an eager smile with some rosiness in his cheeks.

“No thanks,” I whisper.

“I promise to put in on the right train, where you heading?”

“I’m not quite sure.” To be honest I thought of returning home.

“Well where you want to go?”

“Just away,” I said shortly hoping he would leave me alone.

“Any par-tic-lar direction,” he stumbled over the word particular trying to sound genteel but his accent was sure to slip out.

“Marcus, stop bothering that young lady and go help Timothy on platform five,” an older man shouted.

“Yeah, Yeah Mr. Gibbs.” I handed the boy a five pence then he slipped away.

“Sorry about that,” the conductor said walking up to me.

“It’s all right. Is there another train to Liverpool today?”

“None that would get you on time to switch at Stafford to catch Monday’s boat.”He said it so clearly as if he could read my thoughts. “Do you need to exchange your ticket?” he asked.

“Not yet,” I said hoping that Kelby would show up in time.

“Have a good trip Miss,” he said and tipped his hat once again to say goodbye.

The station was full of people all who had passed by me unnoticeably except for those two. The boy must have been confused by my new dress thinking he could get a good tip out of me but really I had no more than a few shillings in my purse. Nothing of sustaining wealth, I thought. But I could not get over the fact how much the boy looked like Kelby with those deep ocean blue eyes, scruffy brown hair and that eager smile. And the fact he had the same name as my older brother left me with a pain in my heart. I wish I could have said goodbye to Marcus, he will think I have just abandoned him.

Poor Marcus once a brave and adventurous solider protecting his homeland from the German Huns, is now left to spend his days pacing Southerton Green. I remember the day he returned from war his eyes that had once glittered had now faded, he didn’t smile or dream of adventure, and he barely spoke two words. In fact the only time I saw him at peace was when I played the soft lullaby mother had long ago taught me.

It was all due to that war. It was the reason our lives had changed. There was once a time Laurel was happy to have a daisy necklace instead of pearls. And there was once a time Marcus wouldn’t have stopped talking about exploring the deep forests of Africa but now no words came out. Kelby had promised to take me away from all the pain but I didn’t want to leave the good memories behind too. I would have to come back I told myself, to tell Marcus I love him, to climb the trees of the back woods once again and to hold on to what was good about this world.

“ALL ABOARD!”The conductor yelled.

He wasn’t coming. I could feel it now. My heart sank. How could he leave me to do this on my own. I looked back at the ticket counter was it too late for me to exchange my ticket, walk back into Laurel and Parker’s house, and hope no one had noticed. I looked forward down the platform to the engine of the train had already started to blow some steam. Could I really marry Lord Welford? Could I really go all the way to New York City by myself? Could I start a new life? I didn’t know how to answer these questions.

“ALL ABOARD!”

“Kelby where could you be? Why did you not come? I can’t leave knowing you are here.”

“You must,” another voice inside my head said pushing me a long. “You have to go for him and for you.”

“You need to get on the train Miss,” the older man the boy called Mr. Gibbs said as he saw me standing there in frozen thoughts.

“He didn’t come,” I mumbled to him “He promised me he would come.”

My whole body shook.

“I am sorry Miss but you need to get on the train.”

“He didn’t come,” I said more violently in my head than out loud.

“I am sorry Miss,” he pushed my luggage into my hand.

I look back one more time at the ticket counter and the doors beyond that. Nothing but pure nerves is telling me to return home. My heart and my mind were telling me to run far away.

“LAST CALL!”

I heard that and something snapped, I hold on tightly to my luggage and take off down the platform. I weave my way in and out of the people until I find the car I belong in. Throw my luggage up on the train and the conductor takes my hand to help me into the car.

“Glad you made it,” the conductor said through his walrus like mustache.

“Me too,” I said slightly relieved and slightly sick.

As I sit down in my seat my tears mix with the soft laugh I am trying to hold in. I couldn’t believe what I had just done. There was no turning back I said to myself. There was no plan from this moment on, I was going to do it all on my own, all by gut instinct. As far as I could tell not having a plan was the way things should be.

I had planned to marry Kelby. Mother had planned for me to marry Lord Welford. Marcus had planned to explore Africa and Laurel had planned to be happily married to Ethan. From the looks of it if one made plans one had to change plans. Not having plans meant nothing had to change. It meant no heart ache or loneliness. It meant only freedom. And for the first time in my life I felt completely free.

It is funny how we picture our lives are going to be when we grow up. As children we see ourselves falling in love, getting married, having children and during all these dreams we see smiles on our faces as if in life we will always be happy. I pictured Kelby and I sitting in a little flat, with a fire roaring, he would be sitting in a chair and I would be by his knee. I never pictured my life like this.

I went to the library a couple of days ago to work on my story. I finished typing what I think will be my first chapter and will have it up here soon.

HAPPY!!!

Hey readers,
I am happy to announce that today while I was sitting at the museum I was able to put together a brief outline of my story. It is one I am very happy with. So woo hoo!!! Now I just wish I had time to write. Oh well I hope with my current air plane travel upon me I will use that time both reading and writing.
I am also pleased and flatter to say my favorite author, Jennifer Donnelly, has emailed me and I looked at my blog and said she "loved it." For me this is like getting an email from Anne Hathaway. (Which would also be really cool.)
Her novels include: ( I have read them all)
The Tea Rose (Highly recommended)
The Winter Rose
A Northern Light (Teen novel)
and she has 2 new novels that I can't wait for them to be published.
Any way thanks for reading.
Hope you guys are having a great summer and have found some great summer reading
Blaire
P.S. I will post what I have written of the story I started shortly.

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.

Sorry

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.

Thanks,
Blaire

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

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,
Blaire