I've been at a sweet, huge rambling farmhouse for the week, with little to vex me, much to please me, and a crowd of amazing people around me. The only thing that could make this week better would be if we were *not* down because our dog was getting her leg cut off, and if the recovery was not so perilous and possibly deadly. Licorice's flesh was so traumatized by getting hit by the car that it has started dying--it can heal, or it can get into her bloodstream and kill her--so if you think about it, please pray for recovery.
But what a topic for a writing blog! (Though some writers claim that blood and gore is necessary in any writing. ;)
I wanted first off to remind you about the Merry Auld England Writing Challenge. Now, girls, I know that among the writers haunting this blog are some of the finest pens this side of Jane Austen. I know that many of those self-same pens love classic literature, and a lot of classic literature is from England. So on your toes, lassies and show the world (and me) that you are an amazing lot--as I'm fully confident you are.
Originally I was ending the contest Sept. 9, 2011, but I know that the summer's been busy and many of you are just getting out of that vacation mode. So I am extending the entry date two weeks--the new ending date for the Merry Auld England Writing Challenge is Sept. 23, 2011. Please enter! I've only had one entry so far, and I'd love for this to be a good contest. Remember, there are three categories--I'm sure you'll find one that fits your writing style!
Now, I was thinking that I ought not to waste this week of relative leisure without doing some writing. But have you ever been in a place so inspiring, so relaxing, and so restorative that you don't feel like exerting yourself? Perhaps it is just me. But, strange for me, I've seen sunsets here without feeling the need to capture them in words, I've discovered quaint closets and passages in this house, I've dug in the garden, I've cleaned out three fridges, I've hummed songs while making biscuits, I've braved ticks to pick flowers, I've watched a chicken jumping to get figs off a tree, I've sat on a porch swing, I've read an Agatha Christie mystery, I've watched Ivanhoe, and I've taken rambles all without feeling the pressure of needing to immediately write these things down.
At first I was bothered--why is this desire not there? Have I lost touch with my writing? And then I slapped myself upside the head and realized: "My imagination is restoring, rejuvenating, revitalizing itself among these quaint pleasures. It needed the break as much as I did. My thoughts are growing round and rosy from the wholesome country air and food. It's on a vacation. It has repaired to its country estate for a week of rest. And that's okay."
And I am content. Every couple of hours I've fed goats milk from a dropper to three teeny baby rabbits one of our gallant hosts found. They are fat and round and wriggly--Bombur is the biggest, fattest. It's a simple pleasure, and a real one. And I don't need to worry about plots and pacings and dialog and punctuation. I am a young lady of nineteen on a country holiday--for a week, I shall lay aside my title of Writer, and remember I'm a little girl yet.