erin

calling cards

I decided I needed business cards, but I didn’t particularly want to put “author” or “writer” or “kitten wrangler” on them.

After a lot of pondering and Etsy searching, I decided to go with something along the lines of a Victorian calling card. It seemed appropriate.

So I ordered these from GoGoSnap:

Name on front, website & e-mail on the back. Room to scrawl my phone number if needed. They are swirly gorgeousness & I love them.

Julie at GoGoSnap is brilliant & accommodating & I’m absolutely going back for all my quirky vintage-inspired correspondence needs.

In other news: I still feel odd not doing NaNoWriMo (I keep thinking I’m forgetting to do something) but I am buried in revisions. Revisionland is turning into my natural habitat.  Scrivener 2.0 is making Revisionland a much lovelier place at the moment, though. I may wax poetic on that at some point in the future.

By erin, ago

hallowe’en!

It is a cold Hallowe’en in Salem today. We only ventured out for a few hours to brave the downtown craziness, but the crowds weren’t as heavy as usual. It’ll likely get busier later, though. I hope people plan on wearing costumes that involve sweaters.

We made friends with a black cat. As one does on Hallowe’en in Salem.

Home now, with caramel apples and caramel vodka. It’s like a theme.

The chill of impending winter has clearly arrived, rustling through the leaves on the ground outside.

But the trees are still on fire, so autumn hasn’t left just yet.

And a witch just walked past my window.

Happy Hallowe’en & a Blessed Samhain, too!

By erin, ago

flax-golden tales: all-seeing

all-seeing

The skull says I see you when pedestrians or trick-or-treaters or dog-walkers pass by. Eyes that have no place being in a skull, hovering in empty sockets, move disconcertingly from side-to-side.

The observation is followed by a metallic cackle of recorded laughter.

People jump or shriek or return the cackle with laughs of their own.

Sometimes they try to get the skull to speak again, but it won’t. Not until someone else falls into its gaze.

I see you.

It does see, even as it cackles. It can’t close those eyes, after all.

And it remembers.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

By erin, ago

snapshots from revisionland

Snapshots from Revisionland: the pre-Hallowe’en edition

Coffee:

New scenes, scribbled longhand in unlined notebooks:

Bucket involved in some sort of Battle Royale with an empty Panera bag:

(I think Bucket is winning.)

And of course, the obligatory bowl of candy:

By erin, ago

typewriter

I had a busy, marvelous weekend. Hallowe’en has exploded downtown already, with crowds & costumes & small dogs dressed like turtles. I had a caramel apple! And I made more apple goat cheese tartlets. And apple blackberry crisp. It was an apple-y sort of weekend.

We had company from out of town that came to see the craziness, along with a wonderful puppy who was not dressed as a turtle. We had a fabulous time.

And FYI, to anyone who might visit me in the future and be so kind as to bring me giftage: you have been preemptively outdone. Forever. Sorry.

Because I now have a vintage typewriter.

I have been occasionally petting it in between taking sexy typewriter photos. I have wanted a vintage typewriter for ages and now I have one of my very own because awesome people are awesome. I will likely pet it more than type on it, but that’s okay. It can sit on a table and look pretty & writerly.

It appears to be in decent working order, though a few of the keys are askew and it needs a new ribbon. Which I can order, because the internet is magical.

Also this weekend, my book contract arrived. I feel all official.

And now it is Monday, as it often is after weekends, and I am back to coffee & Revisionland.

And occasional typewriter petting.

By erin, ago

flax-golden tales: cinderella pumpkin

cinderella pumpkin

As soon as I read the sign and saw what the pumpkins were called I knew I had to have one.

My mom said no. She said they don’t make good jack-o’-lanterns.

“But they’re Cinderella pumpkins!” I explained. “They’re not for carving, they’re for turning into coaches to ride to balls at castles.”

Sometimes I worry that my mom is not so smart.

I had to beg, but she let me take the best one home.

I left it on the lawn next to the dressed-up-like-a-ghost lamp post so I can see it from my window.

After mom went to bed I put my princess dress and fancy shoes on, and now it’s almost midnight.

My Cinderella pumpkin is getting bigger.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

By erin, ago