• Finished knitting the huge, boa-esque scarf that I have been working on for ages. Photos forthcoming. Of course, now that it is finished it is too warm outside to wear it. I have lousy knitting karma.
• Read Shaun Tan’s Tales From Outer Suburbia on recommendation from Carey. I was a Tan fan already but this book is lovely bits of whimsical wonderment and I loved it to pieces. A perfect blend of words & pictures. This is going to be one of those books I read over & over, I can tell.
• Managed to get a whole lot of revising done, including reworking a large part of the ending. I came up with the changes while completely hopped up on Sudafed and unable to breathe properly, but so far they still seem to work. Draft is still a mess, but it’s starting to look novel-shaped again. Sort of. If you squint.
• Did not manage to properly get rid of this stupid cold. Am mostly better, but still congested. It is the cold that will not die no matter how much tea and vitamin C I give it. It makes me sad. *cough*

In other news, it’s disturbingly spring-like here. We had the windows open yesterday. It kind of freaked me out.

Tessa is enjoying the sunshine.

the oracle tower

The oracle tower sits in an otherwise empty field, a looming monolith of wood and metal and whatever else oracle towers are made from.

It doesn’t move unless it’s being consulted, or it happens to be a particularly windy day.

People come from all around to consult the oracle tower. For guidance or instructions. For something to point them in the right direction.

As far as I can tell the oracle tower doesn’t actually do anything. Sometimes the arrows spin around or the sunlight reflects off the hubcaps in a sparkly sort of way, but that’s pretty much it.

Some people stand and stare at it for hours, inspecting it from every angle. Others only remain in the field for a few minutes.

But everyone seems satisfied when they leave.

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

Originally I’d intended to do this in order to cocoon myself into the Revisionland Hotel and get large amounts of stuff done rather than little bits and pieces.

Now I have the added bonus of also trying to rid myself of a horrendous head cold that’s been making me a miserable monkey all weekend. I hardly ever get sick and I don’t even remember the last time I felt this ill. My ears hurt.

So I shall be crawling into cups of tea and gargling with cayenne pepper (it works, seriously) and I will be back on Friday with flax-goldens.

If you need me for anything or the internet blows up or you want to send me virtual vitamin C, feel free to e-mail me: erinmorgenstern at gmail dot com.

Love & kisses,

e.

perpetual teatime

My grandmother is a bit on the eccentric side. My father always says it’s because she has too much money, but he gets weird about money things so I’m not really sure that’s it.

I love to visit her house. When I was younger I’d play for hours in the backyard. In the garden there’s this table set for tea but everything is bronze, cups and books and teapot and even the tablecloth. When it rains the cups fill with rainwater and I remember it looked almost like tea to my younger self. I think I tried to drink it once, with some difficulty considering the cups don’t come up from the table.

I asked her about it recently, having gotten old enough to wonder where the table and its contents came from instead of just accepting it as it was. She told me that once it was a regular table and she and my grandfather would sit there and read with their tea every afternoon. After he died she couldn’t bear clearing it away and she hired someone to cover the whole thing in bronze, so their last teatime would stay there, always.

When I visit now I leave roses in the teacups.

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

First I was trying to write in the ever-ongoing Revisionland Scrivener Document of Doom, but I have been looking at the same gap between paragraphs that needs to be sewn together somehow periodically all day and nothing is coming to me.

So then I said to myself, well, I’ll write something else. I haven’t blogged this week, I should come up with something to blog about.

And I sat and tried to think of something to blog about while listening to the rain and giving Bucket tummy rubs.

I got nothing.

Nada. Zip. It is just not a good word-brain day for me, apparently.

I have done other things. I adjusted the settings on my e-mail accounts. I deleted lots of old e-mails. I decoupaged the top of what will likely end up being a jewelry box. I listened to the rain & thought about revisions, even though I didn’t actually write.

I don’t believe in writer’s block, not really. At least not for me. But I do have days when the words don’t want to transmit properly from my brain to my keyboard, and apparently today is just one of those days, so far. Sometimes I write better at night, so we’ll see.

I did spend part of yesterday figuring out the plot of a long-languishing work-in-progress, completely unintentionally. So I might have tricked my brain out of revisionland and now it has to slowly meander its way back. Poor confused brain.

It’s hard to feel productive without wordcount as a measurement. It’s so easy, to say “yay, I wrote 2k today!” and feel accomplished. I know I can write 2k or more in a day when I’m just drafting, but revising is a different game and I’m still getting used to it. It’s about working in pages and paragraphs instead of thousands of words. Writing one really good sentence instead of lots and lots of sentences.

So I have to keep telling myself that even though I feel like I’m not making enough progress, not revising fast enough, I’m probably wrong. I’m being methodical and thoughtful about it. I am getting something done even when I’m just listening to the rain.

sentinels

At first there were complaints about the noise. Not that anyone knows what the noise is, precisely, even though it is rather loud. Whatever it is inside the building, echoing and humming and clicking, remains a mystery.

The bits that spill out onto the surrounding lot are made of stone and glass and wood, pieces without any easily discernible function, sitting quietly while the echoing hum rumbles continuously on.

After a bunch of kids threw stones at the glass the noise stopped for about a day.

The next morning the odd-shaped glass bits that had been shattered were intact again and the eagles were there, keeping watch.

The stone throwing stopped. Everything stopped, really. The graffiti, the robberies, any sort of crime within several blocks just stopped that day and so far it hasn’t started up again.

No one complains about the noise anymore.

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

“Jane Austen was the spinster daughter of a clergyman who led an uneventful life,” wrote Geoffrey Wheatcroft in The Guardian. “She just happened to write half a dozen flawless masterpieces, which came perfectly formed, not from experience but from imagination.” Most of us don’t have anything close to the inconceivably potent imagination that Austen possessed. But I believe 2010 will be a year when you can access at least a portion of that wondrous capacity. You’ll be able to fantasize about vast possibilities in exquisite detail. You will have great skill at smashing your way free of limiting expectations through the power of your expansive vision. And the coming weeks will be a time when it should all kick into high gear.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

and

Happy Chinese New Year!

Ring in the year of the Tiger with something heart-shaped. And chocolate. Lots of chocolate.

heart-shaped cage

Sting told me if I love somebody I should set them free.

I doubt Sting ever loved anyone with wings. If he did he might rethink such a stupid sentiment.

I suppose the point is to wait for your love to come back to you voluntarily.

I wonder if there’s a difference between setting something free and letting it go?

I probably did it wrong.

I should stop taking advice from my radio.

I worry that you’re lost.

I keep a heart-shaped cage unlocked for you, out on the street where it can easily be seen.

So if one day you return at least you’ll have a place to stay.

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

(Though truthfully I hope I win, because I’ve been wanting to read these and hey, free books!)