Dear Agatha Christie,

Yours were the first mystery books I was to learn to love. After, I was to discover the appeal of Father Brown, of Sherlock Holmes and Watson, but you were the first. I say learned to love, for, if I remember correctly, my opinion of my first (Elephants Can Remember) was less than favorable. I had enjoyed it, even liked it, but I didn't regard it with any particular degree of fondness. Perhaps this was merely because it was my first; I had never liked books where people died, let alone were murdered, so for me to take a great liking of your books was a bit of a change in tastes.
After I finished Elephants Can Remember I returned it to the library and forgot all about it. That is- until I started hearing your name mentioned again. So I asked around, looked into a few titles that were mentioned to me as favorites, and read The Man in the Brown Suit and The Secret Adversary (I really don't remember which came first) and suddenly I had a list four pages long and was crossing off titles at a mad pace. Needless to say, those two titles remain high among my favorites to this day. Especially The Secret Adversary, which I would really consider my favorite among them all.
Now, some fifty plus books later, I would mention you among my favorite authors. It is still my goal to read all of your books and I have a consistent stack of three hanging about in my bedroom and various canvas bags. I suddenly discovered how much I liked reading mysteries, contemplating the characters, motives and opportunities. I'm still not overly fond of the type of book that focuses on the death, but the thing that I have noticed about your books is that you do not focus on the death, but more on the lives surrounding that death. I think I remember a few scenes in various Poirot books where he says something to that affect, about how his aim is not to condemn the guilty but to save the innocent.
Of course, the problem with mysteries is I find myself getting very cautious about giving my affection to any one of your characters. Or if I do, I end up feeling torn the entire book, thinking oh please don't let my darling be killed, oh please don't let my darling be killed. Or worse, OH PLEASE DON'T LET MY DARLING BE A MURDERER. OH PLEASE. THEY'RE GOOD. GOOD. PLEASE. Which really isn't the most relaxing way to read a book, but oh the relief if your character comes out safe and happy and proven the good person you always knew they were!
Aside from all my love for you as a reader, as a writer (or as someone who hopes to be a writer) I am constantly in awe of you. My question is, how, how, did you ever manage to write so many? To come up with that many different plots, all of which succeed in fooling me. (Or if they don't fool me, I'm always exceedingly proud of myself for having figured them out.)
I know that I shall continue to love your books for years to come. Someday I shall have read them all, and then, I suppose start back at the beginning again, because by that time I'd have sure to have forgotten parts of the ones that I had read first.

With love, Emily

Dear Elizabeth Gaskell,

It is the very farthest thing from my intent, dear Mrs. Gaskell, to rebuke you for anything that you could not help. Indeed, I wish not to rebuke you, for I am most assured that if you could have helped it, you would have done your very best to do so. Thus, it is with much regret I state the cause of my great sorrow, knowing it to be something you could not alter or change.
I know you did not mean to die before you had finished the last words of Wives and Daughters. I know it to be something that was far from intentional, and it was not with the intent of vexing me that you did so. In fact, I fully realize that it is most self absorbed of me to be carrying on about my sorrow when I really ought to be speaking of the sorrow of your family, or of you yourself. I'm sure it wasn't entirely pleasant for you.
You see, though, my sorrow is the sorrow of all of your readers. We laughed, we cried, we knew just how you were intending to end it, but we were never to have that satisfaction of reading that ending in your own words. We were never to have the satisfaction of closing our copies with a happy sigh, knowing that all was right with our world.
We were left waiting with Molly, waiting for it to turn right, waiting for news of Roger- waiting. I think very few of us had any doubt how our story would turn out, we knew from the very beginning that Roger and Molly were meant to be together- but our story was left in silence.
I rather wonder how many readers, after their first heartbreak of unfinished story, were driven to resort to desperate measures; writing a sadly insufficient ending but satisfactory in as much that it was an ending. My own was scribbled on a few pages of notebook paper, in a factual and rather bare style, exactly what was needed for an end. A properly sentimental treasuring on Roger's part of a rose, a happy ending for those characters who needed one, and a brief mentioning of those characters who needed an ending, but who we did not wish the fullness of happiness to. After that I felt that I could move on, with only a few looks of regret at that unfinished story.
North and South has one of my favorite endings of all time, and I can only imagine Wives and Daughters' unwritten ending with regret.
I really do need to be rereading both North and South and Wives and Daughters sometime soon. It's been far too long since I've read either. Though of course, I always end up crying over both. Choosing between them I would have to say that Wives and Daughters is my favorite. I love North and South, with an especial fondness in my heart for some certain scenes, but Wives and Daughters can't help but be my favorite. Perhaps because I have more love for Molly than Margaret.
I've been meaning to find more of your books, besides those two, that will have to come next of my rather lengthy reading list. You were the author who brightened my life after I was in that "there are no more Jane Austen novels left to read" state of despair.

Much Love,
Emily

Of Knitted Dolls and Carrot Cake

I'm thinking...

At the moment I'm hiding from the morning. You might think this an impossible task, and indeed I have suspicions that while I might be fooling myself, I'm certainly not fooling anyone else, yet, still, I can't really persuade myself that it is a bad plan. I have hidden myself away from the alarm clock's persistent noise, away from the cold cold air and the horrid sunshine (not that I mean to say I dislike sunshine- I just find it entirely too cheerful in such trying times) and I'm feeling rather successful in my attempt at convincing myself that it is not morning. However, I cannot be wholly successful in this attempt, as proven by the mere fact that I am writing this rather than sleeping. As far as plans go I believe this one is as good a one as any to awaken me sufficiently to acknowledge that I must brave the cold air and get out of bed, but for the moment I shall continue to write on and hide myself away from the world under a thick quilt.
I can't quite believe it is Monday morning. How quickly days go, don't they? Really though, yesterday and the day before were just lovely days. We set out adventuring to see what we could see, and found ourselves in a set of lovely rooms looking out and across the bay to Canada. (a quick moment of recognition for the kisses blown across the wind to Canada. Really, we love Canada.) We explored the hotel, avoiding coming across the wedding group in their finery whilst attired in swimming wear. We skipped across the docks outside the hotel and danced under the billowing silken tent. We sprawled out on the couch and floor to watch the new Spider Man movie (which I enjoyed immensely. I've decided that it's now my third favorite superhero movie. I like the Avengers the very most, and then I think I like Iron Man, but after that I would say I liked The Amazing Spider Man.) In the morning we ate eggs and pancakes at a little diner (most notable for the bright yellow seat cushions and vintage signs hung willy nilly about the wall) and suddenly we were on our way home with the weekend over and done. (of course, it didn't happen so quickly as that and we had numberless wails of hunger and boredom to combat, and whist saying the rosary Ella struck up such a wail it was like praying in a hurricane.
Here we are though, safe and sound and ready to start Monday morning! Out of bed one goes and down the stairs to make some coffee.

From the kitchen...

I am fully confident that I could survive a diet of bread, butter and potatoes (just thinking ahead in case the world food supply is demolished and I need a plan. If necessary I could do away with the bread- all right the butter too since that's rather a luxury but GET THE POTATOES. If the potatoes die, I do to. Why am I not Irish?) That is, you see, what I meant to say was "I had bread and butter for breakfast this morning."

Did I mention I'm going to be making carrot cake today? I'm rather excited if you couldn't tell. I've been thinking about carrot cake for days now.

I'm creating...

My knit doll (See This Post)

She's actually almost finished. I have yet to embroider the eyes and mouth, finish knitting half an arm and sew both arms to her torso, but all in all she's almost finished.

The blue/green yarn I'm going to knit into a dress for her. Isn't it lovely? It's also very soft.

 

I've also been working out a synopsis for my NaNoWriMo story (TEN DAYS BEFORE IT STARTS) Perhaps I'll get it worked out and post it in say three days, a week before the actual challenge begins. Yes, that seems like a rather good idea.

 

I'm listening to...

 

A boy whistling, a chair moving across the floor (controlled I presume by the boy who is whistling) and some discussion going on about maps.

 

One of my favorite things...

 

Baking. (Did I mention I was making carrot cake today? Carrot cake with cream cheese frosting.) I'm also feeling in the mood to make bread, but I'm not sure if that will happen today.

 

Around the house...

 

I think I need to find some warm socks and a sweater, it's rather cold this morning.

 

Picture thoughts I'm sharing...

 

 

 

 

 

I liked this quote so I wanted to add it to this post

 



 

 (Where I found it)

 

 

 

 



The Lady of Shalott

  By Alfred Lord Tennyson

Part I

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road runs by
To many-towered Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veiled
Slide the heavy barges trailed
By slow horses; and unhailed
The shallop flitteth silken-sailed
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?            
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

 

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to towered Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

 

 

Part II

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot: 
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the curly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-haired page in crimson clad,
Goes by to towered Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

 

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

 

 

Part III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling through the leaves, 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneeled
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glittered free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazoned baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burned like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often through the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;  
On burnished hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flowed
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lira," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror cracked from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over towered Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
            The Lady of Shalott.

 

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance —
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

 

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right —
The leaves upon her falling light —
Through the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turned to towered Camelot.
For ere she reached upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

 

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,

Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

 

 

Crafty, Crafty Emily

Outside my window...

A window really is such an interesting thing, you know. It is like a description in a story; revealing the outside world, the scene, and yet limiting sight to a certain dimension. Here we have a window, a rectangle of limited size, and yet it frames a sight that reveals so much to us. We see the corner of a rooftop in one corner, a chimney emitting great billows of smoke that drift out of our sight and down the other side of the house. On the other side of that same window we see a row of trees, their colors bright and vibrant- reminding us that fall has come. Looking to the upper part of the window we have the sky, pale and almost white, a solid mass of cloud, making the entire scene to appear unfinished, as if an artist had left the upper half of their page blank.
If I were writing a description for a story I would be limiting myself to such important details as the window limits. I would be creating a sense of the place, the outside, without going on for pages and pages at a time. A window, a description, framing so much more than we can see, yet even from our limited sight we know it is there.

I'm thinking...

Working at the library I have a tendency to retreat into my thoughts, to create an imaginary world for myself like I always did when I was younger. I remember that even the shortest walk of those days would turn into the weary travels of a shepherd maiden with but a crust of bread to sustain her. Now, those thoughts have turned from a imaginary game, to the creating of a story yet to be written, but when you compare them they are very like. Of course I am much more concerned with the idea of plot and connection of a series of ideas to tie the whole thing together, but is there so very much difference to the creating of story then and now? Then it was a game I played; now it is the catching of ideas and characters to weave into a written story.
Whenever I don't have anything much to occupy my thoughts with, I have at least a half dozen stories that must be thought out and their endings decided.
Right now the story that occupies my mind the most is my Nanowrimo story. Up to this point the main idea has changed so much you would never connect it and my original idea. All I really know right now is that the story is to be focus on a sense of division. A division of self, a character with conflicting personality traits, and then a division in choices, as far as the character's future is concerned. I'm pretty sure that my main character will be named Elise (though this changes from day to day. Yesterday her name was Elaine, but really, I think Elise fits her better) I also have a couple other ideas for things I want to tie into the story, but I don't think I shall write them down here. I need to sort them out in my thoughts some more, and I don't want to write the whole plot out.

I'm listening to...

Bei Mir Bist Du Schon (Means That You're Grand) by the Andrew Sisters. (Yes, my obsession with their music has yet to weaken. They're still my favorite.) That reminds me though of this CD I brought home from the library yesterday, they (supposedly) make an appearance on it. It's actually a radio program with Abbott and Costello from when they (the Andrews Sisters) were very popular. I'm excited to try it out and see what it's like.

I'm creating...

Oh dear. Did I mention that I'm in an extreme crafting mood? Especially knitting. I've been trying out all sorts of different knitting techniques and perfecting them. Originally I was just making little swatches of knitted patterns, but then I decided that I would really love to make little knitted jumpers and things, but before I could do that I would need to make a little knitted doll to wear those jumpers and miniature hats and flowers and things. So I googled for knitted doll patterns and I found the dearest doll ideas. (weefolkart.com)

Look aren't they the dearest things? Can't you just picture with a wee little knitted jumper with a sweet little ruffle at the hem?

And look with those sweet little embroidered eyes and mouth? *squee* (but truthfully I would prefer hair of one colour. Maybe I'm unimaginative. Oh but if it were to be put into braids! Wouldn't that be lovely?)

(*edit* I previously had pictures from their post, but on second thought as I'm not very sure about copyright so I'll just let you all go to the site itself and look at the lovely pictures there. Do go and see. They're adorable. I'll post a picture when it's my own creation to share)

...and now I desperately (yes, my dear, I do know the italics make me sound dramatic, but aren't they just necessary? Okay, I'm going to stop now- but they're just so much fun. Putting undue stress on a certain word in your sentence. Quite.) need to go to a yarn shop and buy a nice large darning needle and and some soft cream yarn.

I can make all my jumpers and things from my "extra" yarn in my knitting bag, but honestly, isn't the cream simply necessary. I see you agree with me. How sensible of you.

I'm reading... Well, I was going to say something about the books I'm actually reading, but then the words "I'm reading" reminded me that I really need to finish this up so I can read the history chapters I'm supposed to read after writing this. So- I'm reading history chapters?

Some picture thoughts I'm sharing...

A picture of Ella and I that Mom took the other day. I rather like it.

 

 

And then I took a picture of the leaves on the ground. I like it because it just focuses up in that one area, which I think is neat.

 

 

A few plans for the rest of the week...

 

Not getting distracted? (*cough* riiiiiiight. Somehow after my knitting story that doesn't sound so convincing, does it? Did I mention I woke up in the middle of the night with a knitting needle in my hair? Yes.) I'm very excited for next weekend because I don't work and we're planning on doing something fun. Perhaps I shall write a post on it. (as well as writing up all those letters I'm behind on. YES. THAT IS THE PLAN.)

 

Dear C.S. Lewis,

Sometimes a memory that sticks with you is not a major event in your life, and perhaps it isn't even a very important memory. Still, it is a memory that lasts you forever. I have such a memory in connection to you, Mr. Lewis. Actually, I would like to correct that and say I have several such memories in connection to you, dearest Mr. C. S. Lewis. For it is a very sad childhood that doesn't contain many such memories of venturing through the wardrobe into the land of Narnia. (on that topic, do you know what an impression that made on me, Mr. Lewis? As long as I can remember I have been opening all wardrobes I come across with a quickened heart, only to stare dismally at rows of coats or to bang upon the wooden backing.)

My first memory of one of your books however, was The Magician's Nephew. It was a (relatively) hot summer day, and I had created for myself a nest of pillows on the front porch. I was about ten (for all the best memories happen when one is ten. Ten is such a delightful age. My favorite birthday was the year I turned ten, and I have bunches of favorite memories from the year I was ten. Ten is a year of exploration, of imaginings and days that seemed to last years in and of themselves.) Do you ever have those memories where you close your eyes and it is as if you can feel it all again? When I close my eyes and think of The Magician's Nephew, it is as if I can feel the warm sun shining down, hear a crow call (I'm not quite sure why a crow call always reminds me of this particular memory, but it has a very prominent place in it for some reason) and I'm sitting on a bench with my back propped up on at least two pillows. The book is a huge one. It was a collection of the entire series of Narnia books, and I was reading the first.

I suppose, really, what I'm trying to say in a round about way is what a prominent place Narnia had in my childhood. So prominent that a memory of reading one of your books is one of my clearest, it is as if you can step back in time to the day and place I was reading that book. I'm not even quite certain that was the first time I had read it, but it is my first strong memory of it.

As with any really well written book though, the Narnia books only grew to be better with each read. Suddenly they weren't just stories about a magical land with snow and a lamppost as they were when I was first reading them, but something beautiful, filled with symbolism and beauty.

My favorite of them is The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. I used to be rather scared of parts, but after the fright left, love came in it's place. The ending is so beautiful, with that scene where the albatross leads them out of the hopeless dark, and then when the children step to shore on the island and it is a lamb who they first see. A lamb that changes into Aslan. That just gives me pleasurable shivers.

I just want to say thank you, Mr. Lewis. Thank you for opening the wardrobe door and leading us into Narnia. Such a safe good place for us, filled with the good true and beautiful. A place that became only more lovely as the years went by.

(my only quarrel with you is how you finished off Susan's story. I'm sorry to say my childhood self has never quite forgiven you for that.)

Your stories will always have a place on my bookshelf.

Love,
Emily

Dear Laura Ingalls Wilder,

Oh Laura. As long as there's been books in our home and stories for bedtime... there's been you. Countless are the times I've heard your stories; they drift through the room as they are being read aloud or played in CD form, they sit waiting on various bookshelves and nightstands, even those too little to read flip through picture books telling your same stories in simple sentences. You are more than just a story on our bookshelf, for your stories were real and so the little girl on the pages sprung to life and she too became more than a character on a page. We knew that while we could peep in on part of her life, listening to the words that you wrote for us, there were times where she slipped away into history and we could not follow. After a while our little Laura character would come prancing back, after helping Ma with some chores or playing with Mary, perhaps you would tell us about those things, or perhaps you would let a few days of things that seemed uneventful slip away and tell us instead of a story that Pa told you on some cold winter's night.

Both character and writer were you, and perhaps that is part of your magic. There is a time when almost every child reading a much loved book has whispered out "Oh I wish it were real." and has been disappointed, but not with you, Laura. For you take that child by the hand and lead them back into your real life, teaching them what it was to churn butter and live in a dugout.

If you had not been the writer you were your stories might have fallen flat. A person may have beautiful and wondrous stories to tell, but unless they have the words to tell them with their stories will remain, forever trapped in the past. Oh how glad we are that we have you, you who knew just how to tell those stories to us. You knew what memories to tell to us, you knew which were the ones to retell and which were the ones to keep locked away as your own. Your stories lived before our eyes. With each word our imaginations gained a better image of Pa playing his fiddle, Ma and her busy hands, Mary with her goodness, baby Carrie who grew out of being a baby before our eyes, Grace who wasn't even alive till we reached later books, but most of all you. Even when you were telling about being naughty, it was naughtiness that we all knew we would have committed if we were you- for you gave us a little girl who was both lovable and real. Real because she was you.

It seemed as if we could practically smell the pies and cakes that Almanzo's mother always made, that we could hear the rustling of the skirts at the dance at Grandpa's house, and it seemed to me that if I just closed my eyes I might open them again to see you and Mary perched on pumpkins playing with your rag dolls.

You grew up from being our playmate, to a school teacher, to a mother and wife. It seemed like we grew up with you. As we got older we went from book to book, traveling with you away from the little house in the big woods, across the prairie, into town; everywhere you went we went with you. Yours will be stories that last with us for always. Stories that we will want to read again and again. You see, not only were you a character we admired, a heroine of a lovely story, but you were a real women who's story was not a fairytale. You inspired us, but it was not heroics that were unattainable. You showed us your failings, most of the time those were what you were trying to show us, but you were a dear, good, courageous woman who we loved.

You and Almanzo, Ma and Pa, Mary, Carrie, and Grace will always be a part of our home. You take us back to a time in history that is now past, a time of traveling over the country in a covered wagon, knowing that you may never see the family you left behind again. I think this should make us (us as in your readers) realize how fortunate we are, blessed in that no matter how many miles we are separated by, we are only a relatively short plane ride away, when put into perspective. We are blessed with the soft beds which are ours to lay down in at night, the roof over our heads, the knowledge that we are safe and warm.

I think we should also question why when we are so blessed we still worry and complain and fret such an awful lot. If you had complained the way we do over every little thing you would have been unbearable to live with, perhaps, that is what we are more than a little of the time. Perhaps we need to have more faith; faith like the faith that kept such a family as yours going though you knew not what was going to happen to you from day to day. You knew that you had each other, that you were safe wherever you were, and that God was watching out for you.

We are blessed with our families, with our home, enough food, and the faith that whatever happens God is watching out and taking care of us. Why should we worry more than you?

With much love and gratitude to you, Laura,

Emily