Dear Noel Streatfield,

I'm sorry to say that I really don't know you all that well, Miss Streatfield. Our acquaintance has been of a limited sort; you haven't been one of the author's who I have come to know extensively through biographies and such. As it happens, all I really know about you is that you have written the Shoes books, and I have read- but really, isn't that the usual connection between author and reader? The author writes, and the reader reads. Perhaps the reader becomes so enthralled in that person who has written a book that has become so beloved to them that they go searching for every book they can find about that person and their life. Perhaps the book is enjoyed for an hour, and then set away, and both author and book are forgotten.
I think the true test of a book though, is not the book that sends the reader running for ten others by that author. Or the book that has the reader finding biographies and searching for information on the Internet. It is the book that comes to the reader's mind when someone asks about "good books," years after that book has been read.
You're books are just that.
It has been years since I was about ten years old and reading Ballet Shoes for the very first time, but if a little girl of about ten-ish years were to come and ask me for a recommendations, I would think of Pauline, Petrova and Posy right away. It was only about a week or so ago when I was shelving books at the library that I came across a little hardback book with the title of Party Shoes, and I put it in my stack of books to take home with me because I remembered how much I loved the other Shoes books. I'm still going to read that other book of yours, actually, I just discovered what a quite a lot of books you have written that I haven't read yet. Isn't it such a nice thing to think how many books out there that are yet to be discovered and read? I hope I will never be without a stack of fifteen books to read, it would be such a waste of time when there are so many out there that there sometimes never seems enough time.
Perhaps someday I shall even find a biography about you, but for now, know that those books of yours that I have read I would recommend for everyone, no matter what their age. Know how much my ten year old self loved those books of yours, and how three of them still remain on my crammed bookshelf, though the books surrounding them have changed from American Girl and Boxcar Children books to Jane Austen and Elizabeth Gaskell. (Of course I still have my American Girl and Boxcar books, they're just being read by younger siblings now days.)
I'm trying to think which of the three was my favorite...I believe when I was younger it was Theater Shoes (For a while it was the book that convinced me that I wanted to be an actor) but the one I remember the best now is Ballet Shoes. Dancing Shoes is the third book that remains on my bookshelf and I love it as well. I hope when my baby sister gets old enough she will love them just as well as I always did.
Sincerely, Emily

Dear Lucy Maud Montgomery,

Dear Mrs. Montgomery,
There are many authors who I could have chosen to write this first letter to; authors who I regard with more than a little awe. Authors who's work I have loved, that has inspired me, and makes me want to write- to create the beauty of those words strung together for my own. (Though at the same time striking such awe into me that it seems a desecration to even think of calling myself a writer, when they are called such.)

You were the only one I considered though. You have the first place in my heart, the first mention in my ramblings, and this, my first letter of October, belongs to you.

Your books have been such friends to me that through them I feel as if we were friends. I can imagine you wandering through the fields muttering dialogue to yourself, and sitting down to write. To write Anne, Emily and Valency, those characters so very real to me that they, as well as you, feel to be my very dearest of friends.

If I were ever to have met you, I would no doubt, have said "Mrs. Montgomery," in such a way as I begin my letter, and it would have been all that is most horrendously forward and presumptuous to even think of referring to you as "Maud." (Doesn't it make you just cringe when you hear someone who is writing an article or biography refer to that person by their first name? I always feel rather indignant "How dare you refer to Jane Austen, JANE AUSTEN, as Jane. As if you had that right. *indignant sniff* That's Miss Jane Austen, to you Sir or Madam." but as I am writing a letter, a letter that is already traveling back in time to reach you, I feel that it wouldn't be a stretch of the imagination to go back further to when you were a little girl and "Maud" and me being of much the same age as you, I would be "Emily." I think we would have been the best of friends.

I remember reading once that you always felt that you identified the very most with "Emily" out of your characters. Do you know, growing up she was one of my least favorite. I loved all your books of course, but back then I was especially attached to Anne and the Story Girl. It's been a while since I've read your Emily books (I have them on my nightstand, and I'm going to be reading them again next) but as I've gotten older I've appreciated Emily much more, and, I think, started identifying with her in a way I never did growing up. Maybe it's because Emily and I have much more similarity than I ever thought we did, that I always liked Anne better? You know, how you can be friends with the most dissimilar of people because you each admire the other for their strengths, while they might not be your own. Kindred Spirits, even though personality can be very different. Perhaps what draws me to Emily now is not personality (though there is some of that) but that Emily has more than just a liking of writing, she has this need to write. It was part of her- in that way that it is a part of me. I think too, that while Emily enjoys being surrounded with people, enjoys spending time with those she cares the most about, after a while she needs to be on her own and sort things out.

Your writing is beautiful, dear Mrs. Montgomery, I would read anything you wrote. In fact I think I've read practically ever story of yours (I especially love your short stories). I love reading stories about you too, but I couldn't read your journals. It would have been different if you had gotten around to editing them for the public, but those were yours, they weren't intended for any eye but your own. It almost makes me sick to think about prying eyes falling upon your heart and soul that you had transformed into words. I wish, oh how I wish someone had kept them from being published. I remember when I discovered them I read your recordings about your childhood days quite happily, and I was so happy to have discovered something about you in your own writing, but I decided after a while that you wouldn't have wanted me to read any further. So I stopped. I wouldn't have wanted anyone reading those words that I had clearly written as a way of thinking- a way of sorting through emotions that seemed impossible to understand and letting go of things that I had been bottling up inside. Those journals weren't for me to read, and they weren't for anyone else.

Much as I should love to keep writing to you, dear, I'm afraid I must finish off here. I only want to add how thankful I am that you wrote, and that you wrote such dear beautiful things as Anne and the rest. Thank you ever so much. You will always remain one of my very favorite authors, and have been ever since my Mom first read me Anne of Green Gables such a very long time ago. As I have grown older I have learned to love other books, but yours will always have that special place in my heart as being one of my first loves. Books that only get better with each reading.

Much Love,
Emily

31 Days of October (2012)

 

 

It is a well acknowledged fact that November is the month of Novels. Those with an ambition to write are suddenly taken up in the mad craze to write a full novel of 50,000 words by the end of November. National Novel Writing (or is it writers?) Month I believe the official title is, though most of us simply say NaNoWriMo.

 

...but if November is the month of Novels what does that make October? (Besides being the month where we are "supposedly" busily writing up outlines for our grand novel. That is, if I screw up my courage to come up with an actual plot and outline, both of which happen to be the banes of life.)

 

October is the month of Thirty-One posts on one subject. 31 Days in 2012

 

I was rather taken by Her idea of a daily post in the form of a letter for this challenge. I'm already a day late in starting this, but to my credit I only heard of the idea yesterday and I had to turn it about in my mind a little before I could decide what I wanted to do myself.

 

My letters are to be addressed to various authors. Basically to those authors who I've always wanted to write a letter to, but as they would never receive them, never have. Of course, what I wish is that they could all write me back, but as that is highly unlikely (Unless the Doctor shows up for me in the Tardis) I shall have to content myself with writing to them and dreaming of a response.

 

Wouldn't it be nice to hear from them just when I'm planning out a novel?

 

"Gil: I would like you to read my novel and get your opinion.

 

Ernest Hemingway: I hate it.

Gil: You haven't even read it yet.

Ernest Hemingway: If it's bad, I'll hate it. If it's good, then I'll be envious and hate it even more. You don't want the opinion of another writer."

*happily pretends this conversation from Midnight in Paris is directed to me*

 

 



October: A Month for Sweaters and Not for Bare Feet

I’m thinking…

If you were to ask me why my brothers and I are more often to be found without shoes than with, I would, no doubt, attempt to convince you that we are part hobbit. Sadly (or not, depending on your perspective of the matter) in other respects our feet would be described as quite ordinary as feet go. They are not of disproportionate size in relation to the rest of us (though, some might consider that debatable when taking into consideration the long history of outgrown shoes through the years. However, you might say that point is irrelevant as the history is not restricted to mere footwear, but also pants and shirts as well. Apparently it is quite a common affliction, but of it’s being unremarkable you shall never convince me. What a strange thing is the human child that one moment it is but a foot or two in length and all of a sudden it is doubling and tripling in size, with more arms and legs then it knows what to do with.) That our feet are also free of hair may also be considered a curse or a blessing. Yet, for all that, a case may be made that our feet were created with an inordinate preference to remain unburdened by those objects of oppression and repression: shoes. Through the summer months this preference is indulged (though frowned upon) by those in higher rank, but come fall and winter, such a preference becomes highly unacceptable. For while hobbit feet (calling them by their rightful name) are resistant to such things as cold, sharp objects and uneven surfaces, adult forces consider the cold winds of fall to be a thing that feet should not meet unarmed and bare of defenses. Hobbit feet like nothing better than to wiggle their toes in icy damp grass and skip over mud puddles, yet those in possession of Hobbit feet must be made to realize that October is a month for sweaters and not (more is the pity) for bare feet. So, oh Hobbit feet of mine, resign yourself to imprisonment in the months to come.

However, I assure you, you will find this imprisonment made much the better upon discovering the new pair of beautiful vintage heels (that I have yet to find, but I will. I will) unreservedly yours.

I’m reading…

Due to the arrival of books ordered some while ago through interlibrary-loan all other reading goals have been put on hold until such a time that I finish the said Agatha Christie’s. For, as I have learned through hard experience, interlibrary-loans must be returned in state at the end of their designated time- they wait for no one, not even a very eager reader with several other books she “must finish first.” When interlibrary-loans make their appearance they are moved to position one on any reading list.

 

 

 I’m wearing…

Rather obnoxiously large fleece socks, (created, I believe, to be worn in rubber boots, but as they happen to be the warmest pair in my drawer, they are the favored ones) which clash, might I add, rather horrendously with my peasant style blue dress. Thrown over my lap, a pink fuzzy blanket (as with the socks, of disorientate, rather obnoxious size.) and my hair is pulled together by a (no, not a silk ribbon, sadly.) but a rubber band.

A few plans for the rest of the week…

My plans for this week mostly involve being the most devoted and studious of students, going to bed and getting up at the approved times and studying very hard on such subjects as Math and my SAT textbook. I am also considering taking up this challenge for October that my Mom just told me about, where you write a post in letter form for every day of the month. Also, Wednesday is Mom’s birthday, a tremendous occasion for joyous celebration and felicitations. I’m hoping that my new dress arrives sooner than it’s predicted date (October 8^th) but even if it doesn’t, I’m quite excited for it to come, and as I mentioned somewhere above, I should rather like to find some lovely vintage heels to go with.

One of my favorite things…

Okay, so I kind of just want to ramble about Doctor Who a little and this seems as good a place as any? So…yes, I really like Doctor Who now. I was first attracted to it (as might have been predicted) by yes, the characters. My favorites are Rory and Amy from season five through their last episode that aired last week (insert dramatic sobbing). I’ve always loved Rory; he’s the Sam of Doctor Who. All that is loyal and honest and good, never wavering in his love of Amy and his resolve to keep her safe forever and always (and sometimes in the beginning you wonder why) but now that Amy’s full story arch has finished I’ve come to appreciate her more. Rory has always been and will always be himself, Rory, dear, lovable, bumbling, adorable Rory, but Amy grew and matured over her episodes. She went from a still childish girl who was willing to runaway on her wedding night with the Doctor and travel through time and space without a thought, to someone who had built a life for herself and Rory and knew that was the most important thing in the world to her, more important than adventuring and living out a fairytale. She went from little Amelia Pond, to Amy Williams, Rory’s wife, who had a life of her own apart from the Doctor, a life filled like any other with its hardships and troubles but all that was worth it to her because she had Rory. (I just have a lot of attachment and ramblings about the Ponds after Saturday’s episode. I…sobbed…) The thing I love about Doctor Who is that there is so much variation to it. It’s the story of a madman and a box, that takes him anywhere through time and space and so it’s a little bit of everything. It has it’s goofy moments (Bowties. Bowties are cool.), sweet, funny, scary (did I mention the weeping angels. I mean. Scary.) and just all round fun. Anyways, I’ve probably rambled enough about Doctor Who. On to the next.

 

 

(And this was just really cute so I'm posting.  Source)

 Outside my window…

 A lovely Fall day, where the sun is shining, the leaves are just beginning to yellow, and the sky appears very blue.

 

 Around the house…

 Well actually, I’d much prefer a fall walk today than anything I could be doing around the house. Not that reading in my bed doesn’t sound lovely (but when doesn’t it?) and it’s such a lovely day. Yes, a fall walk sounds rather particularly nice.

 I’m listening to…

 A celtic song on Pandora. It’s called “Citi Na Gcumman” if you happened to be wondering. (Oh, I figured out how to link it! That's really cool, okay, I didn't know you could do that. That's neat!) 

 A picture thought I’m sharing…

 

 

"Emily, Awaken!"

The clock on the wall is ticking steadily on. Watch the second hand makes its round, now the minute hand is moving too, and now the hour is a thing of the past. A blog waits for promised posts, the girl who has promised to write so consistently? Nowhere to be found.

 

I beg pardon, this girl is quite easily found. It is true, however, she is not to be found with her fingers tapping away at her keyboard, but asleep on her bed.  She has gone off to have a long fall nap, a winter hibernation, and as she is properly bear like, she is not to be woken easily.

There she goes, hiding from the sunlight in a mountain of blankets, a fan roars like a hurricane, blowing the icy winds about her. The covers move, out pokes a bare foot, testing the open air. Will she awaken? Is the sunshine enough to open her eyes? Your question shows how little you know of Emily.

The door to her chambers is opened, her mountain of covers has been destroyed by a merciless hand. With a swift twist of a knob her hurricane has been silenced. “Emily, awaken!” comes a voice, much too cheerful when used in such a purpose. Oh cruel world, that wakes one with no true loves kiss to soften the blow.

On second thought, even true loves kiss is most definitely not worth waking up for. Sleeping Beauty and Snow White must have been awfully nutty.

 

 

As for Emily, she sleepeth on.

 

 

I’m listening to…

 I have just discovered how much I love listening to poems put to music. For the past week my favorite station on Pandora has been the Loreena McKennit one. I think it’s so beautiful because besides being lovely to listen to, each song is a story. Well, that can be said of almost every type of music, but it’s like reading a classic in comparison to a recent bestseller novel. I'm not saying one is better than the other, but listening to beautiful ballads of brave knights and fair ladies is quite delightful. I have to say, when simply reading poetry my mind sometimes wanders. I have a harder time of slipping into the story and living and breathing it like I do with prose, but with a musical accompaniment I find it easier to imagine out the story and enjoy the meter and rhythm to it. I'm not entirely sure why this is, but all I know is I find it much easier to sink into the tale when hearing it sung to me, rather than reading it myself. Though, I do like having the poem on hand if I miss a line or two.

 

 

 

I'm reading...

 

 

 

 

Emily of New Moon: Oh, my dear L. M. Montgomery, you know I can only survive being parted from your books for so long. I remember a time when 'Emily of New Moon' was one of my least favorite, actually, but with each reading I love it more.

 

 

Common Sense 101 (Lessons from G. K. Chesterton): Again, a post due soon. Again, really a must read.

 

Party Shoes: NOEL STREATFEILD WROTE A BOOK THAT I HAVEN'T READ YET? MUST READ.

 

 

Decline and Fall: After reading Brideshead Revisited I've always wanted to read another of Evelyn Waugh's books. I'm excited to start this one.

 

The Short Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald: I'm only about a hundred pages away from the end of this book. I've really enjoyed these. There's a couple that I've liked especially. My favorite are the few where he bamboozles you (isn't bamboozle an interesting word?) with some outrageous happening which turns out to be all the work of the character's imagination, and trickery of some other character. (The Offshore Pirate, Rags Martin-Jones and the Pr-nce of W-les) I also quite like Bernice Bobs Her Hair. I just bought the movie Midnight in Paris which has Scott Fitzgerald as a character, so it's been fun to read some of his stories after watching that movie again.

 

Brideshead Revisited: I just really want to read this book again.

 

The Fault in Our Stars: I just finished reading this one and honestly I haven't really sorted out my thoughts on it entirely. I felt like the book captured the characters very well, without my ever feeling precisely fond of them. Perhaps simply because they and I would not be "Kindred Spirits," if we were to meet. We would have different life-styles, values and what-not. That doesn't make me not appreciate them, as characters I felt very much as if they captured a very real sort of person, and also exemplified the author's main focus of questions on life and death. I got rather tired of the amount of sentences begining with 'and' or 'but' (which really ought to be an exception to the rule rather than the rule itself) and fragment sentences. (I feel rather guilty writing this as I know I'm a far from perfect writer myself...but...) Anyhow, I'm still deciding what I really think about it, so enough for now.

 

A Picture thought I'm sharing...

 

 

I just felt like taking a picture of some crayons.

 

 

 



 

 

 

A First Day of School

I'm Thinking: this is my first "journaling page"of the year. Even though I'm going to be writing up more blog posts of a classical styling (*cough* a fancy phrasing for writing out long blog posts with perhaps a more specific point to them than the journaling pages, which allow you to jump from subject to subject) I'm still going to be writing up a weekly journaling page on Mondays. I was also thinking about another sort of weekly post that I could come up with. The past couple days I keep coming across blogs where people have challenged themselves to take enough pictures a day for a blog post compilation of them all, and while I don't think I could do that daily, I thought it would be a fun thing to come up with once a week. Perhaps Fridays? Yes, I think Fridays I shall make up a post of just pictures, and try to keep from writing anything in such posts but just let the pictures speak for themselves.

I'm Listening to... The movie soundtrack from the 2005 version of Pride and Prejudice, Mom reading out-loud a book on Venice to Jack and Riley, and Marcus listening to a Math lecture.

Outside My Window... From the kitchen table one looks out at the front yard (or perhaps it is the backyard, it really is hard to decipher which should be labeled which.) Of course, it really doesn't affect a description whether I label it back or front, the real point to the thing is that it is a yard. A thing dry grass, blooming dandelions, and large puff balls that are dandelions that were. I might perhaps describe the road directly across from the yard, or the brambles that hang above the said road, but as I set myself out to describe the yard, and the yard I have described, I shall here finish off my sentence.

I'm Reading... Commen Sense 101: Lessons from G. K. Chesterton, which I plan on writing out a blog post all of it's own so I shan't write anymore here. If you haven't read it though, go find a copy for yourself as soon as possible. It's just that good. Oh, by the by, on the topic of G. K. Chesterton, here's a link to enjoy American Chesterton Society. I haven't yet had a chance to spend as long as I should like exploring that site (it's the sort of site that you really need to spend hours exploring, you know.) but I was so excited when I found it. There are bunches of his essays and things. Everyone needs more G. K. Chesterton in their life. Would you believe our library doesn't have any of his works?! The outrage. So I shall do my part to spread about his name *takes on a newspaper boy voice* READ ALL ABOUT IT. READ CHESTERON.

Common Sense 101

A Few Plans for the Rest of the Day... I am simply going to write about my plans for the rest of the day as writing them up for the rest of the week would be rather a lot to write about (lots of plans.)

1. Finishing cleaning up the school room.
2. Cleaning my room.
3. Taking a walk.
4. Another Math Lesson?
5. Coffee drive?
6. Folding laundry.
7. Finishing up this Journaling Page.

As you can see, lot's of cleaning and getting everything all lovely and ready for a new start of the school year.

 

My Nameless Little Friend

We were friends right from the beginning, she and I. She peered at me through a gap in the bookshelf, I put another book in it's place and smiled back at her. I pushed my cart of books through the shelves of fiction, finding at the end of them the same little round face; still peering at me from in-between the books.

"What are you doing?"

"Oh spying on you." She said casually. I knew then, of course, this little girl wasn't the round faced six year old she appeared to be. She was a spy. How misleading the short blond haircut and the ever so fancy princess gown! Why this little girl knew the art of shadowing someone, watching their every move from a safe distance, never to be seen- for the bookshelves hid her from sight of course!

We sat down amongst the board books. I shifted through them while the little girl perched on a stool and chattered away, secure in the knowledge of our fast friendship.

"And what do you think happened then?" She whispered and watched my expression expectantly.

I showed sufficient astonishment. "I don't know, tell me!"

"Why, I jumped of course! I stood up on that chair, put some flour on my head," (the flour was, she had already explained, fairy dust.) "I made my wish..."

"What did you wish for?" I broke in.

"A mermaid's lagoon, silly!"

"Oh yes, of course! How silly of me!"

"AND THEN I JUMPED!"  and to show me just how she had jumped in her story, she jumped again, this time from the little stool she had been sitting on.

"Did you fly?" I asked, open-mouthed.

"No," she sighed, "but maybe next time I will."

"Oh yes, I'm sure next time."

"That's what I thought." She looked smug and smoothed her dress.

I thought now was a fitting time to remark on the princess dress. "It is a lovely one." I said.

"I'm Cinderella." She nodded.

"I thought you were."

"Her hair was longer though."

"Short hair is nice for summer though. I always cut my hair that short during summer when I was your age."

"Oh yes. Short hair's better for exploring. Your head gets hot otherwise."

"Yes, there is that, and if you went to the desert just think how hot you would get then! You might faint!"

She grinned appreciatively at this. Yes, short hair was indeed better for exploring. We were agreed.

"My Mommy reads me lots of stories." She remarked, watching me alphabetize the picture books.

"What's your favorite?" I asked.

"Oh I like Peter." She said.

"Of course! Everyone loves Peter Pan!"

She ran across the room to get the coloring book and crayons from the table. On her dash back she stopped by her mother's side and listened to her conversing with the Children's Librarian.

"I like that movie!" She suddenly chirped up. "I want to lie down in a boat and be dead. They read a poem."

I couldn't help beaming at her across the room at this. I wanted to suddenly cry out "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 on Camelot!" Certainly, this little girl was quickly becoming my favorite person that I had ever met at the library.

She was back at my side again, I was going through non-fiction books that needed to be re-shelved. "Winnie the Pooh's my favorite!"

"Winne the Pooh's my favorite too!"

She bounced on her knees and started singing to me "Winne the Pooh, Winnie the Pooh, Winnie Nilly silly old bear, he's Winnie the Pooh, Winnie the Pooh!"

Even the best of things must come to an end at some time. I was pushing my cart of books in the direction of the adult fiction. "Bye!" I waved back to her as she turned and waved with one hand, while holding her mother's with the other.

"See you soon, friend!" She called to me, and then turning to her mother she said confidingly "I made a new friend today. She's nice."

We were the best of friends, she and I, my little nameless friend. Perhaps because she reminded me of the little girl I was, not so long ago. We loved books, we loved adventures, we bounced about in dresses and would always wear our hair in short little blond 'bobs.'

She smiled at me through the bookshelves, and we were kindred spirits.