Weaving

*via Aih

It's a chilly night in December. The sun's just been down an hour. And I'm sitting in the haze of white Christmas lights, eating cheese and crackers, dreaming of the next novel I want to write.  I have already met the characters, have rough sketches of them in mind, although I suspect I don't know them nearly well enough yet, their contours and quirks. I have scenes in mind, fragments of the whole, pictures of moments I've dreamed of.

There is a piano teacher, a costume party, a spoiled daughter in her mother's red dress, a spring rain shower, an unexpected stranger on the back porch who isn't what he seems, a hovering auntie, an unhappy provision in a father's will, a secret stash of cigars in the stable, a scandalous appearance of a child, passive-aggressive embroidery, a confrontation at a train station, a walk by a creek and what I hope is an irresistibly unfolding love story. 

All bits and pieces to be woven together.

It all sounds very Jo March, doesn't it? Ha! Perhaps I should stoke a winter fire, because I know how hard the weaving is. I'm not sure it's time, but I'm dreaming...

I've been missing writing lately. I've had a good long break from it, letting myself just "be" in this time of transition, but I've found something's missing, a little itch that won't go away.