As this world becomes increasingly ugly, callous and material it needs to be reminded that the old fairy stories are rooted in truth, that the imagination is of value, that happy endings do, in fact, occur, and the blue spring mist that makes an ugly street look beautiful is just as real a thing as the street itself. ~ Elizabeth Goudge

Yesterday I was awake early and my windows were  open as a persistent and melodious birdsong  wafted in. It  was the false dawn. I’ve long been intrigued by this word pair because not only is it the liminal light that precedes dawn, but it also describes a promising situation that doesn’t come to fruition.

The moon had set and emerging in the east was the false dawn.

The lovers’ promises came to nothing, a false dawn. 

The birds sang their hearts out about half an hour before dawn. But then they went silent until the sun roses when they resumed their tunes. Males do most of the singing across the many species. Have you noticed how bright and loud their songs are in the early hours? This is from Kendra Cherry’s great article at childrensmuseum.org: And their singing isn’t always about keeping their rivals out of their territory, sometimes its  to bring potential mates into it. Scientists have found that birds songs are most clear in the morning, so it’s a great time for a bachelor bird to flex his pipes and show off his unique tone in hopes of attracting a female.

Fascinating, right? Didn’t you adore the writer’s use of bachelor? Like a little jolt of pleasure? Flex his pipes is fun too.  And might I suggest you check out the various meanings of bachelor? I didn’t know it also meant a young knight who serves under the banner of another, did you? But don’t all knights serve under a banner? Have you noticed when you read knight an immediate image came into your mind? I call it the inner movie screen.

This is the Knight of Swords from the Rider-Waite tarot deck–a fascinating, impactful fellow.

As a writer do you notice the world’s quirks and oddities, large and small fascinations? What do you do with these noticings or  wonderings? I keep ideas and gatherings in several places–notebooks, apps on my phone, iPad, and MacBook Air along with a commonplace book on my laptop. Then there are jottings scattered aound on the backs of envelopes and Post-it notes. I lassoo them from time to time so they’re permanently entered into a notebook or commplace book. My comnonplace books cover a season so I’ve recently begun adding gatherings to the Summer 2024 document.

I’ve buttonholed online links in my commplace books, and speaking of buttonholing, I’ve noted the word, and added defintions in my own terms. Why use words like buttonhole? Because a reader can see it, experience it. One person forcing another person to listen. Imagine one person grabbing another to delay a companion. Picture the person leaning into the detainee. This implies importance, doesn’t it? As in hey, wait a minute, I’ve got something important to tell you.

As I write this I’m imagining the crowded hallways of the nation’s capital as Congress threads out from sessions to be greeted by reporters grabbing at them for comment. It’s often a noisy gaggle of media jostling in the soaring, marble-lined hallways.  Though the reporter isn’t literally snagging a lawmaker’s suit jacket or elbow to grab their attention, the reporter’s loud question, armed with microphone and cameraperson create the buttonholing.

A few sentences back I’ve used buttonholed to mean capture on a page. Because wordslinging means playing with meaning, sleight of hand manuevers, and just having fun on the page or in speech. Oh, and I just added dungeon vibe to my commonplace book.

Because capture we must. Your writer’s notebook isn’t a place for grocery or to-do lists, though I encourage you to write down your dreams.

But remember, these captures aren’t a final resting place. Ponder. Review.  Get inspired. Use  word captures in your writing.  Create lists. I’ve got lists called Power Words. They’re not only for immediately use, but I’m also collecting them for a book I’m writing about language.

Follow your curiousity. Research birds’ habits at the false dawn. Or how a steam locomotive works. Or a deeper understanding of moon phases. Jurassic-age dinosaurs. Have you always wondered what they ate?

Capturing  your ponderings or observations or arrived-in-flash notions plays a vital role in a writer’s practice. May I be so bold as to call it the backbone of the writing life? A habit as important as reading? Because close attention trains your brain, creates new neural pathways. And writers need to captialize on neuroplasticity. {This is a helpful explanation of neuroplasticity.}

Close attention helps you walk in the world as a writer–more hunter than dreamer. Maybe we should make that hunter-gatherer. And that brings to mind another image. I’m picturing a woman of centuries past. She’s wearing rudimentary clothing, has a baby strapped to her back and carries a cleverly woven basket. With her baby dozing peacefully she’s foraging along a verdant hillside–wild onions, berries, kindling, teeth from a dead animal’s skull.

The teeth just popped in my head–I watch a few survival-type shows like Alone (fascinating though sometimes grisly) and Life Below Zero. Programs where humans are operating under sometimes-harsh conditions. Where one false step on soft ice can mean doom. Where people live with hyper awareness–noticing changing skies, caribou  migrations, wild foods, and game trails. Where primitive skills can be life-saving.

Let’s not forget reading like a writer in our gatherings. This means you’re reading for pleasure and analyzing the author’s techniques. Then nabbing your findings onto a page. Some of my lists that stem from readers are Word Pairings, Bringing Characters to Life, and Setting Details.

Keep your gleaning basket handy.

keep writing, keep dreaming, have heart

Recommended: If you like documentary films woven like a lyrical tapestry, watch King Coal. A coalminer’s daughters traces the coal industry’s past with the many ramifications to a region, ecomony, and families. A eulogy of sorts.

Information on upcoming online classes will be coming–they’re happening in the fall on Zoom. I’m stoked. Brimming. So much to tell you folks about.

photo by Chris Sharratt

These beauties are harebells after a rain. They’re also called Scottish bluebells or fairy thimbles.  And they’re edible. I’m not familiar with them, but grow a larger variety of  Campanula, the bellflower.  Their peak season is about over in my garden, but I’m going to try coaxing out more blooms.

However, since the harebells are tiny and delicate, I’ll be searching  for this variety. Flowers that look like fairies might be hiding nearby are irresistible.

It’s hot here in the Pacific Northwest after a wet, cool weekend. Part of the weekend I spent reading Sin Eater by Megan Campisi. It’s clear she did extensive research although apparently had a difficult time finding many sources. The story begins when May, an orphaned fourteen-year-old is imprisoned for stealing a loaf of bread and is sentenced to be a pariah.

It’s a profoundly unusal and dark, genre-defying tale and alternate Tudor English history. Sin eaters actually existed until about a century ago, and had a gruesome task–to assume the sins of the dying by eating a ritual meal of the foods associated with their wrongful deeds. They also wore a locked brass collar bearing an S, had their tongues tatooed with an S, and were only allowed to speak during deathbed meetings while hearing confessions, called the Recitation. These meals or Eatings brought great comfort to the dying since they were assured a place in heaven, while sin eaters joined the daughters of Eve in a miserable afterlife. Almost all were female.

And it’s an utterly cruel world, especially for women.

Salt for pride. Mustard seed for lies. Barley for curses. There are grapes laid out red and bursting across the pinewood coffin–one grape with a ruby seed poking through the skin like a sliver poking through flesh. There’s crow’s meat stirred with plums and a homemade loaf  small and shaped like a bobbin. There are other foods, but not many. My mother had few sins. 

Shunned, their lives were lonely and hard. But into this story limps ‘a reeking leper, a peevish cripple, a gabby-goose actor’ who end up living with May in a wretched neighborhood. But the story is also a mystery since people associated with the queen are dying at quite a pace as the religious turmoil of the era also plays a large role.

Naturally I started jotting down words  and phrases found in the story as when ‘the sin eater gruffs for a space.’ And, ‘Bring us a light, would you? It’s darker than Eve’s heart in here.’  May’s voice is fresh and intimate and you never forget you’re trailing her in long-ago times: Another old body sits with Old Doctor Howe. A man with a stoop and a merry look in bulgy eyes. When Old Doctor Howe starts to weep with his rememberings, the bulgy-eyed eyed man takes his hand and holds it to his cheek like a mother or goodwife.

Some of my favorite scenes  take place amid a festival that includes a play . The revels happen during a foreign emissary’s visit and Campisi has a theater background and it shows.  Readers are over peering over May’s shoulder as she watched the elaborate preparations starting with erecting grand tents and bringing in massive quantities of foods for the feasting.

I’m recommending this book because the premise is amazing and the author took enormous risks in writing it and succeeded. And talk about immersive. Oh, and I forgot to mention, May loves to talk.

Keep writing, keep dreaming, have heart