Let The Story Be Told

Today I began writing my novel. After months of procrastination and self doubt; on genre, style and story line.

Questioning my story and asking should I start over?

My inspiration has been restored. Thanks to my WordPress friends.

After this mornings post I change my mind so often I exhaust myself. On the writing process and self doubt.

The wonderful advice and tips from my WordPress community blew me away. To know that I’m not alone, and we as writers experience self doubt or times of uncertainty in our writing really helped me to rethink and motivate my writing.

DON’T GIVE UP…

KEEP WRITING…

LET THE STORY BE TOLD…

You guys are amazing! Thank you for your support.

I starting writing my novel again and I’m absolutely loving where its going!

“The cloak unveiled. Underneath the thick material, the beautiful face revealed. Even though the room is dim and her face is shadowed. There is no mistaking the face of her mother.”

(J.Calvert, Chapter 10.)

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Ink and Quill is writer Jennifer Calvert’s collection of musings, short stories, writing tips, articles, ideas, quotes, short stories and excerpts of her manuscripts in progress.

 

Lilac Tree’s

When Natalya remembers Russia, she thinks of lilac trees. Visions of large round-headed, deciduous trees, and clusters of flowers in various shades of colour: lilac, white, violet, purple, pink, blue and magenta, bunch together in showy pyramid-shaped clusters, which droop and sag, with the weight of densely packed blooms. She see’s dark damp terrain, and log fires. Her mother, busy in the kitchen of their dacha, stirring the Sauerkraut, the sour almost vinegary smell drifting through their home, and lingers in the air and clings to their clothes. Fermented bottles of white and yellow sauerkraut line the kitchen cupboards. She can hear her sister reciting Shakespeare in a loud dramatic voice, holding the book in one hand, and placing her other hand to her forehead,

‘That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.’

From the time Larissa and Natalya could read, they immersed themself in every book available. Books beyond their age, books which would make even the most considered reader blush. Natalya’s mother and the girl’s oldest sister Emelia would listen to Larissa and Natalya recite for hours on those mornings they spent together, when their papa was away working. And, being dedicated performers, they readily obliged.

Later in the day. Larrisa and Natalya would sit side by side at the table, eating pickled mushrooms, which they had handpicked in the woods in fall, while mama would read the newspaper to them. Larissa would scoff the mushrooms one after the other, vaguely listening to their mama. Natalya would listen with interest of news of war.

Larissa and Natalya would dance, perform, read, and play outdoors, their life though simple, was blissful. Their home was every bit their mothers, with dark rich colours of black and moron, embroidered cushions, and lace and silk, smells of homemade cooking and hard covered novels displayed on ceiling high bookcases. Summer was the most blissful time in Natalya’s life because she was free of the cold, dark Leningrad streets.

On the rare occasion their father joined them at their summer house, they would sit together on the veranda. Natalya would watch him take deep breaths. The air a thick haze of fog and sombre clouds and a relentless rain had kept the family indoors for weeks. It was the first day of blue skies and they took to the warmth of the sunshine, not venturing inside until the last morsel of sun hit the roof of the dacha, and began to descend.