Bluestocking | The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde

A few years ago, one of my best friends recommended The Eyre Affair  by Jasper Fforde , and it was only this year that I rediscovered it on a pile of books in my room. It’s challenging to summarize, as it is, at once, about: literary detectives, time travel, alternative realities, an on again romance that is slightly out of reach, and a world where your passion for a book can peel back its pages, and allow you to create new life inside of it. My experience with this novel was one that can only be described as a delicious tumble down a rabbit hole. Jasper Fforde’s imagination is a whirlwind that has crafted a gorgeous and comedic reimagining of our world rife with love of literature. 

When I first started reading The Eyre Affair, I’ll admit that it felt a bit like whiplash. A world that looks and feels like our own, but is slightly askew from a historical and a literary standpoint. It feels like present day, but seemed steeped with the insatiable technological and scientific curiosity of the 19th Century (e.g. My favorite “Museum of Natural History” moments were those that allowed for Dodo’s to exist…because Pickwick is my friend). Once I allowed myself to jump into this inventive reimagining, I decided that it’s a novel best read without any knowledge of Jasper Fforde’s world. It hardly every felt predictable, and there are so many little gems to discover along the way about books and authors, that my bluestocking heart was aflutter. I loved the campy literary movements that characters form for specific authors, animatronic Shakespearian robots that break into soliloquy for little more than a pence, constant discussion over the identity of Shakespeare, a black market for falsified manuscripts of classic works, literally so many gems!

Thursday Next is an operative, a war veteran,  and a literary detective with so much heart and charm and wit…I could go on. I enjoyed how sarcastic she could be in one breath, and in the next just as head over heels for her favorite books as any of us. I loved going on this inexplicable adventure with her, experiencing Jane Eyre with new eyes, and watching as she takes on one of the most formidable foes next to the infamous Moriarty himself, Acheron Hades. He’s something else…evil for evil’s sake.  But, Thursday takes him on for the fate of our world, her family, and (most importantly) the fate of one Miss Jane Eyre.

I’ve tried very hard not to let any of the crucial gems out of the bag in this review, to preserve the magic that happens when you just allow yourself to be taken over by a book. There aren’t many books out there that remind you how delightful literature truly is, and fewer still that do it with the pizzaz and talent that Mr. Fforde brings. I’m sad that it’s taken me so long to read his work, but I’m a believer that some books fall into your life for specific seasons. 

This is a bottomless mug of tea, ladies and gentleman. Go forth and drink!

.01 - Hamunaptra

Hamunaptra: (n.) a hidden city in the desert, resting place of the nefarious Imhotep…or baby Britta’s obsession (The Mummy) as a freshman in High School. I wanted nothing more than to be Evie Carnahan and to learn to read Hieroglyphics.

Guys, I did it! Today I wrote one page. ONE WHOLE PAGE! Look at what comes with fresh snowfall. This page arrived after, perhaps, a week of being stumped for how to begin. Even after ten years of developing this story, I’m still grappling with how it should start. When should my couple have their meet-cute? Oh come on, that’s cheesy, it’s been done before. Even worse…discovering that your baby resembles another baby that has taken the silver screen by storm (that’s okay, I’m determined not to let that scare me).

Nevertheless, I’m actually proud of myself. Instead of giving into my hormones, whining about how hard writing is, I’m making the most of my Jesus-year. Allowing my anxiety over not knowing all of the details to overflow into my writing journal.

Even though it feels very wrong.

The inner me is blaring, dumfounded at the absurdity that I’m allowing myself to write regardless of the rigid regime I’ve placed my words under. Scared of failure…and weird kind connoisseur of the art of falling flat on my face, instead of focusing all of that power on love for storytelling.

This page was gut-wrenching, but after awhile, I actually started to rest my shoulders and enjoy it. I even managed to somehow resurrect Hamunaptra from my teenage memories out of nowhere. My impatience wants me to hate the process, this getting down the bones. The thought of writing a million words that may not actually make the whole drives me crazy. But you can’t have the body without the bones. Writing is a kind of pilgrimage you carry with you. You give yourself as wholly to it beneath God as possible…until it becomes a sixth sense. Not something special you do on occasion. It is one of your love languages. Tears, ‘failures’, victories, forks in the road. It’s simply the day in the life of a writer.

Congratulations, you and your one page. You’re a writer.

How does it feel?

Good? Great…now chill out and knit something.

Be Not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise

I have been reminiscing about my year in Wales and all of the adventures I allowed myself to dive into almost nine years ago. I've been thinking about the three days I spent gallivanting through Paris with one of my best friends; Eating croissants for dinner (except for that one afternoon where we had a plate full of mussels simmered in wine sauce and French fries in Montmartre), sipping tea at the Ladurée tea salon, drinking cheap wine from the French equivalent of a bodega, the sparkling wonder that is the Eiffel Tower...imbibing the c’est la vie spirit that fills the air like honeyed helium turning our voices four years old. I strolled through that city as if all of my concerns were of no consequence. It was a lesson that some things can actually exceed expectations. But for all the places I did get to see in my short time there, I completely forgot to visit the quintessentially literary hub at kilometer zero: Shakespeare and Company.

Shakespeare and Company seems so romantic! A literary watering hole for burgeoning writers across decades, in a city where books are taxed as little as fruits and vegetables for the necessity that they pose. I swoon all the more at the thought that my loves The Civil Wars filmed a few scenes there for their song Dust to Dust. I'm not sure when I'll get back to Paris to visit this cozy nook, but I'm thankful that they have a fully stocked website allowing for a virtual flâneur.

Last night, I rushed home from work to tear open the parcel I have been waiting for all week long, and I could not have been more enchanted!  When I chance upon a lovely independent bookstore, I have my eyes on sentimental curiosities, as one would at a village flea market full of mismatched tea cups and skeleton keys. To that end, I found the selection on their website to be varied and intriguing. But what really throws my romantic sensibilities into OVERDRIVE are the selections they have available to personalize your books (please watch this lovely short video of how they do it, it’s adorable!). You can choose to have the title page of your books stamped with the official Shakespeare and Company seal, but why stop there? If you are so inclined, they will place a hand typed poem of their choosing in your book (€1), tuck in a Memory Mark: a memento left behind by visitors in the shop, and a spritz of beautiful Astier de Villatte perfume. It feels as personal as receiving a gift from a friend. All I want to do now is press a sprig of gypsophila between the pages.

The Books

Love Letters of Great Men - I have always wanted a copy of this book. I find letters fascinating. A diary where we collaborate with loved ones. I often feel very reverent as I read them, because they were never meant for my eyes, but I’m honored to have an inner peek into someone else’s life! I’m also looking for as many pint sized volumes from the Macmillan Collector’s Library as I can. They are so stunning!

The Small Pleasures of Life: The French Art of Living a Good Life by Philipe Delerm - This was a spontaneous purchase, that I’m sure I’ll cherish for a long time. France seems to be one of those countries that encapsulates the act and feeling of everyday rituals. As with the many books I’ve collected on the art of Hygge, this purchase was a no brainer. It’s a book of vignettes celebrating moments like the act eating Turkish Delight (I see you Narnia), a mobile library, the smell of apples, the motorway at night…many many reveries that the author holds dear.

The Brontës: A Life in Letters by Juliet Barker - Of course…this one’s a no brainer, right? The Brontës AND letters? Sold. (Unfortunately I could not find the link for this book on Shakespeare and Co.)

The Mating Season by P.G. Wodehouse: This was a Lucky Dip (6€) Shakespeare and Co's version of Blind Date with a Book, offering a surprise vintage novel! I look forward to discovering more about this novel. I loved discovering that it was released a few days before my birthday in 1949! I’m hearing that it is joy encapsulated…I can’t wait!

Shakespeare and Company seems a dream of a bookstore that I pray I get to experience one day, but until then, it feels magical to receive parcels from them. I’ll throw on my Civil Wars record, light Voluspa’s Baltic Amber for ambience, and have a quaint cup of tea in my S&Co. mug (it’s so adorable)!

Thank you so much for reading and I hope you have a lovely week!

Intellectual Elegance: How Sherlock Holmes Inspired My Approach to 2019

“Elegance does not consist of putting on a new dress.”

— Coco Chanel

My premise for next year is Benedict Cumberbatch's fault...not really, but he's a jewel so who can blame me?

It all started with a binge watch of Sherlock a few weeks ago…I know that I’m late, but it's been such a long time since I've been enamored by a show. The last show to capture me so fully was Sleepy Hollow (I miss adventures with Abbie and Crane so much!), and that show actually had the same inspiring effect on me. Sherlock is witty and intelligent and fresh, while maintaining the gothic feeling that infuses Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's intriguing tales. The best part: Sherlock and family...they are the most peculiar, fearsome little cinnamon rolls I have beheld in quite awhile. Needless to say, it's been playing on a loop since I started watching. Through this show I discovered the rare gift that Benedict Cumberbatch is. Aside from all of the "shallow" reasons there are to love him (and yes, there are many), there are also that of his otherworldly talent, how he literally sinks into the skin of every character he plays; he's incredibly intelligent, well spoken, kind, and I find myself moved by his integrity and convictions as displayed during interviews. Moved by his commentary on his approach to the craft. His effervescent passion and eye for intriguing storytelling shows in his incredible body of work...many of these films have been adapted from novels that I've had the privilege to discover over the last few weeks. Time spent with Sherlock Holmes in 221 B Baker Street, with Christopher Tietjens and Valentine Wannop (Parade's End), with a father coming to grips with the loss of his daughter (The Child in Time)… these companions were the catalyst for what has been building in me over the last few months.

A desire for intellectual elegance.

Twenty Eighteen began with a wonderful writing workshop, and although, I spent much of the year in the whining throes of writing insecurity, I will take what I learned, and hopefully apply it this year. In 2019, I look forward to rediscovering the curiosity and wonder of classic and "higher" literature. I miss school. Having satisfyingly heavy Norton Critical's to analyze. I remember when I would purposely purchase the old worn and beaten copy, just to compare my annotations with the many readers who contributed to the conversation before me. I miss Chaucer and the beauty of reading aloud:

““Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendered is the flour;…”
”

— The Canterbury Tales

The effervescent pop of Kerouac's every word. Of reading Lilian Hellman’s “The Children’s Hour” (Play) in high school at my mom’s recommendation, or short stories by Alfred Hitchcock. Books that challenge or delight, or cause me to evolve. Words that may require second or third reads. Books that will eventually wear and tear as they are etched my life, and thoughts as I read. A living diary.

Now of course, I will allow for some "treats" along the way. Maggie Stiefvater's writing is a waltzing joy to experience. I understand that "intelligent" literature is also very subjective to the reader. Books hailed by critics, are not necessarily great books for every reader, and vice versa. But, on the other hand, there is a reason why certain books win Pulitzer’s or critical acclaim. I've grown bored of simply reading for entertainments sake. I would love a mix of entertainment and intellect regardless of genre. There are treasures abounding everywhere.

Here are a few books that I'm looking forward to reading next year:

• Parade's End by Ford Madox Ford

• To the Lighthouse by Virginia Wolf

• Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler

• Villette by Charlotte Bronte

• The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon

• A Child in Time by Ian McEwan

• The Mermaid and Mrs. Hancock by Imogen Hermes Gower

• This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald

• Prairie Fires: The American Dreams of Laura Ingalls Wilder by Caroline Fraser (Non Fiction_

• Persuasion by Jane Austen

• The Complete Writings of Phillis Wheatley

This list could go on for days, and I know that many of these novels are tome length, but I look forward to loving on them this year. Mostly, I'm looking forward to becoming refined next year in more ways than one.

I wish you all the happiest of new years, and I hope above all things that you sprout up into your dreams...whilst reading the good stuff!

Nouveau

My day after Thanksgiving was spent listening to Jeff Goldblum spin my dreams on his piano — “It Never Entered My Mind”, to be specific. It’s gorgeous, as I sip on a semi-homemade apple cider (Whole Foods provided the juice, and I concocted the spices). A coffee bean scented candle brews the ambiance, and now the mood is set to drift back over the last six months of my life.

When I was younger, I used to think that you had one calling in life, and of course I wanted my main calling to be writing. I’m so grateful that God has given me this great passion. However, He has come to show me that lives are layered. Full of many gifts and callings and hats, and why not? Life is definitely more interesting this way. This is an account of my day job. Gaining the gumption to know when the season has finished, and when to jump head first.

The previous era of my life included many blessings such as, gaining a work family with some of the best people out there, immersion into Japanese culture, sinking my teeth in Human Resources (what makes it work, and what should be avoided). It has been such an adventure that God has used to grow me up and out of my former self. However, over the past year, or so, I began to feel like I was living groundhog day with more stress and less growth. After years of complaining about it, my mom challenged me to update my resume, and see what was out there. I dragged my feet on it for months, because the truth is that as much as I seemingly long for change, I can also be addicted to the comfort of familiar faces and routines.

Was I really ready to leave what I’ve built for something with no definition? In a flurry one night, I updated my resume and sent it out.

Over the last six months I’ve had a crazy frustrating, but eventually rewarding ride with the galaxy that is the job market in New York City. Three possible job opportunities, the last being a success. The first was a company I had seen on Shark Tank, one of my favorite guilty pleasures. They offered me the opportunity to interview, only to take the job completely off of the market a day before my interview.

I interviewed three times with a large business consulting firm that really seemed promising. Initially, I had second thoughts but in my desperation to leave my current firm, I thought, Why not? My meeting with one of their head managers would seal the deal, and after several successful meetings with his team, he thought I wasn’t right for them. You’ll never know how done I was with the whole business of job searching at this point. I was tired, in need of Christmas vacation after a long and tough job search all summer and fall (I had applied for over 100 positions), and I was determined to take a long break of searching if nothing paned out.

Finally I applied for one last job on Linked in. I didn’t really research, I didn’t plan, I didn’t try to make them like me…it was the first time I felt calm about it all. If it happened, wonderful…if it didn’t..well I had Christmas vacation to look forward to. Everything tried to come up against this job…I was even summonsed to Jury Duty during the final interviews, but they were so persistent with their interest, that they were willing to schedule the interview after my duty was finished. With one day of jury duty completed, the court system allowed me to leave after I told them about the interview. I still can’t believe they just gave me a free pass to leave after the many times I had postponed. Long story short, I found this company’s team interesting, and their on-boarding goals idealistic and dreamy.

The day before Thanksgiving they offered me the position.

My mind is still blurred by all of this. But I learned so much.

• First: Be passionate about anything you want in life, not desperate. Desperation will drive you to move on something that may not be right for you. I’m so grateful to God for not opening doors on the basis of my whining.

• Second: Trust God and His process of making you. When I prayed to Him in the beginning of my job search, I asked that He open a door to a position where I could truly shine, and grow, facing new adventures and challenges. The first two opportunities meant I would most likely be stuck doing the same things that drain me now. In the midst of my greatest frustration, Mom asked me what I had learned from these two experiences. At first, I responded with a sarcastic: “Nothing. They were a waste of time”. But now, I can see that had I not had those interview experiences, I would never know how to conduct myself. What to say to make myself an attractive candidate vs. what may cause the opportunity to fold. Note to self: follow the first tip…never respond with desperation…it shows, and it’s not a great look.

• Third: God wants you to soar even more than you do. Even as I prayed to have a position to shine, I still sought out positions that would keep me behind the scenes. In a comfort zone. If you ask Him to enlarge your territory, He will, and although I’m a little apprehensive about taking more of a senior role to what my experience has been, I’m grateful to God for giving me the opportunity to see my own self in a new light. Not as this shy person who lets everyone else take the lead because they must have more qualifications or be more worthy than I am. But as a woman. A leader. Someone with something to contribute.

This change has released a flood of soul searching moments to consider what else I’m capable of….like my many novels I’ve been writing off and on all of my life. Here’s how good God is, not only is this a new day job, but at one of the Magazine/Media mega corporations, where even though this is not a writing position, one never knows what connections this might lead to when the time is right.

As I move further towards the new year, I’m thinking about new goals, after being so afraid to really set them for fear of failure. I’m thinking of the new people I will meet, the new adventures I will have, and more importantly, how to grow in both this aspect of my life, and my heart passions. How both can compliment the other.

bloom | On Loving the Process

This year has been one of major introspection for me. A year where God has placed it on my heart to ponder what I love to do, why I love to do it, and why I have so many hangups about actually doing it. My life has been taken up with writing, and writing all sorts of things: films, blogs, novels, etc. I'll admit that my relationship with writing has shifted, swinging dramatically back and forth between love and hate, a pendulum of impatience with the process. Writing aside, this same pendulum swings in other areas of my life, all seeming to focus on my desire to just get there already! Wherever there is.

I wish I could just slide a book off of the shelf, and have it be mine. My name, a pirouette of cursive along the cover and spine. A gloriously delicate photograph smooth under my fingertips. The book, a comforting weight in my hands. If I have that, at least I can say I accomplished something. However, over the years, I've realized that a lot of my challenge with most things has to do with impatience. Always wishing I were at a different stage. Always trying to keep up with the masses, or being dragged down by the voice in my head taunting that I'm a late bloomer. 

“I actually love making movies more than I love even watching movies...if someone could say to me you have a choice between being in movies, but you never get to watch the film, or you go through the experience of making the film, but you’d never remember it, and you’d just get to see the end result, I would, every single time, choose being a part of it.”

— Bryce Dallas Howard

A few weeks ago, whilst fully immersed in the Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom publicity coverage, I watched an Unscripted interview with Chris Pratt and Bryce Dallas Howard. Chris asks Bryce if there is anything she loves more than movies. Knowing somewhat of her background, Bryce's love of film runs as deeply as an old oak tree, what with her father being Ron Howard. Of course she would love it, having experienced it from the ground up at such a young age. However, her answer to Chris (quoted above) was surprising and enlightening to me. Before now, it seemed to me that so much of an artists' delight lies in being able to see the finished product come to life. Sure, you hear teachers and masters in the field say, "Get into this because you love the work," but, up until now, much of my love for the work was so connected to the finished product. You get to say 'you're a writer' once you've been published (finished product). You get to call yourself a filmmaker once your film has been accepted to Sundance (finished product). You're a novelist once you're giving a talk on your book at Barnes & Noble (finished product). Until then, you're just an amateur fiddling around until something glorious happens. All of these thoughts have buffeted my mind for years, and after a while, I was so stuck on them, and opinions, and wanting to get there, that I stopped thinking about the process. The pure milk and honey fundamentals of loving what I am doing. 

Now, more than ever, I've been really gleaning from artists who inspire me, specifically taking in their reasons for what drives them towards the work. One of the many epiphanies I've had is that you cannot love any kind of work mainly for the finished product, or for the instant gratification of an audience heaping praise on your work. I think every person in a work that gives to someone else, hopes that someone will love it in the same way that others' work has inspired you. But I think I can see now, that if you're only doing what you're doing for the end result, the feeling it leaves is kind of empty. It seems that the emotional weight of your end result are the victories, hurtles, and small delights you experienced to get there. Your 'why' can't be so connected to the result that it has the power to influence whether you continue on with it. It's like dating to get married. Sure, we pursue someone to get to know them in the hopes that one day it will bloom into something significant. But if your eyes are so firmly placed on marriage, you miss those soft and slow moments of getting to know them. Of aisle roaming at Target on a Saturday afternoon. Yelling at at the television screen when the Seahawks beat the Giants 20 to 10. Heavier growing moments when you experience their hardships. That one argument you had about nothing.

There are so many things you miss by wanting to get there already. 

I want to cultivate love for the experience. For the slow moments in life. For the process of writing. From the outline, to jumping off of the cliff into the work, to brainstorming sessions with writing buddies, to going back in with your sculpting knife and finding just the right word for that scene. There are so many things about writing to love, even that it can seem like wearing your Mickey Mouse pajamas in front of everyone at school. It's part of the work. It's part of living a wildly candid life. 

knitting stories | autumn calling....

{pattern} | {the evolution of claire} | {yarn}

I'm heirloom leaves falling. Adorable pumpkin woods candles burning bold (well tonight, it's Marshmallow Musk). Hocus Pocus playing on a loop. Old Episodes of Boy Meets World (Shawn and Angela all the way). Storybrooke and Sleepy Hollow. Cider. Even the word cider sends that tart, spiced comfort down my bones. I cannot get enough of pining for Autumn. It has been a sweltering, humid mess over the last week or so, and all I've been doing is blasting my air conditioning, donning my comfy Jurassic World sweatshirt, and watching as allllll of the autumn folk begin to creep out of their thickets. The deal was sealed when I raced to Michaels earlier this week in search of evidence, and sure enough, wide crates full of huge white pumpkins were displayed in all of their festive glory! I've really tried to be good, but if I'm truthful, my Fall antennae begin to tingle around April.

As I watch my Fall Haul/Autumn Routine Youtube playlists, I long for strolls through Tarrytown, and a perfectly bright burnished leaf to press in my journal. I'm ready to go a little crazy with Pumpkin Pie Spiced seasoning. A new Fall mug, because...hello? And my knitter bug is buzzing. Throughout the year, I experience knitting ebbs and flows, but I think as time carries us back toward a crisp chill, my fingers itch for something plush and delicious! I really want to complete the perfect sweater for Autumn. Ever since I began my last sweater, I have been on a mission to complete one that I will truly cherish. With my first sweater, I decided on making it short sleeved, however, as soon as I bound off, I knew it was a bad idea. While that sweater is on hiatus, I stumbled upon the Wool & Honey pattern designed by Drea Renee Knits. I only needed a moments glance at her gorgeous honeycomb-inspired, ember colored jumper to know it would be the perfect knitting adventure to set out on. Brooklyn Tweed Loft yarn feels very wooly and has a rustic look to it, giving it such handmade charm.

I love the meandering stage of knitting, where I can see myself wearing it, going about my dailies, stopping by the Strand, spiced tea in the rain, adventures between covers with Claire and a Brachiosaurus named Pearl. I can't get enough of those dreamy images. I started knitting my pumpkin colored fancy today on the bus, and I've given myself a goal to try and finish this by mid-September. Fueled by any number of Autumn scented candle now popping up in stores, I'll try my darnedest to make it happen. I think I'll document this like I did with my Katniss cowl back in the day. That makes me feel at home. I can't believe it's been 4 years since I began my knitting journey. So surreal. A great reminder that the years we're blessed with are filled with so many serendipitous catalysts.

Whispering Rows (or my first sweater)

It's NOVEMBER! Daylight casts its muted glow along quiet sidewalks. My hands tucked into my comfy woolen coat with a bottomless hood that I've been told makes others jealous for the coziness of it. It makes me feel a little like a Once Upon A Time character strolling through the Enchanted Forest. It felt so great to bundle up over the past week. We're coming into the quiet season.

After two high impact weekends, it was nice to keep slow today. To wake in warmth, thankful to God for His provision, for family, for blankets, for a steaming cup of Holiday Tea nestled between my palms. The cure for my year long reading slump: The Hunger Games. It's been seven years and this is the only novel in the series that I have yet to reread. Sometimes you don't need something new. You just need home. Collins' writing has always felt warm for the minutiae of her world and characters. A study in keeping what is real close to our hearts. It opened my eyes to the everyday wonder of a handmade life. This time, I'm keeping my eyes trained on the same heirloom-delicate details that inspired me to start knitting in the first place. A sort of full circle to read the novel that started it all, as I embark on a new knitting adventure: a sweater.

Sweaters remind me of Civil Wars (the band) country. Old browning volumes of Flannery O'Connor. One Hundred Year Old libraries. Bucolic farm lands redolent with rain. Brontë strolls through mists. Of hands now wrinkled with age stranding Autumn into yoke sweaters, passing it down down down. That vintage varsity jumper teeming with spirit. A noun for keeping warm.

I've attempted two other sweaters in my life. One: a Boyfriend Sweater , an 18th Century Vassar College red (or at least that's how I envisioned it whilst reading The Gilded Years). Two: a current work in progress called Nolita, raven black with turquoise cuffs to make it playful. Although these two patterns make for two of the coziest sweaters, the downside is that they are knit up in pieces and seamed together afterwards. A feature that many knitters have cautioned me against for a first sweater.  But last week, I discovered Five Dollars in Paris, a beginners raglan knit whole from neck to cuff. Cue my excitement! This pattern seems very beginner friendly and for that I'm so grateful, because it means I'll finally accomplish a knitting goal I've had for a very long time.

My sweater is a silvery mauve, soft as my Rosie's kitten paws between my fingers as I give in to each whispering row. Today, as I sink further into the body, it dawned on me that I'm actually doing this...knitting the fiber equivalent to a house. As I graze the purl bumps along the underside, I'm excited that one day, I'll be able to cuddle up in it during a first snow. Or while browsing the endless stacks of the Strand. Or, on homemade cider days. 

This is the magic of a slower life made my hand.

“It was November—-the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines.”

— Anne of Green Gables - L.M. Montgomery

Knitting Stories | Forest Green and Cocoa

It's October 1st, and there's finally a granny smith crispness about the air...even if that's only going to last for a couple of days. My frosted votive of Hot Cocoa and Cream is burning, and it's surprisingly delightful. It's preparing my senses for Holiday festivities and I'm so excited for Christmas! I'm watching a charming indie film called "Between Notes" starring my newest musical discovery (and crush, because who am I kidding), David Ramirez. All my life, I've never been able to write any worthwhile stories without music, and this man has whipped my writing lattice windows right open. There's a vulnerable honesty about him that encourages me to write my stories in the same raw manner. 

My apartment is chilly, and I'm knitting a scarf.

The last few months have seen a knitting cacophony of massive Autumn shawls, and hats hats hats for my family. Every year since I started, I've knit my dad a hat, and I wanted to extend the cozy goodness to others around me. I wish I could knit a few a week to hand out to people. Well, if I had the courage to walk up to strangers with a hand knit hat in the chilly afternoon. But in the midst of all of these projects, I've been craving a simple scarf. The kind you learn when you pick up your first pair of knitting needles, Wool Ease Thick and Quick plush between your fingers. I think Autumn has this way about it that makes me want to go back to the basics. No bells and whistles. I think about all of the first scarves, or socks, or hats out there, all simplistic and stumbled through, but the love saturated there is priceless. Many of those objects still loved on after years and much weathering.

My scarf is knit with Petite Wool in a deep forest green. When I'm writing a story, I like to surround myself with as many significant details as I can, and Forest Green is a key character color. I'm knitting it in large blocks of garter and seed stitch for a little something 'pizzazzy'. I'm hoping to finish it by December, but I think I'm purposely taking a long time on it. This scarf feels like a handwritten diary scribbled over time, each loop and stitch reading like a 'Who-What-Where-When' of my life. Something to look back on and remember. I'm thinking I'll store it with with a sachet of something pretty.  Maybe Hot Cocoa and Cream or Marshmallow Fireside because who doesn't want to wrap something around them that smells like Christmas?

The Holiday knitting frenzy approaches, but I hope that in the midst of all of your projects, you knit at least one thing for yourself and someone else that you don't have to think too much about, because you're too busy thinking of how wonderful it feels to be hugged.

Records and Candlelight

When I think about records, I think of what it must have been like for a person in the late 18th century to experience seeing themselves in a daguerreotype photograph for the first time. The wonder of capturing a moment in what seems like an instant in comparison to sitting for hours for a painting. I think about the first viewers of silent film watching themselves in soft light, marveling on the magic making this possible. And likewise, what it must have been like for listeners to play their favorite songs in their drawing rooms on gramophones. Vinyl Records carry the same kind of magic for me. They are a kind of portal that allows me to share an experience with people who lived in eras bygone.

The young world seems aflutter with new listeners starting record collections and discovering a new way to listen to their favorite artists, and although our generation has a bad habit of turning what was once special into something trite and trendy, I can understand the fascination. In the same way that books are their own portable magic for the ways it makes your mind become new worlds, I'm wonderstruck at the technology that makes a vinyl produce sound. If you never hook your turntable up to a speaker, and you start playing a record, you can still hear music playing. Maybe this is really small to those who are fluent with how the technology works, but my mind starts buzzing with questions about how it's even possible. How can music be etched in lines onto a flat vinyl disk? Music in itself is a wonder that seems created from nothing but will and passion and rhythm, and so then to actually hold a vinyl record in my hands feels like being fortunate to have a piece of art I can take home from the Met.

Of late, I've been a little obsessed with watching Vinyl Collection videos on Youtube, and someone made the wonderful point that vinyl forces us to participate with our music. We can't easily jump from one track to the next because we want that instant gratification of hearing one side of the artist. We can't press play and listen to an endless playlist for hours on autopilot. We are more inclined to hear the symphonic story the way the artist originally intended us to experience as the record plays out all sides. And as it plays, we can ponder on how it makes us feel. What makes it special? What memories are we making? What memories are we remembering? It's like a motion picture for your ears. I love the ritual of browsing through my collection, slipping the disk out of its sleeve, and clicking the hollow "start" button. Listening as the motors crank before rich, velvety sound fills my room with warmth. The ritual of being excited about a piece of music and rushing out to the store to excavate the record like fossils. To lift it up, delight in its weight, and its gorgeous sleeve or gatefold album art, to handle it delicately if it's older than me. Even new artists seem to go out of their way to make their vinyl special, and it feels to me like even in just holding it, they have allowed me a small taste of what it felt like for them to make the record. A page ripped out of their journals to pin on my wall.

The act of collecting encourages selectivity. I'm not of the thought that everything sounds better on vinyl, and it's up to each person to decide what they want to experience in this way. I love to experience jazz on vinyl because it feels right, like the Dave Brubeck Quartet or Ella Fitzgerald. I love listening to artists that make me feel sentimental like Taylor Swift's Red album or even her Speak Now album which has a dreamy quality to it. Of course I have Guardians on vinyl because...yeah. I love folky tunes on vinyl...I couldn't imagine not having the Civil Wars, First Aid Kit, or Over the Rhine records. And some of my absolute favorite things to listen to on vinyl are film scores. Ohhhh! To be able to listen to Pride and Prejudice or Jurassic World on vinyl is just such a beautiful experience. Olafur Arnalds is also an absolutely gorgeous artist! His Living Room Songs album is one of the most beautiful records I own. I would love to incorporate more classical and orchestral music. Feels like watching a Ballet Performance.

I really love the thought of making a little sentimental museum of my room full of records. Art, in any way it's expressed, is definitely something I take for granted, so it's nice to have a reason to embrace the experience of it.

Writing | Hooked On A Feeling

Superhero movies are the kind that will bring or send me. As a teenager, I lived for these kinds of movies! I loved the escapism they provided. As an aspiring storyteller, I could watch these films, delving deep into the behind the scenes footage, and breathe the relieving sigh that comes with the comfort of being around ‘your people’. People who understand how breathtaking it can be to create a world for the screen from the ground up.  One watch could fill you with gumption and a revived sense of purpose to do good in the world. After long, though, these movies began to feel more like gimmicks packed in spandex and armor and well glazed abs. But maybe I just needed a few new heroes to love, and those heroes came to me as five orphaned outlaws.

Peter Quill.  Gamora.  Drax. Rocket.  GROOT. (Mantis, and now Nebula (who I have immense hope for)

When I look back at my first experience with Guardians, what truly grabbed and held my heart was our introduction to the hero. He is not introduced as Starlord, the legendary outlaw, but as Peter Quill, a young boy listening to old pop songs to drown out the sorrow of his mother’s terminal illness. We watch as he breaks, and is then captured by the now lovable Yondu, and then James Gunn proceeds to introduce more characters whom at their core are searching for meaning for their sorrows, but more, for someone they can call home at the end of it all.  

For a family. 

They are awkward and silly. Angry and vengeful. But courageous enough to decide in spite of what they’ve experienced, that others deserve everyday kindness. Watching, laughing, crying at their sorrows, cheering for their victories, and lavishing in all the music has made James Gunn a bit of a storytelling hero for me. 

It’s important to go back to the movies and stories we loved as children. The world teaches us as an adult to connect all of the hidden dots and discover the map within. And as much as I’ve grown to appreciate close reading, these discoveries really don’t compare to the ones I felt as a child. When I watched "The Goonies" for the wonder of it. When I discovered the chill of a dinosaurs roar in "Jurassic Park". Or that dog like creature from "The Neverending Story"...what is he again? The point is that as children, before you even know the deeper meanings, you understand what it is to be wonderstruck. To know when you’re watching something that’s just so cool, you and your friends can chat about it for hours! This is what seems to have fueled James Gunn as he composed Guardians. Like a luminous scrapbook, he paints the Guardians in living kaleidoscopes and nostalgia of music and films he loved as a teen, created adventures sewn in a celestials head, taught life lessons through dance offs, deadly whistles with cupids arrow, and a breakfast club of misfits turned Guardians of the Galaxy; and he did all of these things with the kind of creative abandon I aspire to.  He knew he didn't want another story full of the same kinds of heroes. He wanted all of the explosions and action but packed with fun and honest heart level emotions that make it hard not to connect with them. In interviews, James Gunn has explained that he felt in his heart this story was his to tell.

As a writer, one of my biggest insecurities is not being able to guarantee my talent. I can never say that something I write will be successful. But I can tell you that before I let the world in and my mind rule, I’ve dreamt up stories that I knew in my heart would change someones world. These were stories so alive in my head that they almost felt like the story was it’s own thing, and I, merely a vessel chosen to get it out into the world. I think it’s a special feeling you get that doesn’t come with everything dreamt up. And if you have this kind of passion fueling something you’re creating then you should see it through with a kind of reckless abandon. Give it all you’ve got, even if a voice deep inside calls you ridiculous. You should always take your work seriously, but it okay to approach your work playfully. Experiment. Take chances.There’s courage in the silliness. Bravery in the raw. Chris Pratt, one of my faves, who had to fight to prove that he was Starlord, said in one of his interviews that in order to give something to the world, you have to be willing to put yourself out there. Lay it all out. 

Someone out there needs your courage.

And as Yondu instructs Peter in Guardians of the Galaxy 2:

“I don’t use my head to fly the arrow boy. I use my heart.”

knitting stories | a shawl for autumn No. 1

Summer's sun has reached its highest point in New York City skies, but my mind has switched over to burnished amber trees and fog curling through leaves. It always comes in Spring, while everyone else is planning summer escapes, all I can think of are the numbered days between this one and the first day of Fall. I'm ready for cozy reads, Once Upon a Time, spiced lattes and teas in bottomless mugs, for the skies to undulate in waves as The Civil Wars lilts enchanting with soft plush fibers wrapped around my shoulders.

Sometime last year, I reached the point as a knitter where I begun to dream in shawls. At first, I could never have pictured myself wanting to knit a shawl for the time and the tedium. But suddenly, I adored them for the stories woven in with time, for slow techniques, for the thought of having a portable blanket to wrap around my shoulders. I'll admit, however, that shawls of lace and sock weights are incredibly time consuming and I found myself drifting towards other projects after long. Soon after, I discovered Jess Gagnon's Tenmile Shawl knit in a chunky worsted/aran weight yarn, and I've been in love! 

Tenmile is a shawl inspired by keeping warm during the winter months, and it was one of the first shawls I discovered worked in a chunkier weight. It looked so soft that my fingers itched to knit one of my own. This shawl led me to the wonder that is Malabrigo Worsted, a brand of yarn harvested in Uruguay. I can't say enough about this yarn. It's luscious to the touch, and fueled by so many gorgeous colorways that come alive in garments like waves. I chose the colorway, Roanoke, a gorgeous brown inspired by a character I've been writing from the end of the 19th century (and I might be a little enchanted by the lost colony of the same name). I wanted my first shawl to be neutral enough to be paired with anything.

I decided to become "semi-monogamous", splitting my time between this shawl and another I'm determined to have finished by October. The weight makes it more of a reality that I'll finish it up by then. I definitely recommend this pattern for a beginner/intermediate knitter, as it requires knowledge of Make One Left / Right, Knitting and Purling. Thankfully, it does not require knowledge of lacework or slipped stitches (because then this would be an entirely different post!). This would be good for someone wanting to knit their first shawl, learn beginner shawl techniques, and be rewarded with a garment in no time!

I can't wait to cast off on Tenmile, block it (my first time blocking anything!), and take it with me on afternoon strolls through Sleepy Hollow, or bustling across Museum Mile towards Central Park. Until then, I simply luxuriate in the satisfying weight of it as a single strand of yarn becomes this almost living breathing thing. Something romantic enough to holding stories, and practical enough to keep me cozy.

Autumn hearts, be glad. Fallen leaves are coming soon!

Bluestocking | On Paperbacks

One Christmas several years ago, my Mom asked me what I wanted, and I told her the perfect hardcover edition of Haruki Murakami's 1Q84; white with a frosted dust jacket and two photographs of a man and woman on either side. For a while, I loved carrying it around, hugging it to my chest as one does when a favorite author publishes a deliciously heavy volume. A part of me sighed, yes, I'll have tons of time to dwell in Murakami's mirrored universe. A true adventure. But after a few years, and yes, the saga continues for me, the weight of it in my bag through the rush of a New York City commute... Needless to say, I  went to Barnes and Noble and purchased a paperback edition.

Paperbacks offer the cracked spine satisfaction of scoring the reading of a book to your daily life. A cozy sweater and comfy ripped jeans on a rainy day. It invites you to converse, punctuating moments with dusty rose mildliners. Underlined passages like tiny instant photographs for scrapbooks. New Friends and Old Friends having tea stained brunches, pages undulating to the rainfall because you couldn't stop reading on the way to the bus. Dogeared and soft,  etched with your fingerprints and notes and smudges of that day you spent with your mother, or took a train trip to the countryside, or crammed into a packed subway station, your book mere inches away from that cantankerous passengers face.

A spine cracked conversation with your past lives and the contented feeling that comes with seeing old friends and the old selves you were when it all began. 

Sunday Stories | On Returning to God

We are entering into the Holy season. A time where if you choose, you can put away everything that may have been distracting you from His presence. A time to discover truly how much man does not live by bread alone, but by every Word that comes from our Father (Matthew 4:3-5).

My story is one I think may resonate with others. I was born in Jesus, and by His Grace, cultivated a relationship with Him at a very young age. I decided I would dedicate my life to Him, and prayed that He would make me an example of purity lived out, the beauty of obedience, the breathless security of dwelling in Him. I would save myself for Marriage, and believe in His timing and power to make those secret dreams in my heart come true. But it's when you leave the bubble of your family or your church, and Jesus gets you alone, that's when He begins to open your eyes to what it truly means to walk in Him.  In my early twenties, the Holy Spirit revealed just how deep my decision to save myself goes. The truth of it flooding my being all at once: I was never saving myself for a Husband, no, I was setting myself apart for my Bridegroom. It was always Jesus. I'll admit that as much as the notion of this blew my mind, ashamedly, it also disappointed me a little. It's almost as if it wiped the taste of Him right out of my mouth. It meant that the one dream that I had staked my entire faith on was just as uncertain as everyday. Admittedly, I began to pull away from Jesus, because in my heart I felt I'd done everything I could to earn this reward. It's hard to watch your heart dreams evanesce into a life you never planned. I never planned to watch as others move into their dreams. But, looking over my life, there's a part of me so grateful to God for not being a genie. For walking with me, and putting up with my bitterness, my selfishness, and doubt even though He keeps me breathing, keeps me hoping, keeps me.

Striving with God for so long results in an autopilot existence, where you keep adding adding adding, and nothing quite fills you up. I prayed to Jesus recently, asking that He would deliver me from my bitterness and doubt, and that He would send me a book or a testimony from someone who understands.  He always sends me a book, one favorite being Beautiful Uncertainty by Mandy Hale, about stepping out on faith in all areas! The latest being I Don't Wait Anymore by Grace Thornton, which I discovered shortly after praying that prayer, on Instagram. I'm on chapter 6, and so far it's so blessed! I thank God for Grace Thornton's vulnerable account of her emptiness and doubt, and her courageous decision to seek true intimacy with God. I needed someone to be truthful about how heartbreaking unrequited dreams (for now) can be when you're believing God for it, and it doesn't happen. But deeper than this, dreams don't hold a candle to the adventure that Jesus has planned. The reality is, even if dreams come true, they will never be able to completely fill every hollow place Jesus wants to fill in you. I Don't Wait Anymore is a declaration against even Christian societies' mandate that if you're single after a while you must be doing something wrong. It is a reminder that Jesus pursues you everyday, that He has a life for you that does not look like other lives, an invitation to Walk with Him, an invitation to an unexplored adventure of miracles and new people, and freedom. Both Mindy and Grace write like dreamers, and each book comes from ladies with romantic, dreamy sensibilities. That's another reason I thank God for allowing me to discover their books. I want to walk into the Adventure that He has for me with an open heart.

And so this is my desire during this Holy Season:

• To truly meet God.
• To hear Him.
• To grasp His sacrifice.
• To live in gratitude.  
• To have renewed faith to believe that in His good timing, He will bring that man into my life, but all the more, to have faith in the arms already holding me. 

Sunday Stories | Inspirations for the Three Day Weekend

I've started writing again and it's been too long since I've posted anything to my little corner of cyberspace! This year, I would like to fall in love with writing again, and so I offer a little series where I promise myself to post at least one meandering a week: a Sunday Story.

This Sunday brings a calm and cozy reflection of what's been inspiring me this month. The Autobiography of Jane Eyre's playing in the background as I write under the afternoon sunlight and the flickering of my Baltic Amber candle. I'm so grateful to have a little break from work to spend time with family, and goof around with my bunny Aiko and my rambunctious new addition, Rosie...a kitten on fire. Although I know it's impossible to think I'll get to all of these things by the end of the day tomorrow, it's nice to have the option!

Roanoke

A few years ago, when Sleepy Hollow was still amazing, I learned of the mysterious first American Colony, Roanoke, that simply ceased to exist. Shortly afterward, I found this thrilling account that reads like an episode of Serial. How does an entire colony just disappear? I'm excited to delve deeper into the mystery whilst mourning my favorite show. I've also started knitting a new shawl (one of many shawl attempts) with Malabrigo yarn in a colorway aptly called: Roanoke! My inner geek started jumping up and down when I learned it's name.

When it comes to stories I write, I always love to fill my life with as many things that inspire the story as possible. This shawl feels reminiscent of one that my 19th Century protagonist would have worn. An heirloom from her mother. The fact that the yarn seems to be inspired by this historical colony further solidifies the connection I make with my character. It's also my first experience with Malabrigo yarn, and I cannot fawn enough over it! It's a plush aran weight yarn, in a beautiful chocolate color that feels like a dream on my skin. And unlike most shawl patterns that are intricate fingering weights, this aran weight shawl will have it completed in no time!

The Night Circus

Here's where I kick myself for waiting so long to pick up this absolutely stunning novel. I'm about half way through, and I just want to dwell in it's vignettes and delights, and glorious language, and a cast of characters I'll never forget! It has me wanting to knit a scarlet scarf and become a true Rêveur and travel the world haunting the sights of this beautiful circus, a flask filled with hot apple cider and a childlike heart. Erin Morganstern's writing gives me the same feeling I felt whilst reading Francesca Lia Block's Echo for the first time: I will spend my life learning to write if it means capturing at least one person's imagination as she has captured mine.

Take Courage

This probably comes as no surprise, for the Brontë enthusiast I am! But one of the things I'm really happy, and fascinated by, is that the literary world seems to be finally giving Anne some notice. When I began to delve into the Brontë's, I found it strange that two sisters would be so prolific, yet one would live forever in their shadows. What made her work less compelling than Thornfield Hall or Thrushcross Grange? What made Charlotte feel she could stop Wildfell from being published after Anne's death? But I'm learning that, although Charlotte or Emily's works are not for the soft at heart by any measure, people like to be coddled to an extent. As long as something seems otherworldly or is filled with ravenous passion, we will always be drawn to it. I, myself, love this kind of literature. But Anne was compelled towards truth. She seemed to want young women to understand that they are not cursed to a life with abusive men simply because society deems it so, that they can make a life for themselves, that they can raise their children single if need be, that they can be free to choose love for themselves. When I discovered that Samantha Ellis wrote a personal account of her journey towards the real Anne Brontë, I had to pick it up. I am on the second chapter, and I'm loving it, save a few points where I disagree a little on her religious criticism. As a bibliophile, I love the size of it, and the way it fits between my hands, and the typeset...you know all those bookish qualities. If you're interested in reading this, please note it contains spoilers to Brontë novels.

FUN FACT: Patrick and Maria Brontë's (Parents) first home still stands as a cozy little Italian Cafe!

 

Hygge

If you had no idea about "Hygge" (Danish | pronounced: Hoogah) a few month's ago, there's a high chance that you know about it now! I discovered the word quite awhile ago whilst perusing Other-wordly. I recently finished reading The Little Book of Hygge which defines it as "...the sensation you get when you’re cuddled up on a sofa, in cozy socks under a soft throw, during a storm. It’s that feeling when you’re sharing comfort food and easy conversation with loved ones at a candlelit table. It is the warmth of morning light shining just right on a crisp blue-sky day". I've fallen in love with this Danish pastime, and weaving more of it's cozy warmth into my everyday life. Now I have another little nugget of happy, thanks to my dear friend Casee's recommendation. I wonder when the Swedish custom of "Fika" will rise to popularity.

Writer Peace

Twenty Seventeen is the year that I return to writing. Where I stop making excuses and self sabotaging every effort to advance. I taken on Neil Gaiman's famed advice: " You do it. You write. You finish what you write." I not only want to finish, but to enjoy the journey, and stop second guessing every word! I've gone back to editing the second draft of my novel, and I'm excited to choose everyday to overcome. I found this little notebook in Target before I knew what I would use it for, and it's become my "writer peace" book where I don't feel apprehensive about the blank page. And this charming little "Language of Flowers" volume is one that inspires a portion of the story. Now I'm pondering whether I should write to query, or post to Wattpad. 

I hope that you're having a lovely weekend so far, that it is relaxing and filled with hygge! 

Lose The Rule Book

This past week gave me a gift I didn't know I needed: A Snow Day! Who doesn't love Snow Days, huh? I spent the day reading cozy books on Hygge, burning my Snow in Love Candle, and I pulled out a fresh notebook that I purchased for the sole purpose of writing the second draft of my novel in long hand. I've been in pursuit of this second draft for a while now, and I thought that it would help me to focus more if I got the story down in order. That plan backfired, when I found myself exhaustedly staring at a blank page, not knowing where to start, what I wanted to write, how to write...you know all those thoughts that shoot through you when you've been away for a while. The same happened last night when I even thought about having another go.

I think throughout my writing life, especially after a Creative Writing Degree, my mind sets specific rules on what good writing is. Good writing is "bum in chair". It rises with the sunlight every morning, after a glass of orange juice and a plate of egg whites. You have to write in a quiet room, in longhand, in a well worn notebook. You have to read a chapter of Hemmingway, or all that jazz like Fitzgerald. You have to post something to Wattpad and have a thousand likes. You have be published in The Paris Review. Someone has to affirm that you are, in fact a writer, before you can call yourself one. Believe me, all of these kinds of lies course through my body (because it has now become a physical response to the replay) every day.

Well I'm here to offer these thoughts their emancipation papers. 

Today, I took out my Neo Alphasmart, I wrote about a page of revisions for my novel. I turned on Toulouse's cover of "I Will Follow You" and let my emotions compel writing out of me. That's the kind of writer I am. I can be concise and choppy at times. Or extremely longwinded (there's no in between). I love writing setting and am all the more intrigued when setting goes from candlelight flickering in the evening, to the candlelight wafting messages to the person in the room. Miracles move me. I wrote the whole first draft of my novel (mostly) on my phone, in the midst of the hustle and bustle of rush hour in New York City. I write to music blasting in my ears, and calling out from people around me, because that's the time when I can step outside of my anxieties, and hangups and just concentrate on what feels write (*yes*). And once I've emptied myself of all the bones, that's when I can sit in a room, 'bum in chair' and sort through all the bits. 

You don't have to write like anyone else to look at yourself as a real writer. You don't have to carry on the same processes as others, or buy a Leuchturrm because a great writer used one (unless that inspires you). Of course, at some point, you will have to sit down and get down to business. But how you get to that point is up to you. Most of the pains of writing, or any art form, is learning what's been done, and then losing the rule book to learn your own voice. 

What will it take for you to get your work out there? Don't agonize. Get comfortable, and do your thing. Once you and your muse are comfortable and ready to go, you'll be surprised what comes out.

Kind & Cozy | London Fog

Happy Autumn, Dearies!

I wholeheartedly reject the notion that Autumn falls on September 22nd. I've been the psycho burning Warm Buttered Cashew scented candles, wearing acorn necklaces, and brainstorming how to decorate my room with sparkly twine and fabric leaves from Michaels. September 1st marked the first Pumpkin Spice Latte of the season, and as JK Rowling describes this day: "Autumn seemed to arrive suddenly that year. The morning of the first September was crisp and golden as an apple.”

Jumping head first into the festivities, I wanted to launch a celebratory series for all of the Autumnal and cozy recipes that make me warmhearted! The first: a London Fog Tea Latte.

The London Fog Tea Latte is a delicious blend of Earl Grey Tea, Vanilla, and frothed milk. In the past, I'll admit that Earl Grey has always been a bit too 'perfumey' for my tastes, but when blended with Vanilla, it is the bees knees, and the perfect elegant drink to warm your Autumn heart.

materials

• Earl Grey Tea of your choice: I used Harney & Son's Organic Earl Grey Loose Tea. I recommend loose tea as they offer the most wonderful full bodied flavor. 
• Vanilla Flavoring of your choice: Some use Vanilla extract or the vanilla bean itself. I use Monin's Organic Vanilla Syrup. 
• Milk (Whatever Kind of Milk You Love)
• a French Press (or frothing wand) for Frothing Milk: Normally, a french press is used to brew an elegant cup of coffee. However it does wonders with frothing milk. I've used the wand as well, but I think using a French Press offers such luxurious foam! Thankfully both are affordable on Amazon. I purchased my Bodum Chambord for around $30.
• Your favorite cup.
• A nice candle.
• A good book: I'm currently reading The Gilded Years by Karin Tanabe and it is captivating.

First, fill your cup halfway, and steep your tea for five minutes (or as directed by the brand of your choosing). Meanwhile, warm your milk. After your tea has fully steeped, stir in the sweetener of your choice. Once your milk is warm, pour it into your french press (or a cup, if you're using a wand). Use the Press to plunge your milk for a minute. You will see the milk foam up and rise right before your eyes. Pour what's left of your warm milk into your tea, and top it loving heaps of foam. Voila! A London Fog tea latte.

Knitting Stories | On Shawls

Over the past month, I've taken on the adventure of knitting a shawl. A serendipitous find that fell right into place. It's for my Mom. Her birthday is today, and although it won't be finished in time, it already feels like her. I never expected to knit a shawl. Ever. As I perused patterns, they always seemed entirely too intricate with a weight too akin to lace for my tastes, or patience, if I'm being honest. But of course, a Brontë would lead me to it, and inspired by a novel, I can endeavor most challenges.

Over the last month, I've come to realize that yarn and color choice are very important in a shawl. With memories and affections twined in each stitch, the time it takes is roused by the feeling of silky yarn with a striking shade, solid or gradient. If you imbue the entire experience with feeling before hand, it serves as great incentive to carry it through. Whether it's thoughts of your own Autumn adventures, how the color or pattern will bring a little portable magic to the person you're giving it to, a practical need to keep warm during the winter months, or a new way to present the "something old" of bygone romance during a wedding.

Shawls seem to carry with them a great deal of romance. Whilst knitting mine, I've been reading (and watching--swooning--over Richard Armitage) North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell, watching Jane Eyre, and writing a story set within the 19th Century, pondering the significance of this accessory in the time period. Shawls stand out to me as both practical and delicately feminine, able to keep one warm, whilst adding a touch of elegance to your daily wardrobe. Many seem to take on the ethereal quality of a butterfly's wing, as if it could tear with the slightest of grazings. I hold the musing that I would be draping historical romance over my shoulders. 

Knitting prayers and well wishes for my mom into this shawl, I noted that this most feels like I'm knitting something weighted with significance. It feels like a heirloom, especially now that it's more tangible than a few rows of stitches. Like I'm united with generations of women knitting these to keep their girls warm, to adorn a new bride or mother, a small luxury from fibers spun by hand. 

I've decided to knit  a wedding shawl for myself one day. Sooner rather than later. It seems the kind of thing you knit your dreams into.

BLOOM | Wednesday Afternoon Peptalk

Today, I got the feeling that it was time to swipe the dust off of the second draft of my novel and get back to work. I got the same feeling a few weeks ago when my iPod shuffled songs that made my story come alive on the way to work. And while this entry may be just the kind of distraction that often creeps up right when you have a mustard seed sized inkling to start again, I thought I'd nudge us both today.

If you were looking for a sign that whatever you're working on, scared to work on, dreaming of working on, will move someone else in a way that God created only you can move them: this is it.

Whilst in the kitchen, eating popcorn for breakfast (which, I don't recommend) and reading A Different Blue by Amy Harmon, it struck me that her protagonist and the mine both share a harsh upbringing. As I pondered how many people out there who share similar realities may be touched by this novel, I thought, how many people may possibly be touched by my own story if I just got over myself and finished it?

Fear is a twisted little addiction. That frenemy who scares you, but comforts you all the same so that you never step out. Over the last few years, I've noticed something about myself. I'm usually fine with new projects until someone notices I'm working on them. Then I'll find a way to convince myself that a few critiques must mean that I'm a talentless nobody, who shouldn't bother with anything. But something happens when you keep psyching yourself out of everything you try. The desire to do something builds up like a balloon and keeps building until the pressure becomes too great.

I have to do something.

Even if I don't know all of the details, what my great calling is, or what the future may lead to. I can't sit around, making a passive decision not to contribute to the world. And so at the moment, I feel like the consequence of never trying because of fear is greater than trying and perhaps being disappointed with the outcome. Maybe even the concept of "crushed dreams" is a shield we throw up to keep ourselves safe from ever having to step out. I think I'll think of these kinds of fears like battle scars. As much as even the thought of not succeeding hurts deeply, risking the same means I mustered the courage to try.

So I say again, if you're looking for a sign that what you're working on will change someone else's life...this is it.

The Supper Hall Book Club | The Madwoman Upstairs by Catherine Lowell

It's 3:00 AM (no, really) on the dot and I've just finished The Madwoman Upstairs. My gosh. I'm writing this post on my phone with my mouth agape because Catherine Lowell has written herself a masterpiece and what has become one of my favorite novels.  

Madwoman tells the story of, Samantha, the last remaining Brontë heir, who is thrust into an epic literary mystery of her late father's making to uncover her inheritance which may expose secrets long hidden about the Brontë Sisters, and make us question the validity of what we know about them.

Firstly, I love this novel because it's a love letter to the Brontë Sisters, with speculations ranging from the highly romantic to the wonderful, and even to the possible jealousy that may have entered their turbulent lives. This novel is steeped in truth and "Moorish" folklore that is literal candy for a Brontë fan in the form of worn penguin editions popping up, leaving our protagonist confused and emotional.

Secondly, I love that it's a love letter to books and their magical affect on us. Lowell crafts a tale of characters who are literally lost without the tomes that guide them; every kind of reader, from the close, literal reader who takes the writing as it is under their nose, to the reader who digs beneath the surface to uncover the deeper meanings of every metaphor. As much as I've grown disdainful of Academia over my years of undergrad and post, this novel also made me a bit nostalgic for my days spent philosophizing literature I loved, and mostly literature I hated. If you were an English Major, this will bring back all of the memories, victories, and moments where I felt in over my head at every waking moment! 

It's set in the beautiful Oxford University, and I gushed over this. I've always loved the mystery around such renown universities, especially in England, and fun fact: it even inspired me to pick up an 80's Oxford Sweatshirt that winked  at me a little too enthusiastically to pass up on Etsy.

Lastly, which is not the end on any level, I adored Samantha Whipple. Samantha is my spirit animal. She is hilarious and awkward and opinionated and I adored her. I loved her relationship with her eccentric father who teaches her the beauty of treating novels as tangible living things. I loved that he creates little literary mysteries for her as a child, thus preparing her for this grand uncovering as his final poignant message. And James Timothy Orville the Third is the greatest. Listening to them spar made me nostalgic for my own college days full of challenging tutors. Although, if I had a tutor as breathtakingly handsome and intelligent as Orville, I'd have taken the torture with glee! Samantha's relationship with Orville is so precious, honestly. Lowell creates a special meeting of minds and hearts with these two. They drive each other crazy in the best way possible, and it has the same subtle quality of other classic romances out there in terms of slow pacing and subtle nuance. Their dialogue is so intelligent and hilarious. It's the dream of any bookish person to meet someone who will go toe to toe with them in seeming endless passionate debates over literature and dinner.

Lowell does an awesome job of weaving all sorts of key Brontë moments from their novels and lives into Samantha's, from the fire in Rochester's bedroom, to the student professor relationship, to the stormy moors all the while balancing each moment with Samantha's wit and humor. I especially loved how Lowell makes Anne a key component of this novel. Anne has long since fascinated me because it seems that the world has forgotten her in lieu of her two passionate sisters and as I've become an avid fan of the Brontë's, it's made me a bit resentful. For some reason I feel the need to stand up for Anne and shout that the world shouldn't sleep on her. And through Samantha, I was gratified. I loved that they analyzed who "the Madwoman", Bertha Mason, could be or represent. She even calls out Charlotte's passionate refusal to have Anne's Wildfell republished, opening the door for examination of the sisters' relationship with each other. More importantly a woman's desire to be heard. 

Catherine Lowell's writing is beautiful, sparse at the right moments, and dreamy at the right moments.  Samantha has such a great voice that is sarcastic, enthusiastic when pushed, and thoughtful. Samantha's comebacks are the best!!! I loved that even with her matriculation into the world's greatest institution, she second guesses her self, her writing ability, her place there, and has to fight to gain her confidence. I won't say that the uncovered mystery at the end is a feat of magnificence, but I kind of think that this was the point all along. The novel discusses at length the things we do to give people, objects, or stories great significance because it fills a hole in us that we want to fill. This was one of the great messages that the novel contained. But all of this said, the experience of this novel, it's characters and charm, it's dark humor, and the Brontë's are the point!

The Madwoman Upstairs is for the English major, Anglophile, blue-stocking, Jane Eyre loving, Haworth visiting, "Reader I Married Him" swooning person out there. I still don't know if this review does the novel justice. I literally spent all week looking forward to leaving work so I could stroll with my book in peace. Catherine Lowell has given us a fabulous debut novel that is beautifully written, and witty, and I think I've already entertained ideas of rereading this one right away.

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“To him, every book was its own treasure map. A good novel, he said, left the close reader with a useful souvenir. All you needed to do was learn to see what was right under your nose”