When the bird awoke, the wind had stopped howling and a stillness could be felt in the particles in the air. Small creatures with wide eyes and small ears darted about the bird in curiosity and fear. These creatures were the children of the wind and they wondered where their father went.
The bird could feel them around it, nipping, sniffing, and biting lightly with small pointy teeth at its feathers. But still, it did not open its eyes. The children knew, like their father, that the bird was strange and unusual. Unknown. And, just like their father, it wanted it gone.
The bird stayed still for many hours, but deeply aware of its surroundings, it felt the slow rise and fall of the sun in the sky, and the coming and going of the tide. Everything was so quiet and calm, now that the wind had gone. But all day, the children of the wind, would not let the bird rest, both curious and afraid of what it was, until, as the sun went down under the horizon, the bird opened one of its eyes.
Gliding through the misty morning, the bird flew a great distance from its home. It flew through the clouds that covered its wings with dew and over dark, hollow chasms that startled it with their depths, but still it did not open its eyes.
The bird flew for five nights and five days until it finally could not lift up its wings and landed on a small island stranded in the middle of a tossing sea.
The wind was blowing hard, almost flattening the trees bordering the beach, screaming and howling at the bird, trying to ruffle its feathers and scare it into flying away. The wind did not know the bird, could not understand it, and refused to let it stay on its island. For this was the wind’s home, and it was its beach, and the bird, with its thousand eyes twinkling like stars, blinded the night where the wind was king.
But the bird remained, unmoved, its head under its wing, used to howling capricious winds that lived on islands or at the top of mountains, and it slept.
The bird did not know the world beyond its nest or its mountain, but one day it awoke and knew that it must fly.
There was something calling it. Something it had never heard, but knew and recognized and felt. An urgency through its body, pushing it, tugging at it. Until it could only open its wings, grand and majestic, covering half of the sky, and fly away. And still it did not opened its eyes.
“I do believe in an everyday sort of magic — the inexplicable connectedness we sometimes experience with places, people, works of art and the like; the eerie appropriateness of moments of syncronicity; the whispered voice, the hidden presence, when we think we’re alone.”—Charles de Lint (via pada-viya)
Ohhh I'm glad that my long message helped! I know what it's like, not being sure how to get started or if your writing's good enough. I question myself a lot. Just know that a lot of published writers didn't even study English Lit or Creative Writing but they're still really good writers (after years of writing). Some of their writing's all home grown. They learned how to write well from reading lots and lots of books and you read a lot, so I'm sure that you can totally write! But I personally think that taking some Creative Writing classes would be good. For me, they are totally fun! You get to share your stories with your classmates and they give you feedback--it teaches you how to have thick skin and take constructive criticism. Also helps you with structure, different kinds of writing and learning about how genres work. I don't know, I find these classes fun haha.
You already have a degree so you can always try another route, which is just by writing letters to agencies and publishing houses for some experience. That's what I'm doing write now (like that pun? :P). You can look up some agencies and publishing houses on the internet and send them your cover letter and CV when you're ready. It couldn't hurt to try. Besides, you can put in your letter that you run a book blog where you write reviews and have received some ARCs that publishers wanted you to review :) You have lots of good things going on that you can polish up in your letters. I don't think it's impossible, I think anything's possible as long as you're passionate. Annnnnnd if you decide on doing the illustration route, you've already created so many things, so you can put together a portfolio and write some letters to see if anyone is interested in your work. And I agree, you would probably be happier being a part of the creative process as you like to create. It would keep you creative and I see it like, every time we get a new book to design and put together, it's a new challenge, new idea and new inspiration, just like what you said about putting story collections together. xx
0_0 Oh my God. I think I love you. Seriously.
Thank you for all this. It’s a great boost. I agree with everything you’ve said. And I will try to find the confidence in me to achieve all this. Oh my, it’s a lot to take in.
Thank you thank you xxx (you have no idea how grateful I am for all of this)
“She is our moon. Our tidal pull. She is the rich deep beneath the sea, the buried treasure, the expression in the owl’s eye, the perfume in the wild rose. She is what the water says when it moves.”—Patricia A. McKillip (via fleurishes)
“I used many times to touch my own chest and feel, under its asthmatic quiver, the engine of the heart and lungs and blood and feel amazed at what I sensed was the enormity of the power I possessed. Not magical power, but real power. The power simply to go on, the power to endure, that is power enough, but I felt I had also the power to create, to add, to delight, to amaze and to transform.”—Stephen Fry (via ish07)
French is weird. Speaking French is weird. It has the bitter sweet taste of something that you were, remember being, but are not anymore. It is both foreign and familiar. It feels too strange, and I find myself slipping back into English often. English is comforting. English is safe.
(a lot of people suggested I read The Raven by Poe, but I’ll have to practice frist. It’s long and there are lots of difficult words for me. I quite fancy the Highwayman too. Keep sending me suggestions! At least it makes me discover new poetry and more) xxx
Edith: Oh gosh, I just re-listened to it. Please forgive the accent. It is particularly pronounced in this one. I don’t know. It makes me feel a bit more self-conscious…moving on!