So last
weekend, I was getting dressed to go watch my grands play soccer, feeling kinda
cute in my new Spring clothes and I decided to wear my contacts. I wear my
glassed 99% or the time.
Oh my! I
had no idea my face, especially under my eyes, was so wrinkled- probably from
the magnified sun through my glasses all these years!
I immediately
got online and ordered every Mary Kay product with retinol and vitamin C I could
find, but I am still a bit traumatized.
I will say
though, the quicker remedy was just to remove the contacts- now I can’t see the
wrinkles (or much of anything else) - problem solved.
Okay, so
real work (or therapy in my case)…
Last month
I talked about changing things up on my writing so my daughter "might" read something I've written. It is really hard to dedicate a novel to someone who won't read it. I am not sure why I was shocked that this is the type writing she likes, after all, I took British Lit and several other literature classes as electives for my degree in Math.
So, here is my shot at Romantasy –
The
opening to Chapter 1- (of 35). It has been rewritten no less than 10 times and
I keep having to undo my doing. It is possible to overwrite I am learning … repeatedly.
Chapter
One: The Scribe
I used to
think ink was safe—less dangerous than blood, less binding than prophecy.
That was
the lie I fed myself every time I dipped my quill. That if I kept my head down
and my hands busy, the world wouldn’t see me—and the only trace of me would be
in the words I left behind.
My writing
was good, not fancy, just plain, precise, and legible. It lacked the
extravagant flourishes favored by nobles and the courtly elite, and that was by
design. Not because I lacked the skill. I could craft letters with as much
gilded flair as any palace-trained scribe—but I chose not to. Simplicity kept
me unseen. Safe.
I was
content with the simple life I had, working beside Master Faren, the village
historian. He and his late wife had shown me kindness when they had no reason
to, offering food, shelter, and the warmth of a hearth for my help in
transcribing dusty tomes and reading aloud to them from ancient texts.
Every
morning, I started my day the same, sweeping ash from the hearth and stacking
the day’s scrolls by subject: histories, hymns, political letters.
The Master
liked to quiz me between sips of his spiced tea. He’d pause in the middle of
copying a decree to ask about the Fourth Age rebellions or to recite a passage
from the Book of the Flame. Our life was quiet, structured, and
predictable—until it wasn’t.
My life
was more than most orphans in Dalswyth could dream of. The others—those left to
survive the streets—found work in the shadows. Their trades were built on
deceit, survival, and compromise. I knew many by name, few by choice. I knew
better than to judge them, for it was only by fate that we were on opposite sides
of the glass.
I watched
their world from my window, but I lived among the countless realms hidden
within the pages of Master Faren’s sprawling library. While the seasons turned
outside, I devoured epics and verses, memorized the wisdom of the old gods, and
could recite the Exaltation of Inanna, composed by Enheduanna, high
priestess of the moon god Nanna, in no fewer than three tongues.
I could do
many things that most mortal girls of seventeen winters could not do. I could
decipher runes, debate philosophy, and translate dead languages whispered only
in temples long turned to dust.
And yet,
for all I knew, for all I was, one thing remained forever out of reach.
My
childhood.
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