Nicholas Trandahl's Blog, page 5
November 15, 2015
Sundays
An incandescent elixir is Sunday’s rich glow.
A bloom of its soft qualities begins to grow.
My soul drinks of it, swallowing deeply,
Using it quietly, wielding it discreetly.
-Excerpt from “Sunday Morning Rhymes”
by Nicholas Trandahl
Autumn leaves. Fog. Being outdoors. Shorelines. Woods. Morning sunlight. The sound of geese high in the air. The Atlantic.
Taking advantage of a mild November Sunday, reading and writing outdoors.
Sunsets. Really good literature. Cocktails. Intimacy. Ambient mus...
November 7, 2015
A Luminous Niche
The waves have now a redder glow —
The hours are breathing faint and low —
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence.
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
-Excerpt from “The City in the Sea”,
Edgar Allan Poe
Nicholas Trandahl
I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. I’ve always been making stories. And everyone that knew me growing up knew of my penchant for fiction. When I was 11 or so, my uncle gave me a massive hardcover tome...
November 2, 2015
To NaNoWriMo, or not to NaNoWriMo?
The colorful boughs of crisp October havegiven way to the barren limbs and cold grey skies of November. Do you know what that means? Not the quicklyencroaching holiday season! It means thatNaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) is upon us! And, according to what’s trending on social media, over 300,000 authors and aspiring authors are participating in the challenge to write a new novel this November! That’s quite the influx of new books, should even a fraction of these participants be succe...
October 29, 2015
Cocktails & Other Stories
The moon was full and white, like a breast. Leaves still rattled in the hard cold limbs of the trees, and the leaves were made dry and vibrant by the year’s last great season. The pale lights of the night had usurped the chromatic radiances of the day. Light always begets light. Eternity carries a torch.
–From the short story “Bestow” by Nicholas Trandahl
Short stories were intimidating to me. They always had been. They were more intimidating than writing novels, more intimidating than poet...
