Janine Donoho's Blog, page 10

Kate’s Garden

Along my way to an oceanfront writers’ retreat, this parched desert woman received the gift of Kate’s garden. Fitted like a jewel in the bezel of coastal Washington, her garden’s the opposite of dry. I sipped coffee surrounded by lush morning filled with intricate songs from MacGillivray’s and Wilson’s warblers, Swainson’s thrush, and the ubiquitous Robin. Cacophonous geese winged northeast–perhaps toward my high desert.

Kate’s artfulness shows in her placement of azalea, stone, rose and bench. Prayerful seating maximizes natural connections. Her latest Mother’s Day hydrangea–deepest pink–confirms how much she’s loved. Even the air smelled green with plant exhalations and floral abundance.

Her stunning historical FOR SUCH A TIME from Bethany House Publishers launches April 1, 2014. Even though her novel’s been endorsed by heavy-hitter Debbie Macomber, Kate’s too shy to tout her own bona fides. Besides that’s what fan-friends are for…

Like many of us creatives, she balks at misrepresenting herself. What that equates with? We fail to reach out to the very readers who want and need our work. Since she writes inspirational fiction steeped in history, I’ve no doubt that her readers will come. To help that happen, watch for updates both here and at http://katebreslin.com/.

I hope you enjoyed this pictorial journey. Right now Kate’s wrestling with how to make her next novel as life-enhancing as FOR SUCH A TIME. Meanwhile I’m infatuated with editing my next MISTBORN CHRONICLE.

So I shared–now it’s your turn. What’s riveting your attention and getting you out of bed each morning?

True North

The science of true north

Bundles in magnetic snouts

Of rainbow trout or the 

Cryptochrome eyes of Anna’s Hummingbirds.

Even cows align along axes north-to-south.

Lacking their animal magnetism

I face into polar winds

Cascading from icy fields

Where Auroras shimmer.

My shivering hounds race toward me–

A locus of heat and comfort.

Really? Moderation in all things…

Our Immoderate Daffs

At various time this phrase has taken on political and religious fervor, but that’s not where I want to go. Instead I ask you, “Really? Moderation gets us to awesome?” Just sayin’.

Immoderate White-tailed Deer

Perhaps before Terence’s death in 159 B.C.E., life demanded restraint. If you start your life as a slave as he did, that could bank your fires. It might have led to his early death, too. Plus those Roman robes required sweeping gestures and a measured pace. Still it’s tough to feel ardent about moderation.

Granted self-restraint’s necessary in any number of arenas—when you’re a martial arts expert, cleaning a garbage disposal, teaching a child, dealing with fringe elements…. I get that. Transplanting my seedlings takes self-control, although I’m more driven by reverence for life. How cool is it that entire forests begin with a seed?

When it comes to other passions like dance, writing, reading, or artwork, I’m more of a full throttle woman.

Immoderate Mountain Bluebird Male

Even when gaining competency, don’t you need to push yourself—immoderately? The sense of our firefly existence drives me. So many choreographies, stories and visual renditions percolate that I’d have to live another century or two to finish them. Besides how can anyone approach the work of completing entire novels or series unless your vision’s intensely engaged?

Thus let me modify Terence’s words to ‘moderation in those things necessary, exuberance in all else’. I don’t think he’d mind. His Woman of Andros (Andria) was a romantic comedy after all. As in most New Comedy, he relied upon frequent external solutions to smooth the path to resolution. Very soap opera, don’t you think?

Moderate Blue Grouse Female

So I leave you, dear reader, with another Terence quote that works much better for me as a world-building writer of fantasy:

“Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto“                 

“I am a human being, I consider nothing that is human alien to me.”

With that you’re invited into my world with FORGED IN MIST, book 2 of MISTBORN CHRONICLES, coming soon to an e-reader near you.

Immoderate Blue Grouse Male

 

Call of the Pack

Morning and night, my three hounds often indulge in what I dub ‘The Call of the Pack’*. From a biologist’s perspective, it seems to hearken back to their wolf ancestry of 10,000 years ago, when pack meant food, shelter and protection. I can vouch that the local coyotes go silent when my hounds raise their needle noses to the sky and release their inner wolf. Enjoy this window into their world.

*Wanted to post my own hounds rooing, but this version of WORDPRESS wouldn’t let me :~{.

Snow Day

What do you do on snow days? Seven inches of new snow fell overnight. Fresh pillows buffer the earth’s bones. In one of our conifer stands, a white-tailed doe lies along the leeward side.

I wish for a greater vocabulary for snow–like an Inuit’s. Then my poetic side could roll around in aniu or qanikcaq, snow-on-ground, and muruaneq, soft-deep-snow. Or I could make snow seraphs in nutaryuk, fresh-fallen-snow-on-the-ground.

This storm arrived after a thaw–so the YakTrax are back. Since the revision process of FORGED IN MIST feels stale, I’m treating myself to well-earned holiday. That means a sweet-and-sour reading combo of library books: SERAPHINA by Rachel Hartman and Al Gore’s THE FUTURE. Later I’ll strap on the Trax and it’s off to the luge course we go. Perhaps I’ll spike the hot cocoa afterward with homemade Irish cream.

Then tomorrow I face my desk with renewed enthusiasm. On, on…

End of YakTraxia

What does spring mean to you? For us the season of YakTrax draws to its annual end. The timing’s good; my Pro-Trax have sprung a few coils. The snow-laden roof will release the flying squirrel toy lost since December. Earth’s bones begin to emerge from beneath ice and our winter cave can use a good airing.

Last week a major melt began, punctuated by hail last night. Like the rest of our planet, we’re experiencing cockeyed seasons. This thaw arrives earlier than usual. Other than crafting sustainable choices on a personal level, what’s a citizen to do? I order more vegetable, fruit and flower seeds from Swallowtail Garden, then go for a hike.

Dependent upon temperament–or which leg of the ramble we’re on–our pack treads on either remaining snowpack or emerging soil. Both can be fraught with risk. Slush engenders a new dance step: one-step-forward, half-a-slip-back. The percussion of cascading drips from Ponderosa pines enhances our unique tempo. Meanwhile treading upon saturated moondust–yes, the yummy brown of my fave dark chocolate–gobbles an entire boot. Sucking sounds accompany language picked up while testing Naval ship systems. The boisterous aroma of fertile soils and emerging plants combines with this.

Songs of returning birds add delight. A persistent pileated woodpecker competes with local black bear on who can peck or gouge the most insect larvae from a downed pine. Later in spring the same woodpecker will perch on our metal roof at sunrise and broadcast his mating vigor–think jackhammer. Our whippet informs us that the mated pair of bald eagles has returned–Connor insists upon yelling at them. Then at dusk I hear the wicka-wicka-wicka of a Northern Flicker. Anticipation warms me.

Now my break’s over. Back to editing FORGED IN MIST, book 2 of MISTBORN CHRONICLES. I’m over half way there–and spring comes.

Soulful Pack & One Outlier

Who are your boon companions? When not writing or playing with artful things, much of my life revolves around mine. I thought I’d share the nonhuman ones with you. Yes, you’re witnessing unconditional love.

 

Except for Gilly Girl, who’s a cat, after all. To her, I serve as private groomer, comfy lap and she-who-feeds-me-scrumptious-stinky-foods.

Now onto daily edits of FORGED IN MIST, book 2 of MISTBORN CHRONICLES.

Moroccan Sighthound

I keep only those objects that captivate. Many come from my travels outside this country. Exquisite Moroccan, Egyptian and Turkish rugs; hand-painted papyrus, singular jewelry and textiles, handmade paper–you get the idea. Since all travels occurred via backpack and public transport, size mattered. Except rugs and kilims, which arrived via slow camel–or so it felt.

This sinuous sighthound has remained a perennial favorite. Found during a circuit through Morocco from Casablanca to Marrakesh, she recalls heady scents of mint tea and pastry, the alkaline feel of the Sahara on skin and tongue, and the intricate amalgam that is Moroccan culture. The souks of either Essaouira or Rabat offered her to me. I give thanks.

A prolonged study of this sculpture along with lingering touches to her back and sides has refreshed me. Now I’m ready to dive back into my edit of FORGED IN MIST. This sojourn also serves as reminder to move other less cherished items along to new homes.

Later. Right now, I’m writing.

Greetings Well-Hung Sweetheart

Greetings Well-Hung Sweetheart. Yes, that’s the joyful porn spam greeting of the day. Remember when spam meant spiced ham with the ingredients of pork shoulder, ham, salt, sugar, sodium nitrite and water? And yes, Google spam automatically goes away after 30 days. What’s in my box can’t be good feng shui, though.

The Association of Feng Shui experts for this Year of the Snake warns that if you want to avoid misfortune–and who doesn’t–never, ever disturb the path of a snake. In a landscape populated by rattlesnakes, that goes unsaid. They also admonish against renovations or hole digging along your southeast property. Nothing about porn spam, but I still delete daily while laughing at its absurdity.

On another note, we’re into a pre-spring cycle of melt by day, freeze by night. Our northern exposure has developed into a stellar luge course and the western mountains inspire coralline mornings. Plus we’re still finding gorgeous critter tracks in the snow. Definitely feline, here’s either a lynx or cougar print beside my boot for reference. We’re an exotic predator pack surrounded by native predators–very stimulating for a geeky biologist.

Now back to editing FORGED IN MIST…book 2 of MISTBORN CHRONICLES.

Still Winter

Stillness and winter. Intermittent and distant traffic along the Crowsnest Highway in Canada offers the only false tone. Today a baby bird’s song–way too early–along with raptors voicing joy in snowmelt that bares rodent tunnels. Evenings and mornings fill with coyote song–shortly followed by our hounds’ response and perhaps the belling tone of a wolf. Icicles drip and plop as temperatures rise to mid-30s. Winter goes on here for about 2 months longer than many expect. So I take a cue from wily whippet Connor, our rockhound who climbs to see what’s on the other side.

Now back to editing FORGED IN MIST, book 2 of MISTBORN CHRONICLES.