*comes in happily skipping and humming* What, you don't believe that a Monday, a struggle against the alarm clock (sadly void, but I will work on it) and 277 words over the daily wordcount would have this effect??? OK, so maybe not skipping...more like dragging my feet and looking blearlily at the computer screen...

Yet seriously, I did Day 1 in my Advent novel (for it is to be a novel now) and it wasn't that bad. Albeit it took a while, mostly because I'm still straightening the lumps, having no plot at all to go on at first, and thinking up names, junk loik thet. It can't take so long tomorrow, I wanna spend more time wid da Girls and Mom, just enjoying each other's company! But if this is Day 1, I jist might do NaNoWriMo next year. I don't believe what I wrote was twaddle, of course you must decide for yourself and read Day 1, yet all in all I did not have to come in here screaming about stoopid kids (characters, Mom, not Katsy and G.B.!) and ridiculous plots with no meaning whatsoever. *refuses stubbornly to think about Day 8 or Day 15* God-willing my inspiration will flow steadily and already December seems too short. I may get long-winded and not finish it. But no! I musn't...

Right now, my fingers are frozen curled over the keyboard and the spicy winter air outside is calling me to gather some wood stove kindling from the forest. That all sounds horribly dramatic, but we do live on top of a hill surrounded by sloping woods. I've also vowed to cook or bake at least one goodie for Mom every day...I came to the conclusion during Thanksgiving that I am a dreadful bachelor and, come the holidays when, also God-willing, I an married to a Godly man, and IF I actually manage to cook the turkey, we will eat half and then I shall stand staring stoopidly at it.

Wellp, Dad's home because he must work tonight, so I must away. Now, if I come storming in here tomorrow, blame it on Rhody and the black rider! They're Renegades, I think. It's good to know I always have molespeech to lapse into if the Advent book gets too rebellious

God bless,

~PIP~

LATER:

Tonight at six o'clock eastern time, Venus, Jupiter and the moon will be the closest near each other than they will be for another 44 years! Mom, Dad, the Girls and I all went outside with the binoculars and danced around laughing at our shadows (and hahaha, that last part was us, not Mom and Dad!). It was great fun so if you have a chance, see it! It won't occur again for 44 years!!!!

"FANTASY IS A NECESSARY INGREDIENT IN LIVING, IT'S A WAY OF LOOKING AT LIFE THROUGH THE WRONG END OF A TELESCOPE."~Dr. Seuss

Good grief, it actually wasn't that bad! It took about two hours, but to my utter amazement, I wrote 277 words over the daily wordcount. I'll haveta not be so long-winded or write faster, it took too long in my opinion. I feel optimistic about it, however, and hope you will like whatcha see. The genre is Christian fantasy/allegory, and it's based somewhat on Christ's birth (although that isn't revelent until later). I can't give you a nutshell summary cuz *whispers* I'm making it up as I go!!! So here's the labor of day 1:

The clouds were red. Red like blood. The mist arose from the river like some terrible apparition, seeking to strangle the spicy winter air. Ice-coated branches clacked together like morbid hands keeping time to a death-song. Far across the foggy heaths came the wailing, mournful cry of a wounded child. Then a horrible growl shook the snow lying on the forest floor, and all was silent. Silent save for the brush of the zephyrs in the frozen grass.

“All is lost!” shouted the sterling-eyed king. His long rich purple robes dragged along the cherry wood floor of his private chambers. “How will we gain salvation from our foes now? The heir to the Warwick throne is dead. Dead, I tell you!” The king stopped pacing to slam his fist on the small dragon-leg table, upsetting a silver goblet of rich red drink. His advisor, the tall, thin gray man with brilliant blue eyes, tapped his foot nervously in the shadowed corner where he stood. Long had he aided his king to rule Crescent and the surrounding kingdoms…but lately turmoil had erupted in the adjacent heath-province of Warwick, the kingdom of fierce warriors and brave women. Rumors of the Yule, the dreaded tree-beasts of some far northern mountain range, had spread like wildfire throughout the lands. Crescent’s king, good Wenceslas, had spent many a fitful night mulling over the fate of his dear people. The villagers, living scattered instead of companionably together, were forced to tear down their wattle and daub houses and move closer to each other, creating friction over farmland and field possession. The daily strife caused much pain to Wenceslas and already his smooth pale forehead was becoming creased. How long would these frightening rumors bring the Crescentfolk to his drawbridge, demanding restitution? The Yule had long since died out…had they not?

Wenceslas sighed and sat wearily down on his fur-covered bed. “Melchior…I am nearly spent of all my love for the Crescentfolk. How long will these tales persist to torment my once-peaceful mind?” Melchior, sitting down beside his king, rubbed his spindly hands together and enjoyed the rasping sound.

“Good majesty.” His voice was smooth and deep. “Why is it that you are troubled so by your people? Why not merely bar them from your presence and leave them to sort their own truth from the Yule rumors, hmm?” Wenceslas started and stared at his advisor.

“Melchior, are you suggesting that I abandon my people?” The king’s mighty voice shook with surprise. “I am pledged to love and serve the Crescentfolk like my father before me, and his father before him and all the way back to the Fairies who spawned us within their dew-laden cliff dwellings. To pay no heed to the cries of my suffering fellowmen would be an outrage not only to my ancestors…but also to the Fairies. We must not enrage them, must we?” Melchior sighed heavily; the gesture seemed almost forced.

“I suppose not, great one. Yet remember, to live a life of dull care and constant worry is not to live.”

Wenceslas gazed in confusion at the tall narrow shadow as his advisor walked from the chamber.

“She must be part Fairy. No other girl her age would care so for the well-being of her friends.” The warm, smoky voice came from a gossipy old woman sitting amid a voluminous dress of fine silk and furs upon a long red bench next to her friend. Cheerful music drifted across the shiny marble hallways and tickled the ears of rosy-cheeked children playing rambunctiously near the hearth. Murmured conversation reverberated through the big bright room and twisted around the columns to meet the two old biddies snickering over the guests.

“Yes indeed, she MUST be!” the other woman said. The two women watched the tall girl move gently through the crowd, her raven black hair catching the hearth firelight. “Can you see her ears? Maybe they are pointed!” The old lady gave a thrilled shiver and sipped her strong punch.

“Oh dear, her hair’s covering them. Well, if she is a Fairy’s child, we will hear about it soon enough.”

The girl did not hear their conversation. She was kneeling beside a little boy who had bruised his shin on a jagged corner. “There there,” she whispered as a tear rolled sparkling from the boy’s bright green eye. “It will not hurt for long.” The girl kissed his pink skin and took a damp cloth from her thick leather belt, and pressed it to the bruise. “Does that feel tingly?” The boy’s lips shaped an O and he laughed softly. “It feel like tasting peppermint!”

“Ah yes, peppermint, the herb of the winter,” the girl said. “That is good. You know, to feel something that has peppermint-taste is a very rare thing indeed.” The boy grew sober. “Really?”

“Oh yes! You must pay attention to that delicious cold feeling, for you never know when next you shall feel it.” The boy squinted up his eyes and held his breath. The girl laughed and stood up. “Thank you, Rhody,” the boy said in a pinched voice. Rhody ruffled his hair and moved silently around dancing couples. What a pleasant party! The duke had indeed outdone himself this Greenleaftime. Shrill bagpipes trilled and fiddles gave their high, swirling thrum. A young lad played with enthusiasm on a little drum and Rhody waved her hand to the beat. The boy nodded back and gave her a fond grin. Skerry was a nice brother, with his ruddy face and crooked smile. His thick thatch of hair was as black as hers and fell in his eyes as he bent once more over his drum. Rhody’s tan face darkened briefly as she recalled voices who said her and her brother were odd. Indeed, they were different, but not insane. Skerry had built their little home into the hollow trunk of a giant pine tree and kept the soup pot filled with good rabbit meat and pigeon. Rhody knew every plant and herb in the forest and on the heaths, and could sew masterfully. She ran a hand over her warm maroon cloak and smiled to herself as she sat down in a chilly window seat. Just because Skerry and she lived outside of the paranoid community of Crescentfolk, who had been pushed at each other by the Yule rumors, did not mean they were mentally ill or deliberately disobeyed the duke’s commands, which came directly from king Wenceslas. Crescentfolk, over the past several years, had learned to scorn those who did not conform to authoritative ruling. Rhody, in counter, scorned helpless fear that trained not the mind but the doubts. Skerry was a skilled swordsman, too young to be drafted in the duke’s regiment but a talented squire nonetheless. He taught Rhody the art of wielding the broadsword and Rhody in turn taught him to recognize vital herbs. Together they felt prepared to battle and aid as best they could should the Yule cross the eastern rapids.

Rhody leaned her head against the frosty windowpane as the music changed tunes and a clear pipe came into hearing. Her eyes slowly closed as the lilting sound carried her to sunny fields and cold streams, plump berries bursting with goodness and joyous laughter that floated on a slight breeze. Yes, this was where she’d come from. Long garments of materials she had never been able to find, graceful peace that evaded the most troubled soul and made it sleep. Thick, sweet water and bright dappled leaves whispering to each other. This was her home. Her real home…

You must pay the piper, two must dance along;

three should glean the grass and one will sing this song.

The merry tune was carried on the wind to the ears of several shepherds watching their sedate creatures.

“Ho, minstrel!” shouted one of them. The slender man carrying a gaily-painted lute strode over on long legs and sat before the shepherd’s small fire. “What will you have this cold noon?” he asked. His voice was happy and lazy. The cold seemed not to bother him. “Something suited to the day,” one shepherd grumbled. He pulled his fleece jacket closer about his sinewy shoulders and tore into his bread and cheese. The minstrel scratched his chin as the others nodded their agreement.

“A winter song, eh?” he said. “One would think you would wish a hot summer ditty to warm your stern bones!” One shepherd laughed mutedly but the leader turned austere blue eyes on him.

“I did not call for a jester, I called for a song in keeping with my miserable life.”

Why would you not want a song about joy? thought the minstrel. Surely it would do you some good! He did not say this aloud but stood up, his height towering and blocking out the sick gray sun.

“I fear I do not know any songs of those sort. I can sing only cheery tunes this noon, for I am going to be minstrel to king Wenceslas himself!” The shepherds, though discontented, whistled and let him on his way.

The minstrel walked on along the rude muddy road. He swung his arms in a wide arc and did not heed the sudden freezing blast of wind that danced inside his clumsily-sewn tunic. Slinging his lute over his shoulder, the minstrel hummed a washerwoman’s lay as the heaths came into view. The forests were behind him now; Wenceslas’s castle must not be far away now. With good blessing he could make it by supper time if he pushed his long legs to cover the distance. His gentle mother’s words rang through his head once more: “Now, my dear Conan, you must bring honor to your poor dead father and play well for the king. Wenceslas has been very kind to us here in Kentle, you must strive to play your very best for him.” Conan had given his word but with tears he had parted with his little mother. He’d protected her many a stormy night from drunken men and savage beasts, and his heart had grown tender towards her. His mother did promise to travel to a nearby village and seek shelter with another old widow, so Conan’s heart could be put at ease.

Conan’s voice drove away the chilling fingers of heath-winter as he sang of brave warriors defeating dragons to save beautiful ladies locked in high towers overlooking magical ponds. For amusement he twisted one tale and made it the lay of a woman sword-wielder who saved a wounded knight during a bloody foxhunt. The new story pleased him and he wove it into a well-known song. Once he had the words right, Conan ran his fingers through his curly brown hair and felt content. The heaths were now upon him; his cloak was soon damp with the purple fog and his the laces on his leather boots dragged in the squelching mud. Conan sang his tale over and over, but eventually the sad cry of marsh birds and the wind whipping off the mountain peaks surrounding the heath muted his joy. He began to feel weary and his steps slowed.

“This truly is a downtrodden land, with the very essence of melancholy,” Conan muttered as a briar bush wrapped stickled arms around him. He tore free and looked about him. The trees were strung with moss like grim decorations and the frogs croaked softly. As the sky darkened, the minstrel began to feel a creeping panic. What if he broke right at the height of his journey? Wenceslas’s castle was surely just over those few ridges! Yet on and on he traveled and there was no sight of the sprawling stone dwelling. The heaths grew silent and the wind bit at Conan’s buckling lute until he covered it hastily inside his dirty cloak. The screams of angry memories seemed to haunt the heaths and hidden marshes. Conan felt his happiness slowly ebb away and his fingers froze stiff, curled around his belt. He wished the king had provided him with an escort. The most there was had been a summons from a pimple-faced page, excited with his first duty, telling him the king’s decision to make him minstrel. Conan recalled the years spent studying at Kentle’s art school, the bleeding fingers and aching head, the hours away from his mother as he grew up mastering the lute. Thankfully, Conan was a quick learner and was soon able to spend more time with his mother, playing for her instead of steel-eyed instructors who cared nothing for depth or beauty, but only the true ring of the lute strings and wail of the pipe. And then the blessed day, the summons day.

Conan tried to think on these things as a delicious warmth overcame his cold limbs. No, no, he mustn’t give up! Not so close, not so close…

The black rider, his cape sweeping the dusty stars, galloped upon his frothing steed across the greenish gray heath hills. His eyes smoldered. How dare that king tell him what he must and mustn’t do! The rider shouted again in rage as his horse slipped slightly and he nearly fell off.

“Stupid animal!” The man dug his sharp boots into the horse’s flank. “We must make it to the woods in whole pieces!”

As the moon rose pale and thin over the heathlands, it saw a strange sight. The black rider and his horse has stopped before a lanky shadow stretched out in a marsh. The man tipped his head back and laughed. The moon leaned closer and heard his evil voice say, “What have we here!”

Hey guys, how's it going!!! I'm good, my foot is a lot better!!! Right now, I'm in m dad's box truck making a delivery!! We had to get up at  like 6:00 AM!!!! I'm so tired! lol!!! We left at 7:30!!!! It's nearly 4:00, and I haven't even had luch yet!!!! Well I don't have much to say... Oh yeah, Ella, my niece, has RSV, and when my nephew Kaleb had it, he nearly died, so if you remember, please pray for her.

TTYL

I have been tagged by Kantare:

1. If you were to describe yourself as a color, what would it be?: Hmm, blue I guess

2. What is your favorite animal?: Cats, or hawks

3. What is your favorite musical instrument?: Piano and violin

4. Do you have a favorite number?: 8; it's a really neat number

5. Roller coasters or boat rides?: boat rides

6. If you were an animal, what would you be?: I suppose I'm most like an owl, quiet and observing

7. What coin best describes you?: I have never thought of myself as a coin, but the coin that I like is the nickle because it's smooth sided

8. Do you like tags?: yes

9. Do you wish this tag would end?: there are only six more questions, I'll be done soon anyway

10. Morning or evening?: definitely evening!

11. Mugs or just plain cups?: mugs for hot chocolate and tea, cups for water

12. Describe yourself as a...: Reader of Books, Writer of Stories, and a quiet sort of girl

13. fiction or non-fiction?: fiction of course!

14. Do you wish you were somewhere else?: nope

15. Do you like candy or do you not like candy?: yes, I like candy! But I like chocolate better, I even like dark chocolate!

People to tag:  Storyteller, PoeticMaiden, luvdogs07, horses4ever23.

GAAAAAAAAAAAAA! Ah, I feel better. If you, Reader, has not heard of the NaNoWriMo program, let me inform you. NaNo is a challenge given out to anyone who likes, to write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November.  I'd decided not to do it this year, due to heart-wrenching failure stories and friends who told me it was a 'singularly torturous experience' (humph! If anyone has had a different outcome, I sure would like to hear about it!!!), and also because I work on inspiration. By secular standards, I write when I feel like it. To me, I write when God gives me the inspiration. Waiddaminute!!! I am by NO MEANS trying to compare meself with great writers or worthy of God's 'special gifts', anything like that; if anything, my writing isn't worthy to post in Inkstains most of the time, much less using as an inconspicuously devious means of the twistings of your mind! Please do not git the wrong idea of my MINIstry for God. This is simply what God has given me to do, and I try the best I can. Now! That said: last year I'd tried writing an Advent book. For those of you who do not celebrate Advent, it's basically a time for spiritual focus through the holidays, a way of putting Christ back into Christmas. My family and I had done it for three years with an Advent trilogy and we lighted candles on an Advent wreath (we eventually stopped because Mom complained of the physco purple and pink candles in the midst of the cheery green and red wreath *snickers*) and sang carols. Well, after the trilogy had been read in three consecutive years, we wondered what to do next. For another Christmas or so, we didn't celebrate it and jist went about our normal holiday doings. Then I waltzed in and decided to write an Advent book. My poor, long-suffering family!!! I look back on that book now, a contemporary Christian romance doodad set in Scotland in 2007, and literally wince. The spelling errors, improper grammar (ha! And I say I'm gonna git a Ph.D. of English!) and general lolloping plot and dialog make me quite ill. *puts hand to forehead with a dramatic flourish* But now, a year later with a lot more writing under my belt, I have decided to try again. This time I have set a wordcount (last year I got to about Day 8 and it flopped)...but git this. The wordcount is 50,000 words. Yikes! I am going to write the equivalent of a NaNo novel in five-sixths the time, and with the holidays and school starting back after a week of Thanksgiving revelries! Reminds me of an epal I have who lives in Canada; she's on Incredibooks.com as a member as I am, and she did NaNo and rambled in the Off-Topic thread about how haggard she was feeling. She and I have a joke that we must look like Poe's wife. Well! Think how I am going to look. I may not be posting pictures very often!!! Aside from all that, I am trying to be less distant towards my family. I believe I rother shut meself up too much with reading and pestering the poor family computer up here in the office, I have been lacking in the higher priorities. I hope this writing experience, if anything, will bring me closer to God instead of further for lack of time or energy to pay attention to Him. But still, I will need much prayer. I am juggling so many things at once, yet I love living life to the fullest. It's jist so easy to slip into an I-don't-care phase and ignore the warnings sent out by those in the Norm who set such lowering standards for us teens. Which reminds me, I am going to start editing my huge first novel (ok, 175 pages huge...) in January, and hosting that book discussion on Do Hard Things which I'd completely forgot about until a whalago *cough*. So yes, I will be busy. I probably won't neglect Islander Hideaway...if anything, I will be able to rant and vent and R.K. will show up more than once. But if for some reason you feel neglected, it's jist mah bein' busy. The entire Advent book will, God-willing, be daily serial-posted at Inkstains and so any encouragement you may have will be greatly appreciated!!! Or feel free to virtually scream, I won't care anyway.   I am NOT putting my family through this Advent book, we are doing something else where we read out of the Bible, talk about it, sing a carol, do a craft earlier on and then read out of a Christmas book. This evening we plowed into Max Lucado's The Christmas Angel or somesuch, and after twenty minutes of riveting (yet fantastical...Lucado has one imagination!) reading, we hit a lull and realized it was time to quit. Imagine if we tried reading LotR out loud! The skies would darken over our bleary-eyed faces...

So, if I come to Islander Hideaway ranting and raging and leaving scathing comments all over HSB (although I pray it will not come to that...you'd better, too), it's merely because I've hit Day 1, not to mention Algebra 2 after a week of totally ignoring it. Argh! And most likely Renegades and Peacekeepers , the blog my kids (characters) run, will have something haughty and honor-stripping to say. I've ardy explained to Roh and Christopher Errol they've been put on hold (for those following mah writings, those are "Roh" and "M'aine" which are posted both at the Inkings and Inkstains, respectively), but they're stoked about it. I jist hope they have nothing too wicked to say about it. Pip is nice, it's R.K. (one of my split personalities, Mom!) who might incense me to the point of RAP deletion. BTW, RAP is gonna be the code word for Renegades and Peacekeepers, not the annoying music. If anyone thinks rap the music is actually God-honoring, gimme yer blog address and we'll debate!!! *eyes glint wildly* Oh, I jist realized last week that I have split personalities, semi-alter-egos (R.K.) and counter-egos. Cool, huh? They all blend into the nutty thing I am at home. *laughs with the Girls* Hawhawhaw, y'all know that well enough. Yeah, but those phases usually come out in kids from mah books and stories. Which reminds me, it's time to write another bimonthly column for Godly Girls magazine! There will be a break in the Advent book as I post that at Inkstains. But hopefully I will post Advent every day. *scratches chin and wonders what to name the book* Ah well, from here on out it will be merely Advent. And counter to the NaNo-ers who start their books at midnight November first, I am going to go to sleep (and hopefully fall alseep), get up and do school and housework, attack lunch...and THEN start writing. I'm not so worried about getting the allotted wordcount done, because I took a challenge where I wrote 1,000 words in under twenty minutes (yup, Oi'm a hurrible windbag, Oi am), it's the plot. I have none!!! Which is about the same thing, but...

*runs off screaming and waving arms to watch Santa Claus is Coming to Town with Katsy and G.B.*

God bless,

~PIP~ 

"FANTASY IS A NECESSARY INGREDIENT IN LIVING, IT'S A WAY OF LOOKING AT LIFE THROUGH THE WRONG END OF A TELESCOPE."~Dr. Seuss

This was one of my school assignments, to describe your favorite place with detailed descriptions. I call these lyrical sketches. Enjoy!

Oh, and before that: I think I must be out of my mind. I have decided to set a word count for my upcoming Advent book. I am going to wrote 2,000 words every day, and when it is done, I should have the equivalent of a NaNo novel in 5/6s of the time. Good grief! I don't even have a plot, the most I know is that it is to be an allegorical fantasy based on the birth of Christ. Hopefully we may go to the store tomorrow, I will need to load up on chocolate. I should also consider taking up coffee-drinking and managing my late nights and schoolwork better. But once I took a challenge, and wrote 1,000 words in under twenty minutes so I know something like this isn't impossible. If God inspires me, this is what I hope to accomplish. Therefore, both M'aine and Roh are going to be put off. Not only have I not been furtherly inspired but coming January, I hope to begin editing Heveria, my first novel, and serial-posting it. Thank you for your patience. The co-authorship with Jules won't be mangled, I will still be able to do that. Just please pray hard for me as I delve not onto into the beautiful Christmas season, but also into something unlike I have ever done. The Advent book will be posted here at Inkstains and your feedback would be greatly appreciated!

Now that I've said my piece, here goes: