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Telling Tales and Whispering Secrets 

A bit of fantasy alongside the current human condition

The Journey | To Destination

 

With the basket riding shotgun, I enjoy peddling my blue city bike through downtown. However, it is not a passion so to encourage the endeavor, I target destinations I truly enjoy. Number one on the list has always been the cemetery. It may be because I have had an affinity for the aged since I was a young child or perhaps it is Scorpio in my 10th house. No matter, as you know from my first post on November 1st, I served as mortician just out of college.

 

Journeying one mid-summer day, the beaming sunlight encouraged cyclers. Pausing at the Butler stop light, I was struck by perception when a fellow bicycler on the path calls out, "Pass me, everyone does."

 

My response, "It's the journey not only the destination."

 

She smiles in concord and I follow looking about the environment for what I hadn't noticed before. The cool breeze keeping the high altitude sun's intense heat at bay.

 

Most fortunate for me, there is an old cemetery just south of downtown through University. My eyes on the prize, I set out to enjoy points of interest along the way. Second love and motivation coffee, not surprising for a writer I know. It's either coffee or whiskey, yeah? Like any other quaint tourist - ski town, there are must see haunts for travelers. Once a newbie covers the coined famous places, we segue toward to local venues. For me, right now there's one just south of the railroad tracks and around the corner from the main drag serving up chill local vibes and another north with a cozy fireplace. When visiting Florida, I sensed the local haunts were often the Chickee Huts, but I digress. (Another time.)

 

Having delayed gratification long enough, I hit those iron cemetery gates where I often find myself committing to covering most of the cemetery: path by path, row by row. The large midnight black Ravens with their gleaming feathers tend to determine my pattern as I love to follow their calls. They caw deep resonating hanging together in groups of about half dozen moving to their subsequent landing as I draw near. Either the Unkindness (a.k.a. a group of Ravens) or I tire of the exercise. Once that game is over, I find a remembrance bench, read the name(s) of the no longer and nosh on a macro bar, cashew butter usually. Then it's homeward bound.

 

Making my way through the modern university, the paths and buildings sparkle. I cross the border; the open gates separating academia from the town. The change is immediate. New and high end meets traditional, eclectic and a bit shabby chic at times. I love that we can have it all. Interestingly, with my eyes toward the sky I see the trees, same. Light sparkles through, passing. My concentration skyward on the return.

 

And the process continues, summer specially. The FUTS trail here in Flag is extensive always surprises just how far you can venture. Perhaps I'll give it a go this winter as well, see if the snow has been abated in the main areas of the trail and bike paths downtown, sufficient for my urban bike's tires. As the quite cold crisp air enlivens the exposed areas, the bright sun that loves Flagstaff so much is a real draw.

 

 

Another process that delights is time. I find that a photograph speaks of time in a unique manner for it does not tell lies, but the viewer will process the content with their own worldview and experiences. The seemingly representational photograph subjective. Recently, I found a picture of my mother playing with her brothers. The young blonde, 50s sweater about her shoulders headscarf tied at her chin, was about 10 at the time. It is a Polaroid, the process being old and not immediate, but quite fast for the era being considered instant at the time. I was inspired by the picture and took a journey with possibility writing a short story in honor of my mother's birthday. My version of the photograph is a western fantasy sci-fi adventure. 

 

"In a sleepy 1950's western town, an old horrific family injustice surfaces for reintegration. 

Enraged and on a mission of revenge. With an ancestral thread, the 1890s wild-west meets 1950s innocence. A young girl. A hidden book. The past comes to present petitioning Noel to create change."

 

I have an excerpt for you here on my website: The Magick in Her Books 

 

 

Yesterday, I wrote about Roald Dahl's creative process, I consider mine developing. It is fluid and changes with my mood and comfort level. One thing I believe I have in common with this legendary writer is solipsism. I write best alone. While in discovery, I went out and about town to write . I still venture out, more to relax and make notes, change of scenery dynamic.

 

Home, I begin the process of setting the stage. I must make certain I've taken care of any distracting tasks. If they are not addressed, the to-do's will tap on my shoulder. With fresh, usually black, coffee which segues into tea later, I stage water and my phone for which I keep notes. Lastly, my chair and temperature comfort. To get started I have to lean into the story so I open up the novel on my computer; and without pause, it's fingers to the keyboard.

 

This journey's destinations are two fold: everyday, Telling Tales | Whispering Secrets blog and my Patreons,

and November 30th, The Nine Trilogy bk 1 manuscript complete and ready for editing.

 

 

Any journey's you love so much that you don't focus on destination? You know... take your time?

 

 

Until tomorrow.

 

Cheers and best,

Chere

Telling Tales | Whispering Secrets Day 3 of 365

 

Ps. As The Nine Trilogy Bk 1 completes this month, I have the Prologue available for you here on my website: The Nine Trilogy bk 1

 

"The playing field, planet earth. The challenge, out of this world. 

A codified game. Mechanisms with sight granted access to The Nine's guidance. An irrevocable vow. Being brought to the edge of their capabilities, three mechanisms show potential to survive ultimately living the life of their dreams."

 

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