Tuesday, May 1, 2012


It promises to be a busy month.

Without going too much into the particulars, I will have lots going on as we come up to the end of the school year. One AP test, a band concert, at least a few projects, a slew of finals. Homework. Reading After the Ice, by Steven Mithen, which is immensely interesting but also extremely long.

Since I am after all only a sophomore in high school, I won't complain any further. But I do miss earlier years, when I could relax some more. Better get used to being this busy.

Or, better get working on coping mechanisms.


I alluded to this in my last post: the creation of inner refuges. It's a concept I've borrowed from the awesome Theodora Goss, who calls them sanctuaries.

The terminology is not important. What is important is the creation, or the finding.


For example:

And such.


If your characters live in your head, you can go visit them sometimes. The Sorceress has an enviable home:

Princesses may be trapped in towers. Sorceresses choose to live there, so that they will not be disturbed.

She was a sorceress, and so she chose this, the cold gray stone - sea stone, it was, with the imprints of shells and fish bones in the walls - and the lonely hearth and the window to the west and the rolling ocean. Because she was an artist, she painted the walls rather than hang tapestries. It was lovely d├ęcor, but she was often cold.

She was often cold, even when she sat by the blue-green fire - for fires burn strangely in the home of a sorceress, even if they are not fed by driftwood - with a cat or two on her lap, and a mug of tea steaming on the side table, and a thick soft blanket holding her like a mother holds a child, or the ruins of an old temple hold secrets.

Of course she must have a library:

One flight down, Dylan paused. The entire floor was dedicated to a library, and the perfume of old pages made him suddenly nostalgic for the university of Asterra, where he’d sometimes gone to meet the girl he’d then been courting.

It was a beautiful room, with large windows facing east. Now thick curtains were drawn across them, embroidered with mountains and icy wastes. Below the window were a sturdy desk and a high-backed chair. Several books were stacked on the desk; also, a candle, and a glass vase holding three white flowers. In the darkness, they seemed to glow, as if they drank the moon.


So there I am. Sitting atop the ruins of Uruk, or in the Sorceress' observatory (she has one, of course, on her roof), breathing: air of the hot desert or laced with the sea. My study sheets and scribbled timelines: forgotten. There is time for them tomorrow, but for this moment I will set them aside.

Because the breeze is blowing and I've found refuge, and I want to paint the sky.

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