I caught the ole' flu. I feel refreshed after allocating myself to a nursemaid. The best forte is loads of sleep, every third hour, administering myself with dÅTerra oils and more than my daily average of Lacroix. Now to the task at hand, a bit about writing.
Whereas 2022 came and went, writers, deemed it "dead week" (the days between Christmas and New Year). I have yet to poke my nose out of the soil ne'r long enough to provide a planned inventory of 100 things of this there and the tenth that made my year. However, I will gather up dropped stitches as well as I may. As time passed, and after a bit of pondering, I concluded the list has no evergreen relevance to my readers. So rather than post the list, I wrote it in my offline diary. Then, at another juncture, when my mermaid's bones have become foam, individuals can read what I wrote. Sounds fetching?
As I was convalescing, I finalised for nearly the tenth time watching the series on Britbox the broadcast Lark Rise to Candleford. Have you managed to see it? If not, have you read the books? Here is a slim synopsis by Flora Thompson.
(Lark Rise to Candleford is a trilogy of semi-autobiographical novels by Flora Thompson about the countryside of north-east Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire, England, at the end of the 19th century.)
It's quite a Cottage to the Core aesthetic, do you not agree? I solemnly state if you've not read the books, you are missing the boat, my lads and lasses. The book and television series are extraordinary, and my one weakness. Allow me to harp a bit. It is of utmost significance that each woman finds her calling in how she writes and speaks to the world through her unique writing of the slanted hand and spritely turn of phrase.
In the last episode of the Lark Rise to Candleford, I closely related to Laura, who floundered to find her place and writing style. I have determined through mental proclivity that since the start of listening to my new assumption tracks at night (over a year and a half) to change my beliefs, I know the direction of my writing style. Whereas I may, at times, frolic with story style, I have a definitive path. I demonstrate my profundity when I write here in this little chipmunk's interweb slot on my blog. When folks celebrate and rest in fame and fortune, they claim they could never have imagined the outcome of their success as authors. I want to tell them that it is an error. For nothing upon this world ever demonstrated has been done without the thoughts of that creator. There is no such thing as luck; thoughts create. Anything that has ever existed first came from a man's thinking.
One may begin searching round' for notions on women writers in the Victorian age. In that case, one will undoubtedly find bits and bobs of her quoted as feeling inadequate in what existed in the period of mainly the male writer, with many women handling justification by writing under a pseudonym. If we as women persist onward in feeling deficient, we will indeed prove that truth to be the measure. I am an advocate for depending upon myself and not anyone else's advice. Throw comparisons out with the baby's bath water, remain confident and forget the rest.
Women specifically spend too much time seeking other writers' validation. My mama questioned me a fortnight ago and said she thought I was a bit too smug in not taking advice from other writers. I remarked that I had spent time building my self-confidence and manifesting my writing capabilities. In our civilisation currently, we witness far too many insecure folks walk the earth with terrifying regularity, seeking hither and thither to find someone to big them up and validate their writing. That is complete rubbish. Misdirected seeking of others from outside of ourselves is a total delusion. It shows lacking self-worth and self-concept. I do not care; one whit if the most excellent writer (by the world's golden standards) stood up and said I was a dreadful writer. I would not be phased nor think for a moment they were correct. I speak with the confidence of conviction I have, for I had to learn the difficult way that we must rely on ourselves (and the God within) to accomplish all things. If I believe in myself, it will reflect outward. I'm receiving the direction for my life, and the world's validation is unimportant. Most folks are self-loathing, and whereas they have learned to write things that will sell, that measurement of success is not always plain and straightforward; it's quite subjective as anything else in the world. If we, as women writers, cannot be enormously confident, what's the point? Who wants a load of future wet lettuce authors, not, I said, the fly? I would not boast of any such woman.
In the last episode of the television series (which quite frankly ended too abruptly, yet I understand contractually, Brendan Coyle began working on Downton Abbey, which created a conflict in filming for both shows.) Did you feel it ended too soon?
Daniel grapples with the notion that he must tell Laura she is forcing her article about the future industrialised farm machine that came to Lark Rise. Yet he is hesitant to say it to her, fearing she would be offended. Finally, Daniel takes heart and seeks the advice of Ms Dorcus Lane on what to do, which advises Daniel to inform Laura her writing on the article felt forced, and that he should be forthright with Laura. Daniel gives Laura an account of his thoughts; she is let down and discouraged for a moment. Laura began lamenting she was failing and not meant to be a writer and should give up writing. "Who would want to read about country folk, simple life, and smallness?" She questions. Who would want to read such things if they cannot appeal to the popular imagination? To which Daniel returned, "On the contrary, Laura, you've found your subject; why turn away from it? Do not write to the popular imagination; speak to the human heart. A way of life surrounds us that one day will be lost, and surely that deserves to be recorded, Laura."
As. a writer, I found such comfort and encouragement in those lines creating an uprising within me with such a strong fortification in what my words will and are going to do and that makes me internally overflowing with joyful bliss. Indeed, we all have that one speciality which no one can do as generously. If we all look upon our place in this great big blue marble fondly, we will most positively make our mark upon history through our writing; whether small or significant, we all leave a legacy through our fingerprints. So please write, my dear friends; it's the most beautiful gift we can bestow upon our relations and beyond this realm. If you are a writer, then write you must.
Most affably yours til' my next swim, Lady Raquel
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