All that is gold does not glitter, Not all those who wander are lost; The old that is strong does not wither, Deep roots are not reached by the frost. From the ashes a fire shall be woken, A light from the shadows shall spring; Renewed shall be blade that was broken, The crownless again shall be king. - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of The Ring

I'm participating in the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing) for the first time this year.  For those who aren’t familiar, the challenge of NaNoWriMo is to write a complete, 50,000 word novel during the month of November. And I've reached the halfway point and while I am struggling I'm also learning a lot about writing. 

I didn't blog much during November or work on my etsy shop and, while I did manage to get to Mass and say the Rosary most mornings, my focus on my home definitely slipped.  So, I'm happy to go back to writing at my previous pace.

But the main issue that came up for me during NaNo is the conflict I'm feeling about writing any kind of popular fiction.  Before I came back to the Church I had no issues.  Now, I sometimes feel that I'm writing things that conflict with my Catholic faith. 

This is not to say that Catholic authors can't write genre fiction because, of course, they can.  J.R.R. Tolkien managed it.  And lots of people in the Catholic Writers Guild seem to be managing it too.  

So maybe I'm over complicating it.

I may just need to read more Catholic fiction!

Appalachia, On Leaving  

Only rain and streets of wet magnesium. 

These hundred panes are filled with

watered down yellow light. 

But the corners of the shop are webbed

with shadow.

There should be carriages and gas-lights here

but there is only a maroon and gold awning

out there across the street.

The tiny panes run with rain, blur the words,

whatever words

glisten up above that awning.

Plate glass windows and clothes behind.

Kresge's yellow-purple cotton housecoats,

old display cases, nineteen-forties styles,

and every looks so old.

My face, these shops, slip along grey-hound windows

lose their hold

and vanish.

Plans forgotten before the coffee's cold.

Promises I can't forget.

And you within your distance.

Tomorrow is waiting in a shipping crate,

one more highway, one more home.

I can't stop now.

So this time it's Miami, because there's no place left

I haven't been.

I take what was me in two-fisted filthy chunks

and wrench it out.

__________

The postcard above is a the actual view across the river less than a half mile down from my grandparents farm

My Grandparent's Farm, Appalachian Mountains of NE Pennsylvania

"Winter in Miami" 

My grandmother only goes to funerals.  

She will never see Florida 

but she has the world  

in her windows. 

In the morning the river is fog 

and the trees are lost.

Sunrise happens way up high.

It spills down the slopes,

and shines brighter than itself

in the imperfections of old glass.

There is shade all day until 

the sun gets lost in the hills again

and the light come on.

Forever is train noises and headlights

in the dark and every star in the universe

shining out across the fields.

I have been to Florida over and over

until I lost count.

Black seaweed, white sand,

the ocean is always itself.

The whole of humanity sits on towels

to watch it

stretch out of sight.

I wasn't ever there for that.

I was there for the dark days

and the rain.

Days when the wild things

cry out across the everglades

and the black-winged birds

come pouring in from the North

to wage war

upon the backlot dumpsters.

Days when the ocean churns its garbage out

onto cold beaches

and the tourists leave Miami

looking for other 

better places

where the weather is constant

and the sea 

stands still.