I love it when you stumble onto a blog that's unique and interesting. Actually, I'm totally jealous of the writer; she lives in a beautiful plantation in the deep South, and is a self-proclaimed witch or psychic, or something. I don't know if it's a real or fictional blog, but I wish I had put together something like this.
Check it out!
Southern Belle Book and Candle.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Rural Writing
Been so preoccupied by my book-in-progress, that I forgot about my little article for Grit. It's pretty much finished, except for some polishing and proofreading, but I'm going to send it out this weekend and hope they publish it. I love the magazine, and it would be a thrill to contribute my piece.
Here's an excerpt from what I hope will be part of the "Looking Back" section of their magazine.
Now I live in a townhouse in the city, surrounded by noise, sirens, asphalt and concrete, with precious few spots of grass and trees. For someone who grew up on a sprawling farm with no close neighbors, who raced barefoot across open fields, who jumped from the creaky barn loft into a sweet dusty pile of hay with confident and carefree abandon, who romped through the thick wet woods behind her home, pretending to be a wood nymph casting enchantments and befriending animal familiars, my country soul cries out that I am surrounded on all sides by people, packed tightly and neatly into square walls.
At least once a month, I take a drive by myself to visit my childhood farm. Like a pilgrim making a journey to a sacred land, it's something I must do to restore my soul: lay eyes upon the rural loveliness and assure myself it's still here. But the visits are bittersweet; dreamy escapes from the urban noise, but also agonizing to be standing across from the land and the home you want so badly, and be locked out, forbidden to step foot upon the graveled driveway, or sit under the leafy canopy of the huge Maple tree.
Here's an excerpt from what I hope will be part of the "Looking Back" section of their magazine.
Now I live in a townhouse in the city, surrounded by noise, sirens, asphalt and concrete, with precious few spots of grass and trees. For someone who grew up on a sprawling farm with no close neighbors, who raced barefoot across open fields, who jumped from the creaky barn loft into a sweet dusty pile of hay with confident and carefree abandon, who romped through the thick wet woods behind her home, pretending to be a wood nymph casting enchantments and befriending animal familiars, my country soul cries out that I am surrounded on all sides by people, packed tightly and neatly into square walls.
At least once a month, I take a drive by myself to visit my childhood farm. Like a pilgrim making a journey to a sacred land, it's something I must do to restore my soul: lay eyes upon the rural loveliness and assure myself it's still here. But the visits are bittersweet; dreamy escapes from the urban noise, but also agonizing to be standing across from the land and the home you want so badly, and be locked out, forbidden to step foot upon the graveled driveway, or sit under the leafy canopy of the huge Maple tree.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
