A Return to The Front

I am resuming the work on Here Lies a Soldier that I have set aside to write Breaking Bread. In order to refresh everyone’s memories and to introduce the story to new followers, I am going to start at the beginning and repost the completed chapters. After that, I should have new installments of the novel ready to post. I truly hope you will enjoy Here Lies a Soldier, a story that spans the years from The Great War to modern day. The first chapter will follow.

~Thank you~

Fire Creeps In

It occurred to me Monday evening, while preparing to hit the publish button on the poem I had composed, that I often write about fire– in my poetry for certain and now, in my novel, I’ve burned down the cafe. And I suppose fire creeps into a lot of writing. It provides metaphors for all sorts of things: love, lust, war, creativity, warmth, cleansing, refining, life, death, destruction, rebirth…

I felt low that evening, as is sometimes the case after a long day. I’d begun the next chapter of the book, feeling unsatisfied with the way I’d left the previous one. The poem arose from that I think. But as I prepared my dreary little post, I reflected on why fire always seems to creep into MY writing. My approach is mostly from the death, destruction and possibly the cleansing perspectives of fire, rarely from love, lust and passion. And while I hate to psychoanalyze myself, because my mind is a messy, cluttered place these days, I couldn’t help but wonder….

I lost my paternal grandfather in a fire. My father was twenty years my mother’s senior when they married. He at fifty-five, she at thirty-five. My paternal grandparents were already in their eighties when I was born. Grandma Jennings died when I was three and I barely remember her. But Grandpa lived for a few years more. I had a lot more contact with him as a child. And as a result my memories are a lot clearer.

I was six years old when it happened.

Grandpa liked his cigars. He left one smoldering next to his favorite chair one Sunday evening before going up to bed. He must have thought it was safely stored in the ashtray but it wasn’t. The stub of the cigar either rolled or he carelessly dropped it right on the arm of the old upholstered chair. It smoldered. It consumed. It filled the house with smoke. It wasn’t a conflagration, it was a charcoal pit. When, in the light of day, the neighbors realized what was happening and called the fire department, it was too late. But Grandpa had known something was wrong. He had made it back downstairs in the smoke. They found him on the threshold of the front door in his pajamas and dressing gown. A few more steps and he would have been free.

That is the kind of information that a six year old girl most probably should have been sheltered from. But I wasn’t. I should fear fire. I should have a morbid dread of it. But I don’t. Instead, it creeps into almost everything I write.

img_5385

A Break in Breaking Bread

I have caught up my novel excerpts to the point I am in the story. As November wound down, so did my momentum! As I am suffering with a cold and am preparing to travel this weekend –we’re off to Pittsburgh to see the Steelers play the Ravens in a crucial game on Christmas day– the story must take a brief hiatus as well. I will resume next week, with renewed zeal, hopefully…

Over the next few days, I will revisit some of the older posts that many of you haven’t seen – some of my early favorites, both poetry and short stories. I hope you’ll enjoy.

Anyway, everyone have a wonderful weekend, whatever your plans may be. Be safe, enjoy your friends and families, relax and have fun! And while I have this chance, let me express to you how much I appreciate your friendship, your comments and all your support. All my best wishes to you and yours!

Love, Meg

kiss-writing-snow-heart-symbol-handwriting-fresh-46773415.jpg