Tag: writerblog

cottagecore · Uncategorized

Tonight’s Chinese Fortune

MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers,

I am so sleepy, but this seemed like a good way to end the day. I’ve been meaning to come back on here for a while and time just keeps getting away from me. The pictures above are of a project I’m working on which is about houses and this woman who is obsessed with them. For my birthday, Henry got me a glass dip pen, ink, and a book I can bind myself, and I finally began using it the other day. I try to draw when I have energy or am too awake, because the strokes and scrumbles are very meditative for me and it fills me with quiet that I’m often lacking. I’ll have to come back here soon and do a post specifically on the pen and drawings.

But today was a very good day. I talked to three friends, and I put away a large pile of laundry on the floor, washed the bedding, and put in a load of towels after that. 

Every time I’ve asked Henry to take care of a spider in recent months, he has gone and found a piece of paper and a cup and relocated them, even if they were especially squirrely. I tell him it’s sweet of him, and he just says it’s never sat right with him to kill a spider after he read that poem that ends, 

“If I am killed for simply living, let death be kinder than man.” 

So, this evening when I was on my phone call and saw a sharp, spindly little creature racketing around my laundry closet, I told my friend offhandedly, 

“One second, I have to kill this spider.” 

And as I was looking for something to wack it with, I poked my head out to ask Henry to kill it for me, and I remembered that he doesn’t like to kill spiders. And then I remembered the poem. Then I remembered that I don’t like to kill spiders. And so she gets to live in the wash room until she meets her natural end. It’s only fair. I always thought that poem was beautiful, and it broke my heart but for some reason, it wasn’t until I watched someone live it out that I found it in myself to do the same.

A little bit later we went to our favorite restaurant and talked about the art our friends make; one makes impressive, beautiful paintings, the other makes photography with skill I can only aspire to. She got a new camera with 120 mm film, as opposed to her usual 35 mm film. I’m really looking forward to seeing what each of them make this year. 

I paid this time, he often does, and when we got in the truck we broke our cookies and read our fortunes. He should be open to adventure on Wednesday, and my night will be filled with connection and love. 

He’s in the other room working on an exam, and I’m here, doing chores and writing this letter. And my night is indeed filled with connection, and love. 

Here’s hoping some of it gets to you, 

—Mabel

Oh, P.S., the poem is “Kinder Than Man” by Althea Davis.

cottagecore

I’m Reintroducing Myself

MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers.

I’ve been gone a while, but I thought about this space a lot. I love this blog, but I realized along the way that it was getting harder and harder to write, and I knew why but I hadn’t fully processed it.

When I first started this blog, I wanted to give myself a place to practice my writing and work through ideas I have about life and creativity, but I also wanted an escape for me and for the people that would find it. It was a dark time. I didn’t talk about that nearly as much as I could have. It wouldn’t be the place I wanted to stay if I had.

I’ve mentioned a house in the woods, with a light in the window. And though I’m sure most of you could tell from my writing that I am a young woman, in my mind I didn’t have to have an age. I could just be Mabel, and I actually hoped people might imagine me as an older woman. I at least wanted to cast doubt, because Mabel is a character. She is a deflection away from who I really am. And if I’m honest, when I started this blog, I didn’t want to be a young woman with an uncertain life ahead and no idea what I’m doing. I wanted to feel steady, and ready to face any reality, and any other life that came into my orbit.

I wanted to be someone, who even if the world was ending, she would look out the window at the fires in the distance with a sadness in her eyes, but not fear. She’d turn with determined attention back to what she was baking, tidy the kitchen, and prepare for any guests including Jesus. The end of the world doesn’t happen in a day, you know. There are bound to be stragglers.

The problem I came to was that not acknowledging my life, my age, and the person I believe I am, I was unable to share as much as I wanted to about anything. It made me incapable of creating a home here. So now I think it’s time to reintroduce myself.

I’m 21 years old, and only moved out of my parents’ home a few months ago.

I’m in university earning a degree in studio art. I want to build a business selling wood sculptures.

That plan changes every two weeks.

Also, the reason my writing schedule fell off later last year was because of my university schedule, and it will likely fall off again this semester.

My real-life personality is much louder and more awkward than the one that I write here. I also have severe anxiety that I am very good at hiding but it impacts my functioning in almost every faction of my life.

I live in the city now, and suburbs before that. I’ve never quite lived in the country, though some places have come close.

This blog is a mix of reality and fantasy. If I talk about a cottage or a cabin or my old, gnarled hands, I’m telling a story.

The stories I choose to tell might change the vibe of the home I make here but I still want it to be a good place.

Those are some points of clarity for things I either haven’t mentioned or have only mentioned briefly. I made you read all that because I don’t think I can do what I want to do if I’m not a real person with a real life. And real-life grates on me. I’m not excited about ‘life’ anymore. But if someone feels the same, I’m still aiming to have some hope, and have some happy little lights here. So keep stopping by.

And Happy New Year!

–Mabel

Small Dream Saturday

Small Dream Saturday: A Brief History of Vampires

MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers,

I am nothing if not (in)consistent. Today (eleven o’clock at night,) I am going to do things a bit differently; I am going to reveal to you the surprising and potentially very inaccurate history of the folkloric tradition of vampires as I have learned it.

Photo by Martin Schneider on Pexels.com

Beginning in the Slavic region of Europe, ‘wampyrs’ or ‘vampyrs’ were not blood sucking demons but were actually mythic creatures that sucked the rain from the storm clouds and causing the droughts that starved communities. Similar to the gods of other communities, they served as explanations for weather patterns and as causes of human suffering.

After this, it came to mean a race of creatures that devoured celestial bodies including the sun, and also the moon. They were thought to be the cause of eclipses and blood moons, when they would bite the moon, turning it red. Now, interestingly, this is also where the werewolf myth begins. Part of the vampyr myth was that they could shapeshift into creatures like crows, cats, rabbits, and, you guessed it, wolves. Because of this, and because of the new lore surrounding the moon and stars, historians have a difficult time deciding which myths belong to which creatures, and the meanings of the name that they shared for a long time. To this day, there is conflict between vampires and werewolves not only in the interpretation of their stories, but also as characters in the stories themsleves.

After all of this, we arrive at the familiar tale of the blood sucking demon. There wasn’t much to tell here, it was simply a terrifying supernatural creature, feeding on the blood of humans. Until it became something else. Something closer to a human.

If a human were to turn into a vampire, (forgive my many spellings of the word, I know it’s distracting,) there was usually a reason for it. Parents might curse their child, and when that child died, they would return as a vampire, roaming restlessly in search of human blood. They might be a child born out of wedlock, a union not blessed by God. I take issue with that kind of assertion, because I believe that God is merciful and that every person will have a chance to repent of their sins and be saved. I take issues with stories that twist our perception of reality, but it was a cultural belief at the time The third way one could become a vampire was through sorcery. If a magician was already playing with dark forces, then when they died, their corpse might be overtaken by a demon and used to steal blood. Not just human either, a lot of sheep and cattle were killed for a very long time.

From this myth, we find the introduction of the vampire into mainstream media in England, and then America: Bram Stoker’s Dracula. (This statement ignores the many myths already present in distinctive stories held by various Native American tribes, and it is an interesting note that while the modern vampire can be traced back to Slavic origins, there are cultures all over the world from Africa, to Asia, to the Americas and beyond who have their own tales of blood-sucking creatures similar to the vampire.) But! Nonetheless, Dracula was a beginning of the vampire for the American people. A nearly human, but still greedy, conniving, lusting, blood thirsty monster. And yet even in the novel, there was some sympathy for him.

Dracula is modern, but Twilight, True Blood, and The Vampire Diaries, are contemporary examples of the vampire in literature, and they have undergone yet another shift. While they maintain their warnings of and brushes with female sexuality, lust, and demonology, these vampires are no longer demons, even if they maintain their offensive religious imagery. Religion is even touched on directly and from the vampire’s perspective in Twilight; Edward Cullen thinks that as a vampire, he is beyond saving, beyond the grace of God, and unwanted by God. In The Vampire Diaries, the two leading brothers struggle to find a sense of morality and love. Also undead politics and eating people. But the point is, vampires have changed in a fundamental way: they are no longer demons, they are representations of fallen man.

Within the realm of storytelling, vampires are at a place at last where they might seek redemption. Instead of representing fear, evil, and famine, they represent the human lost. The unwanted. The dangerous, and the people who think they are too far gone. It is time, in fiction, for the vampire’s redemption.

All stories are a product of their time and culture. We tell stories based on the state of reality, and of the thoughts in our heads that maybe we are not ready to think about in their realest forms. Our culture today is lost, listless, restless, and evil. But fully human. And in the stories of today, there is an ingrained belief that even a vampire can be redeemed.

I have a hero complex, but I will never save anybody, in any way. My small dream at the end of this Saturday is a prayer that the lost would come home.

All my love to you,

–Mabel

art · Small Dream Saturday

Small Dream Saturday: Forgotten Paintings

MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers. 

I was gone last week. Usually, dreams are a way of looking to the future. But last Saturday, I began the process of making one dream come true. 

I have wanted a thrift store painting for years. One to paint over and alter, working with the original, not on my own. A collaboration spanning years. The problem is that I haven’t been willing to spend forty dollars on an ancient painting that might have bugs in it when all I want to do is paint on top of it. So I’ve looked for years. Some were too pretty for me to consider painting over. Some seemed ugly to me , and I had no vision for them and didn’t want to take the chance.

I went to an estate sale on Saturday. My grandmother’s actually, and although it’s been a sad process, it’s been wonderful in that her cherished things have been passed down to the next generations. And there was this painting from the hallway. My aunts begged me to take one. I remember walking past it and specifically thinking, ‘I wouldn’t even buy that to paint over.’ It was harsh. I really didn’t like it.

So I took it home.

I didn’t like the original color scheme. It was very orange and very brown, yet pale, and the color in the mountains and sky was a sickly green color. But I liked the framing of the trees and thought the water was well blended. After some thinking, I decided that I wanted to keep the painting very similar, but instead of a sunset, I would paint a dusk scene. I was heavily inspired by Robin Sealark’s landscapes and skyscapes, with impressionistic brushstrokes and whimsical colors. They look to me like dreams.

Using gouache, I went about doing a wash of dark blue across the sky, leaving the brightness of the orange center intact. I let it dry and continued to build it in increasingly more opaque layers.

I muted the red of the foreground and continued blocking in colors.

Here I started blending the colors, making sure to leave the streaks of brushstrokes. I added in a bolder yellow where the sun was setting, and of course, the sun. I then began muting the color of the mountain.

I continued blending, darkening edges, adding a red haze over the mountain, and rebuilding the form of the trees I covered up when I painted the sky. I added my first layer of stars.

In the final stages, I added more stars, fireflies, and outlined the tops of the trees. I reddened the sun, turned the yellow light a more peachy tone, added sunbeams, and tinted the highlights in the leaves and tree trunks red. I punched up the colors in the water’s reflections, and added new highlights to the rocks and marsh weeds so it would all feel cohesive. I wanted it to seem almost like there was a rainbow there, even though the sun was leaving.

This is the final piece!

The original frame had gold and copper colors like the sunset, but I felt that a blue layer of wood would tie things together. The final step was to add varnish, and here we are.

Working with the piece gave me a new respect for the artist. It was like I was sitting where she sat, looking in a way at what she saw. The original artist’s signature is still there, not completely covered. Her name was Rosina. I’m so thankful she made this piece of art, and that because of her I was allowed to paint something that reminds me of my childhood and mysteries and summer.

This piece is titled, ‘Rosina’s Fireflies.’

It was an encouraging reminder that the whole point of having small dreams is that they are achievable while still being beautiful in a way that doesn’t quite seem real. We are the ones who have to pursue goodness and beauty. Or at least be receptive when the opportunities we’ve been waiting for arrive.

Happy Saturday, Strangers.

–Mabel

Small Dream Saturday

Small Dream Saturday: entry 13

MabelLeave a comment

Good morning, Strangers.

Velma Dinkley: Chocolate Ice Cream at Night

When I was a child, I watched Scooby Doo obsessively. Didn’t matter the series or story, show or movie, it was guaranteed the tv was mine from 7:00 to 7:30 every single night. It was family ordained. I’d stand there eating a hotdog at the border between the kitchen and living room.

Scooby Doo was the seed that grew the desires to have a van and go on road-trips. It led me to consider becoming a private detective, and inspired my addiction to mysteries and fantasy alike. It was the first thing that made me feel clever and sparked an interest in cryptozoology.

I have three small dreams for this morning. They get smaller as they go along.

1. I would like to write a Scooby Doo television series. Scooby Doo is a franchise that acts like a comic book world. There are alternate universes with different sets of lore, different kinds of stories, different art styles, tones, and even character development. I think it’s likely that in twenty years, we’ll still be making Scooby Doo shows. And I’d like to write one.

2. A smaller dream, but still large, is that I would like to have insulated sheds on my very wild, natural property. These sheds would hold animation/digital art tech, so that I could make short videos, but also much longer and more detailed comic books and graphic novels that I would then self-publish. (Or maybe publish traditionally! Who knows?) They would be cool and dark, and they’d be an escape from their more primitive surroundings.

3. This is the littlest dream, and it’s the one that will prepare me for dreams 1 and 2. I’m going to write as much fan fiction as possible. I should have started when I was twelve like all the other writers, but I just wasn’t ready. So now, I’m going to be indulgent. I’m going to learn by doing, and even if it’s all hot garbage, I am going to have fun and grow as a person as I write incomprehensible cross overs, multiple-plot line series’s, and just fun, ridiculous one off stories. It’s going to be magnificent, and I know that because I’ve already started. My motto is quantity over quality. For that is the way to improve.

That’s all for now! Happy Saturday, my dears, and happy writing! All love,

—Mabel

Art & Writing

Tolkien Skies

MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers,

I’ve missed it here.

For the sake of the story, regardless of where you are, let’s pretend that it’s dark outside. You’re sitting across from me at a round wooden table in a country kitchen with a low watt bulb. It’s a bit depressing, but very human, and despite the heavy feeling, you also feel at ease. We have mugs of tea in front of us whether you enjoy tea or not, because that’s what I served. It has honey in it, and a spoon. And last of all, I am a woman of incalculable age, I could be young or older, and my hands… My skin is stretched over muscle and bone in such a way that somehow implies I am tired. So tired. When you look at my face, that skin is stretched too. And all of a sudden, I am not just tired.

Do you see what I want you to see?

For a time, as a teenager, I lived in a desert. I hated it desperately for years because during the day, the sun washed out all the color from the earth. Even green things looked grey. The sky looked almost white, and the color of the sunlight was closer to white than to a bold, happy yellow. I would stay inside for weeks on end.

After my uncle died, I would sit out on the wall and talk to him. I think it was during that time that I saw the evening sky in the desert. And that’s when everything changed. For a few minutes a day, I was at the circus. I was in a fantasy world. The clouds looked like cotton candy, or storms made of fire, or some other, incredible event.

Examples of Tolkien Skies

I named them Tolkien Skies, after J.R.R. Tolkien. From that moment on, I realized how much fiction had informed my views of reality. Tolkien’s skies and mountains were in the desert, but my old house in North Carolina was the setting of Ink Heart by Cornelia Funke. I look at trees and to this day I still see Dr. Seuss. Fireflies lead to magic portals, and in the field past my backyard, a barefoot woman I wrote met God.

The place I am now, it’s been a nightmare for me. I’ve stopped looking for good and I feel consistently heavy. The things I love hold less appeal. There is no physical escape from the sadness. Everywhere I look there is suffering and hatred. But that’s not the whole story.

You see, since being here, I’ve built more stories than I have I think anywhere else. I haven’t written to you yet about the neighbors whose window inspired my blog’s tag, ‘a window in the dark, a cup of tea waiting in the kitchen’ and their blue, orange, green, and gold porch lights. I haven’t told you about the lore I built around the moon. The movie Hugo was such a blessing to me, with its beautiful color palette and the Station Master in the film. I’ve gotten two dogs from this place and written more than 60,000 words in one year (a record, I think!) I learned how to bake bread, and I never would have started this blog if it weren’t for this difficult, difficult place. I began volunteering, and a very big opportunity has come my way. I’ve sat at city council meetings. And I’ll move again soon.

I can’t deny it. I’ve gotten sick again. I’m not functioning properly on any level. But as much as I want to deny it, this place has been a blessing from God. Many blessings. A new chapter is coming. And in the meantime, there has been just enough of different worlds to keep me sane while I stay in this one. I have more posts coming soon, mainly about writing and hopefully some about art (I have access to my photographs again! I will explain more in my next post!)

When things get dark, we need to search for God in the darkness. Where is He? Thankfully, I think He sometimes shows us redemption in the stories we tell ourselves. So much of my world is painted.

Thank you for sitting with me and letting me monologue. There’s a change of clothes in the guest bedroom towards the back of the house and clean sheets. I’ll leave the light on for you, but I’m going to bed. I am very, very tired.

All my love dear,

—Mabel

Small Dream Saturday

Small Dream Saturday: Entry 10

MabelLeave a comment

Mornin’ Strangers!

I’ll be brief because this week’s dream will most likely never happen. (But maybe! Maybe.) 

I came up with this idea for a shop that in the spring and summer was a regular ice cream parlor. It would have herbs and flowers in window boxes outside, soft pastel colors, and fun brightly colored art in unique frames. The ice cream would be made in house but would be in the classic flavors. I’d have cold sandwiches and baked goods like blondies and brownies. 

But in the fall and winter?

In the vats that had held the ice cream, there would now be soup. Some vats would contain only broth; tonkatsu, fish, and chicken broth for ramen noodles, the special broth made for pho, etc., and some would contain whole soups like chicken and dumpling, chicken pot pie, beef stews like caldillo etc. The lighting and decor would change, the interiors would become more neutral, some small plants would come inside, and I would continue to serve sandwiches, hot and cold, and I would serve tea. 

Honestly, I might find a way to do that with a food truck someday, instead of a full-scale restaurant. Food trucks have plenty of their own challenges, but that might be really lovely. Ramen noodles and rice noodles and their broths, then some broccoli cheese soup, some stew…. Coffee, tea, and some bread. It could be absolutely lovely. In the summer I could switch to icees, frozen treats, and lemonade. It’s dawning on me that I’m beginning to talk myself into this. 

Photo by Steshka Willems on Pexels.com

It’s like I always say, the more dreams you have…The more dreams you have. It keeps life bright. 

I hope you have a bright day,

–Mabel

Art & Writing · cottagecore

Dear Strangers: A Letter on the Power of Writing

MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers. 

Years ago, I lived with my family in the desert. My uncle, who lived in Arkansas, passed away. He was young. He was my favorite. I hardly knew him, a common theme with my extended family. I don’t think anyone realized how much I loved him, and no one really understood my reaction when he died. Around the time of his funeral, I was sitting on the bough of a tree, the sun shining, a breeze blowing, and I was talking to him. Saying goodbye, I think. Trying to make it final, so maybe I’d stop saying it over and over again like I had been. I told him I loved him and maybe that I’d miss him—I don’t remember—and all of a sudden I heard a voice in my head that sounded kind of like him, but forced. Just a bit wrong. In the moment I truly thought it was him saying goodbye. I don’t know about the voice, or what I saw next, but I looked up and he was standing in the sunlight, white shirt, his cowboy hat and boots. He smiled. And I smiled. And then he was gone. 

Well that was Oklahoma and Arkansas, but we went home after the funeral, and every night I would sit on the stone wall outside our house and watch the lights of the city begin to blink on while the sky changed from blood orange to a lilac mixed with smoke. I’d pray. Have make-believe conversations with my uncle.  And he’d sit there silently on the wall. 

All those years ago and no one ever knew. I guess I never communicated that. And no one ever asked what I was doing.

It’s years in the future, and I’m asking a friend their opinion on my taste in men. (One in particular, fictional, embarrassingly.) She said that I live life as a “good girl” and subconsciously I wanted someone dangerous as a way to explore my dark side. And I was struck by…just how wrong that was. (Now it’s not her job to psychoanalyze me, she’s my friend not a therapist, but still. I was very surprised.) I ended up watching ‘Delivery Man’ with Vince Vaughn a little bit later and it clicked. I was looking for and found something very specific in all of these people, and once I figured it out it made perfect sense. But apparently, I had failed to communicate what I wanted in a way anyone understood, ever. And I began to realize that people had different perceptions of me than what I thought I was putting into the world.

I can think of a million instances where I’ve been misinterpreted and misunderstood. People didn’t understand what I wanted or what I was trying to say. Why I cared about something or someone. That I was angry, or that I was in love. People don’t always understand. This is one of the first things children learn in life, and one of the first things we relearn as adults. Which brings me to writing.

Writing allows me to build my own world where I can say what I mean to say. I’ve struggled with the difference between Mabel and this space, versus the way that I am in real life. But the truth is that this is so much closer to who I want to be. And this is where I am able to say what I want to say. 

Right here, right now, you and I are sitting at the kitchen table. It’s dark, and smoke’s coming from the chimney and creatures that don’t exist come to visit me. Sometimes my cottage is more real, and there’s a garden in the back, and I think about tips I can give so we can both garden better. Sometimes I’m a ninety-year-old woman at the edge of the world, and you’re a battle-scarred mercenary, but you know my house, and I know your silhouette in the darkness. I don’t really know who you are, I can’t see you. But can you see us? 

This is how writing frees us, giving us the ability to say what we mean. And by the way, thank you for reading about my uncle and the stone wall. I’ve wanted to tell someone for a very long time. That’s all for now.

However you see me, Strangers,

–Mabel

Oh, P.S., I realized that my slogan is “a window in the dark, a cup of tea waiting in the kitchen,” and I’ve really failed to give you all any recipes. If you were here, I’d make food, so I’ve got a soup recipe coming, and after that some springtime desserts. Much love.

Small Dream Saturday

Small Dream Saturday: Entry 9, My Death

MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers,

For many years now, I have dreamed of my death.

Now, I know that sounds dark, but listen. My sister and I used to have a game we’d play. We’d talk about how we wanted our bodies to be processed when we die. She, I believe, wanted to be floated in a pool filled with Grape Fanta. I think I wanted to be coated in honey? I’m not entirely sure, but I do remember how I wanted to be buried; In a glass casket, inside a mausoleum with a skylight. I’m not sure death scared me at that point, but being buried terrified me. 

Anyhow, it was a hilarious little game we played to amuse ourselves. We laughed because everything we suggested was utterly preposterous. 

“Do you know what would happen if we submerged a body in Fanta?”

“How would we even get a whole swimming pool of Fanta?” 

“Can you imagine how expensive that would be?”

“Let’s do it.”

But somewhere along the line, I began thinking of my actual death. Would I like to die doing something noble? Is it really best to die in one’s sleep? What would be the most pleasant? 

I thought about dying as an old woman surrounded by people at a family picnic, but decided that those usually happen during the summer in the middle of the day and it would be too hot and uncomfortable. Not only that, but there are lots of children at those kinds of things, and I didn’t want to scare my tiny grandchildren and great nieces and nephews; that would just be mean. But still! I wanted to die outside. That much I was sure of. I wanted to die surrounded by people. That much I was sure of. I couldn’t die in the speckled light of the beautiful forest, because again, I could only imagine being alone there, and I didn’t want to be alone. And then who would find me? No, it simply wouldn’t do. 

And that’s when I thought of it. My perfect death…

Picture this:

I am an old woman, and it’s midmorning in June. I am out garage sailing with my daughter and nieces—or great nieces—one or the other. We’ve had a lovely, productive morning. We’ve bought lemonade and donuts from a child’s stand. My companions have each bargained for something they wanted; a sweater, a china set, a book, and we’ve come to a nice house with a large oak tree in the yard. I remark that it must be a hundred years old, and I’ve also been looking for a recliner. Lo and behold, this house has one for sale. As everyone peruses, I shuffle over to rock in the chair. Those sun speckles hit my face through the shade of the oak tree. A cool breeze passes over me. I die. 

I have effectively ruined the garage sale for everyone else. No one wants the haunted chair, (it’s not haunted, I’m in heaven, but I left that thought for them.) My family is forced to buy the chair, which they scowl at because they knew this was my design. An ambulance is called, there’s all this commotion…But not for me. I got to die surrounded by people I love, doing something I love, having one final bask in the sun. And you know what, it’s not even a bad memory in anyone’s mind. In the end, that death was a very beautiful thing. 

I died laughing. Think about that.

–Mabel

Art & Writing

The Medium of Story…

MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers, 

It is officially spring! Has been for a week. Flowers are blooming with the leaves on the trees, bugs are back, jumping and buzzing above the wildflowers and grasses, and the sun has gotten some of its color back. It’s looking to be a beautiful season. 

There are so many stories in nature. One area of the forest holds standing water, mosquitoes, and the moss which will continue to live despite  the summer heat, another has a babbling brook and Black Eyed Susans that the deer come to drink at, still another holds a meadow, which somehow always manages to catch the sunlight, gold in the middle, and green at the edges from the filter of the leaves. 

That’s an apt metaphor for story as well. I read somewhere that a lot of people today have stories inside them, but assume they have to turn them into novels. That simply isn’t true, there are a thousand ways to tell a story. They don’t even have to be written. 

My favorite living artist is named Robin Sealark. She has an excellent YouTube channel under that name, and she was the person who taught me to experiment with everything in my art. To sketch, paint, and tell story with abandon. Art-a-thons and studies, realistic and stylized…She explained that in the first year of an art degree, students work in the studio for hours a day, months on end, trying everything. Acrylic, oil, gouache, watercolor, graphite, charcoal, chalk, crayons, sculpting, digital mediums…And then after they’ve tried everything, they specialize.  

So, in a generation that has access to everything, do we limit ourselves? 

I’ve started a journal, and everytime I have a story idea, I write it down. I think about it, and then I also add what medium I think it’s best suited to. Some of my stories are very visual, so I pick comics, graphic novels, or animations, (animations are obviously out of reach for a lot of creators, but I still like to list it as an option!) and some stories enter my mind and I imagine telling them around a campfire or as a bedtime story. These might be better suited to podcasts, songs, or a simply written script I can memorize and tell as a bedtime story, or at a campfire. Not everything has to belong to everyone. 

You can write novels, short stories, poems, tv scripts, you can make mixed media stories like comics and graphic novels, you can make sculptures and paintings that encompass a story, dance, song, podcast, blog, youtube channel. You can cook stories! You can weave a story! Literally. 

What I’m asking is that you don’t limit yourself before you’ve tried everything. Even the people who write medical textbooks and grants are telling stories. Marketing is storytelling. Landscape paintings are stories. Embrace all of the mediums. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a new way to create. 

Happy Spring! 

–Mabel