Rebecca's PenThe creative works of R.E.W.

About R.E.W

I am author, artist, history buff, wishing to share these three passions of mine with anyone who cares to read this blog. The main drive between these three deep interests of mine is imagination.

History isn't just people and events in a dusty book. Writing isn't just words in a tome. Art isn't just random images in a photograph, sketch or painting. I'll give you examples of what they really are.

June has come at last! With it, the heat. The heat can be intolerable, especially for daily jaunts outdoors. That’s Texas for you. But summer has arrived, and with it, more bits of story. It’s a crusade this month for writing, and I’ve started feverish work on my novel. Strong Hearts. Officially, the rough draft. The other attempts at starting it shall be drawn from–the pieces I like the most. It’s fitting together like a puzzle in more ways than one. And in the meantime, I’ll be hustling with OYAN. Millicent’s story cannot wait! It is broiling aside, rankling and calling to me. I must get to it sooner than later. Not later. The characters sit cross-armed on a fence, glaring at me, muttering that I’m being ridiculously negligent. *I’m so sorry!*

Now for the snippets (from Katie’s blog). Tell me what you think, whoever you are reading this. :)

“She is fifteen, father,” Katharine exclaimed, “I believe that when a girl is fifteen she is most likely to tend in such a direction, in thoughts of . . . an attachment that is beyond a friendship.”

“What sort of conundrum do you speak of!” said her father, his eyes twinkling.

“I mean to say,” replied Katharine, “is that you ought to pay attention, for I know that it is universal understanding that the young men in Diana’s acquaintance may very well think of her more than simply a girl, and view her as an object of possible interest.”

“There have been none yet,” returned Mr. Wayland, cocking a brow, as he peered at his eldest daughter over his spectacles.

Strong Hearts

 

“The Christians are a lowly people,” Tribune Laevinus snorted, his eyes flashing.

“But we are not impractical in our mode of worship,” returned the young servant, folding his arms coolly. “We do not worship stone!”

At this a glimmer of amusement crossed Laevinus’s face. “That may be said of yours, what cannot be said of mine,” he murmured, and waved his hand, as though in weariness of the conversation. “We Romans bow at the shrines of mere rock. Rock!” he chuckled softly. “It is ridiculous, I daresay.”

Daniel stared at Laevinus, for an instant incredulous, and then admiring. “You have audacity to dare saying it,” he began, his brows drawing into a frown. He paused, as if trying to decide something, and then hurried on, “Indeed, it is ridiculous, Tribune.”

Laevinus turned away, to look through the doorway of the tablinum that opened out into the large, quiet courtyard. “Yes . . . yes,” he said in a low voice.

“We are not a lowly people,” added Daniel impetuously, lifting his chin. “We are not.”

Laevinus turned his head slightly, as though he meant to respond. “No . . .” he joined his hands behind his back. “ . . . No. It is we of the empire who are lowly.” And this he spoke, with a pause at each word, as though calculating them one by one.

The Wish

 

Mary found herself whipped up in a second’s time and placed in a different time, in a strange, unfamiliar world of the ancient Empire. But this occurrence had happened for a reason. The reason none could ever guess, but for those who believe, there’s a chance that the cause can be traced to One whose plan is threaded within the tapestry of life. Laevinus learned through the bloom of unexpected love that he would not find satisfaction in the dark, but in the light, where he would not stumble, would not fall, but would walk, not blindly, along the path that Mary stood on, bewildered till she found again the strength to continue along this road.

The Wish

 

For a moment Diana had to desperately conjure some lucid response in face of a half-intoxicated Uncle Patrick’s conundrum. She felt every eye in the room upon her, and looked up, flushing, to meet the sharp grey eyes of Captain Lewis, who happened to be sitting directly across from her.

“Well, Diana? Ah?” Uncle Patrick prodded, leaning forward and narrowing his eyes, his silver curls spilling over his forehead.

“But Uncle,” said Diana, uncertain yet of her reply, “What do you mean by way of this decry of one writing a story?” Her eyes smarted—why had Uncle Patrick gone and wrung up the subject? It was quite . . . unkind.

“I mean,” chuckled Mr. Young, “that you’re expecting yourself to become venerable, isn’t that right?”

“If you mean distinguished . . .” Diana murmured, very sure that she would scream if this continued any longer. Aunt Jane was sending daggers at Uncle Patrick by her eyes, her face white and drawn, lips tight. And Elizabeth down the table with Johnny! She was about to have a conniption—the way her body trembled violently indicated that she was writhing with laughter and might begin to chortle outright.

Strong Hearts

Click this link to see my profile page of the June crusade: American Dreamer1776

Summer reading shall be extensive! After all, reading is a necessary part of life. Without reading, a bookworm would suffocate. The glorious thing about summer is Time. What is on your book list, or any books you intend to read, for this summer?

Rebecca

 

 

 

This entry was posted in Excerpts, Life, My Stories, One Year Adventure Novel, R. E. Williams' Novels, Scene Sketches, Snippets of Story, Strong Hearts, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to This June . . .

  1. Madison says:

    These are very well written, in fact they are quite beautifully written. Thankyou for posting them, I enjoyed reading this.

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