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.

And I step back into the outer blogging world. Perchance with a tremble of fear, a start of excitement–nevertheless, I’m here again, and writing. I haven no idea WHO reads this blog, or how many people visit it. But I just wanted to drop by again to say hello. Blogging is a hard thing for me, for some reason. I do enjoy it so much, but then when my fingers hit the keys something in me goes, “oh . . . better watch it. Somebody could be reading the words you type.” Why does that frighten me so much? Those of the blogging realm who are perfectly comfortable with setting their thoughts and emotions and ponderings out for the world to view may not really comprehend exactly what this means, what I ever do mean by speaking of my hesitation. But, that’s all beside the point. There has been that series I’ve dropped a post about on Writing Snippets. I’m finally ready to share some of the project I’ve been working on for the past few years. Just bits of it. Bwhaha . . . now you must read the results of what has enslaved me to it–a story which insists upon being written, no matter how much I insist that it will probably all come to nothing in the end. Why is it that I always think that about a story of mine? Perhaps because I imagine the moment of conclusion, when I type Finis, that sudden blur of panic which inhabits the mind and preys upon you after you’ve closed the document (or laid down your Sword-Pen.) Perhaps these feels of wretched despondence bespeak of the greatest struggle to lay down every word on paper, every emotion, every though which surround the very essence of the character you have fashioned from that heady imagination of yours. Perhaps you are not a writer at all, and wish that I would hush at once, lest you weary of every author and throw away all of your books. How did you ever come by those books? Well, the poor writer had to experience a nightmare and a bliss of an epoch to put it into print.

At this point Diana became aware of the man who had robbed her of her childhood friend. Linus Hadley, even more tall and gangling than his wife had been, possessed the certain aspect of a farm-boy-turned-city-lawyer, with his rather haphazard cravat and absurd seriousness that did not suit him in the least. Yet, Diana remembered having liked him more than she had expected; now she offered him a soft smile that smothered her other expressions of keen suspicion that would have surely raised a brilliant flush in his face.

Strong Hearts © R. E. Williams

 

Peg Hadley was all alertness the instant General Wilkinson began his speech. She peered around at each person he indicated, and when he mentioned General Clark and Julia she turned to Diana to whisper excitedly, “Those are your friends! What flaming hair the general has! How pretty Mrs. Clark is!”

Diana nodded gravely.

And then General Wilkinson pronounced the next name.

“Governor Meriwether Lewis! Governor! Is it . . . Captain Lewis?”

Diana felt the blush creep into her cheeks horribly, accompanied by a chill which reached to the nape of her neck. She forced herself to nod again, this time with a stiffly set expression of indifference.

© R. E. Williams

“. . . See how his eyes wander, pander about towards Miss Wayland, distinct longing evident about him. See how his expression loosens, each time, that stoic obverse of his fading with gradual sureness. Now, I presume that he has lost another catch, let her slip right through his fingers. Placing him beside her was a final torture, Wilkinson. Poor man.”

“Poor man!” Wilkinson barked, staring around sharply, “Call him a poor man, sir, and it’s a right folly . . .”

© R. E. Williams

“I shall advance to the centre floor, and call for an announcement. I’ll say, now, ‘Let every man take his dinner-neighbor onto the floor for a quadrille.’ And you observe his visage, tell me how it alters and whitens so inexplicably.”

© R. E. Williams

 

Lewis stiffened, glanced aside, his color suffusing drastically. Wilkinson could not resist a vicious chuckle at the Virginian’s evident mortification. He turned sharply, gave a curt bow, and bid them good evening. With contempt Wilkinson watched him stride away.

“Pride, my friend–pride cometh before the fall,” he said, a grotesque fervor in his cold eyes.

© R. E. Williams

 

This entry was posted in Books, Excerpts, Historical Fiction, Meriwether Lewis, My Stories, R. E. Williams' Novels, Scene Sketches, Snippets of Story, Strong Hearts, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Long Last

  1. Dad says:

    Glad to see you back at it.

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