Musings are my ramblings about life and living it. These ideas have helped me a lot and I wanted to share them with you.
Hopefully these posts will brighten your day a little.
Music and Magic.
Two of my favourite things came together in ‘Love is Purple’. There’s music that calls to the soul, and magic that plays with it.
But I know what you’re saying: music is real, magic is not. I beg to differ.
Remember the shiver deep in your spine when you feel something wonderful is about to happen? That’s magic.
I’m sure Sophie felt that shiver in the moments before she bumped into Marc in the old church corridor. Though she probably didn’t recognise it, probably even dismissed it.
Things happen that sometimes rock our world, and not always in a good way.
Surprises, nice or nasty, have a habit of sneaking up on us. That’s why they’re called surprises, right?
No surprise there 🙂
(Sorry. Couldn’t help it)
But back to the thing I’m rambling about today: those moments when everything goes KABOOM inside you, leaving you reeling.
If a little green alien were to land in my back garden and ask me ‘What’s the meaning of human life?’, I’d make him a mug of coffee.
It’ll blow his mind, or his noodle, or whatever he thinks with. (Could be a she too, come to think of it.)
But onwards with my coffee…
Because there’s nothing on this green and blue planet that can beat a mug of rich coffee.
Yeah, I know a bunch of you are jumping up and down right now getting your knickers in a twist and screaming ‘CHOCOLATE!’.
Let’s go vintage!
Rave down the place with the Roaring Twenties and Great Gatsby fever.
I’m talking old school glamour with silk beaded flapper dresses, feathers and pearls and glittering diamonds. Such a fantastic time, right? At least in the jazz and fashion sense.
I’ve always loved the romantic version of the 1920s. So it made sense that when I finally found time to write the train journey romance I’ve been planning that I soak it in the Roaring Twenties vibe.
And so Love Express came to be.
Grape vines in the city. What a surprise.
When I think of vineyards, I think of the green and gold fields of France. Sure you can find vineyards in sunny California and Australia and other places, but Lilayni’s home country of France is the first place that springs to my mind.
And that’s why I was so surprised to find grapevines flourishing on the balconies and terraces of Manhattan. And they’re not weedy, spindly things that barely hold a leaf let alone a grape. No, these are bulging green monsters, the plant version of the Incredible Hulk, and they’re bursting with fat bunches of red and purple juiciness.
But it was perfect.
Because Damon, being the hard-headed city rat he is, wouldn’t allow his and Lilayni’s story to take place anywhere else but in Manhattan. If I’d tried to drag him back to Appleby Village in England or even to Lilayni’s French Riviera, he’d have told me to take a flying leap. So Lilayni had to corner him in Manhattan.
Ever visited Appleby?
It’s a sleepy English village with golden thatched cottages and glorious climbing roses. Life is simple, if a little predictable, and perhaps the most exciting thing to happen is the butcher running off with the village baker’s wife.
Wait… Did he really? Or is that another overeager tidbit from the rampant gossip mill? You can never tell in Appleby.
Along with the juicy gossip, what sets Appleby apart are the juicy apples.
The village in the story grew out of my love for fruit trees. Heaven for me would be a fruit orchard, so it made sense to have a cozy village with an apple tree around every corner.
Creativity. You either have it or you don’t. Right?
Guess what. We’re all creative, maybe in different ways, but we’re all creative.
Think about creativity for a moment. You can create a house. You can create a bonnet for a baby. Sure the mechanics of reaching the end product are different, but both house and bonnet sprang from an idea, and both ideas are beautiful.
We all have wonderful ideas.
I love critics. Don’t you?
I suppose I should love critics because I can be one too. Yes. I suffer from the ‘Better Than Thou’ syndrome from time to time. I can’t help it. It just sneaks up on me. Especially when I’m faced with an idiot who steps right over the handy mat I’ve placed outside the front door and then stomps all over my pretty hallway carpet in their mud-caked boots. (Yeah, you know who you are.)
There I go again. The ever loving critic. If only there was a pill for it.
I criticize myself too. In fact, I’m all the world’s nastiest critics rolled up into one mean, spiteful ball when I look at myself. And it isn’t pretty.
What’s your morning like?
Do you wake up and dress for work? Feed the cat, the dog, the gerbil? Even the kids? Then maybe you’re out the door, giving your significant other a peck on the cheek along the way.
Same show, different day?
Then some time during this endless treadmill of a day you inexplicably feel all alone.
Strange, isn’t it?
You’re surrounded by a whole bunch of humans in real life and on screen, more ‘friends’ than you know what to do with, but every time you disengage, you feel you’re the only one who truly sees you.
‘Tis the season of candy and parties and FIREWORKS!
I love this time of year. It’s only November but Christmas is right around the corner. Can’t you just feel it? Wherever you turn there’s this excited build up to Christmas (my favourite time of year), and it all starts with fireworks in November.
I live in the UK, so November 5th is Bonfire Night for us on this little island. Halloween finished a few days ago, and the fireworks took flight soon after.
You get some shooting up here and there every night until November 5th when the entire night sky explodes with light.