It’s December. There’s a difference in the morning light in December. The mornings are now wintry pale with pastel pinks and blues. The Chesapeake Bay gleams metallically, looking cold. But it’s beautiful in a pristine way, devoid of boaters and pleasure seekers. Even the bird community has flown away in the December chill.
The Elen book is a love story to Scotland. The landscapes I viewed on my recent visit are now word paintings in the novel.
I am more spiritual than religious, but this time, I listened to friends and prayed to St. Anthony, finder of lost things.
Today, I lost my journal for The Elen Chronicles. I am in mourning. It was in my hands and in my backpack, but somehow, it fell out. I have a bad habit of not zipping the zipper all the way. I have retraced my steps. No luck. My journals are like friends to me. This…
