Three slightly peculiar love stories a day. That's been my goal this week and by some grace I've managed to stick to it. I'm checking that each of the 20 authors has semi-formally agreed to publication, and has sent me a biographical note and an enticing line from their story.
I'm standardising fonts, spacing, paragraphing, quote marks, en dashes, and ellipses — all the while enjoying again the style, atmosphere and dynamic of each, appreciating the special something that drew me to each and that expresses the writer's spirit and particular, peculiar take on the world. On love.
I roughed out this posting on the beach. I can't stay away while the last sun is stretching pohutukawa shadows over the sand; giving halos to little dogs, girls' hair, and driftwood alike; throwing into halves of light and shade the perfectly proportioned little white rowboat with oars pulled up at the lapping edge.
If I were bolder, I'd make twelve strides down the beach, rock it loose, push it out, and jump aboard.
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2 comments:
Lovely to think of you there, Pen, in the sun and sand. How great to think of the sea as a boat you could push away from shore and ride away on. xxo
Ah, my ambiguous'it'. Would anyone mind if I borrowed their little beach and rowed it out to sea? Am loving the north, Melissa, and wondering also whether the collective psyche operates differently in a warm climate.
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