Monthly Archives: June 2009

I’m not Catholic but this is sooo…


Accurate. Draw your own conclusions :-)



Photo a personal manip of oil on canvas of William-Adolphe Bouguereau 1825-1905


Chapter 2…Well, 1 Technically


So I just posted chapter 2 – or 1 – of  Mademoiselle Butterfly! Needless to say I am very happy. Perhaps not totally pleased with the writing but hey, I have a direction and editting will come later.

So, let me talk about something else real quick…I just finished W. Somerset Maugham’s The Painted Veil, having the loved the movie I had to read the book. I love them both individually. Such a beautiful, and beautifully written work. It made me laugh and cry, and really think. Which is what books are supposed to do. So, yeah, definitely go and read that one if you’re looking for something that has real, flawed, and complex characters – and you’re not too concerned about happy endings.

One of my favorite quotes is “Happy endings are just stories that haven’t finished yet.” And oddly enough, that comes from a really ‘interesting’ movie, Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Yeah, lol. I find inspiration in the oddest places. Anyway, The Painted Veil really explores the different kinds of love and how a person can change, slowly and painfully, but still change, and how life is beautiful, even in all its ugliness. Really good book.

There is no work today, mixed feelings about that, I have high demands for my paycheck, but I’ve scheduled a college tour and am working on apps. Makes me want to bite my nails just thinking about it. So, to preserve my two week ago manicure – paycheck has demands, remember that – let me just keep typing…LOL.

I will be posting some character pics her for Mademoiselle Butterfly as soon as I can find some really good pics. I will tell you that Katherine’s father is played by Geoffrey Palmer – in my head, in yours you may cast as you wish – and that Eric’s mother is Judi Dench, always has been the Great Dame. I can actually hear her talking to Eric – it freaks me out sometimes. How bout ya’ll?

Now, I won’t say anything about irritating people who claim to do ‘all’ the work – though that is physically impossible, and I will not talk about boys wanting to become men and boys starting discussions on friend’s FB pages and then going “Hey, I don’t think this is fair to ash and we really shouldn’t turn her page into a debate…” Whatever Mr. Lush. I’ll just ignore them and use them to inspire characters and protaganists…See, I didn’t say anything ;) (Think Chaucer in A Knight’s Tale: “I will viscerate you in fiction. Every pimple, every character flaw, will be remembered for eternity.” Something like that anyway)

Wow, I just wrote a nice long, very jumpy, scatterbrained blog post. Welcome to the mind of me! LOL.

My apologies sane ones. Much love to you darlings!

– Aranel


PS. “Fefe always said, ‘never lose your childish innocence, it’s the most important thing’.” -Under the Tuscan Sun

Short Story…


Dear readers…

…I’m sorry for the lack of blog – feel like a terrible blogger – but I have reasons. Work, writer’s block, and guilt for said writer’s block. Yep, oh, and housework. My house is in shambles because I have been trying to cure my WB (writer’s block, teehee…). Houston, I think we’ve found the problem. Do any other writers find that some of their greatest inspiration comes from cleaning their houses? And even if they don’t, I do, so…why am I ignoring this wisdome @_@? Hmmm…neway!

Quick update on life: Summer is here and that is exciting. I’m planning my vacation, and school, and working a lot. Hopefully I’ll have more inspiration to write, and then I’ll find the time.

Till then…lemme go clean my house (yuck, I hate dust, but dusting is worse!), and during that time I invite you guys to read this short piece written a month or so back. Constructive crit is welcome, maybe I’ll find some fresh breath from your thoughts! Much love and the best wishes. Till a much sooner post than this…

Scatterbrained :P


Gold my beloved

~Gold, My Beloved~

There are no words to describe him. Only thoughts, thoughts spun so closely and intricately together that she cannot unwind them, not even for herself. She stands within a hall, a hall of color, swirling with clouds of sheer gold, and she spins, dancing, beating the walls, freeing the clouds, and loosing herself in her thoughts.

Moments of gold. Her memories of him are the strands of gold in the carpet she weaves. Shimmering and rare. They are flowers, hard lines, and raindrops. Flowers were in her hair, the buildings lining the streets she was walking were hard, straight lines, and raindrops were falling on her face. There she saw him the first time, one thread of gold in her life of blue. His eyes the color of honey, his hair the color of ink, his smile the color of starlight, his voice the color of water as he spoke to her “Namaste…” A golden thread.

“How fast she weaves. How fast she leaves. How fast she walks wherever she is going these days.”

Mother can talk. Sisters can talk. Grandmother and all the neighbors; they can whisper and speculate, they can ask and demand, but the threads are woven furtively. Secret looks, accidental meetings brung about by so much planning that none could comprehend. Why? Why do anything but for gold. The gold of his smile, the gold of his touch. When he touched her hand, returning her anklet, her fingers were made gold. Now, she who never cared for money, all she wants is gold. Gold to adorn her fingers, her wrists, her cheeks, her hair…and her lips.

She dreams of kisses. Of holding hands and lingering words. While she weaves a thread of gold she dreams of walking by the shop, of pausing to look in the window, of catching his eye; catching his heart. She weaves a thread – an excuse, to go out and walk along his street, to stop in the square, taking a long drink. She weaves a thread and smiles at him, when he looks her way and waves.

While she sleeps under stars of silver, she dreams of her moon of gold. The sun is bright when he asks after her mother, her smile is warm as fever when she speaks. Her tongue falls over itself, tripping over threads of an anxious heart. He laughs in amusement, his honey eyes dancing. She blushes scarlet. He is of gold.

She weaves a spiral in gold. Her heart is falling. There are others just as handsome, others just as sweet, but only he brings a glimmer to her eyes. She weaves a single thread of gold.

The night is a royal blue, with tiny flowers of silver sewn in place, an orb sparkling, round, its threads reflecting golden rays down. Down onto the water, above she waits on the bridge. Shadows are deepening, one is moving, surely coming to her and she smiles. Honey in his smile, cinnamon in his eyes, golden features. Spiced sweetness perfectly blended. They stand apart, so unsure. But of course.

“How bright she smiles. Look her cheeks. She blushes as she weaves.”

He comes and he goes. Her heart flutters and then flies. Gold – all her world is gold. She weaves a thread and smiles, glittering threads are everywhere. Even the rain is gold, the dark starless night. All her world is gold – all her world is him.