Reading Kate Chopin on the Web

Captions: The novelist & short story 19th century writer of feminist literature, Kate Chopin. Chopin posing with some of her children.
The house where Chopin lived; now a classical masterpiece for tourists and students. The Awakening (1877), pictured here and possibly Chopin's most famous novel and sadly, recognised for its genius only after her death. The novel dealt with a modernist feminist literature, on a woman's controversial sexual attitudes that challenged a puritannical American society and where Chopin would be openly and dramatically snubbed by literary critics and society in general. The violent clannish reaction so traumatised the novelist that she almost stopped writing altogether.

Biography
of Kate Chopin

A

Wanting a return to reading the classics for the longest time, that desire gripped me with such fervour that I could no longer snub the impulse.
But because I am rushing manuscripts to publishers, I cannot for the sake of my own short time, settle into armchair reading. It would subdue me into a temporary lull, where even a fleeting moment may prove costly or time-consuming.
So I have decided to leave my book collection for the present season where they stay safe in London in a friend's flat and look forward to more tube rides and cold winter afernoons rolling by in warm cafes with me, deeply buried in my favourite reads, later this year.
For now, (the prospect of me ever abandoning a good read must never arise), I have turned to the wonderful incredible techonology of e-reading.
I am one of the fortunate ones, with any easy sense of appreciation for an advanced change that involves the worldwide web.
While I adore my nostalgic reflections, I also seem to understand in one of these few instances how to strike the right balance to move in and out of different mediums that would so benefit me and my writing without hesitation or question.
And I find the internet a super technology where if I didn't take advantage of its necessary benefits, it would be a major loss.

B
My first effort was to read 11 short stories written by Kate Chopin that sprung delicious titles like The Kiss, The Locket, A Pair of Silk Stockings and The Story of the Hour. I found that I was able to read a lot faster on the net, which is really good. And I also struck enough of a rich camaraderie with this medium to soon forget that I was reading a story on the Web. It could have well been a book.
Perhaps it was Chopin's ability to draw me in very quickly with her fairly long fiction on the darker secrets of affection and sexual dawnings, that would befall a married man or woman.
Before long, my vision was encased with the glitter of an evening ball or the thread in my skirt, caught on the edge of an old rusty chair at a cheap afternoon matinee.
Affairs on the side or thoughts of what may have been, began to linger like wafts of an old perfume. The stories stayed strong dark and masculine with each plot's volatile impact to a woman's multi-layered temperement. And here too, from where the hushed, intimate tones of lovers from an immigrant Canadian community, whispering meetings in antiquated French dialects were mixed with arrogant plantation slavery, enough to transport me to a faraway world.
Chopin also boasts nice twists to her story endings with emotions that stay sharp, stark and raw to the senses. The remnants of her prose are left in a reader's mind, feeling decidedly haunting and illusive.

Reading Kate Chopin on the Web

Captions: The novelist & short story 19th century writer of feminist literature, Kate Chopin. Chopin posing with some of her children.
The house where Chopin lived; now a classical masterpiece for tourists and students. The Awakening (1877), pictured here and possibly Chopin's most famous novel and sadly, recognised for its genius only after her death. The novel dealt with a modernist feminist literature, on a woman's controversial sexual attitudes that challenged a puritannical American society and where Chopin would be openly and dramatically snubbed by literary critics and society in general. The violent clannish reaction so traumatised the novelist that she almost stopped writing altogether.

Biography
of Kate Chopin

A

Wanting a return to reading the classics for the longest time, that desire gripped me with such fervour that I could no longer snub the impulse.
But because I am rushing manuscripts to publishers, I cannot for the sake of my own short time, settle into armchair reading. It would subdue me into a temporary lull, where even a fleeting moment may prove costly or time-consuming.
So I have decided to leave my book collection for the present season where they stay safe in London in a friend's flat and look forward to more tube rides and cold winter afernoons rolling by in warm cafes with me, deeply buried in my favourite reads, later this year.
For now, (the prospect of me ever abandoning a good read must never arise), I have turned to the wonderful incredible techonology of e-reading.
I am one of the fortunate ones, with any easy sense of appreciation for an advanced change that involves the worldwide web.
While I adore my nostalgic reflections, I also seem to understand in one of these few instances how to strike the right balance to move in and out of different mediums that would so benefit me and my writing without hesitation or question.
And I find the internet a super technology where if I didn't take advantage of its necessary benefits, it would be a major loss.

B
My first effort was to read 11 short stories written by Kate Chopin that sprung delicious titles like The Kiss, The Locket, A Pair of Silk Stockings and The Story of the Hour. I found that I was able to read a lot faster on the net, which is really good. And I also struck enough of a rich camaraderie with this medium to soon forget that I was reading a story on the Web. It could have well been a book.
Perhaps it was Chopin's ability to draw me in very quickly with her fairly long fiction on the darker secrets of affection and sexual dawnings, that would befall a married man or woman.
Before long, my vision was encased with the glitter of an evening ball or the thread in my skirt, caught on the edge of an old rusty chair at a cheap afternoon matinee.
Affairs on the side or thoughts of what may have been, began to linger like wafts of an old perfume. The stories stayed strong dark and masculine with each plot's volatile impact to a woman's multi-layered temperement. And here too, from where the hushed, intimate tones of lovers from an immigrant Canadian community, whispering meetings in antiquated French dialects were mixed with arrogant plantation slavery, enough to transport me to a faraway world.
Chopin also boasts nice twists to her story endings with emotions that stay sharp, stark and raw to the senses. The remnants of her prose are left in a reader's mind, feeling decidedly haunting and illusive.

Reading Kate Chopin on the Web

Captions: The novelist & short story 19th century writer of feminist literature, Kate Chopin. Chopin posing with some of her children.
The house where Chopin lived; now a classical masterpiece for tourists and students. The Awakening (1877), pictured here and possibly Chopin's most famous novel and sadly, recognised for its genius only after her death. The novel dealt with a modernist feminist literature, on a woman's controversial sexual attitudes that challenged a puritannical American society and where Chopin would be openly and dramatically snubbed by literary critics and society in general. The violent clannish reaction so traumatised the novelist that she almost stopped writing altogether.

Biography
of Kate Chopin

A

Wanting a return to reading the classics for the longest time, that desire gripped me with such fervour that I could no longer snub the impulse.
But because I am rushing manuscripts to publishers, I cannot for the sake of my own short time, settle into armchair reading. It would subdue me into a temporary lull, where even a fleeting moment may prove costly or time-consuming.
So I have decided to leave my book collection for the present season where they stay safe in London in a friend's flat and look forward to more tube rides and cold winter afernoons rolling by in warm cafes with me, deeply buried in my favourite reads, later this year.
For now, (the prospect of me ever abandoning a good read must never arise), I have turned to the wonderful incredible techonology of e-reading.
I am one of the fortunate ones, with any easy sense of appreciation for an advanced change that involves the worldwide web.
While I adore my nostalgic reflections, I also seem to understand in one of these few instances how to strike the right balance to move in and out of different mediums that would so benefit me and my writing without hesitation or question.
And I find the internet a super technology where if I didn't take advantage of its necessary benefits, it would be a major loss.

B
My first effort was to read 11 short stories written by Kate Chopin that sprung delicious titles like The Kiss, The Locket, A Pair of Silk Stockings and The Story of the Hour. I found that I was able to read a lot faster on the net, which is really good. And I also struck enough of a rich camaraderie with this medium to soon forget that I was reading a story on the Web. It could have well been a book.
Perhaps it was Chopin's ability to draw me in very quickly with her fairly long fiction on the darker secrets of affection and sexual dawnings, that would befall a married man or woman.
Before long, my vision was encased with the glitter of an evening ball or the thread in my skirt, caught on the edge of an old rusty chair at a cheap afternoon matinee.
Affairs on the side or thoughts of what may have been, began to linger like wafts of an old perfume. The stories stayed strong dark and masculine with each plot's volatile impact to a woman's multi-layered temperement. And here too, from where the hushed, intimate tones of lovers from an immigrant Canadian community, whispering meetings in antiquated French dialects were mixed with arrogant plantation slavery, enough to transport me to a faraway world.
Chopin also boasts nice twists to her story endings with emotions that stay sharp, stark and raw to the senses. The remnants of her prose are left in a reader's mind, feeling decidedly haunting and illusive.

My Children's Poem Published Online:

I had another children's poem published online on a literary portal in India, that's called BoloKids. I'm fortunate they select my poems regularly, especially that I'm not commissioned to write on anything.
A small acceptance but important to me as it keeps the fire for my writing ambitions crackling.

If you fancy a quick read, please click below on Morning Time:

Morning Time

My Children's Poem Published Online:

I had another children's poem published online on a literary portal in India, that's called BoloKids. I'm fortunate they select my poems regularly, especially that I'm not commissioned to write on anything.
A small acceptance but important to me as it keeps the fire for my writing ambitions crackling.

If you fancy a quick read, please click below on Morning Time:

Morning Time

My Children's Poem Published Online:

I had another children's poem published online on a literary portal in India, that's called BoloKids. I'm fortunate they select my poems regularly, especially that I'm not commissioned to write on anything.
A small acceptance but important to me as it keeps the fire for my writing ambitions crackling.

If you fancy a quick read, please click below on Morning Time:

Morning Time

Pardon The Remembrance:

Are there really chickens clucking about in the yard? I tell you, there are. There are.

I heard them yesterday like faraway stowaways, scampering in the attic of a befuddled mind, that still hoards the muddle of a scrambled cuddle, from friendships rekindled, when I was nine.

Then caught in the garden of a pardoned remembrance, I lost myself for the longest age, in a picture page of a forgotten moment.

And where I waited once more, for the fairies to come to tea...and from where cherubs stayed like mermaids, on the sunlit shore of a slip-slide sea, the boistrous waves would call me as brave as in my dreams, to ride on the gleam of a happy sunbeam.

And there were animals at play inviting me to stay in a Melodies cartoon, from where I could fly on a carpet to the moon.

And now in writing for children, I remember these old friends that fled so shyly without goodbyes in the mix of a teary, merry end. From the child in me, I hear an old memory inviting and calling, then falling and slipping...into the power of a distant hour.

Are there really chickens clucking in the yard? I tell you with the jolt of a happy start. Indeed, there are. There are...

- Susan Abraham -

Pardon The Remembrance:

Are there really chickens clucking about in the yard? I tell you, there are. There are.

I heard them yesterday like faraway stowaways, scampering in the attic of a befuddled mind, that still hoards the muddle of a scrambled cuddle, from friendships rekindled, when I was nine.

Then caught in the garden of a pardoned remembrance, I lost myself for the longest age, in a picture page of a forgotten moment.

And where I waited once more, for the fairies to come to tea...and from where cherubs stayed like mermaids, on the sunlit shore of a slip-slide sea, the boistrous waves would call me as brave as in my dreams, to ride on the gleam of a happy sunbeam.

And there were animals at play inviting me to stay in a Melodies cartoon, from where I could fly on a carpet to the moon.

And now in writing for children, I remember these old friends that fled so shyly without goodbyes in the mix of a teary, merry end. From the child in me, I hear an old memory inviting and calling, then falling and slipping...into the power of a distant hour.

Are there really chickens clucking in the yard? I tell you with the jolt of a happy start. Indeed, there are. There are...

- Susan Abraham -

Pardon The Remembrance:

Are there really chickens clucking about in the yard? I tell you, there are. There are.

I heard them yesterday like faraway stowaways, scampering in the attic of a befuddled mind, that still hoards the muddle of a scrambled cuddle, from friendships rekindled, when I was nine.

Then caught in the garden of a pardoned remembrance, I lost myself for the longest age, in a picture page of a forgotten moment.

And where I waited once more, for the fairies to come to tea...and from where cherubs stayed like mermaids, on the sunlit shore of a slip-slide sea, the boistrous waves would call me as brave as in my dreams, to ride on the gleam of a happy sunbeam.

And there were animals at play inviting me to stay in a Melodies cartoon, from where I could fly on a carpet to the moon.

And now in writing for children, I remember these old friends that fled so shyly without goodbyes in the mix of a teary, merry end. From the child in me, I hear an old memory inviting and calling, then falling and slipping...into the power of a distant hour.

Are there really chickens clucking in the yard? I tell you with the jolt of a happy start. Indeed, there are. There are...

- Susan Abraham -

A Slice Of A Day

Today, it happened that plans were once more topsy-turvy-ried with somewhat of a relish as one of my best friends asked if I could keep her company.
Despite my feeble pleas, we breakfasted downtown in an ancient Chinese coffeeshop that still carried the ambience of forgotten pre-war years.
Then, I ended up in a hair salon.
My long hair was cut into a short flyaway bob, only just covering my ears and coloured aubergine. Such is the battle between the vain and the sane I'm afraid and strangely necessary to the very upkeep of a feminine human survival.
Later, we strode off to have lunch and then tea, and I thought once more of my children's story that I had planned to write. But I was glad to have caught up with her for a natter. And I am such a people-person as much as I can afford to be a solitary one and friends who like me always bring joy. I pick up their affection with the ease of sunlight brushing my shoulders.
I returned home to a rainy afternoon.
The downpour was a pleasant surprise. I have always loved the rain but don't get to indulge in it, that often. I find tropical thunderstorms, blustery but brief.
Then fishing out my beloved laptop and starting my work with another cup of tea and an assortment of tiny heart-shaped chocolates, I muddled through my words in a clumsy happy fashion.
At this point, I felt so contented, I could have drowned in my dreams.
Then evening came and tall, eager shadows entered the room, begging for playtime.
I remembered old jigsaw puzzles that I had loved as a girl, and wondered if they had brought any.
As my fingers tapped the keyboard, I listened carefully all the while to the elegant voice of Enya humming Caribbean Blue from a favourite Shepherd Moons album.
Already but surely, I felt blanketed by the haunting echoes of her raw melody and ready all at once now to be roused into the peace of my art, that had turned scented and warm, like the delicious jam rolls I ate so cheerfully, this morning.

A Slice Of A Day

Today, it happened that plans were once more topsy-turvy-ried with somewhat of a relish as one of my best friends asked if I could keep her company.
Despite my feeble pleas, we breakfasted downtown in an ancient Chinese coffeeshop that still carried the ambience of forgotten pre-war years.
Then, I ended up in a hair salon.
My long hair was cut into a short flyaway bob, only just covering my ears and coloured aubergine. Such is the battle between the vain and the sane I'm afraid and strangely necessary to the very upkeep of a feminine human survival.
Later, we strode off to have lunch and then tea, and I thought once more of my children's story that I had planned to write. But I was glad to have caught up with her for a natter. And I am such a people-person as much as I can afford to be a solitary one and friends who like me always bring joy. I pick up their affection with the ease of sunlight brushing my shoulders.
I returned home to a rainy afternoon.
The downpour was a pleasant surprise. I have always loved the rain but don't get to indulge in it, that often. I find tropical thunderstorms, blustery but brief.
Then fishing out my beloved laptop and starting my work with another cup of tea and an assortment of tiny heart-shaped chocolates, I muddled through my words in a clumsy happy fashion.
At this point, I felt so contented, I could have drowned in my dreams.
Then evening came and tall, eager shadows entered the room, begging for playtime.
I remembered old jigsaw puzzles that I had loved as a girl, and wondered if they had brought any.
As my fingers tapped the keyboard, I listened carefully all the while to the elegant voice of Enya humming Caribbean Blue from a favourite Shepherd Moons album.
Already but surely, I felt blanketed by the haunting echoes of her raw melody and ready all at once now to be roused into the peace of my art, that had turned scented and warm, like the delicious jam rolls I ate so cheerfully, this morning.

A Slice Of A Day

Today, it happened that plans were once more topsy-turvy-ried with somewhat of a relish as one of my best friends asked if I could keep her company.
Despite my feeble pleas, we breakfasted downtown in an ancient Chinese coffeeshop that still carried the ambience of forgotten pre-war years.
Then, I ended up in a hair salon.
My long hair was cut into a short flyaway bob, only just covering my ears and coloured aubergine. Such is the battle between the vain and the sane I'm afraid and strangely necessary to the very upkeep of a feminine human survival.
Later, we strode off to have lunch and then tea, and I thought once more of my children's story that I had planned to write. But I was glad to have caught up with her for a natter. And I am such a people-person as much as I can afford to be a solitary one and friends who like me always bring joy. I pick up their affection with the ease of sunlight brushing my shoulders.
I returned home to a rainy afternoon.
The downpour was a pleasant surprise. I have always loved the rain but don't get to indulge in it, that often. I find tropical thunderstorms, blustery but brief.
Then fishing out my beloved laptop and starting my work with another cup of tea and an assortment of tiny heart-shaped chocolates, I muddled through my words in a clumsy happy fashion.
At this point, I felt so contented, I could have drowned in my dreams.
Then evening came and tall, eager shadows entered the room, begging for playtime.
I remembered old jigsaw puzzles that I had loved as a girl, and wondered if they had brought any.
As my fingers tapped the keyboard, I listened carefully all the while to the elegant voice of Enya humming Caribbean Blue from a favourite Shepherd Moons album.
Already but surely, I felt blanketed by the haunting echoes of her raw melody and ready all at once now to be roused into the peace of my art, that had turned scented and warm, like the delicious jam rolls I ate so cheerfully, this morning.

A Lazy Day:

Today, I caught up on some correspondence, watched telly lots and read and read. I'll have to work very hard this weekend.
My intention and no one is pressing me to do this is to try and send the Kidnap story (for older children) in addition to another requested one, to the publisher in India for a reading and an assessment, early next week.
This is possible now that she has given me some extra ground. But to send the added story is my own idea. She is expecting only one.
I am very much a writer who lives life off the edge and I'm quite certain this trait will increase in the coming months.
I am happy to stand on ceremony for most things in life but I have never been able to subject myself to either predictability or conformity as regards my writing. But I do always follow submission guidelines very carefully. Still, there is that extra something and somewhere there is always a little dare.

A Lazy Day:

Today, I caught up on some correspondence, watched telly lots and read and read. I'll have to work very hard this weekend.
My intention and no one is pressing me to do this is to try and send the Kidnap story (for older children) in addition to another requested one, to the publisher in India for a reading and an assessment, early next week.
This is possible now that she has given me some extra ground. But to send the added story is my own idea. She is expecting only one.
I am very much a writer who lives life off the edge and I'm quite certain this trait will increase in the coming months.
I am happy to stand on ceremony for most things in life but I have never been able to subject myself to either predictability or conformity as regards my writing. But I do always follow submission guidelines very carefully. Still, there is that extra something and somewhere there is always a little dare.

A Lazy Day:

Today, I caught up on some correspondence, watched telly lots and read and read. I'll have to work very hard this weekend.
My intention and no one is pressing me to do this is to try and send the Kidnap story (for older children) in addition to another requested one, to the publisher in India for a reading and an assessment, early next week.
This is possible now that she has given me some extra ground. But to send the added story is my own idea. She is expecting only one.
I am very much a writer who lives life off the edge and I'm quite certain this trait will increase in the coming months.
I am happy to stand on ceremony for most things in life but I have never been able to subject myself to either predictability or conformity as regards my writing. But I do always follow submission guidelines very carefully. Still, there is that extra something and somewhere there is always a little dare.

Posting A Late Manuscript:

I didn't behave too well over my manuscripts but got away with it. I was fortunate. If you remember the old blog, I had mentioned that a book publisher in India had expressed interest over my children's manuscript as per my query letter, a few weeks ago. They had then picked out one story synopses out of two, and asked me to send it on.

I would place India as one of the largest book markets in the world after London, the US and Toronto.

But for some sad reason, I never got down to it.

Whereas another publisher in London who had also expressed a tentative interest in my picture book manuscripts can be assured that my manuscripts are on the way to them in good time. It just happened that way. Perhaps I thought the idea of picture books more attractive. I really don't know.

Both requested different text categories and age groups. Both are on the lookout for storybook ideas but both too, at this point are displaying tentative interests. They're waiting to see my stories and I'll have to wait much longer for a response.

Yesterday, I wrote to the Indian lady editor who had requested my work and asked if her team would still want to read it after a spell of silence. To be as brazen as this is a bit like taking a shot in the dark.

I almost dreaded opening up the reply. The fact that she replied promptly was miraculous.

But she was nice and said of course, to still just send it on and all her words of her team assessing and reading my work with a view to marketability, still stayed. What I thought noble of this beautiful lady was that she made no reference at all to my lateness.

How thankful I am when fate swears compassion.

Posting A Late Manuscript:

I didn't behave too well over my manuscripts but got away with it. I was fortunate. If you remember the old blog, I had mentioned that a book publisher in India had expressed interest over my children's manuscript as per my query letter, a few weeks ago. They had then picked out one story synopses out of two, and asked me to send it on.

I would place India as one of the largest book markets in the world after London, the US and Toronto.

But for some sad reason, I never got down to it.

Whereas another publisher in London who had also expressed a tentative interest in my picture book manuscripts can be assured that my manuscripts are on the way to them in good time. It just happened that way. Perhaps I thought the idea of picture books more attractive. I really don't know.

Both requested different text categories and age groups. Both are on the lookout for storybook ideas but both too, at this point are displaying tentative interests. They're waiting to see my stories and I'll have to wait much longer for a response.

Yesterday, I wrote to the Indian lady editor who had requested my work and asked if her team would still want to read it after a spell of silence. To be as brazen as this is a bit like taking a shot in the dark.

I almost dreaded opening up the reply. The fact that she replied promptly was miraculous.

But she was nice and said of course, to still just send it on and all her words of her team assessing and reading my work with a view to marketability, still stayed. What I thought noble of this beautiful lady was that she made no reference at all to my lateness.

How thankful I am when fate swears compassion.

Posting A Late Manuscript:

I didn't behave too well over my manuscripts but got away with it. I was fortunate. If you remember the old blog, I had mentioned that a book publisher in India had expressed interest over my children's manuscript as per my query letter, a few weeks ago. They had then picked out one story synopses out of two, and asked me to send it on.

I would place India as one of the largest book markets in the world after London, the US and Toronto.

But for some sad reason, I never got down to it.

Whereas another publisher in London who had also expressed a tentative interest in my picture book manuscripts can be assured that my manuscripts are on the way to them in good time. It just happened that way. Perhaps I thought the idea of picture books more attractive. I really don't know.

Both requested different text categories and age groups. Both are on the lookout for storybook ideas but both too, at this point are displaying tentative interests. They're waiting to see my stories and I'll have to wait much longer for a response.

Yesterday, I wrote to the Indian lady editor who had requested my work and asked if her team would still want to read it after a spell of silence. To be as brazen as this is a bit like taking a shot in the dark.

I almost dreaded opening up the reply. The fact that she replied promptly was miraculous.

But she was nice and said of course, to still just send it on and all her words of her team assessing and reading my work with a view to marketability, still stayed. What I thought noble of this beautiful lady was that she made no reference at all to my lateness.

How thankful I am when fate swears compassion.

I'm Reading E-Books On The Web

I'll soon be talking about my new adventure, reading e-books seriously on the net. This arises out of necessity. I love the challenge of going back to reading with a new zest and without physical interruption to my present writing on the laptop.

I'm not at all satisfied with my vocabulary and really need to sharpen it.

I've been wanting to return to the classics and to English pastoral poetry for years. I don't think that any scented memory of having first held a Dickens or a Mrs. Gaskell in my hand...that felt then, like toying with a raw diamond each, will ever leave me.

Now, blessed with a technology that works so well for me, I'm ready for new things.

My first choice is to read the novelist and short story writer of daring feminist literature in 19th century American fiction, Katherine Chopin (pictured above). Born in 1851 in St. Louis, Chopin's most popular book was possibly The Awakening (1899), that described the scarlet tale of a woman's sexual freedom in the hands of a puritannical community.

I thought I would try about 10 of Chopin's short stories first. They have delicious titles like The Kiss,The Locket, A Pair of Silk Stockings, The Story of an Hour and Desiree's Baby, amongst others. I thought they would make for an excellent breather when writing got too tired for the mind and I could eagerly scroll these bookmarks.

I'm impatient to read all kinds of things now. I want to rediscover the authors and poets I once knew intimately in my spirit, and seek out many that I don't. Isn't life wonderful with its passionate learning rooms that hold no boundaries to any soul, whatever the moment in time.

I'm Reading E-Books On The Web

I'll soon be talking about my new adventure, reading e-books seriously on the net. This arises out of necessity. I love the challenge of going back to reading with a new zest and without physical interruption to my present writing on the laptop.

I'm not at all satisfied with my vocabulary and really need to sharpen it.

I've been wanting to return to the classics and to English pastoral poetry for years. I don't think that any scented memory of having first held a Dickens or a Mrs. Gaskell in my hand...that felt then, like toying with a raw diamond each, will ever leave me.

Now, blessed with a technology that works so well for me, I'm ready for new things.

My first choice is to read the novelist and short story writer of daring feminist literature in 19th century American fiction, Katherine Chopin (pictured above). Born in 1851 in St. Louis, Chopin's most popular book was possibly The Awakening (1899), that described the scarlet tale of a woman's sexual freedom in the hands of a puritannical community.

I thought I would try about 10 of Chopin's short stories first. They have delicious titles like The Kiss,The Locket, A Pair of Silk Stockings, The Story of an Hour and Desiree's Baby, amongst others. I thought they would make for an excellent breather when writing got too tired for the mind and I could eagerly scroll these bookmarks.

I'm impatient to read all kinds of things now. I want to rediscover the authors and poets I once knew intimately in my spirit, and seek out many that I don't. Isn't life wonderful with its passionate learning rooms that hold no boundaries to any soul, whatever the moment in time.

I'm Reading E-Books On The Web

I'll soon be talking about my new adventure, reading e-books seriously on the net. This arises out of necessity. I love the challenge of going back to reading with a new zest and without physical interruption to my present writing on the laptop.

I'm not at all satisfied with my vocabulary and really need to sharpen it.

I've been wanting to return to the classics and to English pastoral poetry for years. I don't think that any scented memory of having first held a Dickens or a Mrs. Gaskell in my hand...that felt then, like toying with a raw diamond each, will ever leave me.

Now, blessed with a technology that works so well for me, I'm ready for new things.

My first choice is to read the novelist and short story writer of daring feminist literature in 19th century American fiction, Katherine Chopin (pictured above). Born in 1851 in St. Louis, Chopin's most popular book was possibly The Awakening (1899), that described the scarlet tale of a woman's sexual freedom in the hands of a puritannical community.

I thought I would try about 10 of Chopin's short stories first. They have delicious titles like The Kiss,The Locket, A Pair of Silk Stockings, The Story of an Hour and Desiree's Baby, amongst others. I thought they would make for an excellent breather when writing got too tired for the mind and I could eagerly scroll these bookmarks.

I'm impatient to read all kinds of things now. I want to rediscover the authors and poets I once knew intimately in my spirit, and seek out many that I don't. Isn't life wonderful with its passionate learning rooms that hold no boundaries to any soul, whatever the moment in time.

Work In Progress

At the moment, I am about to write and will hopefully soon complete an older children's book (for 9 to 10 year olds). I'll call it Kidnap for now. I feel the need to write it before I lose the plot though eventually, I need to write other major things as well. Best that it's all one steady step at a time.

And I also have smaller projects like another commissioned ghost story and the like. That said, there is a precious children's tale on hold in my floppy...the very first one I started to write and that is so close to my heart but stays incomplete. It talks about my true-life experiences on the Tanzanian safaris especially with the lazy grumpy hippos and the hoity-toity flamingos who may just imagine their vain pin-ups on the cover of Vogue.

Work In Progress

At the moment, I am about to write and will hopefully soon complete an older children's book (for 9 to 10 year olds). I'll call it Kidnap for now. I feel the need to write it before I lose the plot though eventually, I need to write other major things as well. Best that it's all one steady step at a time.

And I also have smaller projects like another commissioned ghost story and the like. That said, there is a precious children's tale on hold in my floppy...the very first one I started to write and that is so close to my heart but stays incomplete. It talks about my true-life experiences on the Tanzanian safaris especially with the lazy grumpy hippos and the hoity-toity flamingos who may just imagine their vain pin-ups on the cover of Vogue.

Work In Progress

At the moment, I am about to write and will hopefully soon complete an older children's book (for 9 to 10 year olds). I'll call it Kidnap for now. I feel the need to write it before I lose the plot though eventually, I need to write other major things as well. Best that it's all one steady step at a time.

And I also have smaller projects like another commissioned ghost story and the like. That said, there is a precious children's tale on hold in my floppy...the very first one I started to write and that is so close to my heart but stays incomplete. It talks about my true-life experiences on the Tanzanian safaris especially with the lazy grumpy hippos and the hoity-toity flamingos who may just imagine their vain pin-ups on the cover of Vogue.

Bad Day Yesterday

Yesterday had to be a day when it was raining in my heart. Nothing went right but almost everything went wrong. Plus, I had a small piece of bad news out of the ordinary.

My mood commanded the sure feeling of melancholy.

I did no writing but just watched old black-and-whites. It was one of those days when enthusiasm fled like a tailwind.

Today, I sent my children's stories off to London.

I also tried to post my favourite links on this blog but had to stop as I accidentally fiddled with the template codes and lost the whole thing. Thankfully, I had a back-up for the basic format. Still, I had to fill in all the other details. Otherwise, there'd be no more green banner...no bird brooding in its nest, nothing...

So I've left the links for a little later.
Hopefully, I can get back to my writing and correspondence tomorrow with no more interruptions. I have so much work to do but I'll talk about this later. Thank you for stopping by.

Bad Day Yesterday

Yesterday had to be a day when it was raining in my heart. Nothing went right but almost everything went wrong. Plus, I had a small piece of bad news out of the ordinary.

My mood commanded the sure feeling of melancholy.

I did no writing but just watched old black-and-whites. It was one of those days when enthusiasm fled like a tailwind.

Today, I sent my children's stories off to London.

I also tried to post my favourite links on this blog but had to stop as I accidentally fiddled with the template codes and lost the whole thing. Thankfully, I had a back-up for the basic format. Still, I had to fill in all the other details. Otherwise, there'd be no more green banner...no bird brooding in its nest, nothing...

So I've left the links for a little later.
Hopefully, I can get back to my writing and correspondence tomorrow with no more interruptions. I have so much work to do but I'll talk about this later. Thank you for stopping by.

Bad Day Yesterday

Yesterday had to be a day when it was raining in my heart. Nothing went right but almost everything went wrong. Plus, I had a small piece of bad news out of the ordinary.

My mood commanded the sure feeling of melancholy.

I did no writing but just watched old black-and-whites. It was one of those days when enthusiasm fled like a tailwind.

Today, I sent my children's stories off to London.

I also tried to post my favourite links on this blog but had to stop as I accidentally fiddled with the template codes and lost the whole thing. Thankfully, I had a back-up for the basic format. Still, I had to fill in all the other details. Otherwise, there'd be no more green banner...no bird brooding in its nest, nothing...

So I've left the links for a little later.
Hopefully, I can get back to my writing and correspondence tomorrow with no more interruptions. I have so much work to do but I'll talk about this later. Thank you for stopping by.

Posted Online:

I have 2 selected poems, Blessings & Memory posted up on a literary/cultural portal, Boloji.com India, today.

Here they are if you would like a look-see :
http://www.boloji.com/poetry/3001-3100/3087.htm &
http://www.boloji.com/poetry/3001-3100/3088.htm

Posted Online:

I have 2 selected poems, Blessings & Memory posted up on a literary/cultural portal, Boloji.com India, today.

Here they are if you would like a look-see :
http://www.boloji.com/poetry/3001-3100/3087.htm &
http://www.boloji.com/poetry/3001-3100/3088.htm

Posted Online:

I have 2 selected poems, Blessings & Memory posted up on a literary/cultural portal, Boloji.com India, today.

Here they are if you would like a look-see :
http://www.boloji.com/poetry/3001-3100/3087.htm &
http://www.boloji.com/poetry/3001-3100/3088.htm

Reflection:

The heartbeat of my writing life at this very moment in time is made up of 2 things...a toybox and a rose.

Reflection:

The heartbeat of my writing life at this very moment in time is made up of 2 things...a toybox and a rose.

Reflection:

The heartbeat of my writing life at this very moment in time is made up of 2 things...a toybox and a rose.

Polishing Children's Story Manuscripts

Very busy today. Just writing and rewriting and polishing my children's picture book manuscripts before I send them out tomorrow. I am highly-concerned about my stories being specifically tight and informative. Perhaps, paranoid is the better word.

Polishing Children's Story Manuscripts

Very busy today. Just writing and rewriting and polishing my children's picture book manuscripts before I send them out tomorrow. I am highly-concerned about my stories being specifically tight and informative. Perhaps, paranoid is the better word.

Polishing Children's Story Manuscripts

Very busy today. Just writing and rewriting and polishing my children's picture book manuscripts before I send them out tomorrow. I am highly-concerned about my stories being specifically tight and informative. Perhaps, paranoid is the better word.

Sending Requested Chapters for the

Novel (Romantic)

I have troubling converting my doc. file into the required format {for the 3 chapters of the romantic novel, as per request. It is a special format, rarely requested. In fact, I am completely ignorant on the subject.

I reply carefully, with a small troubled note.

The echoing tone of my tragic words, reminds the receipient {in this case, said editor from prospective publisher} that my dignity is visibly damaged.

It's like saying, "Teacher, I completed a fantastic assignment for homework but my sheet got half-torn."

The pupil bent on good intentions, suddenly turns victim, scratches its head worriedly and pronounces a befuddled expression at life's haphazard offerings. The longsuffering teacher retorts appropriately with a heavy sigh...

Said editor is unexpectedly kind.

And I daresay, amused at my sudden stupidity.

"Susan..." the tone of her words are beautifully patient, even maternal.She explains kindly how the simple, basic rules work.

And then as if struck by an inate wisdom {I picture her shaking her head}, she stops to add this liner. "Don't worry about it, in any case. Just send the file whatever way you like and I'll still be happy to read it."

From all the way in the States, I catch the sweet sharp sigh of resignation.

Then by the miraculous power of the keyboard and a new acquaintainship fast forming on the foundation of my absent-mindedness, I sit and weep.

Sending Requested Chapters for the

Novel (Romantic)

I have troubling converting my doc. file into the required format {for the 3 chapters of the romantic novel, as per request. It is a special format, rarely requested. In fact, I am completely ignorant on the subject.

I reply carefully, with a small troubled note.

The echoing tone of my tragic words, reminds the receipient {in this case, said editor from prospective publisher} that my dignity is visibly damaged.

It's like saying, "Teacher, I completed a fantastic assignment for homework but my sheet got half-torn."

The pupil bent on good intentions, suddenly turns victim, scratches its head worriedly and pronounces a befuddled expression at life's haphazard offerings. The longsuffering teacher retorts appropriately with a heavy sigh...

Said editor is unexpectedly kind.

And I daresay, amused at my sudden stupidity.

"Susan..." the tone of her words are beautifully patient, even maternal.She explains kindly how the simple, basic rules work.

And then as if struck by an inate wisdom {I picture her shaking her head}, she stops to add this liner. "Don't worry about it, in any case. Just send the file whatever way you like and I'll still be happy to read it."

From all the way in the States, I catch the sweet sharp sigh of resignation.

Then by the miraculous power of the keyboard and a new acquaintainship fast forming on the foundation of my absent-mindedness, I sit and weep.

Sending Requested Chapters for the

Novel (Romantic)

I have troubling converting my doc. file into the required format {for the 3 chapters of the romantic novel, as per request. It is a special format, rarely requested. In fact, I am completely ignorant on the subject.

I reply carefully, with a small troubled note.

The echoing tone of my tragic words, reminds the receipient {in this case, said editor from prospective publisher} that my dignity is visibly damaged.

It's like saying, "Teacher, I completed a fantastic assignment for homework but my sheet got half-torn."

The pupil bent on good intentions, suddenly turns victim, scratches its head worriedly and pronounces a befuddled expression at life's haphazard offerings. The longsuffering teacher retorts appropriately with a heavy sigh...

Said editor is unexpectedly kind.

And I daresay, amused at my sudden stupidity.

"Susan..." the tone of her words are beautifully patient, even maternal.She explains kindly how the simple, basic rules work.

And then as if struck by an inate wisdom {I picture her shaking her head}, she stops to add this liner. "Don't worry about it, in any case. Just send the file whatever way you like and I'll still be happy to read it."

From all the way in the States, I catch the sweet sharp sigh of resignation.

Then by the miraculous power of the keyboard and a new acquaintainship fast forming on the foundation of my absent-mindedness, I sit and weep.

Interested Publisher For The Romantic Novel

This morning, I received good news, I wanted to share with readers.

An American publishing house has asked for the first three chapters of my romantic novel, which for so long I had held as fragile as a feather.

It is a fairly big publishing house; lively and bustling in its operations with constant new releases.I got past the proposal and query letter stage, which only took a few days to invoke a response.I have to send my chapters via electronic mail.This is all so astounding.

In these last 2 years, especially in 2004, I travelled to quite a few countries and really enjoyed that aspect of my life as a traveller. But nothing moved at all for my writing, no matter how hard I tried even for a simple poem.
Because of a crisis, I was surrounded by negative vibes. It felt like sheer hell.

So now I can't believe all this is actually happening at racecar speed. Reminding me once more of how quickly things moved at one time in my late teens and all through my twenties when I first started out. I shouldn't have stopped the momentum then.I'm really grateful for this second chance.I have work on my hands at the moment like never before!

I'd better stop sending out anything else or I may end up burrowed under a pile of manuscripts.

Interested Publisher For The Romantic Novel

This morning, I received good news, I wanted to share with readers.

An American publishing house has asked for the first three chapters of my romantic novel, which for so long I had held as fragile as a feather.

It is a fairly big publishing house; lively and bustling in its operations with constant new releases.I got past the proposal and query letter stage, which only took a few days to invoke a response.I have to send my chapters via electronic mail.This is all so astounding.

In these last 2 years, especially in 2004, I travelled to quite a few countries and really enjoyed that aspect of my life as a traveller. But nothing moved at all for my writing, no matter how hard I tried even for a simple poem.
Because of a crisis, I was surrounded by negative vibes. It felt like sheer hell.

So now I can't believe all this is actually happening at racecar speed. Reminding me once more of how quickly things moved at one time in my late teens and all through my twenties when I first started out. I shouldn't have stopped the momentum then.I'm really grateful for this second chance.I have work on my hands at the moment like never before!

I'd better stop sending out anything else or I may end up burrowed under a pile of manuscripts.