Pages for my WIP(s) where I post news, lines or scenes, and photos to help fill the reader’s mind with the world of:
Lunacy in Otter Cove
My world, my garden, my other passion besides writing.
Disclaimer: Please be mindful, I don’t always know if a comma is required or where commas go, but before my WIP is transformed into a book to fill your hands and minds, it will be purged of all my pesky grammatical errors. I am blessed to have the full editing services of JKlein-Editor for my manuscripts. However, be warned, my blog posts will be filled with my own errors. Probably lots of errors.
The garden bird bath has a mister that runs everyday throughout the year. This serves to keep the bird bath full and the water fresh. During winter here in maritime Pacific Northwest we generally have short periods where temperatures drop into the 20’s for a few days. That’s when the mister turns the bird bath into a work of art.
This year from the collection of mist into drops of water on a small Rhododendron branch, a Mister Lady was created. The Lady morphed into a cat or a hermit crab or something. Every year it’s different.
When the temperatures drop I start watching for my favorite winter entertainment.
From my WIP, Seeking Odessa, I picture this tree along the bayou in Odessa’s back yard outside the kitchen door. The way the branches create a network, very much like the different paths and subplots of the story. Here’s an example–can you smell it, see it, hear it, feel it, and more important, would you like to visit? I’d love to know what you think!
From the shrub at the bottom of the steps the scent of gardenia wafted around Odessa.
Oo-oo-waoh, oo-oo-waoh oo-oo-waoh.
Mourning doves pecked at the ground under the live oak. She scooped a cup of seed from the bucket by the door. They took flight into lower branches when she stepped out to toss the seed, but soon settled again on the ground. Countless mornings, countless generations of doves had been lovingly fed under this giant tree.
From a branch of the oak hung a wooden bench swing. She strolled over, gave it a shove and watched it sway, stilled it and laid down. With bare feet braced against the cool chain she pushed with first one foot and then the other to make the swing twist. Above her, in the Spanish moss-draped branches were three pairs of eyes peering back.
Raccoons have lived in moss nests in the upper fork of the oak for as long as she could remember and probably for far longer. They journeyed up and down the tree, walking the branches growing down and sprawling along the ground.