May 2023
What I'm Up To...
My son turned 3 on Tuesday. A few weeks ago, my husband and I asked little M what he wanted to do for his birthday, and he said he wanted to go to a “meeum” to see dinosaurs. (That’s right, somehow I ended up with a toddler who asks to go to museums for fun—I’m so proud!) We searched the interwebs for a museum with dinosaur fossils, and drove at total of 4 1/2 hours to make M’s dinosaur dream come true.
He loved it. He was fascinated by the fossils and kept asking to climb inside the T-Rex’s mouth. His favorite was the allosaurus skeleton, which he had to go back to see three times, and the room downstairs that had a cast of a T-Rex foot for him to climb on. The minute we left the museum, he was asking to go back (“We go to museum again?” has become his new favorite phrase) so I think it’s safe to say that his birthday weekend was a success. We rounded it off with tacos and a dinosaur cake on his actual birthday, and now I officially have an almost-preschooler.
No, that doesn’t make me want to cry, why do you ask?
Sneak Peak
If you recall from my last newsletter, my April project was a prequel novella called The First Wordweaver. I’m a couple thousand words away from finishing it, but as a special thank you for your support, I wanted to give you an exclusive sneak peek preview of the first scene! Thank you so much for being a part of my writing journey!
Chapter One
A gust of wind sweeps across the bow. “Sails in,” Father bellows, and the order is shouted out across the other boats. Sailors stretch out eager arms to seize the stays, working in well-practiced unison to raise the sails. The ship slows, but Father’s next order addresses it.
“Run out the oars.”
The sailors lift their oars from between the thwarts and push the ends out into the water, working feverishly to row the ship toward the shore. We can see it now, a slash of gray and brown against the endless blue. The men send up a chant to coordinate their work, and I hear more going up across the water. We are almost there. After four long weeks, our voyage is almost done. I lean forward, desperate to see the shore, to touch the sand and feel its solidity beneath my feet. Father gives another command to adjust our course, his eyes fixed on the shoals ahead. We’d spent weeks pouring over the few maps I was able to get my hands on before our journey, and I know Father has them memorized as well as I do. On the maps, this section of beach is simply labeled Landing, because it’s the only point for miles of coast that is fit to bring in ships.
As one, the ships draw together like geese in the autumn, following Father’s lead. Choppy gray water sprays up as the men drag us closer to shore. It’s cold on my face, but I can’t bring myself to back away and risk losing sight of the land.
Finally, one of the men shouts as his oar strikes sand. The others take up a cry, which Father cuts off with a demand for silence, but the other boats fill the quiet. Men stand to leap into the shallow waters, ready to pull the boats in the last few feet, ready to drag them onto the shore. I am on my feet with them, though I have no intention of hauling the ship ashore. My eyes are fixed on the wall of trees farther inland, on the clumps of brush beneath their branches, on the promise of growing things.
A shout drags my attention back to the water. In the boat nearest us, sailors lean out over the side and point into the water.
“Man overboard!”
That's all for now! I'm having so much fun with this project and I can't wait to share it with you!
On My Bookshelf
I love Robin Hood retellings. A lot. I love them so much that I have an entire shelf dedicated just to my Robin Hood books, and they’re spilling over onto other shelves because they don’t all fit anymore. If I find a Robin Hood retelling, I buy it—no questions asked. Many of the ones I’ve read and watched are horrible, but I can’t pass them up. It might be a problem.
(My husband would definitely say it’s a problem.)
Anyway, I managed to find a book store to stop at during our travels last weekend, and in it I discovered a new Robin Hood retelling: Sherwood by Meagan Spooner. I haven’t started it yet, but the reviews call it a “gender-flipped feminist retelling”. Cue Chandler Bing voice: Could that be any more perfect for me?
It could not. I can’t wait to get started!
Poetry Corner
This month's poem was inspired by little M.
"I love you too," he says,
his sweet toddler voice
earnest and distracted.
I haven't said I love him
yet, but I'd planned to
after I picked him up,
washed his face,
kissed his cheek,
said our prayers.
"I love you too," he says
as I carry him upstairs.
He picks out a book
and a plastic dinosaur
to bring to bed.
We brush teeth,
put on jammies,
curl up in the chair
to read and rock.
I smell his bubblegum soap
and watch his miniature fingers
turn the pages,
remember when they were
clumsy and chubby, and I
squeeze him tighter in my arms.
"I love you too," he says.