That IS weird about the lack of "learning from fellow writer friends" responses! I wonder if it might be a case of not thinking of conversations and time spent with writer pals as "teaching" or "learning" in a strict or formal sense? I have several good writer friends with whom I discuss what we're working on and reading and struggling with in our writing lives. That is incredibly valuable and important to me, but if asked, I might not categorize this as "learning about writing." Maybe it's just a matter of perspective, or semantics...
Another excellent post, Alison. Whilst I am not commenting on the weather (most unusual for a Brit, as seemingly that’s all we talk about), I was intrigued with the latter part of your post about sharing or getting support from fellow writers. I honestly don’t know what I would have done without my author friend’s advice and she is my guiding star. Here’s a link to the article for anyone who is interested. We should all be there for each other, particularly in such an isolated pastime. Here’s the link:
I am doing an experiment. I am trying an AI writing assistant called Sudowrite. So here are 2 versions of inspiration from the photo. The first I wrote then I asked the AI to be more descriptive. What does everyone think?
UMBRELLA
"always carry an umbrella, it is important to stay dry when you are on such a journey." That is what her Deda told her. That was his last advice to her so may eons ago.
And now here she was with her last treasure stowed in the breast pocket of her coat.
She had chosen the meeting place. The museum, public, safe. Yes she could have gone to the police station where there was a zone for conducting sales from marketplace, but she was afraid of police, a holdover from her upbringing in Russia.
AI ASSISTED VERSION
His words echoed in her mind, a distant memory from eons ago. "Always carry an umbrella," he had said, "it is important to stay dry when embarking on such a journey." Her Deda's advice had always stuck with her. Now, she stood with her final treasure tucked safely in the breast pocket of her coat.
The meeting place was of her choosing. A museum, bustling with people and filled with modern art. It felt safe, public, and neutral. She could have gone to the police station, where there was a designated zone for conducting marketplace sales, but she was afraid of the police, a holdover from her past. Her heart throbbed in her chest either with anticipation or just age and angina, she couldn't tell anymore. She waited for her buyer to arrive. The soft glow of the museum lights illuminated the falling snow surrounding her, adding an eerie yet fitting atmosphere to the transaction about to take place, it reminded her of home - of Russia.
She made her careful way back home, the crunch of each step delivering the satisfying confirmation of traction. One had to gain traction, she had always told her sons. Not that they'd listened. And now they were gone from the reach of her lessons. White crystals coated the trees. She had always loved the winter.
Follow up to my post where I wrote one short passage and then another one using AI assistant. I found a plug-in on the program that was called Brutally Honest Feedback. I'm going to play with this program and see if I can get a positive Brutal Review.
This is what it said about my first piece.
Alright, let's dive into this passage with brutal honesty. Overall, there are some clear weaknesses that need to be addressed in order to improve the pacing, character authenticity, descriptions, narrative voice consistency, and structural flow.
First off, the pacing feels quite sluggish. The opening line is intriguing enough but then slows down considerably with unnecessary filler words like "may eons ago." It drags the reader down before they even get a chance to fully engage with the story. Tighten it up by getting straight to the point: "That was his last advice to her years ago."
Moving on to character authenticity, we don't really get a strong sense of who this protagonist is or what drives her. Sure, she has an umbrella recommendation from her Deda (which I assume means grandfather?), but it doesn't reveal much about her personality or motivations. Dive deeper into her thoughts and emotions so readers can connect with her on a more personal level.
Next up are overused descriptions. You mention twice that something is her "last" - first as advice and later as treasure in her pocket. This repetition feels redundant and diminishes its impact each time it's used. Instead of outright stating that it's important for her journey or that it's her last treasure without any context or significance attached to them, show us through vivid imagery how these objects hold value for our protagonist.
Narrative voice inconsistencies also rear their head here. In one instance you use proper grammar ("That is what...") while elsewhere you switch abruptly to a more colloquial tone ("Here she was..."). Find a consistent narrative voice throughout the passage and stick with it for better cohesion.
I get confirmation from my writer friends on what works. It’s like being on a sports team in the dug out. They are truthful and want the team to win. The trainers and coaches teach because their goals are different. The trust piece is essential with my writer friends and I treasure the connection. Coaches/ Teachers keep a distance as they should, providing a different perspective on techniques to use. And of course they have favorites—the winners.
I think you are right Alison. Feedback of any sort needs to be filtered through your own experience and what you are trying to say. Thanks for your positive comments about my work. It is that sort of feedback that keeps one pushing forward. I think many novice writers struggle with getting feedback, accepting feedback and filtering feedback. I know I do. I remember many moons ago you ran a small group where we posted parts of our story and received feedback from the four other members and you the leader. For me that was the most constructive, instructive and productive time of my writing.
I wonder if the UnSchool can create a place like that, where it is constructive for the participants and financially rewarding for the Instructor.
As for AI I think it will have a role to play. In the same manner that the camera/ photography changed art and moved us beyond realism into Impressionism and abstract art. AI will influence writing. But just as I can appreciate a Picasso or a Jackson Pollock I can still marvel at a DaVinci or Michelangelo.
Umbrellas- protection and attempted preparation against sun, rain, hail and some people assume, even against snow.
This photo reminded me of growing up in Montreal and how unprepared I always was for the first snowfall. I remember heading to university or work on the train in my nylon stockings and high heels with a light jacket , oblivious of weather forecasts. Sometime during the day a blizzard would descend on the city and by the time I took the train home that evening blowing snow accumulating in drifts would be everywhere. As I slipped and tripped on my suddenly lethal shoes, tearing my nylons, and freezing hands and feet I'd vow to be better prepared the following year. As I'd walk through the door freezing and disheveled my mother would greet me , ask me about my day and turn back to meal preparations without a word of sympathy as to my forlorn condition. It was the time before cellphones and second cars and it was just the way it was.
On January 11th, there was a snowfall…on January 11th, you had been with me for 11 days.
In many ways we were snowed in.
Over Christmas you fell at my sister’s house and broke your hip, ended up in the hospital. It was decided, as I had no stairs and no dogs, that you would stay with me when you came out. For healing and rehab. It was a decision that weighed as heavy and damp as a winter cloud because ever since my Dad passed we had not been on the same page, of the same mind, or barely in the same room. To say things had become difficult was an understatement. I was wounded myself.
When asked to care for someone, in this case, a step-mom, have you ever thought… do I have to? And what if they were just recently horrible to you, crushing your heart under their heel and upsetting ‘the way things have always been’. Well then, do you have to? Out of duty? Obligation? Do you really have a decision or is it just one of those things you must do? Of course, I could have said no, but the drift of cold between us would’ve been buried deeper and icier.
So I said, yes…and then searched my heart and soul for how I would cope with my broken heart and your broken hip. I had no doubt I could be a caregiver. I’d raised 3 children. But what about the hurt? I spent time alone, thinking of all the books and quotes I’d read. How to separate feelings from action and response. How to ‘see’ a feeling outside of yourself then let it fall to the ground and roll away like a snowball.
I knew I would have to dig deep to do this. It would be like burrowing in a snow bank to a place where it’s quiet, still and numbing. From there I’d keep a fort around my heart. To care for someone who needed care but not do too much. To do this for my Dad maybe, as an ode to him, even though that brought up difficult feelings about what he actually owed to me as a father. I would carry a shield but be open to a change in temperature. I would be kind and giving as that is my fucking nature…but not foolish, not over kind or over giving.
You moved into my condo and we sorted out equipment for you: indoor walker, outdoor walker, shower stool. We went through papers and got things in order. I cleared pathways in my rooms and put tennis balls on the bottom stalks of the indoor walker so the click click click of the legs would glide more smoothly. I kept the fireplace on because you felt chilly. I helped you in the shower, putting on my bathing suit and gently holding a towel over the bandage that covered your bruised and jagged incision. I held your arm gently when you walked, I helped you dress. I washed your clothes, your bedding, our dishes. Monitored your exercises. Fed you nutritious meals and shopped for things you liked but only when you were resting and I could leave you for a short amount of time.
I stole an enema. That was your third or fourth night with me. Things were not moving and you asked me to run to the store. With my snow boots on, I walked through the quiet streets to the grocery store and straight to the pharmacy. It was closed and I noticed certain shelves had been locked up. Sure enough, I could see a Fleet Enema in the dark behind the lock. With the fear of a cold and constipated step mom on my mind, I reached behind the locked board, stretching my arm, praying there was no alarm and grabbed the box. No alarm went off - or if it did it was silent and the checkout person didn’t seem to care that they were scanning a secured product. It saved the night, and you still laugh at imagining me caught, arrested in handcuffs with an enema as the illegally obtained property.
//
Over time as you healed, we fell into a calm routine. You helped out by folding towels and cloths in neat and tidy squares. You loaded the dishwasher and rinsed the French press coffee pot, scraping soggy grounds into a container. On Saturdays I picked up lattes from the local coffee shop and you paid for them, the almond croissants and the morning glory muffins. I bought you an eyebrow liner and while you sat, smiling, almost childlike, I traced your thin brows with the light brown gel. We made sure you didn’t stand too long as that caused your feet to swell, the delicate skin stretching taut and shiny.
There were many of these quiet, ordinary and sometimes tender moments and then there were other moments when you were in pain and we spent time adjusting medications. Then times when you cried, for your aching body and for my Dad. I sat beside you, pillows behind us, my arm around you and we talked in soft voices about the sadness of how my Dad had suffered. But how we’d all had the privilege of caring for him. Not everyone gets to. Our tears fell like melting snow.
More days passed and tears still came but they came from a deeper well. Not so much physical pain but more centred around grief and loss and the unsaid words between us. You mentioned how crazy the summer had been and how you weren’t in your right mind. Somehow that prompted a softening, a release of something suspended. It cracked and loosened. With my own sorrow still closely held, I told you how I was truly grateful we had this time together.
//
Lying in bed one night toward the end of your stay, more snow fell and swirled outside. Large crystal flakes sparkled under the globe-like garden lights while a lighter dusting fell like frosting on the hedges, turning them into soft slices of Christmas cake. Outside the air was hushed with minimal traffic and no one about. Inside was quiet too as we both rested in separate rooms, the fireplace not yet ash. And it was then, in that peace, that I felt a searing heat in my chest. A radiating burn between my ribs. I knew it was not there to bring fear or a medical emergency but a cauterizing. A cauterizing of an ancient glacial pathway where a suffering had once travelled and become wedged. As the burning faded, it left a small candle of heat and a soft pulsing bruise, like when your fingertips first thaw from frost. And I fell asleep. After months of no dreams, I began to dream again.
//
It took your fall and this snowfall. It took your injury and my injury. It took your healing and rehab to become my healing and rehab. And the snow fell all around, all around. And the snow fell all around. In a wintry storm we were held, suspended, until the time would come to step out on the new ground that lay ahead.
This comment relates to the February poll. When I revise the nuts and bolts of a scene (for specific details): I write what I know and research for exact names and add them in. Once the scene flows, I ask questions of my fact-checker. This can be people in my writers group, my husband, or others I know in the industry. The description has to reflect the way the characters interact in their environment or it falls apart. To me "finding your writer's voice" is more about how to harness observation so that it amplifies each character's rhythm of being. A good story can be turned into music because each element is part of the score.
One thought on the seeming absence of writer friends: was this the last option listed in the poll? The poll only let me choose one answer before jumping to show me the results, though I would have liked to select two. Perhaps those with writer friends simply also learn from a different source as well?
I'm way late to the game here! Both this post and the writing life. While I've learned a lot about writing from books on writing, I think I have learned the most from actually writing. And from reading and analyzing what I love and what did not work for me. But I've had some wonderful conversations with writer friends over the years that have taught me a lot. Not enough of those conversations, though. I'd like more of that. More walking and talking and sharing work and thoughts. I find this gets me out of my head in a way that reading and thinking of writing do not. Different realizations and understandings come this way.
Aeneas and Dido and Iphogeneia and Agemenon and Clytemenstra, hot human blood and grief and hard revenge wild in wind-driven obscuring snowflakes, humanity clear and true. Family killing family. Loved ones killing loved ones. Cold cold snowflakes piling into cold hot calculated grieved killings. Ambition. Revenge. Vengeance.
Iphogeneia, "strong-born," sacrificed by her loving/driven by the cold harsh winds of vengeance father Agememnon. Clytemnestra, hot/cold avenger, wife of Agememnon, mother of blood-sacrificed Iphogeneia, sister of abucted or not Helen of Troy for whom Agememnon goes to war. Agememnon sacrifices, grief-stricken, his daughter for the sister of his wife. He needs those ships to sail.
But at some point he had frozen out the more powerful Artemis and her snow-packed heart demanded Iphogeneia's blood to release his stranded frozen ships.
They all loved, but they all coldly demanded blood.
Clytemnestra, sister to Helen of Troy for whom her husband went to war, mother of Iphogeneia sacrificed by her husband for the sake of her sister, in hot grief coldly killed, upon his return from the too-stupidly-human war, her husband, father of Iphogeneia, Agememnon.
Hundreds and hundreds of years later, snow-misted in the swirls of time and conviction that humanity has evolved, we clearly and coldly feel the cruel reality of who we are.
That IS weird about the lack of "learning from fellow writer friends" responses! I wonder if it might be a case of not thinking of conversations and time spent with writer pals as "teaching" or "learning" in a strict or formal sense? I have several good writer friends with whom I discuss what we're working on and reading and struggling with in our writing lives. That is incredibly valuable and important to me, but if asked, I might not categorize this as "learning about writing." Maybe it's just a matter of perspective, or semantics...
My writing on the photo :)
Yesterday I walked this road and thought I was alone;
today I see the trampled tracks of those who've gone before.
And so I'll thank the mess, the slush,
the hush that brought me home.
Another excellent post, Alison. Whilst I am not commenting on the weather (most unusual for a Brit, as seemingly that’s all we talk about), I was intrigued with the latter part of your post about sharing or getting support from fellow writers. I honestly don’t know what I would have done without my author friend’s advice and she is my guiding star. Here’s a link to the article for anyone who is interested. We should all be there for each other, particularly in such an isolated pastime. Here’s the link:
https://open.substack.com/pub/rosygee/p/being-there-for-a-writer-in-their?r=faoyr&utm_medium=ios&utm_campaign=post
I am doing an experiment. I am trying an AI writing assistant called Sudowrite. So here are 2 versions of inspiration from the photo. The first I wrote then I asked the AI to be more descriptive. What does everyone think?
UMBRELLA
"always carry an umbrella, it is important to stay dry when you are on such a journey." That is what her Deda told her. That was his last advice to her so may eons ago.
And now here she was with her last treasure stowed in the breast pocket of her coat.
She had chosen the meeting place. The museum, public, safe. Yes she could have gone to the police station where there was a zone for conducting sales from marketplace, but she was afraid of police, a holdover from her upbringing in Russia.
AI ASSISTED VERSION
His words echoed in her mind, a distant memory from eons ago. "Always carry an umbrella," he had said, "it is important to stay dry when embarking on such a journey." Her Deda's advice had always stuck with her. Now, she stood with her final treasure tucked safely in the breast pocket of her coat.
The meeting place was of her choosing. A museum, bustling with people and filled with modern art. It felt safe, public, and neutral. She could have gone to the police station, where there was a designated zone for conducting marketplace sales, but she was afraid of the police, a holdover from her past. Her heart throbbed in her chest either with anticipation or just age and angina, she couldn't tell anymore. She waited for her buyer to arrive. The soft glow of the museum lights illuminated the falling snow surrounding her, adding an eerie yet fitting atmosphere to the transaction about to take place, it reminded her of home - of Russia.
She made her careful way back home, the crunch of each step delivering the satisfying confirmation of traction. One had to gain traction, she had always told her sons. Not that they'd listened. And now they were gone from the reach of her lessons. White crystals coated the trees. She had always loved the winter.
Follow up to my post where I wrote one short passage and then another one using AI assistant. I found a plug-in on the program that was called Brutally Honest Feedback. I'm going to play with this program and see if I can get a positive Brutal Review.
This is what it said about my first piece.
Alright, let's dive into this passage with brutal honesty. Overall, there are some clear weaknesses that need to be addressed in order to improve the pacing, character authenticity, descriptions, narrative voice consistency, and structural flow.
First off, the pacing feels quite sluggish. The opening line is intriguing enough but then slows down considerably with unnecessary filler words like "may eons ago." It drags the reader down before they even get a chance to fully engage with the story. Tighten it up by getting straight to the point: "That was his last advice to her years ago."
Moving on to character authenticity, we don't really get a strong sense of who this protagonist is or what drives her. Sure, she has an umbrella recommendation from her Deda (which I assume means grandfather?), but it doesn't reveal much about her personality or motivations. Dive deeper into her thoughts and emotions so readers can connect with her on a more personal level.
Next up are overused descriptions. You mention twice that something is her "last" - first as advice and later as treasure in her pocket. This repetition feels redundant and diminishes its impact each time it's used. Instead of outright stating that it's important for her journey or that it's her last treasure without any context or significance attached to them, show us through vivid imagery how these objects hold value for our protagonist.
Narrative voice inconsistencies also rear their head here. In one instance you use proper grammar ("That is what...") while elsewhere you switch abruptly to a more colloquial tone ("Here she was..."). Find a consistent narrative voice throughout the passage and stick with it for better cohesion.
I get confirmation from my writer friends on what works. It’s like being on a sports team in the dug out. They are truthful and want the team to win. The trainers and coaches teach because their goals are different. The trust piece is essential with my writer friends and I treasure the connection. Coaches/ Teachers keep a distance as they should, providing a different perspective on techniques to use. And of course they have favorites—the winners.
I think you are right Alison. Feedback of any sort needs to be filtered through your own experience and what you are trying to say. Thanks for your positive comments about my work. It is that sort of feedback that keeps one pushing forward. I think many novice writers struggle with getting feedback, accepting feedback and filtering feedback. I know I do. I remember many moons ago you ran a small group where we posted parts of our story and received feedback from the four other members and you the leader. For me that was the most constructive, instructive and productive time of my writing.
I wonder if the UnSchool can create a place like that, where it is constructive for the participants and financially rewarding for the Instructor.
As for AI I think it will have a role to play. In the same manner that the camera/ photography changed art and moved us beyond realism into Impressionism and abstract art. AI will influence writing. But just as I can appreciate a Picasso or a Jackson Pollock I can still marvel at a DaVinci or Michelangelo.
Umbrellas- protection and attempted preparation against sun, rain, hail and some people assume, even against snow.
This photo reminded me of growing up in Montreal and how unprepared I always was for the first snowfall. I remember heading to university or work on the train in my nylon stockings and high heels with a light jacket , oblivious of weather forecasts. Sometime during the day a blizzard would descend on the city and by the time I took the train home that evening blowing snow accumulating in drifts would be everywhere. As I slipped and tripped on my suddenly lethal shoes, tearing my nylons, and freezing hands and feet I'd vow to be better prepared the following year. As I'd walk through the door freezing and disheveled my mother would greet me , ask me about my day and turn back to meal preparations without a word of sympathy as to my forlorn condition. It was the time before cellphones and second cars and it was just the way it was.
(Feb prompt-was there a limit on words😱)
A SNOWFALL
On January 11th, there was a snowfall…on January 11th, you had been with me for 11 days.
In many ways we were snowed in.
Over Christmas you fell at my sister’s house and broke your hip, ended up in the hospital. It was decided, as I had no stairs and no dogs, that you would stay with me when you came out. For healing and rehab. It was a decision that weighed as heavy and damp as a winter cloud because ever since my Dad passed we had not been on the same page, of the same mind, or barely in the same room. To say things had become difficult was an understatement. I was wounded myself.
When asked to care for someone, in this case, a step-mom, have you ever thought… do I have to? And what if they were just recently horrible to you, crushing your heart under their heel and upsetting ‘the way things have always been’. Well then, do you have to? Out of duty? Obligation? Do you really have a decision or is it just one of those things you must do? Of course, I could have said no, but the drift of cold between us would’ve been buried deeper and icier.
So I said, yes…and then searched my heart and soul for how I would cope with my broken heart and your broken hip. I had no doubt I could be a caregiver. I’d raised 3 children. But what about the hurt? I spent time alone, thinking of all the books and quotes I’d read. How to separate feelings from action and response. How to ‘see’ a feeling outside of yourself then let it fall to the ground and roll away like a snowball.
I knew I would have to dig deep to do this. It would be like burrowing in a snow bank to a place where it’s quiet, still and numbing. From there I’d keep a fort around my heart. To care for someone who needed care but not do too much. To do this for my Dad maybe, as an ode to him, even though that brought up difficult feelings about what he actually owed to me as a father. I would carry a shield but be open to a change in temperature. I would be kind and giving as that is my fucking nature…but not foolish, not over kind or over giving.
You moved into my condo and we sorted out equipment for you: indoor walker, outdoor walker, shower stool. We went through papers and got things in order. I cleared pathways in my rooms and put tennis balls on the bottom stalks of the indoor walker so the click click click of the legs would glide more smoothly. I kept the fireplace on because you felt chilly. I helped you in the shower, putting on my bathing suit and gently holding a towel over the bandage that covered your bruised and jagged incision. I held your arm gently when you walked, I helped you dress. I washed your clothes, your bedding, our dishes. Monitored your exercises. Fed you nutritious meals and shopped for things you liked but only when you were resting and I could leave you for a short amount of time.
I stole an enema. That was your third or fourth night with me. Things were not moving and you asked me to run to the store. With my snow boots on, I walked through the quiet streets to the grocery store and straight to the pharmacy. It was closed and I noticed certain shelves had been locked up. Sure enough, I could see a Fleet Enema in the dark behind the lock. With the fear of a cold and constipated step mom on my mind, I reached behind the locked board, stretching my arm, praying there was no alarm and grabbed the box. No alarm went off - or if it did it was silent and the checkout person didn’t seem to care that they were scanning a secured product. It saved the night, and you still laugh at imagining me caught, arrested in handcuffs with an enema as the illegally obtained property.
//
Over time as you healed, we fell into a calm routine. You helped out by folding towels and cloths in neat and tidy squares. You loaded the dishwasher and rinsed the French press coffee pot, scraping soggy grounds into a container. On Saturdays I picked up lattes from the local coffee shop and you paid for them, the almond croissants and the morning glory muffins. I bought you an eyebrow liner and while you sat, smiling, almost childlike, I traced your thin brows with the light brown gel. We made sure you didn’t stand too long as that caused your feet to swell, the delicate skin stretching taut and shiny.
There were many of these quiet, ordinary and sometimes tender moments and then there were other moments when you were in pain and we spent time adjusting medications. Then times when you cried, for your aching body and for my Dad. I sat beside you, pillows behind us, my arm around you and we talked in soft voices about the sadness of how my Dad had suffered. But how we’d all had the privilege of caring for him. Not everyone gets to. Our tears fell like melting snow.
More days passed and tears still came but they came from a deeper well. Not so much physical pain but more centred around grief and loss and the unsaid words between us. You mentioned how crazy the summer had been and how you weren’t in your right mind. Somehow that prompted a softening, a release of something suspended. It cracked and loosened. With my own sorrow still closely held, I told you how I was truly grateful we had this time together.
//
Lying in bed one night toward the end of your stay, more snow fell and swirled outside. Large crystal flakes sparkled under the globe-like garden lights while a lighter dusting fell like frosting on the hedges, turning them into soft slices of Christmas cake. Outside the air was hushed with minimal traffic and no one about. Inside was quiet too as we both rested in separate rooms, the fireplace not yet ash. And it was then, in that peace, that I felt a searing heat in my chest. A radiating burn between my ribs. I knew it was not there to bring fear or a medical emergency but a cauterizing. A cauterizing of an ancient glacial pathway where a suffering had once travelled and become wedged. As the burning faded, it left a small candle of heat and a soft pulsing bruise, like when your fingertips first thaw from frost. And I fell asleep. After months of no dreams, I began to dream again.
//
It took your fall and this snowfall. It took your injury and my injury. It took your healing and rehab to become my healing and rehab. And the snow fell all around, all around. And the snow fell all around. In a wintry storm we were held, suspended, until the time would come to step out on the new ground that lay ahead.
This comment relates to the February poll. When I revise the nuts and bolts of a scene (for specific details): I write what I know and research for exact names and add them in. Once the scene flows, I ask questions of my fact-checker. This can be people in my writers group, my husband, or others I know in the industry. The description has to reflect the way the characters interact in their environment or it falls apart. To me "finding your writer's voice" is more about how to harness observation so that it amplifies each character's rhythm of being. A good story can be turned into music because each element is part of the score.
One thought on the seeming absence of writer friends: was this the last option listed in the poll? The poll only let me choose one answer before jumping to show me the results, though I would have liked to select two. Perhaps those with writer friends simply also learn from a different source as well?
I'm way late to the game here! Both this post and the writing life. While I've learned a lot about writing from books on writing, I think I have learned the most from actually writing. And from reading and analyzing what I love and what did not work for me. But I've had some wonderful conversations with writer friends over the years that have taught me a lot. Not enough of those conversations, though. I'd like more of that. More walking and talking and sharing work and thoughts. I find this gets me out of my head in a way that reading and thinking of writing do not. Different realizations and understandings come this way.
Aeneas and Dido and Iphogeneia and Agemenon and Clytemenstra, hot human blood and grief and hard revenge wild in wind-driven obscuring snowflakes, humanity clear and true. Family killing family. Loved ones killing loved ones. Cold cold snowflakes piling into cold hot calculated grieved killings. Ambition. Revenge. Vengeance.
Iphogeneia, "strong-born," sacrificed by her loving/driven by the cold harsh winds of vengeance father Agememnon. Clytemnestra, hot/cold avenger, wife of Agememnon, mother of blood-sacrificed Iphogeneia, sister of abucted or not Helen of Troy for whom Agememnon goes to war. Agememnon sacrifices, grief-stricken, his daughter for the sister of his wife. He needs those ships to sail.
But at some point he had frozen out the more powerful Artemis and her snow-packed heart demanded Iphogeneia's blood to release his stranded frozen ships.
They all loved, but they all coldly demanded blood.
Clytemnestra, sister to Helen of Troy for whom her husband went to war, mother of Iphogeneia sacrificed by her husband for the sake of her sister, in hot grief coldly killed, upon his return from the too-stupidly-human war, her husband, father of Iphogeneia, Agememnon.
Hundreds and hundreds of years later, snow-misted in the swirls of time and conviction that humanity has evolved, we clearly and coldly feel the cruel reality of who we are.