ANITA BIRT WEAVER OF TALES

I'm a Weaver of Tales now instead of writing a Journal. It won't make a bit of differences since I'm not sure a single living soul reads my deathless prose. Ah well, I must struggle on and hope that one bright morning someone will comment on my writing.

It's been pouring rain all day. The sky is breaking up in the south west so it might clear. I need a breath or two of fresh air and a long walk to loosen up my ancient knees. They enjoy walking and so do I.

About Steven Johnson's book. "Where Good Ideas Come From," and the meaning of "the adjacent possible."  I won't begin to explain it, you must read the book, but ... I'm leaping now into my meaning, "The adjacent possible," is to take what has gone before, twist and turn it a bit, and create something new as did the brilliant young man (whose name escapes me) who cobbled together FACE BOOK and made himself into a millionaire. Social media builds on "the adjacent possible," and develops Twitter, and how about Steve Jobs? The I-Phone, the I-Pad, etc. I do not own either but I do have  a Kindle.

What are you reading? I am well into Eleanor Catton's book, THE LUMINARIES. I have a problem with it. It is physically a heavy book, about two inches thick, I can't hold it like a paper back. If I put it on my lap I have to bend my back slightly to read it. Not good for my ancient bones. I put a small pillow on my lap and rested the book on it but that doesn't work. It's like having an extra blanket and who needs that when it's not perishing cold.

Any brilliant ideas? Do send them to me.

About "the adjacent possible." (I can't seem to leave it alone) After writing romance novels I have started writing mysteries. Why now? And why now when I am well into my ancient years? What prompted the change? I can't write romance novels at my age so what do do? An interesting character floated into my writing brain. What to do with it? I needed a secondary character to complement the first one. The story fell into place and became, The Ghost Writer Mystery. I am writing a second book in the series. I know I've mentioned this in a previous blog. I repeat myself to keep the story spinning.

My book "ISABELLE," is available in trade paper back now. Two romance novels in one book. Try my other books, A VERY DIFFICULT MAN, RING AROUND THE MOON, TOO YOUNG TO DIE. Enjoyable reads.

Anita

ANITA BIRT'S JOURNAL

Anita, Weaver of Tales. Still hell bent on having another book published! Never give up.

Anita who reads too late at night. Her brain is too active to invite sleep. The book in question that did me in last night:  "Where Good Ideas Come From," by Steven Johnson. I have to think about the content as I read. Johnson is a superb writer and makes reading a real treat. My problem is digesting the content slowly. It all makes wonderful sense as I read but it sneaks up on me and I have to back track to truly understand the meaning of  "the adjacent possible." It is a concept of the scientist, Stuart Kauffman. Johnson comments. "The phrase captures both the limits and the creative potential of change and innovation." I shall read the book during the day so I can sleep at night.

I visualized my grey brain networked by blood vessels trying desperately to stay on track by twisting and turning, or whatever brains do when they're working hard. I pictured my brain blushing red from the effort of understanding what I was feeding into it.

Give your brain a treat and buy "WHERE GOOD IDEAS COME FROM" by Steven Johnson, Published by RIVERHEAD BOOKS, published by the Penguin Group.

Then to add insult to injury I read a book excerpt in The National Post newspaper. Here is the title of the excerpt. "A TORRENT OF WORDS." It's from a book by Clive Thomson, "SMARTER THAN YOU THINK."

Masses of words to read. My little blog has no scandals or corruption to report. There's stuff in the newspapers about the senate scandal. There's more about Rob Ford the shameful mayor of Toronto who will not resign. Smoked Crack. Drinking while driving. Alcoholic and won't go into treatment. Peed in a public place. Smokes weed. It goes on. And he is hugely over weight. Not a pretty sight.

My evening reading will not upset my brain. I'll find something relaxing. Or maybe there will be something to watch on TV. I'll have a glass if wine with my dinner and think, but not too hard.,

Anita
Do buy my books. Find me at Ellora's Cave.com or check Amazon.com, Amazon.ca, Amazon.ca.UK I'm not brilliant but I do write a good story.

ANITA BIRT'S JOURNAL

Have you done your Christmas shopping? Can you afford to do your Christmas shopping? Have you given up?

I don't shop for my family now. They are all grown up and I haven't a clue what to buy for them so I send them cheques or money orders for my grandson and his darling wife, Francesca, who live in Arundel, England. I'll send them extra money to buy something for my great grand daughter, Caroline..

When Fraser, my Grandson, had an opportunity to work in London, England, he jumped at the chance but I think, and his parents think, it was the underground train system that attracted him. As a little boy he loved his special train set. When we visited friends in Bridal Veil, Oregon, trains rumbled by and we had a grand view from an old lumber yard. Trains are more interesting that aircraft. You actually get to see them. Wave at the engineer or fireman or passengers. Can't do that at 35,000 feet.

My son and daughter-in-law have returned home, all is quiet. I have to get my head back into writing mode. It's a process for me. I'm already thinking about where the story is going at this point. Finding a very nasty son who wants his mother's money. I don't know what's up with him but he is a unpleasant piece of work.

This book is the second in the series I started as A Ghost Writer Mystery. Two main characters are the same. Whether I will live long enough to write a series of more than two books is moot. I shall see how things go. In the meantime, writing keeps my brain working in mysterious ways.

Have you purchased your copy of ISABELLE? Have you purchased my romance novels.They are available as e-books and in trade paper back. I am buying books. It's like an illness. I enjoy reading on my Kindle but am also a lover of holding  books in my hands.You have a choice with my books! E-books or paper back books. Comment if you have a mind to do so.

I am reading The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton. She won the Man Booker Prize. The book is physically heavy, about two inches thick, a lot of reading.

Anita
My web site is have birth pains but will be ready soon.

ANITA BIRT''S JOURNAL

I have my son and daughter-in-law visiting and have no time to think about my blog. I shall return early next week. In the meantime, we are enjoying terrific weather on southern Vancouver Island. Sunny skies and light breezes. To have my family visiting and to have such perfect weather is a gift.

I am awaiting word from my editor about my mystery novel, A GHOST  WRITER MYSTERY.  I am not an idle person so have started on the next book in the series. Lots of fun. No writing done while I have visitors but the story is working its way in and around my head.

Must go. Do purchase ISABELLE from Ellora'scave.com or book stores in the United States. Elsewhere order it from Amazon.com, Amazon.ca or Amazon.ca.UK. You get my two Isabelle stories in one book. A bargain. The cover is beautiful. Check it out at Ellora'sCave.com and search my name, Anita Birt.

Enjoy your day

Anita

ANITA BIRT'S JOURNAL

About my blog about poetry yesterday. Sorry about the spelling errors. I thought I had caught them all. Sigh. I didn't.

I realize I am back in years gone by with my love of poetry from Victorian times. Such a wonderful way with words so many poets had.  John Keats' ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.

 "Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird, No hungry generations (tread thee down.) The voice I hear this passing night was heard, In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-dame song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home, She stood in tears among the alien corn; The same that of-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn."

I cannot read those words but feel for Ruth, "sick for home, She stood in tears among the alien corn."

I have lived away from home and missed friends and family. I have lived across seas. Like homesick Ruth, I have lived through  the pain. Having memories to treasure is a blessing. Lucky me, I still have a good memory, short and long term. Now that is a blessing.

The light is darkening outside my window. Time to turn on the lights and pick up the book I'm reading. Time stands still when I am deeply involved in a story.

"Tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps on this petty pace from day to day." Oops I didn't mean to start on Shakespeare.

Anita

ANITA BIRT'S JOURNAL

Bear with me, if there is someone out there in cyberspace, who cares about what I write. I'm on a poetry kick this afternoon. Was hooked when I picked up my copy of ROMANTIC AND VICTORIAN POETRY, edited by William Frost. It's an old copy used by my son when he was in senior high school. His remarks are all over the poems he studied.

Back to me. As I flipped pages my eyes fell upon ULYSSES by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. I have to share some lines. "How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life."

And this that I memorized and still recall. Tennyson again.
 "There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night dews on still waters between the walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass. Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes. Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep. And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep."

I didn't know back them when I was a teen that the poppy in Victorian poetry signified opium, one of the favourite drugs used at the time.

One more favourite. I could go on and on, boring you to tears. This is John Keats poem:
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES.
"St Agnes' Eve - Ah bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hair limped trembling through the frozen grass. And silent was the flock in woolly fold:"

I read those lines and almost feel the cold.

If there is a breathing human being out there, do you have a favourite poem. Please comment.

Anita

ANITA BIRT'S JOURNAL

I've been thinking about what it feels like to grow old. I mean really old, like ninety! What about starting a NINETIES Club? And that made me smile. Clubs have rules after a fashion. Imagine electing (by a show of hands) a ninety-five year old woman, let's call her Grace, a pleasant old fashioned name. She uses a walker and seems a little frail but is bright and humorous when the spirit moves her.

So to the first meeting of the NINETIES Club held in a convenient room in a retirement community where they all live. Ten joined the club. One died, now there are nine. Reminds me of that silly song about ten green bottles sitting on a wall. This club is risky. Join at your peril. Members are given tasks! Bring in something of interest to share with the other members. A book. A piece of knitting. A small piece of rock found on a recent walk.

Then I started thinking about how many of the members will live another year, never mind another two . That made me smile. Without new members rushing to join, the club will die, with its members within a couple of years. Not good to go.

I'm reading A.S.A. Harrison's book, The Silent Wife. I almost tossed the book aside because the characters didn't interest me. They seemed unexciting. Living lives without passion. But as I continued reading I became engaged in the unfolding story. I have to put it aside at night or I'll stay up reading. I am eking (is that a correct word?) the book out as I go about my day, my long walks and my own writing. I thought time would drag as I aged, instead it is flying by. Stop the world! Let me catch my breath.

I also thought about being a brilliant blogger, catching a brilliant idea and going with it. I read about such bloggers but my ideas are not brilliant. How about writing about the sky outside my window? As I glance outside, pale gray rays of sun are slanting through a narrow gap in a lowering sky, threatening rain. Sunsets are spectacular over the Strait. Like postcards. Then we have roaring gales lashing the coast. The bare dry bones of trees lie on the stony beach. But, that's not going to interest anyone. So what to do?
 
About my published books. A VERY DIFFICULT MAN. I'll send a copy of a promotional disc and a card and envelope to the first three people who send me her/his name and address. No charge.

Anita
My new web site is a few heartbeats away