My attempt at capturing Elsa's likeness. Methinks it'd be easier with a 6" doll.... |
For this
month’s Character Encounter, we’re supposed to meet a Character in our living
room “that you think about a lot, have much of his or her story plotted
out, but have never actually sat down and written anything with them.”
Unfortunately, most
of the Characters I think about a lot and have their stories pretty well
thought out are ones that have something jotted down already…and they’ve
already made appearances on CE (save Ciára, Tempest and Gilbert; they were
featured in an interview a while back, but it still counts as “screen time”). I
don’t really feel I should do repeats until I’ve introduced several more
Characters (especially since I already broke that rule with Ciaran *innocent
whistle*). So for this month’s CE, I’ve chosen one who up to this point has
been an idea in my head, but never actually had anything written about her.
Introducing Elsa Lightfoot, an Elven maiden with some very special gifts (and
no, I did not take her name from the
character in Frozen; my Elsa was
christened a couple years ago, before I even heard about the movie…plus I like
the name).
* * *
I had just
draped myself languidly on the reclining chair in our living room, to see about
making some progress on the afghan I’d been crocheting for Mom…for over a year.
I still felt a bit proud of myself for actually having reached the
sewing-together stage at last, considering I hardly ever finish any needlework
project. It didn’t help that the octagonal patches—after I’d gone to all the
trouble of blocking them prior to assembly—had reverted to their former curly
state when I sewed them to the little diamond-shaped “fillers” that go in
between the octagons. But then, that’s what one gets for making the “fillers”
too small to begin with. Twice. But now I had them about the right size, so
theoretically, all the parts of the afghan should
lie down more smoothly.
As I threaded the dark-green yarn through
the tapestry needle, staring unseeingly at the blank TV screen opposite my
chair, I began thinking of my Characters. Really, they deserved better
treatment than to be locked in my head all the time, hidden from potential
readers. They deserved to be brought to life to the best of my God-given
ability…if only I could figure out how to break through that…whatever-it-was…that
blocked my imagination whenever I tried to convert my stories into cold, hard
text.
Perhaps
is I interviewed them I thought, it’d
get my creative juices flowing. Maybe if I got them talking to me, and I wrote
down their words, maybe the actions—and the environments those actions took
place—would come to me as a result.
BANG!
came a noise from the kitchen to my right, as our seventeen-pound Maine
Coon-Ragdoll mix bolted through the cat-door like a jet-propelled bat.
Patterpatterpatterpatter….
“Prrp!”
I looked up from my work to see him trotting
through the dining area of the kitchen, fairly galloping through the maze of
table- and chair-legs.
“Hey, puss!” I called, making squeaky
noises at him. “Mister Licorice.”
“Mister
Licorice” ignored me, skittering to a stop in front of the tiny hallway leading
to my own room. I watched, intrigued, as he suddenly flopped over on his side,
exposing his fuzzy white-striped belly, his forepaws tucked up atop his chest,
his head laid back against the floor. His usual position for greeting us when
we return home from church or town, or come back in the house from the work-building.
To my knowledge, I was the only one in the house just now, yet he seemed to
think there was someone in the hallway—someone he was very glad to see. In another two seconds, I found out whom.
A tall, slender lady with hair like
sunshine, which fell to her ankles in thick ripples, stepped into the dining
area, the silver and crystal-clear beads on her pale-blue floor-length gown
sparkling in the fluorescent lights from the living room lamp. Her feet and
arms were bare, her hands slender and graceful. Her perfectly oval face boasted
a complexion like peaches and cream, without flaw or blemish—making myself
painfully aware of the ugly little moles on my own face and neck—enhanced by
rosy cheeks and smiling ruby lips. Her eyes, framed with dark brown lashes and
delicately arched eyebrows, sparkled like two sapphires as she smiled down at
the purring black-and-white fluffball begging her to rub his belly. She lowered
herself down—I hate to use such a coarse term as “squatted” for such an
ethereal being as the lady before me—and gently stroked the thick, wooly fur,
producing deep, rumbling purrs from its affectionate owner. She murmured
softly, speaking words I couldn’t understand, seemingly talking to the cat,
pausing every now and then as if listening to his reply.
This had to be Elsa Lightfoot, my Elven
maiden raised by Halflings (or rather, Bryndikins, as they call themselves in
the Young World)—no other of my Characters possess such beauty (save perhaps
Lady Müriel, but her hair is white with a tinge of pale-blue), and it would
explain the Beast-speaking abilities this lady demonstrated. All thoughts of
afghan construction were forgotten in my fascinated observation of Elsa’s
graceful movements, studying her face and form, the way her hair shone in the
light.
At that moment Elsa raised her head
slightly and turned her face towards me, still smiling her rosy smile. She
whispered a few words to the cat and rose to her feet, her posture erect, yet
not imposing. Then she raised her left hand, palm outwards, with the middle
finger leaning forward slightly and the thumb at an acute angle from the hand. “Greetings,
Author,” she beamed, her voice soothing and musical.
“Hello, Elsa,” I returned, wondering if
there was any proper way to return an Elvish greeting…and how an Elven maiden
raised by the Little Folk would even know the proper way for Elven ladies to
greet one another.
“That is a mystery even to myself,” Elsa
confessed.
I blinked. “How could you be reading my
thoughts, when they weren’t even in concrete words?” I gasped.
Elsa’s sunny smile deepened, making her
look even more beautiful (if that were possible). “Why, the same way I can
speak to dumb beasts, Author; I can sense the impression of the thought, and—as
my foster family would say—read between the lines to get at its meaning.”
“Would you care to sit down?” I asked, suddenly
remembering my manners.
“I thank you, yes,” she replied cheerily.
She crossed the few yards of laminate flooring and carpet—her feet not even
bending the carpet fibers as she trod on them—her silken gown swaying elegantly
about her feet as she moved. Elsa daintily adjusted the pillows on the
upholstered dining room chair that served as extra seating in our tiny living
room, seating herself with grace and ease…and without a sound but the rustle of
her dress. For anyone else, the chair would have let out an irritating squawk. Meanwhile, Licorice had hopped
up from his “rub-my-tummy!” position and followed Elsa into the living room,
where he immediately flopped over on his side…right on top of Elsa’s
silk-covered foot.
“Ca-at!” I groaned. “You’ll get your hairs
all over her pretty dress!”
“Never mind, Author,” Elsa soothed,
rubbing Licorice’s belly. “Cat-hairs are easily brushed off. In any case, he is
so intent on welcoming me that he is not as aware of himself as he might be.
Pray do not scold him for giving love.”
I buttoned up my mouth, a little put out
at being lectured—albeit ever-so-gently—by my own Character. However, seeing
how happy Licorice appeared in her presence, I left off pouting and allowed
myself to join Elsa in laughing at the cat’s amazing displays of contortion. I
had just begun to ponder how to ease into an interview with Elsa—since she was
here, and a Character I really knew very little about as yet—when she spoke
again:
“They would not help you, Author.”
“Wh-what?” I stuttered, blinking stupidly.
“The interviews you were thinking of
conducting,” Elsa explained. She ceased petting the cat—much to his chagrin—and
directed her full attention to me now. “They might indeed help you know us your
creations better,” she continued, “but they would become stories unto
themselves, I deem, and distract you from writing our histories, rather than
inspiring you.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?” I wailed.
“Whenever I go to continue an existing story, my inspiration dries up and gets
ADD, and my motivation goes out the window. I can’t just force myself to be creative—can I?”
Elsa closed her eyes and tilted her head
slightly upward, as though praying, for a moment. Presently she opened her eyes
and spoke again:
“Creativity in general cannot be
successfully forced, true,” she mused, “but the answer that comes to mind—which
I believe Elyon has sent me to relate to you—is that you may need to force
yourself at first, writing whether you feel like writing or no, until it
becomes a pattern, a rhythm. And when there is rhythm,” she concluded, “it will
also be a joy again.”
“That would be nice,” I sighed, lifting
one corner of my mouth. “I miss those days when words seemed to flow through my
head and out my fingers—when I didn’t even have to think of what to say,
hardly, and the scenes almost wrote themselves—it was wonderful.”
“It can be so again, Author,” she
declared, reaching over and laying her fair hand gently on my arm. “Pray for
the right words; Elyon will guide you. He has given you this gift—will He leave
you to develop it alone, or allow you to forsake it?”
I smiled sheepishly, recalling a couple
other talents I had “forsaken.” “No;
that’s one thing He’s never let me drop completely, even in the worst part of
this ten-year slump—going on eleven now,” I muttered under my breath. “All
through the years, I’ve always had this need to write something—even stupid,
silly, often whiny-awful blog-posts—I was always writing something.”
“Elyon has great plans for you, Author,”
Elsa replied. “It may be that this one talent—and all others connected with
it—is part of that purpose for your life. He began the work in your childhood;
He will be faithful to complete it in His perfect time.”
“I just need to obey His—calling, I
guess.”
“Exactly.”
Elsa rose suddenly and stepped closer to
my chair. She leaned down and wrapped her slender arms about my shoulders. “Go
forth and write!” she whispered as I returned her embrace. Then she straightened
and saluted me Elvish-fashion again. “Elyon be with you, Author.”
I also stood, mirroring her salute. “And
also with you, Elsa Lightfoot. Someday,” I smirked, “I’ll get your story
fleshed out.”
“My history can wait,” she smiled. “There
are others whose tales take precedence, and therefore need to be finished—and
read—foremost.” With that, she bestowed one more belly-rub to Mister Licorice,
one more sunny smile me-ward, and walked gracefully back toward the hallway,
disappearing around the corner. She left in her wake one rather disappointed
puss-cat…and one very thoughtful author.
THREE EXAMPLES OF WHY MEN SHOULD USE THE BIBLE ALONE
ReplyDeleteShould mankind use the Bible and the Bible alone for teaching faith and practice? If God's truth is the template for you, then the Bible should be your source for truth.
THREE EXAMPLES OF WHY EXTRA-BIBLICAL SOURCES ARE NOT RELIABLE SOURCES FOR GOD'S TRUTH.
1. Quote from Pope Francis May 22, 2013: "The Lord created us in His image and likeness, and we are the image of the Lord, and He does good and all of us have this commandment at heart: do good and do not evil. All of us. "But Father, this is not Catholic! He cannot do good.' Yes he can..."The Lord has redeemed all of us,all of us, with the Blood of Christ: all of us not just Catholics Everyone! Father, the atheist? Even the atheists. Everyone! ....We must meet one another doing good. ' But I don't believe, Father, I am an atheist! But do good:we will meet one another there."
2. Quote from Billy Graham October 20, 1997: "I think everybody that loves Christ, or knows Christ, whether they're conscious of it or not, they're members of the Body of Christ......He's calling people out of the world for His name, whether they come from the Muslim world, or the Buddhist world,or the Christian world, or the non-believing world, they are members of the Body of Christ,because they've been called by God. They may not even know the name of Jesus, but they know in their hearts that they need something that they don't have, and they turn to the only light that they have, and I think they are saved, and that they're going to be with us in heaven."
3. Quote from Doctrine of Covenants -section 130:22 (Mormon supposed divine revelations): The "Father has a body of flesh and bones as tangible as man's; the Son also; but the Holy Ghost has not a body of flesh and bones, but is a personage of Spirit. Were is not so, the Holy Ghost could not dwell in us.
GOD'S WORD IS FOUND IN THE BIBLE AND THE BIBLE ALONE.
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