December 31, 2014

One Month of Work = 256 Pages

It was just over one month ago that I closed my computer and breathed a massive sigh of relief having met my goal of 50,000+ words in 30 days.

I had great intentions towards keeping the momentum going but I honestly needed a break.  I had to step back, take a breather, and allow myself to enjoy everything the Christmas season had to offer.

Now, thirty one days later, on the cusp of a brand new year, I am ready to reopen that document and get to work.

Yesterday, I printed it off for the first time and as I stood there, watching page after page spill from the printer, I felt a great rush of excitement wash over me.

I am ready.  2015 is going to be a year of accomplishment!

The story is not quite complete but with dedication and focus I'm hoping to have a real first draft by March - fingers crossed!

But for now it feels great just to have this thick stack of 256 pages before me.  It's much different than staring at words on a screen.  It's somehow more real - tangible proof of hard work and fresh motivation for strict dedication to the end goal.

Wish me luck!
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35 Favourite Things in Honour of 35 'Glorious' Years

35 Favourite Things in Honour of 35 'Glorious' Years - SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak

Yesterday was my birthday.  It didn't come with fanfare or gushing celebrations.  It came timidly.  Like it knew I wasn't quite ready for such a number.  Just as I'm not ready for the white hairs that gleam wickedly when I stand beneath the terrible lighting in the woman's bathroom at work or my back that aches when I don't get enough sleep.

Thirty-five years.  It's a lifetime.  It's a blink.  And I'm curious what it's like for my mother to look at me now and remember me when I was all fat and newborn.  And isn't it just the way the world works, that it would be on my birthday that I discover a boy I went to high school with is some big shot New York DJ that is being talked about in GQ and I don't even get a mention in the local newspaper.  {Not that success is measured in press but goodness gracious: Small Town Boy Makes It Big While Small Town Girl Stays In Small Town...} 

Despite Mr. Fallis' shining success, I will not let it tarnish my own sparkle.  I have much to be proud of and much to look forward to. 

And let it be known that I am very happy being part of the same small town I grew up in!

Last year, for my birthday post, I shared 34 pearls of wisdom.  This year, I will share 35 of my favourite things.  Of course my family and friends are first and foremost in my heart and I don't want you thinking they've been overlooked - I just chose to make this list a little less sentimental and a little more frivolous - much like the Sound of Music song.

Now imagine Julie Andrews singing during a thunder storm as you read...


1.  Eggrolls.  From Chows.  With their homemade plum sauce. 


3.    John Travolta.  I can't help it.

4.    Johnny Depp.  I don't want to help it.

5.    Chai tea latte with a sprinkle of cinnamon and a dash of nutmeg.



8.    Handwritten letters.

9.     Thrifting.

10. Dark Lindor chocolates.

11. Tangled {favourite Disney movie}

12.  Love Actually {favourite all-time movie}

13.  Musicals.

14. Mugs.

15. Yorkshire pudding.

16. Crafting.

17. IKEA.

18. Honesty.

19. Records.  {Everything sounds better on vinyl.}

20. Vintage Volkswagen Beetles.

21. Cobblestone streets.

22. Pulled pork pizza from The Old Garage.

23. Porch swings.

24. Staying up late.

25. Sleeping in.

26. Jigsaw puzzles.

27. Hot baths.

28. The smell of vanilla.

29. The Beatles.

30. Lazy Sunday afternoons.

31. Stolen moments on a piano.

32. Firm handshakes.

33. Strong water pressure.

34. Nice hotels.

35. Holding hands.


So, there you have it.  35 things that make my world a little better.  What would you put in your list?

35 Favourite Things in Honour of 35 'Glorious' Years - SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak
What a difference 35 years makes!
Blessings and Happy New Year's Eve!
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December 29, 2014

The Evolution of a Writer's Room {Part Six - the final reveal}

Evolution of a Writer's Room
{go to Part One - Space & Paint}
{go to Part Two - Furniture}

Finally!

I almost, nearly, completely unplugged myself from the internet world over the Christmas season.  There just isn't room for online concerns when you're absorbed in cooking and baking and playing and visiting family and napping and building lego army tanks!

And so the reveal promised So Long Ago is just now coming to you.

My dear room has sat undisturbed for most of the month as the hustle and bustle had me busy elsewhere but it welcomed me happily today as I took some time while the children {still in their pajamas for what seems like the millionth day in a row} were distracted for a moment with the Netflix subscription dear old Saint Nick left, to take pictures and finally share my room.

The evolution of a writer's room - the final reveal - SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak

My room is 9.5 x 7.5 feet.  It's small.  It was my bedroom when I was a young girl.  It fit a twin-sized bed and a dresser.  It was never a particularly nice room.  It was too small to display much aside from the pickle jar I kept stocked with minnows caught in the stream by the Varney swimming hole each summer.  I never would have imagined, tucked beneath my Sears catalog comforter, that I would, as an adult, turn that little four-walled box into a space in which I'd write a novel.

The evolution of a writer's room - the final reveal - SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak

The evolution of a writer's room - the final reveal - SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak

The evolution of a writer's room - the final reveal - SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak

The evolution of a writer's room - the final reveal - SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak

The evolution of a writer's room - the final reveal - SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak

The evolution of a writer's room - the final reveal - SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak

So there you have it.  It is cozy and colourful and all mine!

I do still want to find a great desk lamp and an interesting ceiling fixture - the current ceiling fan {intentionally left out of the photos because of it's HIDEOUSNESS} is just not cutting it aesthetically- but for now I'm very happy with the transformation.

By far, my most favorite thing is the hand painted wall treatment - it adds so much personality without being overwhelming.  I'm glad I fought against my hesitations and made it happen.

The evolution of a writer's room - the final reveal - SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak

Cheers to the thousands of words this space is going to pull out of me and cheers to you, oh faithful reader, for every time you come back to read more!
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December 22, 2014

Will One School Concert Really Ruin Your Week? {A Challenge to all Parents}

Will one school concert really ruin the rest of your week?  A challenge to all parents - SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak
Last week my younger two were part of their school Christmas Concert.  They had been practicing for weeks, perfecting their small parts with their classes, anticipating the applause and cheers and camera flashes.  Liam, especially, was practically vibrating with excitement because he was accompanying his class through an entire song on the djembe!

After getting both Noa and Liam to their classes where they prepared for their big entrance to the gymnasium stage, Zander and I found a seat in the loud and very crowded auditorium.  Everyone seemed happy to be there - camera's at the ready for when their own little ones took the stage.

Will one school concert really ruin the rest of your week?  A challenge to all parents - SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak
But as the night went on, a strange phenomenon swept through the school.  As each class took to the stage, more and more seats were vacated, until by the end, the auditorium was more than half empty.  That poor last act - they received half the acclamation the first itty-bittys had.

Parents: your child is not the only important child.

Every single child that took their place on that stage worked just as hard as your child did and they deserve your praise just as your child deserves my praise.

We are a community, are we not?  Should we not celebrate one another and not just bask in our own little family bubble?

It's Christmas, for goodness sake!  Give the kids the attention they deserve!

Will one school concert really ruin the rest of your week?  A challenge to all parents - SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak

I understand that there are perfectly good reasons that you might leave early and I want to honor that and bless you in that decision but for the others - those with no excuse save for 'well my kid is done and it's already passed bedtime' - I have a challenge for you.  Stay!  Is another twenty minutes really going to negatively effect the rest of your week?

Every one of those children worked hard to present something for you.  They put on nice clothes and brushed their hair.  They learned their parts.  They did their best.

And they saw your empty seat.

The greatest gift you can give any child is your time and attention.  Think about this next time you're tempted to duck out after your child has had their moment in the spotlight.


{watch a wee clip of my cuties}

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December 15, 2014

Just An Update...

Gee whiz, has it been quiet around here!

November was a swirling vortex of inspirational chaos as I tackled NaNoWriMo, fought sickness, wrote, showed up for my day job, wrote, spent a night at The Fanciest Hotel In The World {at least in my own puny experience}, wrote, kept three other humans alive, and WROTE.

By November 28th I had written 50,405 words.  That means I did it.  I accomplished the goal.  

And I was thrilled nearly to the point of tears.

And I was SO EXCITED to step away from the crazy pressure of 1667 words per day and start polishing and perfecting and turning my 50K into something solid and sell-able.

Except that I crashed.  And I crashed hard.  And the sickness that shadowed me at the beginning of November came back in an annoying cloud that kept me bone-weary-tired and foggy and it just wasn't letting go.

So that novel?  Sitting right where I left it at the end of November.  This blog?  I had to clear away some cobwebs before I could start typing this.

"There is virtue in work and there is virtue in rest. Use both overlook neither." Alan Cohen quoteI attended a family Christmas on Saturday and my dear Great Aunt - one of my most faithful supporters and fountain of encouragement - asked me how things were going with my writing and I told her, "I'm taking a break."

"Good for you," she said.

And yes, good for me!  I needed it!
 
I learned awhile ago to let go of blog guilt and I'm applying the same wisdom to writer's guilt - I suppose they're one-and-the-same, at least in my situation anyway.  My body and brain were crying out for reprieve and I had to listen.

Today was the first day since the beginning of December that I actually felt good.  I still had to take an Advil Cold & Sinus {magic!} to clear my foggy sinuses but I actually {almost-nearly-totally} felt like myself again.

So here I am.

It's good to be back.

p.s. Become a SBR subscriber and you'll gain exclusive access to updates and sneak peeks about my NaNoWriMo project, The Church In The Wildwood {click here} to join.  Already a subscriber? You'll find an invitation to join the wildwood tribe at the bottom of every email you receive!
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December 13, 2014

Excerpt ~ She woke...


She woke to the ringing of the bells, heavy rich tones that crossed the miles from town to settle in her chest. They stirred a great feeling of redemption within her as their vibrations worked through her body and shook themselves out her toes. ‘It’s a new day,’ they called to her.

She stretched, feeling the ache of little sleep but refreshed by their familiar song. She climbed from her bed and her bare feet padded across the floorboards as she made her way to Joseph’s room.

He didn’t make a sound from behind the door, though she knew he would be awake and ready for her. She let her forehead lean forward and touch the wood and she closed her eyes as the last notes rang away.

“For whom does the bell toll?” she whispered, her hand pressed against the door as she waited for his practiced response. 

“It tolls for sinners,” Joseph’s voice cut through the lingering echo of the bells and she could hear the shuffle and he changed position inside.

Every time she expected him to say ‘it tolls for you’ and somehow she longed for that because it might finally open the door to honesty between them. For months now, she’d seen it in his eyes - felt his quiet judgement and his wavering trust in her beliefs. She didn’t know what it meant except that some time soon her world would cave in. He wasn’t a child any longer. He might chose to hate her. He might chose to condemn her. He might chose to leave her. Her heart ached at the possibilities that piled before her - an impossible mountain that would surely kill her.

She pulled the key from her nightgown pocket and turned it in the lock. “Good morning, Joseph,” she said, opening her arms to him. He was so handsome now - tall and strong with dark eyes like a storm.

“Good morning, Momma,” and he walked into her embrace, not resisting as she pressed his head against her shoulder and pushed her fingers through his hair. She breathed in the scent of him, something that lingered on the precipice of manhood but still clung to the sweetness of childhood.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.
  
He nodded against her and she pulled back from him, fixing a strand of hair that had fallen across his eyes. “You’re so tall now,” she said. “You’re taller than me.  Come, I’m making oatmeal.”  She took his hand and turned on bare feet, leading him to the stairs.
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December 2, 2014

Oh Deer

Oh Deer - SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak

I'm driving.  The night is thick and swirling snow puts us in the midst of what feels like Star Wars hyper drive.  The younger two are lost in mouths-wide-open-necks-cranked-terribly sleep and the eldest sits in the middle pretending he isn't interested in our grown-up conversation but we both know he's eating it up with late-night-bugged-eyed attention.

We've been on the road for over an hour already and haven't yet seen a plow but we are only ten minutes from home and we're confident we'll get there safely.

I've had to pee since Duntroon.  Not an every day discomfort gotta-pee.  A full-on, painful, bouncing leg, humming under my breath, if anybody mentions water I'm going to scream gotta pee.

We're coming over a hill from which, on a clear night, we'd be able to see the lights of hometown glory.  Which means we're almost there.  Which means I'm going to make it.

But then...

He appears on the opposite side of the car, all regal and tall - magnificent with a long, lean neck and antlers that burst proudly from his head.  The ground is slick but he is haughty and he starts his run with a confident shake of his striking crown.

"We're going to hit," Scott says.

I see him as a golden brown blur that shoots across my vision and I work the brakes and control the spin and skid us to a shaking stop halfway down the hill.

I don't remember the impact.  It can't recall the sound or feel of it.  I know it's happened but it's as if I was away from my body in the moment it occurred.

The young ones are roused from sleep, big eyes and questions while my heart is beating in my throat and my palms sweat against the steering wheel.

I ease us to the shoulder, put the station wagon into park and turn on the hazard lights.

The children stay buckled while the grownups inspect the damage.  It's all in the front end - crumpled and broken.  There's a tuft of golden fur clinging to the shattered headlight.

Scott calls 911 and I remember that I've never had to pee so badly in my existence and pat myself on the back for not letting it all loose upon impact.  I march to the rear of the car, step into the tall, snowy grass at the edge of the shoulder, unbutton my jeans and squat like it's normal.  Except it's not normal.  It's freezing.  But I don't care.  Until the first car we've seen in twenty minutes crawls by on the slippery highway.  Hi there! 

I button up my pants and take the phone because I was the driver and I tell our story and yes we're all okay and yes, we'll wait for the officer to come.

"What were you doing out there?" one of the children ask as I climb back behind the wheel and turn up the heat.

"Peeing," I say.

"You were not!"  Liam argues, because he thinks girls can't pee outside.

The officer comes and says we are a blessing because he's had some bad calls tonight and the roads are awful everywhere.  He's kind.  He completes an accident report and sends us on our way.

The car drives fine.  We haven't damaged any important bits that we can tell.  It all seems to be cosmetic.

Sleepy heads get put to bed and I wonder if they'll really remember in the morning because it's so late and their brains must be weary.  

We fall into dreamless sleep.

Oh Deer - SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak

As morning comes and we slowly crawl from our various blanket cocoons, Noa calls sweetly from the couch, "Mommy, remember that time we hit a llama?"

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December 1, 2014

Sample Chapter ~ Into the woods...



There were twelve of them walking along the old railroad - their sneakers crunching against the fallen leaves that covered the old ties.  The moon was just a sliver, a little hook of a fingernail that hung in the sky like it had been forgotten there. It offered them no light.

The ‘No Trespassing’ sign had hung prominently across the gate by the road but they’d all slipped beneath it to disappear into the the darkness beyond. Words were not going to stop them - nor had they stopped anyone any other year. It was something of a rite of passage for town kids deemed worthy and though the first-timers had a sense of what was going to happen they still approached the experience with some trepidation and pattering hearts.

The older boys led the way - Neal and Cam Darvey and their cousin Samuel. Grace stayed right at Sherwin’s side and held a flashlight in her gloved hand. “I’m not sure we should be doing this,” she whispered, her breath forming a grey cloud in front of her face before dissipating into the night.

“Come on, Gracie,” Sherwin said, bumping against her playfully with his shoulder, “it’ll be fun.”

Jackson ran up from behind and grabbed Grace at the waist. She screamed and jumped forward. The boys in front spun around and as a trio hissed, “Shhhhhhhh.”

Grace shoved Jackson hard on the chest. “Not funny!”

“But you’re so cute when you’re mad,” Jackson teased, hopping out of the way of her hand as she reached to shove him again.

“Take it easy, Jackson,” Sherwin warned. “It was hard enough getting her to come with us. Don’t make her change her mind now.”

“Whatever, lame-o!” Jackson said and he ran to catch up with Neal.

“Why tonight?” Grace asked. “Of all the nights? Why Halloween?”

Jackson turned and kept walking backwards, his flashlight up at his chin, “Because it’s spooooooky,” he said, laughing.

“It’s stupid,” Grace said, kicking at a leaf.

“Better than handing out candy with your mom, isn’t it?” Sherwin asked.

“She had a shift tonight. She thinks I’m at a party,” Grace said.

“You are!” he said.  “Or you will be soon, anyway.”

Up ahead the boys had stopped and were pointing their flashlights into the trees. “It’s this way,” Cam said and he stepped off the path.

                                                                    #

The woods were dense and the darkness was heavy. Flashlight beams cut through in a bouncing rhythm that was both comforting and eerie. Their footsteps were loud and punctuated every so often by the crack of a twig or the sound of a stumble and squeal. Grace had a tight grip on Sherwin’s jacket and she could see the other girl’s doing the same. Jenna Matthew’s was clinging to Samuel while Morgan Monahan was riding piggyback on Oliver’s shoulders.

Grace was relieved when they came out of the trees into a clearing. “What is this?” she asked, waving her flashlight over the circle of black stones in the center of the glade.

“This is where it happened,” Cam said, coming up beside her with an arm load of small branches. “There be blood on this soil.” He laughed and dropped the twigs in the middle of the stones. Some of the other boys did the same until they had a pile large enough to keep them warm.

Neal pulled a plastic bag from his coat and one by one lifted out twelve white taper candles. When they each held one, he took a lighter and lit his, passing his flame until all twelve wicks were fluttering against the night breeze.  “Youngest lights the fire. Grace, you’re up.”

Grace looked to Sherwin. He winked and nodded his head in encouragement. She knelt by the pile of sticks and held her candle against a hardware store flyer someone had tucked beneath until it caught. “Why are there twelve stones?” she asked as she moved back into the circle.

Jenna pulled a card from her back pocket and placed it in Grace’s hand, “Because of The Hanged Man,” she said.

In the light of the fire Grace could see the image of a blond man, hung upside down by a foot that was lashed to a tree branch. The roman numeral for twelve was at the top of the card.  “What is this?” Grace asked, handing it back to Jenna, feeling uncomfortable.

“It’s a Tarot card,” Jenna said, shrugging. “I got them at the discount store. I thought it was funny.”

“Hilarious,” Grace said.

“Who has the cups?” Cam asked.

Samuel pulled a sleeve of red solo cups from inside his coat. “Got ‘em!” He separated them and passed them out.

Neal produced a small bottle of schnapps. “It was all I could find at home,” he said sheepishly as he poured a swallow into each cup.

“Say the thing, say the thing,” said Morgan, practically giddy as she sniffed at what was in her cup.

Neal grinned, tossed aside the now empty bottle and raised his plastic cup. They all matched his motion and he gestured wide with his candle as he spoke. “Oh come to the church in the wildwood, to the trees where the wild flowers bloom, where the parting hymn will be chanted, we will weep by the side of the tomb.”

“Amen,” the kids called out in chorus.

“Amen,” said Neal, tipping back his cup and taking it in one swallow.

Grace took a little taste of her own and then dumped it on the ground beside her.

Neal held his candle so that it cast heavy shadows on his face. “Twelve stones for the twelve apostles of the truth,” he said in a low whisper. “Take your seat and hear the tale.” He threw his head back and laughed wickedly.

Morgan and Jenna giggled and ran to a stone while Grace grabbed hold of Sherwin and leaned in to his ear. “I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.”

“Gracie, it’s all just in fun. Come on,” he swung an arm around her shoulder and pulled her against him. “Loosen up a bit. You’re way too serious.” He kissed her temple and she smiled in spite of herself.

“Okay,” she said. “But only for a little bit.

“Deal,” Sherwin said, winking at her and pulling her back to a stone, taking the one right beside her.

“It was a dark and stormy night,” Neal began. There was some laughter and feigned spooky noises before everyone settled to listen to the story they’d all heard a thousand times before.

“Iris was the prettiest girl anywhere around Fallmoor. People say she could have whatever she wanted just by winking at a man. People say she could put a spell on anyone and you should never look her straight in the eye. People say she is a witch and this is her hallowed ground.” He paused for effect, moving his head from side to side to take in the whole clearing.

"“No one knows where she came from,” he continued.  “Paisley Carver picked her up hitchhiking one evening on his way home from Harridan Point. Her hair had a little red in it and her eyes had a little green and he was never the same after meeting her. He brought her back to his land and he married her that summer. She was only seventeen. She was always barefoot when anybody saw her and she always wore these white dresses that you could see through to the shadow of her legs when the sun shone right. She wouldn’t talk to the ladies in town. She thought women were unclean or something. When Paisley got her knocked up he was proud as punch, flaunting his news around town to all his buddies who were jealous because his wife was prettier than all their wives put together. He was the gentlest soul and the kindest man and he did whatever she asked him to do. He waited on her like she was a queen. When the doctor heard two heartbeats inside his Iris he was thrilled to learn that his family was going to double and Iris set to work sewing two white baptismal gowns. But Iris slowly grew sullen and sick and though he continued to care for her she became cold and cruel. When it came time for the babies to be born, Iris sent Paisley away. He waited outside the doors and soon heard the sound of two babies crying. But then it suddenly turned to one. He burst through the doors to find a naked baby boy lying on a scale and a nurse rushing away with a small bundle. He gathered the baby boy against himself and turned to look at his wife who was as white and angry as a ghost. Blood covered the floor. “Your daughter is dead and she has cursed me,” she said. The doctors pushed him out of the way, wheeled Iris to surgery and he was left standing with a wailing baby, a dead daughter and a broken heart.”

“Was the daughter really dead?” Grace asked, caught up in the story.

“No one really knows,” Jenna said. “The nurse disappeared and the doctor wouldn't talk. Some people think she just threw the girl away, other people say Iris suffocated her the moment she realized it was a girl. There’s no birth record that there ever was a daughter. At least that anyone’s seen.”

“So how do they even know…?” Grace asked.

“Paisley knew. He knew there was supposed to be twins,” Jenna told her. “He bragged all over town.”

“Can I get back to the story, Ms. Interuptus?” Neal whined.

“Sorry,” Grace mumbled, settling back on her stone. The fire crackled in the centre.

“Poor Paisley was heartbroken,” Neal continued. “He began to see Iris for the witch she was. He couldn’t bear to hold his son and he became obsessed with finding out the truth about his daughter but it was as if she hadn’t existed and as days went on he felt weaker and weaker. He suspected his wife was doing something to him - whether it be poison or a curse - but he couldn’t prove it. Iris was as happy as she’d ever been, caring for her little boy and ignoring Paisley as he grew more and more frantic in his search for the truth. She soon grew tired of him and, saying she had a way to bring him peace, she led him here to this very spot. She had dug a hole in the ground and in it she had placed a porcelain doll dressed in the second baptismal gown she had sewn during her pregnancy. “You must bury your grief, Paisley,” she told him. “Your daughter is dead. You must move past it.” And she picked up a handful of dirt and dropped it on the doll.

““But she isn’t,” Paisley argued. “I feel it in my heart.”

““Your heart is misguided, darling,” Iris insisted and she set a shovel in front of him and backed up towards that tree,” Neal paused to point behind him at the imposing structure of an ancient oak. “And there, hanging from a branch, was a noose.”

““Bury your daughter, Paisley,” Iris said to him, backing away into the shadows. “Bury your daughter and come home to me, or bury your daughter and join her. Follow your heart, my darling.” Then she disappeared and Paisley was left weeping over a doll.

“The next morning Iris returned to this clearing to find his body hanging right there.  The rope creeeaaaak creeeaaaak creeeaaaking and the branches groaning and the doll’s grave firmly filled.”

Grace shivered and stared into the fire. She knew the story but being at the site where it was supposed to have happened heightened it to a whole new level.

“They say the ghost of Paisley Carver haunts this land,” Cam said. “They say he’s never stopped looking for his daughter. They say that he lies in wait for a girl to come and then he grabs her and keeps her locked in a tower. They say he is a daughter collector.”

Grace was so distracted by what Cam was saying that she didn’t notice Neal had left his spot by the fire until she felt arms come around her and pull her back towards the dark shadow of the woods.  She screamed so loudly that it hurt her throat and she thrashed her legs so hard that it kicked pine needles into the fire, sending up a fireworks display of sparks.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down, Grace,” Neal said, laughing, dropping her and jumping out of the way of her flailing fists. “It was a joke.”

Everyone was laughing except Sherwin. He rushed to her side and helped her stand. Her body was trembling and she fought against angry tears that burned behind her eyes.

“Not cool, Neal,” Sherwin said, lowering himself so he could see straight into Grace’s eyes, brushing some pine needles from her hair.

“Whatever man,” said Neal, “We’re just having fun.”

A branch cracked and they all spun towards the hanging tree.

“What was that?” Jenna whispered.

“Nothing,” said Cam. “Just a racoon or something.”

Another crack.

“Guys…?” said Morgan.

A form appeared at the base of the tree. The dark shape of a man in a paddy cap, holding a shovel.

There was chaos as panic took over.  The kids became a mad mess of screaming and swearing and trying to get away.  Grace was frozen, watching as the form came closer. Sherwin was pulling on her arm and everyone else was almost back to the railway path but she couldn’t move.

“Come on, Grace!” Sherwin insisted. She waved him off. She could feel his panic but all of her own was gone somehow. She took a step towards the shape but Sherwin hung back in the shadows, begging her to come with him.

It was nearly at the fire now, standing just a little taller than she was and as the light of the flames touched his face she saw that it was just a boy, no older than her. He set down the shovel and opened his hands to show that he meant her no harm.

Sherwin suddenly ran forward and grabbed her. “Run, Grace, now!” She tripped after him towards the woods but turned to look back just before they were swallowed by the trees in time to see one shiny tear trace a wet path down the boy’s dusty cheek.
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November 24, 2014

The Evolution of a Writer's Room Part Five {it's the little things}

{go to Part One - Space & Paint}
{go to Part Two - Furniture}

My home is not a home of pretty doors - it is a home of functional, cheap doors, most of which are hollow core {hollow bore if you ask me!}.

The door to my writing room is no exception.  Yawn.

During the process of planning and painting, I mentioned to my sister that I was looking for a pretty door knob.

"Like an old glass one?" she asked.

Exactly like an old glass one!

And it just so happened that she had one lying around her house, taken off a door they removed once upon a time.  And it just so happened that she was willing to part with it for the whopping price of a cup of hot chocolate.

It was DIRTY! Like a century of grime and grossness.  Like one hundred years of dead skin cells.  This thing was a crime scene!

how to clean a dirty doorknob with sandpaper & toothpaste

My first step was disassembling it and giving it a good cleaning.  Which did nothing, as you can see in the photo's above.

Remembering that my other sister used to clean her flute with toothpaste, I grabbed a near-empty tube and set to work, smearing it all over the dirty surfaces and then rubbing it off with a rag.

how to clean a dirty doorknob with sandpaper & toothpasteThis took a lot of the thick build-up off.  I followed that up with some aggressive sanding and then repeated the toothpaste step for a finishing shine.

Weird?  I know.  But it worked!

Because I wasn't putting this knob on a good, thick, solid door, I was unable to use the internal mechanism that allows it to lock so when I first attached it and saw that white door paint shining through the lock opening I thought - LAME! So I undid the bottom screw, twisted the plate to the side and drew a black box with a sharpie.  Maybe it's not 'the right' solution but it's good enough for me!

how to fake a door lock



It's such an improvement from the plain-old-jane kind of knob that was there before.  Like a little piece of jewellery for my door!

I also went one step further and attached an old window to the door.  In theory it was a good idea.  In reality, I really kind of hate it.  I'm not even sure why.  Maybe it's the scale.  Maybe because it just looks like I attached a window to a cheap door.  But I'm kind of stuck with it now.  If I take it down I'll be staring at four holes in my door.  I figure the window is the lesser evil.  

how to make a hollow core door into a pretty door

So my new mission is to find a lovely paneled number that will fit the door hole to which I can still attach my pretty glass knob - perhaps with it's full fittings.  I've been keeping my eyes open.

Small changes make a difference!  From painting one wall to changing a doorknob! The possibilities are huge.

 
{p.s. November is National Novel Writer's Month and I have joined a global community of crazies who have made a commitment to write every day with a goal of 50,000 words between November 1 and 30. Come on over here if you're interested in seeing how I'm doing...}

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November 17, 2014

The Evolution of a Writer's Room {Part Four - Walls & Things}

Evolution of a Writer's Room
{go to Part One - Space & Paint}
{go to Part Two - Furniture}

A room is four walls.  Four walls + one room = loads of opportunity to make it pretty.

I spent about two weeks surrounded by my Powdered Donut White and it was fresh and bright {as bright as a tiny room with a tiny window can get} but I got bored FAST. And some of the imperfections in the walls were really beginning to annoy me. {Not only was this my childhood bedroom but later on it became my father's office - in fact, it was within these very walls that he wrote Muninn's Keep [which one reviewer hailed as 'The Bourne Identity meets The Lord of the Rings'] -  he had filled the walls with shelves and they now bear the scars of those years despite my best efforts to fill the holes and sand the rough patches.} So I wanted a distraction from the distraction of rough walls.

I settled on a hand painted treatment.  One colour. One wall. A one inch wide craft brush.  {The inspiration came from here.}

The Evolution of a Writer's Room {Part 4 - Walls & Things} SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak

This was so easy and so forgiving. I started in one corner and worked my way to the other side painting stout, random strokes - the only rule was that no stroke could be directly beside, above, or below another.

The Evolution of a Writer's Room {Part 4 - Walls & Things} SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak
The whole process took less than an hour.

As I finished, Noa came wandering in and said, "Whoa...what?  When did you get wallpaper?" 

Which was a small victory because that was the look I wanted.

It has changed the whole feeling of the room - made it a much more interesting space - more personal and inspiring somehow.

I'll admit, I was a little nervous when I started because I wasn't sure if I'd love it...I'm glad that got flipped on it's head!

I considered moving on to the other walls {for about fourteen seconds} but I think it would be much too busy for a place intended for working.

The Evolution of a Writer's Room {Part 4 - Walls & Things} SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak

To fill a lonely space on the wall beside, I took an old mirror that used to be attached to my dining room sideboard, sanded it, dry brushed it with my white wall colour and voila - it became a white-board {of a sorts} to write inspirational messages to myself.

The Evolution of a Writer's Room {Part 4 - Walls & Things} SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak

The Evolution of a Writer's Room {Part 4 - Walls & Things} SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak

The Evolution of a Writer's Room {Part 4 - Walls & Things} SelfBinding Retrospect by Alanna Rusnak
{The lighting washed it out but the mirror says, "First drafts don't have to be perfect - they just have to be written." A little NaNoWriMo motivation for me.}

There you have it - how I jazzed up my wall. The full reveal is coming soon but first I have to tell you all about my door knob! Come back on Monday for Part Five - It's The Little Things.

{p.s. November is National Novel Writer's Month and I have joined a global community of crazies who have made a commitment to write every day with a goal of 50,000 words between November 1 and 30. Come on over here if you're interested in seeing how I'm doing...}

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November 16, 2014

In Which I Discover a Portal to Western Canada & Narrowly Escape Death at the Hand of an Axe Murderer

Everyone forgets how to drive that first bad day of bad weather.

The ground was wet earlier in the day but then the mercury fell and suddenly everything is ice and no one knows how to navigate it.  Traffic is crawling.  It's nearly 9 pm and all I want is to be home, wearing jogging pants, and eating bonbons.


The row of cars stretches out ahead of me, now at a dead stop.  There must be an accident ahead.  I wait in the line, red brakes punctuating the night like lonely Christmas lights on a forgotten planet.

No one moves.  The clock creeps forward.  Has there ever been a night darker than this?

I weigh my options.  Blake Shelton is singing a sad song from the radio. There's no way of knowing how long we might all be stuck here in this endless line of waiting.  I crank my wheel and pull into the opposite lane, heading back the way I came - slowly.  Because we haven't put on our snow tires yet.  Because we're fools.

I take the first right and intend to take the next side road north, miss whatever is blocking the highway, coming out beyond it close to home and no worse for wear.

Seriously, has there ever been a darker night?

I think our headlights need cleaning.  The high beams barely break through the black which seems to float down and consume the car.  I miss the first road.  I don't even see the sign until I'm already passing it.

Not a big deal, right?  The next road will go to the same place, right?  Right?!

So I take it.

It's okay for a minute.  I pass a driveway on the left and a field access on the right.  The road slowly narrows.  The trees pull closer.  The darkness, which I'd been sure was total before, becomes thicker and more ominous.  Snow covers the road but I'm no longer sure it is a road.  There is no colour.  The car lights cut ahead of me, looking as weak as a poor campers flashlight. 

There's no way this is a road!

But my head tells me it has to meet up with the main road at some point. 

A towering pile of logs stretches out beside me, unstripped branches scratching the car and sounding like fingernails.

I've just traveled through a portal that's slammed me down in the middle of a British Columbian logging company!

I bounce in and out of huge ruts.  More piles of logs creep up beside me.  I think I've been driving for three hours.

I follow the curves as they wind to the left and right and I think I should turn back but I just know the real road has to be right up ahead.

I see red lights as I round a deep turn, spilling out on the snow so that they almost look pink.  I slow to a crawl.  There's a truck up there.  I stop 100 meters back.  It's not moving.  The road is too narrow to fit around them.

I tap the wheel and bite my lips and "I don't know...I don't know," and it doesn't matter that I'm talking to myself because no one is there to call me crazy.

The brake lights start flashing.  Is it a message?

Tap tap taaaap.

It either means 'Help me, I'm stuck!' or 'Come here, little girl and I'll show you my chainsaw!'

Tap tap tap taaap tap.

I feel a cool wave of panic.  What if-?  {The blessing and curse of a writer is a ridiculously overactive imagination.}

I flip the car into reverse and pull back into a wider area of the 'road', turning myself around and getting away from those flashing lights as fast as I can.

It's highly possible that I'm abandoning some poor woman who bottomed out in the massive ruts and is now weeping as the headlights she thought were her salvation disappear back where they came from.

It's also possible that I just escaped a trap that lured me into an axe murderer's creepy forest portal...

It takes forever to find the end of the road.  The same reaching branches scratch me as I pass them a second time.  Two deer wander out and stare at me.  Move deer! I'm running for my life here! {If they only realized what was going to happen to their big buck of a cousin only three days later at the hands of this very same car they would either move a heck of a lot faster or they'd stand on their hind legs and slam their hooves through the windshield and into my throat in a huge pre-revenge plot.}

I stop to take a picture because I have enough sense to think I'll probably want to tell this story and when I finally reach the end I see a large post covered in signs that say things like 'No Winter Maintenance Beyond This Point' and 'Warning! Logging Operation'.

Thanks a lot over-labelled road!  Your signs mean nothing in this pit-of-hell-darkness.


{Contrary to what you may think, this is not a still from a horror movie - this is where I found myself - this is what it looked like - and the blur of the photograph perfectly represents my frantic state of mind as I navigated this experience.}

I take the next northern road.  It is actually a road.  It even has a few lights.  And houses.  And signs possessing that rare magic that causes my headlights to reflect off them, making them beautifully visible.

It is the wrong road.  Again.

It twists and turns and takes me well beyond my own destination to the little village that lies just beyond our home.

I am annoyed and flustered when I finally come through the door.

"How was that?" my husband asks, on his way to the fridge to top up his Pepsi.

"Well, I didn't die," I say.


{p.s. November is National Novel Writer's Month and I have joined a global community of crazies who have made a commitment to write every day with a goal of 50,000 words between November 1 and 30. Come on over here if you're interested in seeing how I'm doing...}

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November 13, 2014

The Evolution of a Writer's Room {Part Three - Soft Things}

{go to Part One - Space & Paint}
{go to Part Two - Furniture}


You can fill a room with all kinds of beauty but if all of it is hard how can you relax? Incorporating softness was a really important component to creating a comfortable, inviting, and inspiring room.


1. Area rug. My husband works at a treatment center for delinquent youth with mental health issues and they often receive donations from company's trying to fulfill their philanthropic goals. Pottery Barn is one of them. Often there is so much donated that it can't be used and it gets stored away in an attic or barn until someone can decide what to do with it.  Two rugs had been stored in the barn loft for far too long before we kindly rescued them from their squalor.  One quickly made it's home in our basement family room and the other has waited patiently for the moment I decided to tackle this room and give it a home.

The 5x7 jute rug fits the area perfectly!

2. Curtains. I don't need to tell this story again {If you missed it you can catch it on the last Thrift Blitz} but curtains are a simple way to lend instant softness to a space.  I grabbed a curtain rod from the Dollar Store - you can seriously find anything there! - gave them a good once-over with the iron and hung them. Simple and lovely!

3. Homemade Throw. Not only a great way to pull some new colour in but it's practical too for a chilly day. {Also featured on Thrift Blitz}

4. Pillows. Throw pillows come in all sizes, colours and styles. The owl pillow was a birthday present a few years ago and I LOVE it - I think it's so cute - and the red one is a pillow cover from, you guessed it, the Dollar Store. One of them lives on my comfy corner chair and the other is softening the back of my desk chair which, for now, is just an old dining chair.

What are your favorite 'soft things' to include when you decorate a room?

Come back on Monday for Part Four - Walls and Things

{p.s. November is National Novel Writer's Month and I have joined a global community of crazies who have made a commitment to write every day with a goal of 50,000 words between November 1 and 30. Come on over here if you're interested in seeing how I'm doing...}
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November 12, 2014

Being Extraordinary

{edited from the archives} 
{photo by Stephanie Rusnak}

Life gets to a point where everything is reduced to Mommy Do.  Breakfast.  Lunches.  Dinner. Toilets.  It's easy to lose yourself, drowning in the ordinary every day and missing out on the colour. 

Because it is there. Colour.  I just wasn't seeing it past the piles of dirty dishes in the sink or the laundry I didn't have time to do or that spot by the fridge where my sock stuck to the floor because Liam spilled the juice when he thought he was strong enough to pour his own.

When I started writing it down it was more for the discipline of writing than because I thought I had anything worth saying but, in taking that moment to record a moment, something beautiful began to happen.  

I began to see.  Really see.  

I live an extraordinary life, so saturated in colour that it strains the lines and drips rainbow dollops of dye onto anyone that gets close enough to care.  

What I was mistaking for dull was just a misunderstanding - a temporary blindness.  Because behind it all I'm living in this little blue house bursting with love and laughter and frustrations and LIFE and to anyone looking in this is a thing to be coveted.

I am often asked why I share so much of our lives. Why I put it all out there - the good and the bad. 

And this is my answer: 

Because every drowning parent needs to take a moment and come up for air - to look at what surrounds them and thank God that they are so lucky. 

If something I share causes one person to pause and appreciate what's right in front of them, then I am making a difference by sharing my life here.

There will never be enough time in the day to get it all done - to have a spotless house and make sure the kids don't have chocolate on their chins before you go to the grocery store - but there is time for thankfulness and for remembering and for reminding yourself that you are anything but ordinary in the midst of what feels like anything but extraordinary.


{p.s. November is National Novel Writer's Month and I have joined a global community of crazies who have made a commitment to write every day with a goal of 50,000 words between November 1 and 30. Come on over here if you're interested in seeing how I'm doing...}
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