Revisiting an old Term Paper

I have a new project underway. I am re-researching Anne Bradstreet about whom I wrote some nonsense in 10th grade, over fifty years ago. Did I know what I was doing? Heck no. No term paper this time. Just learning for the joy of it and sharing a few notes here.

Who is willing to do a similar project? Re-research a literary figure about whom you had to write a paper 25 or more years ago.  We will read and share our thoughts during the long winter months from January through March 2019. Will you commit to:

1. Sharing your choice of literary figure

2. Reading at least two books by or about her/him

3. Sharing your thoughts at least once a month (that’s a total of three posts)  with me by way of the contact form here on my blog and on any other place you desire.

Who will come aboard with me?

 

Love to hear from you.

Sarina Rose,

 

 

 

 

Christmas Thoughts from Thomas Merton

 

 

Thomas Merton is one of my favorite spiritual writers and I  want to introduce you to him. Enjoy!

Monday, December 03 – Monday, January 07

Christmas is a sacred holiday and a transformation with plenty to offer to Christians and non-Christians alike. It comes during the gap between darkness and sunlight — the perfect time, traditionally, to stop being normal and to begin experimenting with alternative ways.

No one should feel shut out from Christmas. It gives ritual to the awareness that all creatures and the things of the world are worthy of our love and respect. Essentially it reminds us — one of the purposes of ritual — that a new kind of being is possible. We can help create a new world of peace and good will. The familiar picture of the divine child surround by light in the realm of darkness gives an image of this newly born way of being in the world.

Join us this December to take delight in the deeper meanings and wonders of Christmas. In eleven emails, sent to you on Mondays and Thursdays, you will receive:

  • Thomas Moore’s reflections on Christmas from an inclusive and soulful point of view.
  • Ideas for discussion and practice.
  • Access to a Practice Circle, a forum open 24/7 for you to share with and learn from our worldwide e-course community.

This e-course will be guided by Thomas Moore, a psychotherapist, former monk, and bestselling author who writes and lectures in the fields of archetypal psychology, mythology, care of the soul, and creating a religion of your own. His classic Care of the Soul and the books that have followed demonstrate his ability to reinvigorate and inhabit old concepts. He is also a master of everyday spirituality, a lifestyle nurtured during the 12 years he spent as a monk in a Catholic religious order before he became a psychotherapist. He has long been a student of the wisdom to be gleaned from different religious traditions, describing himself as a “Zen Catholic whose spirituality is so baked into life that it is nearly invisible.”

 

Please share your thoughts. Thank you.

Sarina Rose, author of vintage romances. For more info click here:

http://amzn.to/2qG59D9

Great Reviews for Loving Nick

Loving Nick has been hailed as “life changing” by #amauthor on tweeter.

Here are two from Amazon. Go to http://bit.ly/2Ows4ti to read more and leave your own.
Babs

September 22, 2018

Format: Kindle Edition
The first book in the Chance Encounters series is a well-written story of a second chance between Nick and his ex-wife Karen. This is a new Author for me, I enjoyed reading this book and hope there is more to come in this series. I received a copy of this book via Booksprout and am voluntarily leaving a review.
Helpful
Not Helpful

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Pat W
4.0 out of 5 stars fantastic read!

September 20, 2018

Format: Kindle Edition
I was totally hooked with the storyline that was well written and characters that were strongly written from the very first page! I couldn’t put this book down until I finished reading the very last page! This was the first book that I have read from this author and it definitely will not be the last!

 

Love you to join my email list. It’s easy. Just fill-in and submit the for below. I will never give it to anyone else.

Sarina
website: www.sarinaroseauthor.com
Facebook.com/sarinaroseauthor
Twitter:@sarinarose2010
Blog: http://www.sarinarose.com

Eleanor Roosevelt

I have finished reading a biography of Eleanor Roosevelt as eye-opening for me as she grew in independence and became a person in her own right against the odds of being raised in a society that relegated women to the home. Now I am reading an autobiography and am astonished at how intelligent she was and yet she notes often about not knowing how to be a wife and mother. Yet, I admire her sense of public service in the face of marital circumstances and unfortunate. Two books worth reading for enjoyment and knowledge.

Eleanor Roosevelt - Unleashed: A Life of Soul Searching and Self Discovery by [Atkins, Ann]
Biography: Eleanor Roosevelt-Unleashed by Ann Atkins

The Autobiography of Eleanor Roosevelt by [Roosevelt, Eleanor]
The Autobiography of Eleanor Roosevelt

Loving Nick

sarinarostek-72dpi-1500x2000(11)Hi you,
A chance to preorder my newest book at a reduced cost. Click the link now. Save $2.00
Loving Nick will be released in late September, 2018. It will automatically go to your Kindle at the very minute it goes live on Amazon. You’re going to love this story about a second chance for a disabled veteran.

Nicolo Vitale’s wedding to Karen Dombrowski quickly turns into divorce when he deploys to Vietnam, and she travels around Europe on business and has a one night fling with a Scotsman. She flees the marriage like a sinner out of church when she realizes she is pregnant and never tells either man about the child. Fearful, ashamed, guilty, embarrassed and invincible, she makes a life for the child and herself with the help of her parents away from both men for five years until she, by chance, meets Nick again. Will overcoming the past be enough to bring these two back together?

 

Will you be so kind as to share this post? Thank you.

Who is Molly?

Five years ago a muse nibbled on my brain and created a neat nest for herself. She built herself a comfy homestead. No matter how many times I advised her to move along, she blatantly refused and entrenched herself deeper. Molly is her name. She is my alter ego who encourages me to do better, learn more, and leave my hermit writing cave to buy groceries. She could very possibly be the warden at the station of the obsessive-compulsive disorder of my writer self.

Molly is self-employed, an entrepreneur so to speak. Her business includes the tasks already mentioned in addition to suggesting better vocabulary, plots, characters, She often reminds me to be careful with character motivation and hooks. She will encourage me to rewrite narrative as dialogue and remembers to advise me to create a balance between description and conversations. She insists on character and plot arcs, on black moments, on the heroine’s journey. She likes strong women with self-determined lives. She leans towards love stories during or in the aftermath of war.

Imagine brain synapses as bridges and highways and Molly proposes stopping along the way to think deeper by asking What if…? While I develop my work in progress, she races around my synapses causing major traffic disruptions and delays halting the traffic of plotting to force me to think,, think, think deeper and deeper one level at a time.

I have to say Molly’s adrenaline is high with imagination and low on physical activity in the real world. She often proposes in the middle of the night that we go to yoga class or the beach the instead of writing. In the morning she forgets about yoga or the beach and leads me directly to the keyboard with the cola in hand. Right, a cola. I’m not a coffee drinker but need the caffeine and cola does quiet well so I can keep up with Molly.

I love Molly, but I have to say her sense of time is off. She has none. No sense of balance between the fantasy world of writing and the reality of my physical world. No sense of day and night. Minutes and hours are all the same to her. Never mention a calendar to her. She has never heard of one. She is a muse for independent authors. The word deadline means nothing to Molly. She will interrupt a line of thinking for a work in progress to put forward another plot or character. She will have two works in progress at a time.  There are times I want to slow her down, but no, I really wouldn’t do that. After all, she is a muse, my muse and I couldn’t live being an author without her no matter what my opinion thinks of her faults.

Loving Nick

sarinarostek-72dpi-1500x2000(11)Hi you,
Wishing you the happiest summer ever and a chance to preorder my newest book at a reduced cost.
Loving Nick will be released in late September, 2018. It will automatically go to your Kindle at the very minute it goes live on Amazon. You’re going to love this story about a second chance for a disabled veteran.

Nicolo Vitale’s wedding to Karen Dombrowski quickly turns into divorce when he deploys to Vietnam, and she travels around Europe on business and has a one night fling with a Scotsman. She flees the marriage like a sinner out of church when she realizes she is pregnant and never tells either man about the child. Fearful, ashamed, guilty, embarrassed and invincible, she makes a life for the child and herself with the help of her parents away from both men for five years until she, by chance, meets Nick again. Will overcoming the past be enough to bring these two back together?

 

Will you be so kind as to share this post? Thank you.

Sal’s Home

A short story for you. Sal was a real person, but I never met him. The house described is where I lived. My sister and I were scared to go to the cellar, but we did and we never saw Sal there.

Sal’s Home

The last thing Grace Farrentino and I expected was to meet with a ghost. As it turned out, that is exactly what we did. There remains the question whether Grace chose the ghost or the ghost chose her.

I met Grace in 1947 in kindergarten at Number 3 public school on Cliff St in a little town near the Hudson River. Grace lived around the corner. We would meet at the red fire hydrant and walk together to school. The school was not very far away, maybe only fifty yards, but for little girls it was far enough to warrant company. We played together and share secrets in the moldy depths of the cellars of our multifamily apartment houses where we lived.

On the last day of school before the long hot summer New Jersey summer arrived, we combed the cellar of my grandfather’s house. The air down there smelled of old cooking and wet stone walls. The main area of the cellar was a kitchen. A big round wooden table opposite the furnace, stove was cover with red and white print oil cloth. The white parceling sink and icebox occupied the wall with the high window to the airshaft. One coal bin occupied the wall that faced the street. Another bin occupied the adjacent wall. Part of that bin was for coal. The rest stored my father’s fishing gear… muddy-green bib waders, thin poles, and light reels for the fresh water Ramapo River. Thicker polls and heavier reels were for the ocean.

“Look here.” I opened the doors of the dilapidated cupboard. These were my grandparents things, but they were dead and wouldn’t mind.

“Oh, wow, red carnival glass and rusty flatware. Exciting.” Grace said sourly. She picked up a green pitcher and the bottom fell out onto the wood plank floor.

“Really?”

“No.” We swept up the broken glass.

Beyond the kitchen leading towards the back of the house and the yard were more bins. One held wine barrels. Later my parents stored Christmas decorations there and my father hid his tip money in one of the empty barrels. Another bin held jars of crushed tomatoes my grandparents had bottled. Grace and I counted ninety-seven jars. My father used the last bin as a dark room for developing film. He and his nephew would work together developing family photos.

Grace reached for the slide lock on the dark room door. Our basement dog, Whitie, who was tied by a thick rope to a pipe, opened a sleepy eye, sat on his hind legs at attention, and barked.

I put my hand on top of Grace’s.

Don’t!” I said. My eyes widened. Grace’s lit with fire. I imagined what might be behind the door, or even who might be behind the door. My father had warned me never to open that door.

“He might be there.”

“I should be so lucky,” Grace quibbled with a sly smile and dancing eyes.

“My father gave strict orders,” I added hoping to assert his authority. I could feel my heart pounding from my temples to my toes. “You don’t want to see him. He doesn’t look so good.

“But he IS friendly. The other day you said in class that he IS friendly.” She challenged me to stop her as she slid the lock to the right and released the door a crack. The sound of metal on metal and the mishung wood door scraping along the concrete floor was enough to wake the dead and it did.

A horse thick voice said, “Girls? What are you doing here? Uncle Lee told you to stay away, didn’t he?”

“Grace wanted to meet you,” I boldly offered the reason we were intruding.

“Well, now that you’re here, come in, but don’t touch anything. The developing chemicals are dangerous and will burn your skin,” Sal said and coughed out a thin brown fog.

The light in the room was red. His skin was purple. One eye was just a black hole. His left sleeve was tucked into his belt. The dim light did not hide that his arm was missing altogether.

“Andrea, please close the door,” he quietly asked me.

I touched Grace’s bare arm to pull her out the door. She was cold as a block of ice in the old wooden icebox. She did not move towards me, but she did move that is until she glided further into the darkroom like she was on ice skates.

“Sit down, back there.” He nodded towards the overstuffed down sofa in the back of the room ten feet behind his work station and next to a book cased harboringonly two dusty albums.

Sal continued lifting photos from their baths and hanging them with clothespins on a line above his head. “You can look through those albums.”

Grace and I each hefted an album and sat with them on our laps. The light in the room changed. The air became misty like the air at the ocean. The light darkened and my eyes lids grew heavy. I head someone say, “Go ahead, close your eyes.” A blue mist filled the room as I fell asleep like Dorothy and her friends in the poppy field.

I stirred to the sound of the hourly bells from Holy Family Church. They rang six o’clock and I futtered my eyes open. The blue mist had been replaced by the yellow light from the single bulb above the work station. I was alone in the darkroom. Where was Grace? I looked at my Mickey Mouse watch and held it to my ear. It was still ticking , but Mickey’s hands were set at 4:05. The time we entered the dark room.

New photographs were drying over the work station where Sal had been working. I took a closer look. I saw Sal looking healthy and strong in his dress uniform kneeling in the first row of a group of soldiers in front of Lorraine Cemetery in St. Avold. Grace sat on his knee. I bolted out the door, up the cellar steps, around the corner. I found Grace sitting on her front steps reading a book. She didn’t say anything, just gave me a sly smile letting  me know I shouldn’t ask.

“You know,” I ventured to speak, “Sal is dead and buried. Killed April 24, 1945.”

“I know.”

###


Well now. What do you think of this story? Please feel free to  use the contact  form here to tell me your thoughts on this story? For example: Would you like to read more about these characters? Did you like or not like them? Is the story confusing? Is the story fun?


Copyright ©2018 Sarina Rose

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without permission of the publisher, Rostek Publishing at sarinarose2010@outlook.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GFWC

gfwc melbourneTonight I would like to say something about what I am doing tomorrow. I suppose you are thinking that I am probably going to another writers’ conference. But no. Tomorrow is a day away from writing my new book. Tomorrow, I will be atending the GFWC State convention/Conference in Orlando, Fl.

GFWC is the Greater Federation of Women’s Clubs. It is a national organization of women’s clubs whose mission is to raise money for local charities.  Each club, and there are many, raise money by gift wrapping  during the Holiday season, or organizing hugh Bunco Parties, or Fashion Shows etc, etc, etc. Each club sponsors special events to raise cash to give away. To whom you may ask. GFWC donates funds to  Hacienda Ranch for Girls , (a safe place for girls who cannot live at home for one reason or another), Canine Companions (a group that trains and provides companion dogs to the disabled),  Veterans on the Water (a recreational group for veterans), and scholarsrship money to local high school students among other worthy causes.

GFWC  members also donate time to clean up trash along local streets, sew blankets for hospitalized children, little dresses for Africa and Hearts out to Haiti, Smile Bags and heart pillows for patients after surgery.

I am proud to say that I am a member of GFWC in Melbourne, Fl and encourage you to become a member and/or support your local club with donations or time.Thank you.

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