In the heart of winter, Valentine’s Day. In the heart of winter, love.
Many of my books focus on love stories, such as the Christmastime series and the short story collection Seven Tales of Love. Other books have themes of love woven into the larger stories, as in And So We Dream, and The Garden House.
In The Notebooks of Honora Gorman, in addition to the “Cinderella” thread, several of the whimsical fairytales present romantic love: “Thaddeus and Emma,” “The Golden Blanket,” and “Natasha.”
For your mid-winter enjoyment, here are a few scenes from “Natasha” — a story within a story within a story (Iris-Sabine-Natasha). It features an undeveloped fictional character who has been frozen in time due to the creative failure of her author/s over the past century.
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Natasha was a character long ago conceived but never developed, never completed. Someone had conjured her up nearly a century ago and then forgot about her. And Natasha had lingered in the ethersphere, just waiting, waiting for her story to continue.
The author Sabine wrote about the beautiful Natasha, living in 19th century Russia. The details piled up of her boudoir, her clothing and jewelry, the view from her window. Yet Natasha’s story failed to develop, and so the character remained in her room.
Sabine tried out different scenarios: Natasha running away from her repressive family and settling in Gdansk, where she becomes a trapeze artist. Natasha falling in love with a dashing explorer and sailing with him to the South China Sea. Or did she run away with the gypsies?
At each incipient possibility, Natasha would quickly rise to her feet, her dark eyes sparkling in excitement as vague visions took shape in her mind – then, as the ideas were nixed, Natasha would drop back onto her velvet chaise longue, or gaze out the window and sigh.
Nothing seemed to work.So the beautiful Russian character remained unfinished, languishing in her boudoir, bored, pampered, dreaming of the wider world outside her window in snowy Saint Petersburg.
It was true that Natasha was somewhat spoiled, and her pleasures were small and indulgent. She spent her time in idle pursuits: choosing between Parisian brocades and silks to be fashioned into gowns, cutting marbled paper into pretty shapes, improving her needlepoint, and trying her maid’s patience with new ways to style her hair or tie her sash.
But this latest author, Iris, could see that there was more to the girl – Natasha was just waiting to blossom.
She took a closer look at Sabine’s Natasha. There she was, idly fluffing the bunched rosettes on her lap cover. Natasha smoothed the glossy brown tresses draped over her shoulder and adjusted the jeweled combs, as she waited for her maid to return with her morning cocoa. She rose impatiently and stood in front of the gilded mirror, primping and pouting and trying different expressions for le bal for which she was forever preparing. She was outraged that maman insisted she wear the dull dove-gray dress to le bal tonight rather than the emerald gown that so beguilingly set off her eyes and hair.
As Iris watched Natasha, she realized that the girl was on the brink of womanhood. The way Natasha’s hands smoothed her robe over her hips suggested awareness – delight, even – in her curves, and Iris well understood the concerns of poor maman. One moment of unchaperoned freedom and this girl would indeed run off with the circus or into the arms of a dashing adventurer.
And yet, thought Iris, how sad for Natasha to be trapped in eternal youth, her potential never known. She watched Natasha saunter to the window, rub away the frost flowers, and gaze at the people on the street below.
Natasha longed to follow them, converse with them, discover what the world was all about. She touched her pale, warm cheek and imagined it crimson with cold. She blew out a puff of air and imagined it turning into smoke. She wanted to run like the children on the street below. Gallop like the soldiers on their fine chestnut horses. Stroll through the park in the springtime, lace parasol in hand, blossoms swirling all around her. She wanted to see how her own uniqueness would play out in the world, to be tried and tested, to be shocked or delighted or dazzled by her choices and decisions. Oh life, she would dream. Oh, life.
Iris resolved that, though she may not know where the story would lead, she would at least get Natasha out the door and into the world. Let her dance at the ball and experience the dream of romance. Let her know that first thrilling glance across a crowded room that would set her heart fluttering, the first press of warm lips against her hand. Let her breathe the cold air of winter, the scented air of spring. Let her come to know the dreams of future-heavy youth, so beautiful and brief.…
And so — Iris’s development of Natasha’s story sparks her own later-in-life development and enriches her life in the process.
(All images are from my Pinterest boards, which include scenes from the charming Russian movie: The Silver Skates.)
It’s easy to create the feeling of contentment that comes from coziness and simple pleasures. Fresh flowers, the scent of baking pervading your home, music softly playing in the background.
The colder weather — especially with the approach of Christmastime — lends itself to creating such an atmosphere. It can start with using a favorite cup for your morning tea, or a piece of toast with jam, or the scent of coffee and a warm muffin.
I like to think that my Christmastime series captures, to some degree, the sense of pleasure and comfort: the scent of pine, a fire crackling in the fireplace, a radiator hissing and filling a cold apartment with warmth, the laughter of children.
Though the backdrop to the series is WWII and life on the home front is full of struggles and hardship, the overall tone of the series is uplifting and comforting.
Sad things happen, shocking events take place, but the characters roll up their sleeves and do their part to make the best of things. Love, family, friendship, and neighborliness are in the forefront and shape the stories.
Celebrating life — its holidays, the seasons, small day-to-day beauties, the quest for meaning — fill the pages of Christmastime.
So as the temperatures drop and the holidays approach, experience a sense of well-being for yourself. Fix a cozy hot drink, turn on a lamp or light a candle, and grab a warm blanket. Then nestle into your favorite reading chair and snuggle up with CHRISTMASTIME.
I recently came across a line (incorrectly attributed to Emerson?) that nevertheless caught my attention: She is rich who owns the day…
I love the sentiment and recognize the same spirit in my character of The Dreams of Youth, a very short collection of stories that tell the larger story of one woman.
These six interrelated pieces tell the story of Maggie, a vibrant individual who is also Everywoman: daughter, dreamer, nurse, friend, wife, mother. Spanning over eighty-five years, they follow her from her youth in Depression-era Illinois to the time when she ventures forth to 1940’s Hollywood and coastal California, and her return to the rural Midwest. Bittersweet and poignant, celebratory and inspiring, these stories portray the exuberance of youth, the delight of friendship, the adventure of going forth into the world, and the disappointment and heartache that are a part of life.
Maggie.
Always running, dreaming, adventurous, and daring.
Where others saw weeds, Maggie saw wishes.
Leafy treetops were enough to fuel her dreams.
And the dream of the ocean sustained her for a lifetime.
(Excerpts from my novel, The Notebooks of Honora Gorman: Fairytales, Whimsy, and Wonder)
“Is April a time or a place? Honora wondered. Right now, as she looked out her window, the rain gurgling in the gutters, the trees full of white blossoms and tiny bright leaves against a pearl gray sky, it seemed a place – a land of beginnings, of youth, of beauty, a place to breathe deeply and stroll through, to enjoy its flowers and first greens, the cool soft air. She grabbed an umbrella and decided to wander through Central Park, down the Poet’s Walk to the lake, and absorb the April beauty.”
“Blossom time. The spring was cold, with occasional snow. Then a few warm days came and the pear trees along the street burst into bloom. Honora waited all year for this month with the fluttering white blossoms, lovely against the old brick, the gray slate roofs, the softer gray of the sky. The temperature had dropped again and she hoped the cold would keep the blossoms on the trees a little longer. But already she saw a bit of green – the leaves were beginning to show. Soon, the rains would loosen the blossoms, whisking them into the air. And she would have to wait another year for April blossoms.”
“Honora walked the streets of her pretty neighborhood almost every day. In the spring it was bursting with color – shooting rays of yellow forsythias, azalea bushes so thick with purple or red or coral blooms that they scarcely showed any leaves. There weren’t many lilac bushes but Honora knew where they were and would linger next to them, or stand under the ones arching over a tall fence, to breath in their fragrance.”
“There had been a magnificent old wisteria plant with massive, thick ropes of vines climbing an old sycamore, draping sweetness and pale-purple beauty overhead every spring. It had been pure magic and every April Honora looked forward to seeing it, raising her face to bathe in its perfume, filling herself with its beauty.”
The Notebooks of Honora Gorman: Fairytales, Whimsy, and Wonder
“Not a love story – and yet a story of love. Love for a city, for the artist’s way, and dreams.”
When I come across vintage books, I am often surprised by the beauty of the covers – and the amount of time and effort and creativity that went into them.
It reminds me of how important artwork and photography were for the record album covers of my generation and how people lamented the loss of “creative space” when cassettes and then CDs replaced them. Which isn’t to say that covers are not still extremely important, even in this digital age. I have spent countless hours working with designers on my own book covers to try to capture the mood and tone of the stories inside.
But there is something immensely appealing in the original artwork of those old hardback covers that evoke the aesthetics and charm of an earlier era.
Like other people, I sometimes use old books as decorations around the house, just to enjoy the vintage feel and beautiful colors of these little works of art.
The next time you’re at a used book store, or a garage sale, or at an odds and ends shop, keep you eyes open for these beautiful treasures from another time.
I was so sure that Christmastime 1945 would be last book in the Christmastime series — just as I was sure that Christmastime 1940 would be the first book. Yet all it took was the suggestion that perhaps I could write a brief prequel, and then a maybe think about a short sequel, perhaps a Valentine’s Day book, and those little planted seeds grew into two more books.
Once again, I’m sure that the series is now complete. However, at this point, I’ve learned never to say never.
Here’s a link to a post related to the series: Valentine’s Day in Mrs. Kuntzman’s Kitchen: https://bit.ly/3J1tP0g
And for those of you who haven’t read one of my earliest books (short short stories), it will be FREE on Amazon Kindle from February 1st-5th, and available on Kindle Unlimited through March.
My latest novel — The Notebooks of Honora Gorman: Fairytales, Whimsy, and Wonder — takes place in New York City. The back cover describes it as:
Not a love story—and yet a story of love. Love for a city, the artist’s way, and dreams.
New York City becomes more than just the setting. It becomes almost a character itself that Honora interacts with. I hope you enjoy these images from my Pinterest boards that capture the special beauty of New York in the fall.
