Auteur : Marie Alice

Around here, in Quebec province, Canada, October brings beautiful colours and cold weather.

Ergo fuzzy blankets and soft sweaters and wonderful leaves smell and lovely goose quacking and hot chocolate on the weekend – with five tiny marshmallows if you’re my kiddo.

Today, sun and wind brought the thermometer up to… 25 degree Celsius.
The usual?
About 8 to 10 degrees Celsius.

There’s a reason why weather plays a major role in any story, hee hee.

It impacts everything and everyone, of course, and in infinite ways too.

Right now, at almost 8pm, it’s 21 degrees out there. Even during the summer, nights rarely are this warm.

For me, the girl who wishes, every single year, it would snow on her birthday, this weather is nothing less than sad bad luck.

Close to a nightmare, really, if I let my thoughts wander about my kiddo’s future.
Forget snow. Will there even be drinkable water available?

But.

Since, no matter what, I still believe in human beings – otherwise, why write stories ?

Give it one or two other deadly pandemics, top with a good ten years of drought and wildfires and floods, plus a few devasting hurricanes, sprinkled with worldwide energy shortage and stupid-to-the-very-core wars.

And then. Maybe. Humans will stop destroying themselves for the sake of being able to buy cheap stuff that will be thrown in the garbage sooner than it should.

Maybe.

Until then, I will keep wishing for a bit of snow at the end of October in Quebec province, Canada.

Be kind to yourself, dear fellow writer, and happy writing.

In the past few weeks, it’s been a challenge to even find the energy to turn on the laptop in the evening.

A challenge to take the time to read the great work of my fellow writers-bloggers-book-reviewers.

To find enough words, and then find the strength to write them down into a coherent and hopefully funny blog post had become… hard.

Luckily, I’ve got old tips and tricks, plus a new one: poetry.

I’m no poet. The rare attempts at writing poetry I made over the years are proof enough.

However, I love reading the words of poets.

Poets of the past. Poets of the now.

In the words of poets, I find peace, beauty and dreams.
I find lights through rather grey retail work days.

And I find the motivation to keep writing.

To Poets of the world, eternal thanks!

I am asking you.

For real.

I swear I do Not know what to do.

I had to accept it, and with a big smile too.

The present comes from the hands, and beautiful heart, of my day job boss (yes, good bosses do exist – out of the many-many-many retail or not jobs I had, let’s say… 30 in 20 twenty years, I’ve encountered 4 good bosses. I’m lucky).

Now I’m home. The present is away from my nose. And I’m debating.

Can’t toss it away. Pollution.
Can’t use it. Smelly.
Can’t hide it. It smells.

Donating it would be a great solution, but this option comes with making up a story.

Lying, to be precise.

Might sound like a strange thing to say for a writer of fantasy, sci-fantasy and cozy mystery novels, but

I dislike lying.

Let’s dive meta-deeply here and hypothesize that… that might be why I have such a hard time finishing this ghost-related writing project…

… yeah…

… moving on.

Re-gift it? Burry it in the basement overcrowded spare room?

Nah. It would smell anyway.

Promise, I don’t understand the people who make that kind of self-care product sense of smell.

How can any company agree to go on and sell an over-sweet, over-floral smelly product like that? Who’s testing it? Who’s smelling it in the first place?

With all honesty, for real, I would be curious to meet those people.

Yeah, true, it would be waaayyy more useful to you if this post would be devoted to analyzing a big writing problem in order to contribute to the Writing Community.

But, yeah, I needed to rant a little.

Thanks for reading, thanks for being here. I’m grateful.

Until next time, wishing you all the good words!