L.M. Montgomery is my favorite author of all time, if such a thing is possible for me. Why her books aren't more widely known today, I don't know. You've likely heard of the Anne books, though. At least Anne of Green Gables.
Anne, spelled with an e. Her wild and captivating imagination, her lively personality. You know her. She smashes her slate over a fellow schoolmate's head, because he, her future husband, called her "carrots."
Maud wrote twenty-eight books in her lifetime, and over five hundred short stories. But then she died April 24, 1942. Because of a drug over-dosage. It was either on purpose, or accidental. We don't know, but many think it wasn't an accident.
But throughout her books, she rewrites her life, giving it a happy ending. She was an unhappy woman, having married for position, rather than love, as was emphasized in the time period she grew up in: the Victorian era. She was unhappy throughout the marriage, and was prone to depression.She wrote about the people and places she knew, but making it happy in the end.
That's why many love her books. Because, other than the happy endings, are true to life. Take The Story Girl, for instance. It was based off of the times she spent with her cousins, retelling stories, playing wild games that only children can make.
Emily of Blue Moon, is my favorite of her characters. I love Anne more, but I understand Emily. And the Emily trilogy was the closest thing Maud wrote to an autobiography. Other than her autobiography, The Alpine Path.
So many of her experiences are echoed, but sometimes they stay unhappy. Since I found some of these points, I've been reading through my own writing, seeking to find if I have done similar things. And I have, unconsciously.
My first novel. (No, you may not see any of it, it was too awful for words.) My family is military, as you should know, and we've lived away from family. At our church, we were 'adopted' by an elderly couple who became me and my siblings' 'grandparents' away from home. A few months after I began to write, our 'grandma' passed away.
It affected my writing heavily. A Galadriel-type character combined with the personality of 'grandma.' Both good characters/personalities on their own. But I didn't flesh her out well enough to get anything done, and the end result was sad.
I cannot write when I am highly emotional. Because I must have few emotions going on in order to demand the emotions I need to feel in order to understand my characters, and relying on my memory of past experiences with the same, or similar emotions. But I'm constantly writing, even in my head.
I talk to people, real people, as well as made up ones in my head. I write things out in my head, only to forget them later. I'm a strange girl, who doesn't seem to know what to do with my life. Except I do.
I have too much planned out. Too many hopes and dreams. But we all do. And we find our own ways to ramble on about them. I'm a silly goose, writing this blog post. Because on the surface, it doesn't have anything to do with what this blog is supposed to be about.
But deep down inside, it has everything to do with it. I've been shaken and stressed this past week. I don't know how I'm still alive. But I am. Lots of things are changing, and I know I'm going to change because of them.
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