winter skies, february blues (my favorite color is you)

"But then- it's December. I always feel this sort of way in December. There's something unforgiving about the cold- and now I understand why people and their actions can be described as cold- the same way heat is relentless. But summer- you know it's hot, know the air shimmering is a sign of an inhospitable environment- but in winter, the air is overwhelmingly clear, and it doesn't ever let up. Summer is now- winter plays the long game, lets some of it set in first, fools you with cheer and associations of Norman Rockwell- then, easy as falling asleep, you're left wondering if you've felt warmth that didn't smell of smoke since November."

"I was happy- happy- months ago, it feels like, and I know it's not true but I don't know how much longer it'll take [...] bad things are only bad because they go on for a long time and you can't see the end, until it's already behind you. Don't turn around, not yet. Call me Orpheus. I find myself, my Eurydice, every year and yet it still amazes me a little bit." 

Happy February. It's February, again, and it is hot, hot, hot in my part of the States. There are fifty of them, and I sometimes despair of this one, but everywhere else it is snowing and here it is sixty-five degrees and crisp when I get up in the morning. It might bother me ordinarily, but I have something (someone) new to keep me warm.

I'm going to write. I have been writing. So far, this is the best part. It's been three weeks since I locked it down with my- is lover the right word? partner? in crime?- and I have been writing so, so much. I thought that maybe I had forgotten how to write- fiction, songs, poetry, anything. The snippets in this particular blog post are all from December's journal entries. 

"Do I speak too much in metaphor? I don't think so. That's the part of me that's still devoted to English literature, the part that can't imagine a life without meaning in everything. But everything makes sense together; the complex interplay of calculus and literature, the physics inherent to music, the elements of history present in everyone I know. Maybe it's a sign of exceptional madness- but then, I am not blessed with exceptional genius- or rather, the exceptional single-minded drive behind every genius- and for that I may be considered lucky." 

Recently, I've been thinking about writing again. There's an appeal, you know? I have to write, eventually, for my portfolio project (see cloverfieldsmedia.blogspot.com).

So I'm writing a novel, and it's called Neither of Us Will Be Missed.

Do you know when you get an idea? The kind that won't leave you behind? The kind that follows you from room to room, place to place, from your bathroom into your bedroom and between your sheets at night? I had one of those a while ago, and this novel is the product.

Neither of Us Will Be Missed is a fantasy YA novel that I'm hoping to release independently in 2024. The basic premise of it is pretty much the same as every other fantasy YA novel ever released: girl with a sword meets boy with a sword, they have a weirdly tense play fight, they fall in love, and then the metaphorical shit hits the fan.

I'm not trying very hard to sell this novel. This novel is not for you. This novel is not for me, either. This novel is for my main character, Alina, who deserves- if not a happy ending- at least an ending. However, I do think Alina's story deserves to be read, also, which is why I am trying to keep this blurb spoiler-free.

But you can have a few snippets, as a treat.

"She blocked, swung, dodged, swung again, and she could not keep the shit-eating grin off of her face. They were starting fast, none of that cautious bullshit. He moved like water, precise and beautiful, and she took him apart like a hurricane."

"'I can’t speak the language of heaven,' she mumbled, again defensively. Maria grinned, again, and there was an innocent savage pleasure written all over her face.

'I’d be willing to bet you haven’t tried. Plus, their descendants have a legendary knack for tongues. Like babies. Did you not know this. Oh my god.'

Alina facepalmed to Maria’s cackles. 

'I’m a fucking glowstick,' she mumbled into her hand. 'A baby glowstick that’s good at Goblin.'"

"She turned away, and a realization promptly hit her with the force of a heavenly smite when the buzzing protested: she had wanted to kiss Jonah. Jonah Allbright. Stupid, nice, puppy-dog-eyed, warrior Jonah Allbright. On the mouth. Not a chaste kiss, either- she had wanted to drop her sword and fist her gloved hands roughly in his hair and claim him like sacrament. His defeat at her hands had somehow sealed his divinity- had somehow made his touch feel like the communion she was due by sheer virtue of faith- had made him sweat around the temples."

"'My apologies. I seem to have forgotten my manners. I am Sir Arthur Mosley, paladin of Tyr, Knight of the Merciful Sword, and Hammer of Grimjaw. I am also an etymologist, historian, and Grill Master'

'Grill Master? Is that like a torture thing?'

'Ah, no.' He had the decency to look sheepish. 'Most, if any, of my fame comes from my skill at the barbecue pit. I am lauded far and wide for my steaks and hamburgers.'

'Oh.' Alina didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing."

Why is the blog here? Why is it named clover's fields? (About Me)

Dear Reader:

Hi, I'm Clover, and I use they\them pronouns. I am here to make things, and study things other people have made. But- although this blog is focused on my solitary pursuits- my art is driven by connection, to people, places, times, and experiences. The story of the name, then, is this:

The song Strawberry Fields Forever, by the Beatles, always evokes the summer I really got to know my best friend; the summer we biked halfway across town and then back, to the other side, a casualty of a missed turn. We were thirteen. Maybe the memory of being thirteen won't be quite so vivid to me once I've gotten further from it; but I hope not. I want to remember every detail of my lungs heaving as we biked up a hill, my heart pounding in my ears as we sped down the other side. I want to remember how painful it was, and how accomplished we felt when we finally got there. I want to remember how it really wasn't so bad, because we were together. 

So, clover's fields is a nod to just that: how it really isn't so bad, because we're here, together.

Sincerely,

Clover