Chapter 1
The second year of the COVID virus was marked by a collective feeling of hopelessness. The earth threw tantrums as fires, storms and floods appeared to mirror chaos. And as the world struggled to move on, a need for a feeling of gorgeousness was required, something to reignite a sense of creativity, hope and beauty.
In county council chambers across Europe-- even the world-- celebrations were orchestrated: Sponsored walks, concerts and dinner dances were designed to give people a chance to say thanks to the support workers who had worked, lived and died on the front lines; events that were built to suit pockets and soothe depressed hearts by allowing gratitude to flow.
Then one day, just before spring arrived, in the small town of Avondale, a predawn sun appeared and a fantastic bit of light popped like a camera flash as a mess of smoky, silver and peach streaming cloud lit up the sky. And as it spread out it brushed transparent colour on the air and poured spots on buildings, land, and waterways ...
In her bedroom that overlooked 'Bow lake’ Ada had just concluded her meditation and was sitting at her desk preparing her monthly art chart. This was a routine she adhered to on the last day of every month to balance her accounts. The system was straightforward: she documented her work-in-progress and completed projects, tallied money spent on canvases, brushes, and paint, calculated it and input it into her quarterly report. She then planned out her diary for the following 30 days, saving everything to a workflow chart. This helped her monitor her progress and maintain both her housekeeping and accounting. Engrossed in her task and accustomed to the morning chorus, it took her a while to discern a faint, tinny sound in the background. Curiosity piqued, she glanced at the clock. It was just past 7 AM.
The long-thin-pingy-sound was enough to break her focus and disturb her post meditative reverie. But she had the main body of her work completed. Walking across to the balcony she looked out, appreciating that the sunrise and atmosphere appeared hazier and more alive than normal, so stepping out onto the small terraced area she fixed her telescope on the horizon, on a spot directly across the lake-narrows to where her nearest neighbours lived. The small housing estate was busy; not yet half past seven and people were calling 'good morning’ over fences and across streets; they were pointing to trees, to the waterside, to the sky, to buildings, they were chatting excitedly. From her vantage point she could feel their energy. And she understood this feel-good factor, she had grown up with it, and hearing the excitement, the old, contented feelings washed over her again.
But what was unusual for Ada was that it was happening here in this area; where folk normally kept themselves to themselves, where a good morning nod or a wave from a passing motorist was the only appreciated and accepted form of acknowledgment. Ada had become used to this more conservative way of living; it was how she referred to it in her mind talk. It was so different to the one she had grown up with, where care, friendships and love had more of a hands-on-feel that shaped the community and linked back into family.
Ada settled down again, bringing her mind back into the present. Leaving her bedroom, she was drawn out of the house and into her garden by the unusual occurrence and the feelings they had aroused. As soon as she stepped out onto the lawn, she found herself standing in a kaleidoscope.
Wisps of colour drifted through the air, tuning-up tones and overlaying nature’s darker pigments. And as she felt it, she knew that she stood within an essence she recognised but hadn’t sensed in a good while... her mind drifted back:
7AM and four children under the age of nine tumbled down the stairs, two brothers and two sisters all in different stages of undress. The morning was cold, the frozen light from the sky filtered through the plate glass on the front door. From the kitchen heat that poured from the solid-fuel- stove hurried them along. On top of the hob, a pot of porridge bubbled and scented the air, and an old iron kettle steamed. As the lady set the table, she called out to the boys, 'Shirt in pants, socks, shoes, come on lads, hurry up.’ Then sitting in the old comfortable, stuffed fireside chair she waited for the girls to stand in front of her, they had their hairbands and bobbins at the ready to hand over so she could fix her confections in place when she was done unknotting and plaiting their lovely, long wavy hair. Then it was time to sit down to breakfast and just before she served up, Ada would run to fetch the milk that had been delivered earlier: two runs to bring the glass bottles in, placing one on the table to be poured over the porridge and the second in the fridge. Both bottles topped with a gold caps that earlier had been pecked open by a small bird, most likely a robin. And then left with no more than 10 minutes to fill up on breakfast, they finished their food, put on their outerwear and headed out to the bus stop as the lady waited on the door step until they were safely on board.
As the two contrasting events merged, energy lifted and tumbled in translucent layers that put-down a warmth that was like a sunspot shifting through a chilled morning breeze. Or like when wintery rays spiked raindrops that fell on grass-carpets of wild plants and herbs, the kind that ran from her patio down to the front of the lake where needles of light crocheted sparks through the wavy spume.
Within minutes she had set up her canvas and immediately began mixing, blending, scumbling, pouring paint with a feverish determination and inspiration, raking through mind cobwebs. She was the instigator, protagonist and antagonist, the creator of fairy tales and nursery rhymes; of old feelings and new excitement, she was artist working on an acrylic rainbow; teasing shades and tones, pulling colour into her present as she marked time on the canvas, this her light filled after show.
Ada was sun troll, her brush her wand; she apportioned tone and cut-out a timepiece from the aether. She was maestro that directed sound, her eye engineered shadow and shape. Within the hour she knew that she had added something else, she had saved something of herself in the morning portrait. And when she had finished her translation, the translucency stayed: it was layered on the breath; and there was a freshness in the rising scent that one wanted to pocket in all its invisible vitality, but something more had occurred too. As the energy changed, life lifted a notch, and the day whispered its reassurance that yes! energy can be changed from one state to another in a simple effective fashion, by a scent, a vision, an manipulated image. It was no big deal. Those who knew Ada’s personally, knew that she was always glad of an opportunity to create something new, particularly an unplanned off-the-cuff work. And on this 29th day of February, she was happy with the result.
She signed her canvas, put away her paints, made breakfast, showered, and changed into a smart jeans and sweater combination for her planned visit to the local gallery where on the last day of each month she had a standing appointment to discuss sales; any commissions that she might have in progress, and if she was lucky, to pick up her monthly commission cheque.
Chapter 2
On the way to the gallery, Ada popped in for her usual coffee, it was part of her rev run--her routine to rev it up-- and she loved it, loved that she could relax and enjoy her drink with the morning coffee crew that met there. Mrs Collins worked in the launderette in the mornings, she said it was for pin money, maybe it was but why say it. There was just something there. Then the good-looking young lady Geraldine Car. who worked in the bakery. She served the cakes in the shop that was attached to the cafe and made the fresh loaves, she gave extra jam to folk she liked. The homeless man, he pushed a trolley full of his belonging around town during the day, happy to live on the streets, to live in nature, he refused everyone’s attempt to house him, and those who spoke with him said he was half Aussie, half Scot. But most mornings found him sitting outside on a bench, enjoying a brew. There were more characters like those you find in all towns: from the rich man and poor man to the Indian chief or even local police chief who occasionally popped in when the county court was sitting.
to be continued
The main job of a chapter is to function as a self-contained unit that contributes to the overall story by advancing the plot, deepening character development, exploring themes, and maintaining reader engagement, all while providing structure to the narrative.
The story begins with a broad view of a world recovering from the COVID pandemic, setting a somber yet hopeful backdrop. It then zooms in on Ada, an artist living in a small town, as she goes through her morning routine. The narrative is deeply character-driven, focusing on Ada’s thoughts, memories, and the way she interacts with her surroundings. The story uses the extraordinary morning light as a catalyst for Ada’s creative process, blending past and present in a way that enriches her art and her sense of self. The story might benefit by expanding the world context and adding more symbolism to refine the connection between the characters and nature.
The voice of the original text is reflective and contemplative, with a strong emphasis on sensory details and emotions. It’s clear that the narrative is meant to immerse the reader in both the internal and external worlds of the protagonist, Ada. The voice carries a poetic quality, especially in descriptions of nature and memories. There’s a calm, almost meditative flow to the prose, which suits the reflective nature of Ada’s character and the themes of creativity and renewal.
The tone is introspective and gentle, with an underlying sense of melancholy that reflects the broader context of the post-COVID world. Despite this, there is also a sense of quiet hopefulness, particularly in the way Ada interacts with her environment and her art. The tone conveys a deep connection to nature and a nostalgic longing for the past, which is contrasted with the reality of the present.
The pacing is deliberately slow, reflecting the contemplative tone of the story. The narrative lingers on details and descriptions, allowing the reader to fully absorb the atmosphere and the emotions being conveyed. This slow pace suits the introspective nature of the story but may feel too leisurely for readers who prefer more action-driven narratives.
Ada is the central character, and the narrative does an excellent job of conveying her introspective nature and her connection to her past. Her routine, her attention to detail in her art, and her reaction to the extraordinary morning light all serve to deepen the reader’s understanding of her as a character. The other characters, such as Mrs. Collins and the homeless man, are sketched briefly but effectively, adding to the sense of a small, close-knit community. As of now these personalities are open for expansion.
The text is rich with imagery, particularly in its descriptions of the morning light and the natural surroundings. The use of color and light is particularly effective, creating vivid mental pictures that enhance the mood and tone of the story. Descriptions of Ada’s memories are equally detailed, painting a warm, nostalgic picture of her childhood that contrasts with the more subdued tone of her current life.
The narrative is structured in a way that moves seamlessly between past and present, using memories to deepen the reader’s understanding of Ada’s character. The structure is largely chronological but with frequent reflections that enrich the present moment. There’s a strong emphasis on setting and atmosphere, with detailed descriptions of the environment and the sensations it evokes.
The original text is a crafted, introspective piece that uses rich imagery and a reflective tone to explore themes of memory, creativity, and the passage of time. The story is less about plot and more about mood and character, offering a deep dive into Ada’s internal world as she navigates the quiet beauty of her life. The blend of past and present, the detailed descriptions, and the gentle pacing all contribute to a story that feels both intimate and expansive. It’s a story that invites the reader to slow down, reflect, and appreciate the small moments of beauty that can be found in everyday life.