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About This Author
A changeling spirit,
constantly evolving,
revolving around an inner core,
spinning forth legend and lore,
stories and lives
as I come to grips
with who and what I am,
have been and may be.
I am a phoenix:
rising ever above and beyond!
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Day 2 Oct nano Prep Samantha Logan had no idea how pretty she was. She was who she was, in her book, which she'd as soon be writing rather than fussing about her looks. With long, flowing reddish gold hair that looked like spun sunlight from angles or glowing embers of a banked fire in others she was most likely to either have it tousled into an untidy knot on the top of her head, or haphazardly shoved under whatever hat she'd grabbed off the shelf. She had sea-green eyes, long dark lashes and rarely felt the need to enhance them with make-up. The same went for her generous mouth that was usually smiling whether a bemused grin or wide in laughter. She favored jeans and boots, over-sized sweaters and unique jackets. One in particular that went everywhere with her and to which she'd attached or sewn on mementos of her travels, adventures or special days. Sam was a free spirit, creative, smart and curious.
She'd inherited the jacket from her father after he'd passed away. Perhaps, inherited wasn't quite the right word; she'd more simply took that piece of her father and made it hers. While she'd been growing up, she'd always had a good relationship with her parents, yet after her dad died, the relationship she had with her mother seemed to change. It became awkward and forced as her mother retreated more into herself while trying to reestablish herself as just her and not part of the team she'd been a part of for over thirty years. Realizing that her mother needed time to adjust and seemed happier alone than as a mother-daughter team, Sam chose to take her final year of college abroad in Paris. This worked well for the both of them and they kept in touch with letters and weekly phone calls.
During breaks in school, Samantha was able to explore Europe and traveled with friends or on her own to Italy, Germany, Austria and, of course, all over France. She wrote of what she saw and did, filling journals and notebooks with what she'd always call her 'bank' for it was where she stored her words, ideas and descriptions that she could withdraw at a later date as she needed them. Despite older and wiser minds who lectured that making a living as a writer was iffy at best, Samantha was determined that she would do exactly that. Much as a painter would spend hours precisely recreating a scene, so too did Sam spend hours describing that hard-scrabble little market around the corner from St Mark's Square or the ancient, stooped shouldered grandfather who, unsuccessfully, had tried to cajole his donkey up a mountain road in the hills outside of Bern. She was fascinated with people, with emotions and how different individuals handled different scenarios. And she would do her best to capture the fleeting moments or impressions in her notebook. Others took rolls of film; she wrote.
She was in France studying the various writers, Hugo, Hemingway and Balzac who had taken up residency in the various garrets, mansions and grand homes of Paris. She read their works, had walked their streets and eaten much as they had. She was an excellent student, independent and excited about beginning her career. She was very much her own woman, delighted to be a position that allowed her to write and find her way, and was absolutely not like her few friends who were desperately trying to find a man. She didn't need the money (thanks to her dad) and she had the freedom to write and pretty much go where and when she pleased. It was 1963, she was graduating in three months and the whole world was there for her to explore and write about. Who needed a man for that?
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© Copyright 2011 Fyn (fyndorian at Writing.Com).
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