The Circle of Four

I know that if you read yesterday’s post you are now mucho interested in my novel, but sadly it will just have to unfold slowly for you since the book is not yet under contract.  My evil intention is to speckle you with hints, so once its published (because it will be published), you will immediately race to the store to purchase it, and then high-tail it over to my house so I will sign it.  Then you will see the movie and be happy about it.

I’m smiling- by the way- that was really fun to write!

Check this out-

After finishing my first draft, I drove to Newport, Rhode Island to check out Kingscote. This mansion is the setting for a pivotal scene for Kim, my character who doesn’t seem to fit.  I arrived in spring before the leaves were out.  The mansion was stark and beautiful, but then I noticed something peculiar.  The Circle of Four symbol that I had written all through the novel was carved into the post!   Well, isn’t that convenient.

You can’t make this stuff up.

About julietruekingsley

Crazed writer living on the coast of Maine! Attempting to blog daily in fifteen minutes or less.
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4 Responses to The Circle of Four

  1. kat black says:

    Ahhh, it is so true! I have a tattoo that is five or so years old on my lower back. I found it on a gravestone etching in a book in Scotland and used it to commeorate finishing my first book. My first published novel came out last February. (not the same book) I have never met or spoken to the illustrator. My tattoo is on each of the four corners of my book. Cue twilight zone music. You are on track!!!!

  2. mjrowan says:

    Hey, Julie, I’m enjoying your blog. What is the circle of four. (I suppose I could Google it, but then we wouldn’t be “talking.”) And what’s up with those psycho cows? They seem a tad shaggy. Have you ever read Billy Collins poem on cows? Let’s see if I can import it for you. (I’m more than a little un-adept at this tech stuff.)

    Afternoon With Irish Cows
    by Billy Collins

    There were a few dozen who occupied the field

    across the road from where we lived,

    stepping all day from tuft to tuft,

    their big heads down in the soft grass,

    though I would sometimes pass a window

    and look out to see the field suddenly empty

    as if they had taken wing, flown off to another country.

    Then later, I would open the blue front door,

    and again the field would be full of their munching

    or they would be lying down

    on the black-and-white maps of their sides,

    facing in all directions, waiting for rain.

    How mysterious, how patient and dumbfounded

    they appear in the long quiet of the afternoon.

    But every once in a while, one of them

    would let out a sound so phenomenal

    that I would put down the paper

    or the knife I was cutting an apple with

    and walk across the road to the stone wall

    to see which one of them was being torched

    or pierced through the side with a long spear.

    Yes, it sounded like pain until I could see

    the noisy one, anchored there on all fours,

    her neck outstretched, her bellowing head

    laboring upward as she gave voice

    to the rising, full-bodied cry.
    God, I wish I could write poems as good as that. Love, Mary Jane

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