1. You can see me.

2. I have no script.

3. I’m posting for actual humans to view.

But here I am, in the wilds of Substack, doing just that. Here goes nuthin’….

Oh, if you missed it, HERE is my story “The Drift Net” to which I am referring in this video. Happy Wednesday, everyone!

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NOTE: If you haven’t read Story #1 “Cockle Shells”, you may want to read that first - you can read STORY #1 HERE for free.

Ay, Da would hae called me daft. I ken it. Ma said as much when I set out fae th’ house, yet still I charged out like a bull. Wi’ a squall clearly ready to scream down fae th’ north horizon, all th’ other skiffs are beached and waitin’ till th’ storm’s passed. But something in me says go on. Go to th’ water. There’s a fire in me that needs puttin’ out. So I go.

I pass Margaret Munro pickin’ flowers on th’ bank as I steer for th’ firth. She’s likely singin’ as she goes. My sail snaps ‘gainst th’ mast as it fills, an’ th’ skiff gathers speed. I lean into th’ tiller an’ let th’ wind carry me. I am weightless. Margaret lost her wee sister wi’ th’ sickness, an’ lost her pa aways back. She must hae th’ same hardness in her chest that she cannae swallow. Or maybe her singin’ helps soften what’s hard in her. I dunno. I’ve nae asked her. Wouldnae ken how to ask leastways. I shift th’ tiller and make for th’ mouth o’ th’ bay. My sail taut. My mind clear. I wave to Mister Munro rakin’ th’ graves, though I dinnae think he sees me. Oh—reminds me—I ought return his diggin’ spade.

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We just dropped my daughter off at college. She’s my middle daughter. She’s a fresh(wo)man. She’s out-of-state—I mean, way out of state, as in 750 miles away. And she has mobility needs. She requires the use, at times, of a wheelchair for walking longer distances—like going across campus.

And let me tell you, this mama is struggling. My daughter is fierce and stubborn, smart and equipped. But it’s hard for her. While she’s on an “accessible” campus, there are still moments of inaccessibility. She has to problem solve and ask for help when she cannot get a door open or cannot get onto the shuttle to attend an off-campus class. Things that we don’t give a thought to doing—like opening a door or walking up a couple of stairs—she has to troubleshoot or find a workaround.

The mental energy alone that she expends is much like someone immersed in a foreign country who is learning a new language and navigating a new culture. Everything is new and unknown. Everything has to be taken in, assessed, then translated before she can, in turn, respond. This constant internal translation requires a massive amount of mental and emotional energy. On top of the fact that she’s a freshman in college, learning the ropes of dorm life and a rigorous academic workload, meeting new people and making new friends, navigating a huge campus and trying not to get lost, and all the other requirements of a college experience.

I’m not sure I’ve ever taken such a leap of faith in launching one of my baby girls into this huge, wild unknown. I’m not there. I can’t help her, apart from cheering her on from (literally) afar and trusting that we’ve equipped her enough to build her own unique wings and fly.

And I’m not sure I’ve ever been so overwhelmingly proud of my daughter. I’ve always known that she’s exceptional and brilliant and creative and magical. Now I know that she also is resilient and strong and brave in ways we both are only beginning to comprehend.

To the parents who just dropped off your baby at college: I see you. I feel that same whorl of fear and wonder and uncertainty and pride.

To the parents who are releasing your baby who has additional challenges to overcome, but you release them anyway: I am praying for you. And I’m feeling all the feels with you—and, my Lord, it’s a lot of feels.

To the student who is wide-eyed, nervous, excited, uncertain, eager, overwhelmed: keep going. Take it one day—or one hour—at a time. The only way through any challenge is to walk (sometimes with teeny little steps) through it. Then one day, not long from now, you’ll look back in awe at how far you’ve come.

Keep building the life you love living, my loves, even when it’s hard. As Aslan whispered to Lucy, “Courage, dear heart.”

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This summer I’ve been doing a lot—a lot—of writing. As some of you may know, I resigned my full-time teaching job last spring with the intent of becoming a full-time writer. This has been a massive leap of faith—and there is nothing like the fear of not being able to pay rent that drives one to work like the entire cast of Newsies belting “carrying the banner”. Of course, I did keep my adjunct prof position teaching literature as a teeny little safety net. (It doesn’t offer much safety, but it does put gas in the car. So there’s that.)

Anyway, I’m working on 3 different writing projects: 2 fiction and 1 expository. My 2 fiction projects are:

1. The Inver 1832 short story collection–which you’ve been reading here on Substack. I’m currently working on story #3, which directly follows “Blueweed” but is narrated by a different character. And, oh, how I love it—it’s taking me in all sorts of wild and unexpected directions.

2. My historical novel set during the American Revolution—which I’ve been working on for nearly a decade. I am in final revisions which are pain-stak-ing-ly slow.

Just to show you a bit of my process for novel writing, here’s my novel chapter-by-chapter spread out on my sunroom/writing room floor. I’ve been tightening the narrative structure, and this was the easiest way for me to see everything at once. (I don’t love screens for this type of work.)

With all of this writing, I often find myself discouraged because it is s-l-o-w work—tediously slow sometimes. Yet, just as Gregor encourages Thomas in “Blueweed” that each day is simply “a day of small things”, I am—moment by moment—reminding myself of that same truth.

When facing what feels insurmountable, the small things carry you forward.

Then one day, on a random Tuesday, you’ll look back and be amazed at—and, oh, so grateful for—how very far you’ve come. Of course, it’s not time for me to look back on a random Tuesday. I’m only at the beginning of my journey, and there are stacks of small things still to do.

So I thought I’d share some other small things happening here on the Silent Isle (in no particular order):

• All 3 of my daughters were in Scotland this summer. (Yes, without me. Yes, it was painful. No, I don’t want to talk about it.) Knowing that I was starting to write this story collection set in Inver, my oldest daughter Afton decided to visit the village of Inver again. (I say “again” because she was also with me when we visited back in 2019 when I first stumbled upon the Cholera monument along the coastline.)
  
  She was so kind to pay this quiet, lovely village another visit, and while there she took loads of photos and little videos. I will share some of these gems down the road, but wanted to share just 1 today. In her meanderings, she discovered that the Cholera monument that overlooks the field where the 53 Inver folk are buried (as described in “Cockle Shells” and “Blueweed”) has been updated.
  
  As I mentioned in “Cockle Shells: An Origin Story”, the old plaque on the monument was faded and nearly illegible—which is no surprise given that it sits at the edge of Inver Bay, getting blasted by the North wind and tumultuous Highland weather. Here, now, is the newly updated plaque:

  

• My 3rd writing project is a pedagogy book. After teaching for nearly 25 years, I’ve learned a lot about education—mostly the “hard way” (i.e. by making mistakes and learning from them). The text I’m working on is intended to be a practical help for literature and writing teachers amidst the deluge of technology-dependence and AI and student disengagement. This is probably the slowest-moving of my writing projects.
  

• I started a Teachers Pay Teachers storefront, creating literary and writing resources for secondary ELA teachers—resources that align with book project #3, should I ever finish it. (Small things, Anna. Small things.) My storefront is “The English Isle” —yes, I have a thing for isles, but this was also a homophone for “aisle”. (Get it? The English Isle? It’s an aisle in a store….isle. Too on the nose? Ah, well.) Many of my resources are focused on Christian education and Biblical integration, since that is the milieu in which I’ve spent most of educational career. However, I also have more traditional resources that should hopefully be of help to any secondary English instructor.
  

• My cat Paisley and I have reached a new level of codependence. Now that I’m around the house in mass quantities of time, she feels an all-compassing proprietorship of my attention and my personal space. If I am ignoring her at a time when she requires my attention (for chin scratches or treats or little kitten pep talks), she has taken to knocking things off of counters or tabletops to alert me of her displeasure. Sometimes these things barely register when they hit the floor—like the envelope of an opened bill or a pen left on the counter. Other times it’s something hefty—like a metal waterbottle. Or even breakable—like a drinking glass. So, in addition to all the small things I’m creating and working on, I’m also cat-proofing the surfaces of my home to ensure nothing else gets broken or lost because Paisley decided she required my attention right this very moment.
  
  Let me introduce you to Paisley. This is literally the scene (i.e. hostage situation) as I am writing these words this very moment:

  

So those are the happenings in my very small corner of this very wide world. What are some small things happening with you?

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NOTE: If you haven’t read Story #1 “Cockle Shells”, you’ll want to read that first - you can read STORY #1 HERE for free.

Inver, Scotland, 1832

My rake ha’ been used for many a thing—loosenin’ soil in th’ garden, breakin’ up rotted tree roots tha’ hae crept ‘bove ground wi’ too much rain, clearin’ a furrow in Ainsley’s field across th’ way. Even hackin’ at ice in a frozen water barrel ta free th’ water beneath. Today, me rake an’ I stand on a field o’ fresh turned earth coverin’ nineteen Inver folk. I did nae think I’d e’er use me rake for such as this. I’m here ta level th’ ground now th’ grave’s been filled.

Just next ta where I’m rakin’, stands another grave o’ eleven folk. An’ still more are buried further down. All within days ta each other. Th’ cholera took fifty-three of us, all in all. Today I’ve leveled all three graves. I could’a used me hoe ta help with this ‘ere job to break up th’ clods o’ hard earth, but its handle broke aways back—’tis an old hoe I got from me father-in-law, donkey’s years ago, so’s nae wonder it broke. Just never took th’ time ta mend it. But th’ rake is doin’ fine smoothin’ off th’ soil, I s’ppose.

I lift me cap from me head an’ scratch at th’ whisps o’ white hair. Th’ wind scrapes ‘cross me scalp. It feels good—as mi wifey used ta say—ta feel th’ wind in me fur. The air is wet an’ I can see a storm sittin’ out o’er th’ firth. T’will likely be here sometime in th’ night. September always brings wi’ it th’ rain. I close me eyes, breathe deep. I feel th’ storm coming. Like Jasper, me boyhood pal who’s got a bum knee an’ feels th’ rain a day ahead, I feel th’ rain inside me. A wee familiar ache. ‘Tis a part of me, like this ‘ere land. I’d be loath ta part wi’ any o’ it.

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Since some of us are still getting acquainted with each other, I should perhaps start by letting you know that I am a research nerd. Hard core. As nerdy as they come. I dive down rabbit holes, bumble through burrows, and wriggle into even the smallest of warrens to see where the research leads.

And I love to share my findings with people. (My kids find this somewhat less-than-delightful. Maybe one day they’ll appreciate it.)

This proclivity for Research Overachievement (as I have decided to term it) is what led me to Inver, Scotland. No, it did not start with research on Cholera (or any other deadly bacterial infections). I was researching for another story (that may surface down the road a ways), and I was ferreting out information on a variety of things in the nearby town of Dornoch—a beautiful, quaint town known for its seaside, its golf course, and its gorgeous cathedral where Madonna baptized her son (which has no bearing on anything we’re discussing, like, ever.)

I genuinely don’t know exactly where it was in the rabbit hole that I stumbled upon Inver and it’s Cholera epidemic, but I do remember suddenly stopping mid-fall when I read: half of Inver’s population died of Cholera in 1832.

Half of the village died. HALF.

And, because so many died, they had to bury them quickly and all at once. In a mass grave.

As a writer, my imagination immediately goes to: what would that be like? what would I do?

• As a mother, how do I handle helplessly caring for my sick child, knowing what it leads to?

• As a child, how do I process so much death all around me? Where do I go when the one safe place isn’t safe anymore?

• As a father or husband, how do I respond to an enemy I can’t protect my family from?

• As a minister, how do I provide care and compassion when everyone is suffering?

• As a physician, how do I care for so many who need me?

• As an outsider, knowing people are suffering just a short distance way, what do I do?

• As anyone left alive, how do I go on? Where do I go from here?

It was the summer of 2019. (Pre-covid, I should note. A time when I had scant understanding of epidemics . . . or pandemics). My oldest daughter and I were planning a trip to Scotland. Her grandmother lives in the Highlands, and I have long considered it my second home. (Rabbie Burns words always echo in me: “My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.”) So we made it a point to add a quick stop in Inver to our list of places we planned to visit.

Inver is as village-y as it comes. It is small, quaint, with low stone walls, stucco-sided cottages, and about three streets that run between the squat buildings. The town rests on a spit of land overlooking Inver Bay—a narrow body of water that empties into the sprawling Dornoch Firth (then on into the North Sea). At low tide, the bay essentially becomes a strip of muddy sand that you can walk on and find cockle shells (hence my title) and seaweed and muscles and all sorts of abandoned sea life.

Several beached boats list forlornly on the sand, waiting for the tide to come in and buoy them back to life. And—as we quickly found out—when the tide rolls in, it rolls in fast and strong. My daughter and I were on the seabed poking around, when suddenly we were nearly up to our ankles in water. We ran back to the rocky the shoreline and, breathless, scrambled over boulders back up to safety at the top of the bank.

Reedy grass grows along the edge of Inver Bay, and as you walk down the shoreline toward the firth, you’ll see a wide field on your right with gusting grasses and a tall stone monument—a cairn—sitting at its edge.

On the monument, a weather-worn plaque reads: “Here in a mass grave is half of the population of the village of Inver who died during the Cholera epidemic of 1832.”

You can barely read the words from years of battering by wind and salt water and storms.

I wanted to be still at the edge of that field, under the wide sky and summer sun. To breath. To memorize the color of the water. To hear the sounds of seabirds calling. To take in the moment. But nothing about Inver is still. The wind is relentless. The sound of water going or coming is always in the air. The grass and the sky move in big, sweeping strokes. Like history and time, everything keeps moving.

And that was the start of my story.

Actually, it was the start of my story collection. Set in Inver in 1832, my collection begins with the burying of the dead in “Cockle Shells”. The Cholera epidemic has unleashed its fury and is starting to recede.

Margaret, the 11-year-old protagonist of “Cockle Shells”, begins the collection at the edge of the grave. From there, each story will follow a different character moving on from that grave. While a new character takes the helm in each story, you’ll start to recognize characters from other stories. (For example, you may see Margaret or Mr. Mackenzie again.)

Oh, and I promise not all the stories will be sad. (But we also can’t ignore the sad. The dark is how we appreciate the arrival of—or even the promise of—the light.)

I do hope you enjoy all of the coming Inver stories. I will post a new story at the end of each month and, if you’re a paying subscriber, you’ll receive that in your inbox.

Thank you so much for being here and allowing me to take you on a wee journey to Inver. Here are just a few more photos I took in our wanders through this lovely and wild Highland town.

Inver, Scotland, 1832

“’Tis cold,” I say. Ma shushes me.

I look at Moira, wisps of ginger hair flung across her face from the wet wind off the firth. She’s tae small—the North wind tae sharp—ta be out here.

Ma says half of Inver will lie in this grave by days’ end. She told me what it’s called—Cholera. That’s what took my Moira. And Missus Mackay and her daughter Louisa, Andrew Ross, and others I’ve known all m’life. A handful o’ men—ones not sick nor needed in fields or for herdin’—have been diggin’ for two days. Diggin’ for today, for the burial.

Everyone in the village is bringin’ their dead today, some draped on mules, some dragged in blankets like firewood. Our walk ta the dunes is short; others have longer ta walk. We seem ta be waiting for them all t’come, though Ma has nae said as much. Seems that if we wait for everyone, we’ll stand forever in the wind saying good-bye.

I stop countin’ folk who’re laid out here in the ground. Then I start again, beginning at one, so’s I won’t think about the storm that’s closin’ in, with its cold bite and gale wind that’ll shudder the house. ‘Sides, I can only count so high.

Moira and I shared the bed in the loft, while my brothers have cots by the fire. In the loft, Moira would curl into my back like a kitten and we’d warm each other. My brothers—all younger than I—never pay any mind to us lassies. They have their own chores that need doin’. For the lads, they chase off birds and lob rocks from the fields ahead of Mister Ainslie’s plow. For me, I always tended Moira. I am eleven, after all. Moira was barely three and needed tendin’.

This morning, when my brothers lifted Moira in the dun blanket to carry her here ta this wide grave, I was surprised—and glad—they were nae rough with her. Just slight themselves, they struggled a touch to walk with their load. Ma and I just watched and let the lads struggle and lead on. I half ‘spected Moira to protest bein’ carried by them, but I suppose t’was a foolish thought. She never minded when I picked her up, hugged her ta myself when we walked through the village. The wind nips my cheeks and, again, I worry she’ll be cold. My arms lift of habit, like ta shield her. Then they drop ta my sides, and I tug my green tartan shawl tight ta my shoulders.

Next ta Moira in the grave lies Missus Mackenzie who birthed a baby yesterday. Then Missus Mackenzie died just after—no one said if from sickness or birthin’. Maybe both. Maybe it does nae matter, since either way she’s here and still and grey. Ma went ta help with the birth—“’tis our duty to help,” she said, voice soft like warm wax. Before Ma left, she stared long and thoughtful at Moira shivering aside the fire. Now I think of it, per’aps she knew Moira would die ‘thout her there, and she wanted ta take a good look before leavin’.

I could nae say the moment her heart stopped its beatin’, an’ I think ‘tis likely best I don’t know. Least I know she wasn’t afraid, ‘cause I held her hand the whole night and sang to her Pa’s gaelic songs—least the ones I could recollect.

When Ma came back from the birthin’ next morning, she gathered Moira and held her, rockin’ her. Seemed she knew afore she came home that Moira had gone. Do all mothers have that kind of sense? I left the croft—left ma ta her rocking—ta help me breathe ‘cause my heart ached so. I walked ta the firth so’s ta look for cockle shells. Moira loves cockle shells. She sets ‘em on her nose and eyes and yells ta me, “Look, Mar-gee!” for she can’t yet say Margaret proper.

I brought the shells back to Ma. She’d wrapped Moira up in a blanket while I was gone. Ma’s fingers shook as she put one shell in Moira’s hand then tucked her wee hand back inside the blanket. I’m not sure what Ma did with the other shell, but I ken she kept it somewhere safe.

Not since Pa passed have I looked on someone whose soul has passed. Now so many are afore me—close to twenty, I’d say with my counting—I close my eyes. Pa died some time ago, so I know my heart will stop its hurtin’ eventually. I recall his strong, rough hands folded ‘gainst his chest. His hair—red like Moira’s—greased to one side, which made me laugh ‘cause I never seen him so neat and oiled. The wind never leaves anyone neat. Whene’er I stand in dune grass and stare ‘cross the firth, Pa’s roaring laughter’s in the wind.

Mister Mackenzie arrives, stands next to me. His new baby—just a few hours old and wrapped in a worn, yellowed quilt—wails. I know th’ sound for a hunger cry. Mackenzie sniffs, but doesn’t look at the wee beirn. I wonder if he hears the cryin’. He don’t seem ta. His nose is red. Tears catch in his brambly beard; his beard black like the faces of the sheep that stray across the sandy straight from Dornoch and into our fields. Mackenzie blinks down at me then looks with sad, dark eyes at his wife. I wonder why Ma don’t cry as he does. Though, I don’t much feel like crying either.

“Th’ wind’s tae strong,” I tell Mister Mackenzie. We both look at the grave, at Moira wrapped loose in her blanket like game pie folded in cheese cloth. The hem from her dress—a wee blue frock Ma cut last spring from one o’ mine—peeks through the folds o’ the blanket. Stooping, Mackenzie sets the screaming babe in my arms, an’ I start ta rockin’. I poke my finger in the tiny, opened mouth, press it against the beirn’s tongue, and she starts ta suck.

Mackenzie, wiping his nose on his sleeve, slides down into the grave. He hunkers over his wife, touches her face, and I think I hear him sigh—or maybe ‘tis just the tide rolling in cold and fast. He lifts her arm out from her body. Gentle, he slides Moira closer so she rests ‘gainst Missus Mackenzie’s side. Moira’s blanket shifts, and her hand falls open with the cockle shell. He picks up the shell, returns it ta Moira’s hand, closing her fingers around it. Then he adjusts his wife’s arm around Moira’s body, and I feel a little better. Ma’s hand is now on my shoulder, squeezing so hard it hurts. But I don’t move away ‘cause I know she isn’t tryin’ ta hurt me. Sometimes she needs ta take hold of something, holdin’ tight ta be sure of it.

Overhead, clouds crawl low. Further afield, way out in th’ North Sea, a blue-grey haze—a storm—gathers. Tonight rain will slant across the firth, while we’re tucked in our crofts. We’ll hear it beat the thatching and runnel down the eaves.

Mackenzie sits on the edge of the grave, looking out at the water that’s the same grey as the sky. If I was ta lay on my side in the dune grass and look out at the firth, would I know which is sky and which is sea?

Folk are still coming. I rock the babe—have I been rockin’ this whole time?—and wonder how long saying good-bye should take. How long will it be afore those here in the grave are covered and away from the wind? How long till we return ta our hearths brimmed with warm light and listen to the low rumble of the sea carryin’ the storm? I imagine the harvest of cockle shells the sea tide will leave on the sand tomorrow morning, when the sun returns.

If you want to receive a new short story like this from Anna at the end of every month, as well as have access to comments and interaction within the Silent Isle community, become a paid subscriber. Thank you for being here!

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Hello, my friends,

You may be a family member or writing colleague; you may be a faithful friend wandering over from my blog, The Silent Isle; or you may have stumbled upon this space unsuspecting and blinking in confusion. Welcome to all of you.

I’ve started this space for my creative work.

I have been a teacher and professor of English for nearly 25 years, and in all that time I’ve slivered my creative work into the cracks of my life. Now that I’ve (nearly) launched my 3 children into the big, wide adult world, I’m scaling back my teaching and making space for all the stories and characters and voices in my head. And it’s kinda exciting and kinda scary all at once.

It reminds me of my first (and only) paddle boarding experience. I spent much of it just trying to maintain my balance soas not to pitch over into the freezing lake water. The best way to do that—and, of course, the only way to get anywhere apart from dockside—was to simply paddle. When you can, as much as you can. Just keep paddling.

So, to complete the metaphor, here I am. Paddling. I have no idea how this will work. I have no idea if anyone will like what I create. But I’m gonna show up, keep paddling, and see what happens.

Ultimately, I want to build a creative, imaginative space here, where people feel free to contemplate ideas and connect with others doing the same. As I share my stories, I want to hear from you. Because, just as I never write in a vacuum, you never read in a vacuum. We bring our own eyes, our own minds, our own experiences, our own imaginations into play. If you will allow my stories to be a starting point for conversation, we can grow, imagine, hope, and create a beautiful space together.

I will be posting my 1st short story here on June 30. (I’m still giving it a final polish.)

If you enjoy this 1st story, feel free to subscribe. For a few dollars a month, you will receive from me a new piece of short fiction at the end of every month. Also with your paid subscription you will be able to comment and interact with me and other subscribers.

If a paid subscription isn’t your speed, no worries! I will at times be posting original poetry, books I’m reading, publishing news (as I finish up my full-length novel), and other creative curations as well. So even if you’re not a paid subscriber, you will be able to still be part of the community. (You just won’t receive the monthly short story.)

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