iii.
a tuesday in november
On Rain & the Memory of Houses
I can always feel the rain before it comes; by the time the lights begin spreading across the concrete like watercolor paint, I've already been waiting for it.
⸺ a quiet collection of words ⸺
AnyaCrowe
Stories about longing, memory, dreams, and the hidden lives we carry within us.
scroll, gently
at the writing desk —
A novel,
nearly finished.
A completed novel currently undergoing final revisions before querying. Written quietly after the house had fallen asleep, beneath the glow of porch fairy lights, across the better part of two winters.
a fragment —
“The river didn't care who you used to be. It certainly didn't care who you were pretending to be now.”
from the manuscript
relics & fragments
The Journal
Notes left on the desk. Things half-remembered. The marginalia of a writing life.
vii.
the long blue hour
The Things We Keep
I have never been very good at throwing things away. Old notebooks full of songs, recipe cards written in familiar hands, photographs, books I cannot bear to part with, and screenshots of ordinary moments that briefly looked like art.
viii.
after midnight
Dream Notebook, Entry 8
The water below the bridge reflected a sky full of constellations I didn't recognize—swirls and clusters that told quieter, older stories. The real twilight above us held no stars. They existed only there, in the liquid mirror. “A borrowed sky,” Lucas said. “It remembers what the real one forgets.”
xii.
before dawn
Dream Notebook, Entry 9
He wasn’t looking at me. He was gazing out over the water, his profile clean and pensive. Dark, tousled hair fell across his forehead. He was dressed simply—a soft-looking grey henley, dark jeans, scuffed boots. He held himself with a relaxed stillness that seemed to deepen the quiet around him.
ii.
a fog morning
On the Slowness of Things
The novel does not want to be hurried. It is teaching me a kind of patience I did not know I was capable of. Three pages today. Two of them, I think, are true.
ix.
early spring
A Letter I Did Not Send
Dear Novel, I know you're finished when you stop changing and start waiting. It will probably be when the dreams of the characters stop, or when my head goes quiet and my heart feels still. For now, there is still an urgency in me to pour these characters out who are so alive in my mind, they now might as well be friends.
a few words —
A Small Introduction
I have never been very good at keeping stories to myself. They arrive as fragments—a line of a song, a photograph, a dream, a character who refuses to leave. Some stay for days. Some stay for years. Eventually, they all begin asking for a place to live. This is where a few of them have found one.
I think some stories find us before we are ready to tell them.
✦ from the desk, occasionally ✦
Letters from the Dreamscape
Occasional notes, fragments, and updates from the writing life.
Follow alongNo more than once a season. Never anything you didn't ask for.