Portion of another illuminated scroll. My scanner refuses to replicate gilt and gold.
The motif is based on the early 8th century Tara brooch.
The empty roundel awaits the Kingdom seal.
Have been engaged in "dunging out" -- to use my mother's expressive phrase -- my office this weekend, and have produced enough excess paper from old files to herniate my recycle guy. Am not sure just what to do with my collection of old journals and newsletters from the American Society of Criminology. Though I dislike tossing anything that resembles a book, anyone who would want them probably already has them.
This synapse-switch to a form of spacial delete (you have no idea how much floor space I've uncovered) left me without a blog topic, so I stole one.
As the result of a reader's comment about guessing the ending of a story, Raine Weaver posted an interesting question at Southern Fried Chicas:
how does a writer keep an ending fresh within the confines of genre?
We are, after all, somewhat restricted in our choices.
Readers of romance usually expect a happy-ever-after -- or a happy-for-the-time-being. Love triumphant.
Mystery readers expect the mystery to be solved and the wicked caught -- or, at least, revealed.
Readers of horror/ may expect evil to triumph - or not -- but with a price.
Readers of fantasy/SF all expect certain satifying ending rituals. A galaxy/civilization ( or a remnant of it) saved, a war won, hero/heroine bloody but unbowed.
Lines from The Mummy movie sum up expectations rather well: kill the bad guys, rescue the girl, and save the world.
I think most readers like resolution to a tale, and usually prefer a positive one. The world's too full of weeping as it is.
Seems the answer to the question revolves around not so much the What but the How.
How do you keep your endings ( which perforce must follow certain genre tropes), like Tim Horton's coffee, "always, always fresh?"