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Mood Writing on Countryside Fields for Creative Souls
Mood writing is evocative of the great classical writers, the masters of yesteryear. In The Mood Book's pages we absorb their craft via creative prose examples. Glorious and grim fields alike star of this page. So get those muddy boots on and grab a jacket! Bring a notebook! Grab a pen! Or maybe grab ten!
Written by Angela Abraham in 2024
The Fields Call the Creative Soul to the Writing Stick in Moods of Ice or Sun
Upon the Happy Horizon, Hills Roll as a Creative Lyric
Example One:
Whispering wands of grasses, tall and softly green, clothed the warming field. Sweet spring and lady summer were its tailor. Oh, how they adore their embellishing blooms! Oh how they adore their silken aromas! Daily it is our joy to see the changes each brings, how upon such artistic whim arises cornflower and daffodil. Poppies in gayest riot! Buttercups a merry jig! What magic there is in humble things. Oh, those whispering wands of meadows, rolling and sweet, clothed my warming dreams.
Example Two:
The field was braille to the wind, a gust that carried its whispers on. For in its every living thing, from seed to insect or worm, was kept the book of happy happenings. The stars you see, loved it so, and told it fresh stories each sundown. Some say it giggled from dusk until dawn, absorbing wisdom from above. How it wished it could speak into the minds of man. Yet how busy they were. Doing what? It was impossible to tell. Then one day, one blessed day, it grew the seeds so differently. Ha! Ha! This even the minds of man cannot fail to miss!
The Fields Sag Under the Crying Sky
Example Three:
A wind carved field trickled cold with rain, a rain born of dense dark clouds. Day came and went with barely warmth nor light. Shivering birds weren’t bade to sing. Sheltering mice weren’t called to scurry. The world, it seemed, was shadow’s morose prisoner. Drumming. Drumming. How the rain did keep up its percussive drone. Drown was the pathway. Rotten was the style. Sodden, soggy, soaked through and, of let up, there was none.
Example Four:
River nibbled the frost bitten field as the last mean straws did rot. Footfalls found no cushioning, yet a jolt of ice-baked land. No tear could fall into winter’s hand, so cold embattled was that site. The sun could rise to full power, ignite every hue to full-bright, and still it would go on in subzero grumble, still it would shun spring’s extended hand. Bitter, so bitter, was the field, and ne’er once did I figure out its sullen rationale.
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