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 |  Thoughts and deeds taking me on my path toward insanity. |
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** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Please visit me for updates on the Myth to Life series as well as other writings, don't forget to leave a message in the guestbook, and join the site at: http://www.eairwin.webs.com I would love to hear from you! |
HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY! ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Firecrackers by P. A. Matthews bright glowing firmament, beautiful night’s illumined atmosphere exploding, celebrating, flames red, blue, white magnesium, phosphorous, dynamite, sparkling, shining, Firecrackers shining, sparkling, dynamite, phosphorous, magnesium white, blue, red flames celebrating, exploding atmosphere illumined, night’s beautiful firmament glowing bright ~ * * * ~ Steadfast by P. A. Matthews Steadfast, upon this land patriot dreams were born, revolution sounding a shot heard round the world. Steadfast, upon this land a congress’ plan unfurled, signatures defining shattering ties long held. Steadfast, upon this land the cry for freedom rides, representing statehood no longer colonies. Steadfast, upon this land a lady with a torch beckons with compassion, the tired, weak and poor. Steadfast, upon this land through trials and circumstance, haven for the masses - America, the brave. To all of you, whether here in America or abroad - let freedom ring! Remember to pray for our country along with all those who are in military service so that we may remain free. God Bless, Patricia |
YAY! Hello people; I just wanted everyone to know that Fresno, CA is in the national news again, and not for fog or the heat, unless you consider the massive heat served up on a baseball diamond. CONGRATULATIONS TO THE BULLDOGS OF FRESNO STATE UNIVERSITY FOR WINNING THE NATIONAL NCAA BASEBALL CHAMPIONSHIP!!!!!!! YAY, GO BULLDOGS. UNDERDOGS NO MORE!  Okay, you are returned to your regular programming. Woof! Woof! P |
~ Quote of the Day ~ "Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it is spent. Be careful lest you let others spend it for you." ~ Carl Sandburg Hello people; I don't know why this poem came to mind tonight. I had written it some time ago for a poetry contest, and then stashed it away after the contest ended. Perhaps this particular poem entered my thoughts due to the fact I am looking for poetry to submit to different publications and am up against a deadline. Time has a way of escaping us. We think we have so much, and then the day steals it, never to return it to us so we may work through what that day wrought. Recapturing time is futile, making the most of time is almost impossible. Enjoying the moment ... worth striving toward. Ta and peace, P Time Twaddling on as time stands still transient no more, tremulous as it grinds to a halt teetering like a top. Tranquil it seems in this quiet space tenuous at best, trumpery in all of its finest, timid without force. Transforming begins ... twist of fate, transcendental thought, traversing the universe conquered triumphant continuum. |
~ Quote of the Day ~ "Every one is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody." ~ Mark Twain Hello people; Today, I thought I would share a bit of flash fiction while the full moon is still shining with all its beauty. Mainly, lunatics are inhabiting my neighborhood at the moment, so I thought I'd invade yours for a while.  Hope you enjoy the mini moonlight tale.Ta, P Moonlight Becomes You "I can't believe you did this to me!" David ran strong hands along my spine, his fingertips leaving a trail of excited gooseflesh as he stroked. Warm, breathy breezes eased into my ear as he spoke. "Sweetheart, I couldn't help myself." Facing my husband, I focused on his face, noticing his eyes gleamed more mischievously than normal. "This is important David, I mean far past the top of the list that said this wasn't ever going to happen." David stroked my face, sending the tingling sensation to another location, as my mind struggled to remain focused. "Leah, I didn't do it on purpose, you have to believe me. I'm as surprised as you are." Somehow watching David's eyes melt into smoldering liquid emeralds didn't foster confidence in his proclaimed innocence. I reluctantly sighed, touching his ruggedly handsome face, knowing he'd never intentionally harm me even if we occasionally took turns toward the bizarre. "David, we've been married a long time, why did this happen now? Are you starting to lose control?" "Leah, I'm always uncontrolled with you, that's the way it's been for me. I love you more than life. You know I'd never put you in danger, now an unusual moment of passion and you're subjected to a foreign lifestyle." "I've known this about you since before we married. I don't blame you, it's just we've been able to manage the situation. What's different tonight?" An unsure expression crept across his face. "There was this frenzy I couldn't quell. The moonlight bathed you in its glow and you became ethereal, the beast rose too quickly to stop." I pulled myself into his embrace, wincing as he touched the bloody bite on my shoulder. "What now? When will I know if what occurred will force me to share what you possess?" Hot tears fell from David as he whispered. "I'm so sorry, Leah. Unfortunately, we'll have to wait until the next full moon to see if you become a werewolf." Currently watching : For Me and My Gal (Snap Case) Release date: 2004-04-06 |
~ Quote of the Day ~ “Music is what feelings sound like. ~ Unknown This goes out to Kimmy-dear -lostdreams   good friend, collector of lost souls, bandage applier who tries to keep my head from exploding, one heck of a great author, and fellow rock lover. That's hard rock not those pet things. YOU GO GIRL. ROCK ON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! http://youtube.com/watch?v=K4QS5n4BiyA Gotta love another use for duct tape.  Ta, P |
~ Thought of the Day ~ " ? " Hello everyone; A few of you know that I live in an old house, circa 1918. Did you ever wonder why we use the word circa instead of around? Sorry, already I’m digressing and haven’t gotten past the first paragraph yet. Anyhoo, little house in the valley is old, not ancient, because then we would get to charge exurbanite fees to come visit it on a tour. And, let me also state that the house isn’t anything site-worthy such as in the Pillars of Karnack or Stonehenge. More’s the pity there; I could really use a bit of historical fun these days. No, little house is as mundane as its residents so I suppose I’ll just have to settle for hysterical fun instead. A few weeks ago, after returning home from work, I proceeded to do the nightly routine prior to going to bed. Let me just state that hearing odd sounds after flushing the toilet is never a good sign. Hearing those odd, little telling sounds at 1:30am is downright disgusting, alarming, bordering on overwhelming. The sound? Oh, that infinitesimal gurgle, which alerts as it sucks the water from the tank, that the next flush will send forth enough water to make swabbing the deck while walking the plank seem like never-ending fun, a joyous activity only surpassed by swords running you through as they seek entrails to abduct. Yeah, I wasn’t too thrilled to know the next flushing adventure might actually bring up Davy Jones’ locker and the assorted fun attached. So as I drifted off to sleep, my dreams weren’t of sugarplums dancing, but of sewer pipes bursting, and what the new day would hold as I prepared for another archeological dig. The next morning found me digging … not for gold, or treasure, but for poo, or should I say the roots preventing the passage of poo. I dug, relentless in my search for the concrete patch covering the pipe by which I might find the endless rambling roots. Lifting the heavy patch, I swung it to the left landing it on the soft mound of dirt I imagined covering me in future days. Ah, might I say, there is nothing like the waft of poo and stagnant water in the morning to start your day. Inhaling a bit of clean air, I lowered myself to a pillow laid before the muckish hole. And as I got down on my knees, I began praying, not only that I would be able to remove the roots in one fell swoop, but for my knees which had undergone two months of injections to make them not quite like the Tinman’s knees. (yes, another blog entry in the making) I cleaned and cleaned, my hands seeking the roots with gusto as I tried not thinking about what else I was digging from the hole. Mind you I used to be a nursing assistant and have seen and worn enough poo to last me a lifetime, and a good portion of the time most toxic incidences don’t bother me too much … okay, sometimes they are real gaggers, but you tend to get through those times by sheer grit and thither onward through life. The strange thing which occurred this time was that as my head was down in the hole extricating the poo and roots all I could think of was work and another instance where poo was involved. Bear with me while I set this stage for yet another poo happening in my life. Some of you are aware that I have an interest in serial killers. As writing subjects, not on a personal level such as dating one, which is what most people think when I mention the fact I’m interested in serial killers. I am interested in what makes these individuals tick, and like anyone who has committed an unusual crime, where did they have to go in their head to justify that type of behavior, or did they in fact go anywhere in their mind and were they cognizant of a different and aberrant behavior dwelling within them. Little side note, got to love them: I have either personally met or have spoken via the internet with people who I would put in the serial killer category. The only difference between them and those who are written about is that they haven’t actually committed a punishable crime. Personally, I think if you are intent on certain behavior and you consistently make people kowtow to your wishes, under the guise of being a darling, most precious angelic presentation to everyone, you have done a lot of damage in the psyche department of others just so you can continue living in a world of behavioral denial. Is killing a person’s spirit a punishable offence? Yes, another blog about mirrors will probably be hitting the airways soon. Back to work. The series, “Dexter” was in the final episodes on CBS. One of my pod-mates was watching it, as well as another person in the next pod. My pod-mate ‘C’ and I had previously been discussing serial killers and programs we had watched and enjoyed. I had only seen one episode of “Dexter” since Masterpiece Theater was showing the complete series of Jane Austin. I chose to watch Jane Austin and let my mind absorb something other than blood and such since I spend a good portion of my time writing on that subject. So the other person was just sooooooooooooo excited about the “Dexter” series. This, I not only found amusing, but odd, since she had intimated she’s not into anything other than cats. (OMG, another blog entry!) I came in the day after the final episode and she came up to me all excited and asked if ‘C’ had filled me in on the finale. I said yes, I hadn’t watched it since I really didn’t know what was going on and it was something you needed to see from the beginning. She was all a-twitter so in my stupidity thought I’d ask her if she wanted to read something I’d written about a serial killer. I said this with great trepidation since she had earlier stated, when I asked her if she wanted to read the first installment of the Riley McCabe series that had just been released, that she only read non-fiction. That was fine, I had no problem with that whatsoever. This time she agreed to read the story. Now, ‘C’ and a few people had already read the story and loved it, although they all love horror to some degree so I had a bit of an edge there when releasing the work. And like the good author I am, I always preface certain material with a disclaimer in case the person doesn’t want to read that type of story. I think that’s fair to both of us. So I handed my story to her, thinking she might enjoy it after all the hype about her watching gore. She took if from me and stated, “Great! More bathroom reading.” I’m not sure I can relate the thoughts that went through my head at that moment. I’m sure a lot of pirate speak and more than a few ‘f’ words hammered against my skull while I tried remaining upright. However, trying to maintain a semblance of professionalism, I think I just looked at her and said nothing. She said, “What, don’t you read stuff in the bathroom?” My answer was, “No, I just tend to do my thing and leave.” At that moment I didn’t want to dwell on where my copy was going to end up, whose hands or in her case paws were going to touch it, nor did I want to ask for the copy back so I could keep the story from circulating. Basically I wanted to flee the scene without my brain on fire. But like all good stories, she continued about the bathroom reading. Apparently there is a book dedicated to those who enjoy reading in the bathroom, and she went on to extol the virtues of said book. When I asked her about this, since she earlier stated that she only read non-fiction, her reply was that the book was non-fiction and was filled with tidbits of information on almost any subject … all of which I can only assume were in specified lengths depending on how long the need to read was. I informed her I had never heard of the book, although I admit I haven’t traversed all the non-fiction aisles, and went back to my seat. Of course ‘C’ got an earful later when I related that conversation. I also have to relate that ‘cat’ woman also told me that I am the only one who can bring a myriad of emotions to the single word poo. This I acknowledged as truthful since a few of my favorite phrases are a ‘pocketful of poo’ and ‘batches of poo’ since saying shit all day isn’t quite kosher. Sorry, again I digress. Several days later, I get up the nerve to ask her if she’s read the story, since unlike her excitement over “Dexter”, there has been nil when it came to the story. Fine, I’m a big girl and can take the heat or criticism of my work if it’s founded in reality. Her face showed a bit of disdain, especially when she prefaced it with this. “I used to work in the field of type set and such and such, and I couldn’t get past the two typos in the work.” Okay, apparently cat-scratch fever had set in and I was left with a mild concussion from that bomb landing on my head. Then she went on to mention the misspelled word had a different meaning and proceeded to tell me what the meaning of the two words meant. I did something I haven’t ever done. I stopped her mid-discourse and asked if she really couldn’t get past the two words and if that prevented her from reading the piece. Her answer was yes. ‘C’ was sitting there taking it all in, the expression on her face priceless since she was probably reading my mind and the words on the tickertape going through my brain weren’t nice or pretty. I told the person I was sorry she was unable to read the work and she went back to work. Hours later, ‘C’ asked me if I had heard what ‘P’ had said later. I said no. The crux of the conversation was that ‘P’ couldn’t come to terms with what she saw daily in me, blonde, pudgy, good natured, with the ability to laugh hysterically, with what was written on the page … a disturbing story which unnerved her because it was too real and she couldn’t understand how that work could come from my brain, nor separate the two. Now ‘C’ and the others who had read it said the same thing, that the story was unexpectedly real because they could envision the killer. As a writer I was satisfied because I had done my job. Although I was stumped on one level. Here ‘P’ was glorifying the “Dexter” series and all its gruesomeness and my story didn’t exceed that or the come close to the gore. My question was, who does she think writes all those stories anyway? It isn’t some monster-ish person out killing people, it’s the often kooky person who loves to laugh jotting down things to unnerve an audience. ‘C’ always laughs at my analogies, she’s a great laugher and supporter. But even she said until she got to really know me she couldn’t understand the difference in what I look like and who I am as a person as opposed to what comes out of my pen. I smiled at ‘C’ after she asked if I was all right, and told her yes. It all came down to knowing your audience and how much they will accept. It’s really all a poo factor when it comes right down to it or hits the fan. Those were my thoughts as I cleaned the sewer pipe. Both challenges, the plumbing and writing, still daunting my everyday mundane life with assorted unusual minutia. I will tell you though, I find ‘P’ and her catdom far more disturbing than any story I’ve ever written. Ah, methinks I need to write more on that, unless of course it is just a large pile of poo waiting to be stepped in. Ta and peace, P |
~ Quote of the Day ~ If writers stopped writing about what happened to them, then there would be a lot of empty pages. ~ Elaine Liner, We Got Naked, Now What, SXSW 2006 Hello People; Happy Monday? I thought I'd start out the week with a poem just to set the mood for what I can only assume will be a week filled with more work, endless hours in front of a computer, and several stories which need to either have the editing come to an end or have the original write come to an end so I can just call something completed for a change. Ah, the life of a writer still forced to adhere to the confines of working due to: the love of indoor plumbing, a roof over one's head, a modicum of food on the table, and an occasional new lipstick to cover my pouty lips. Hope you enjoy the poem. It is one of my favorites, even without a bit of intrigue or horror attached. Here's to surviving another work week. Ta, P The Mend Beseech me not, pray, do not ask for I would seem untrue, imparadise, each measured task your fancy doth imbue. Foreswearing naught against your role my whimsy is not such, cleave unto me, my love you stole, adherence with each touch. You mask my broken countenance, swift strength you doth bestow, mending the page of remembrance quick pleasure dost thou know. Shadowed gray delights my sense, sweet healing for my heart, broken barriers, my offense stability impart. Bore me not with false substitutes, with wonder would I gape, without you, I am destitute my precious one ... duct tape. |
~ Quote of the Day ~ "Life is a train of moods like a string of beads; and as we pass through them they prove to be many colored lenses, which paint the world their own hue, and each shows us only what lies in its own focus." ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson Hello people; For the past several weeks I have been toying with an idea for a short story involving a string. For those of you who have dared to read a few of my stories, you will understand that in my world string may take on a different meaning, or enter another dimension, or just be a lank piece of twisted cotton twill lying on the ground waiting for something to happen. So, true to form, this story has taken on a life of its own, only I can't seem to get the thoughts down on paper and make the work happen. But, apparently the thoughts have become their own tangled mess of string waiting for me to pick at the knots and reveal what lies along the story cord. Such is the life some days as a writer. All tied up in knots waiting for inspiration, and then when inspiration hits, you linger over the thought trying to figure out what to make of the idea, or if the idea will work or has merit. I'm calling this awkward thought process my personal string theory. And yes, I'm aware true string theory involves quantum mechanics. However, having thought about my story, perhaps quantum mechanics will be involved as well, only not scientifically, but more metaphysically. Feel trapped in the string ball yet? As I sat at work today, I thought about that odd story, which prompted me thinking about writing, which took me on a mental walk through some of the poetry I've written, which landed me on a poem I wrote several years ago. Yes, all random thoughts strung together by a day filled with a bit of insanity and too much sugar. Somehow this poem works with my story despite its original intent and different direction. So I'll keep working on my new story because I know what's on the other end of the string, it's just getting to that ending which is keeping me strung out. Strings Strings are meant for many things, handy useful pieces - connecting all the things we want, unless they're tied in knots. See the strings weave in and out, a cat's cradle you'll be, to capture fingers placed within, until they don't want caught. Some strings are invisible, oppressive when they're strung - control is such an ugly trait, it's emptiness you've bought. Your strings on me lie severed, no longer do they bind, a marionette retired, tis freedom I have sought. Ta and peace, P |
** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Memorial Day, A Day of Remembrance or, just another day for a beer, a ball game, and a furniture sale? "Memorial Day, originally called Decoration Day, is a day of remembrance for those who have died in our nation's service." This is the opening statement of this link http://www.usmemorialday.org/backgrnd.html which gives a great history of the origins of the day, as well as other information regarding the day's name change and what is being done to preserve this as a day of remembrance in our country. To those who sacrificed their lives with honor in order for 'we' as a free nation, unlike no other in existence, to continually remain free, I salute and thank you for that sacrifice of time, energy, faithfulness, and in far too many cases with the ultimate sacrifice of life. There comes a point in time when we as a people and nation have to stop our daily routine of pointlessness and consider what it would be like if those who preceded us, and willingly served against all odds, had not done so. What would our country represent if its people had not taken on tyranny in almost every form and tried to make it better for those in bondage to dictators, dilettantes, oppressive governments, attempts at the mass annihilation of a Jewish and Armenian people, as well as slavery and social injustice on our own shores? War is one of the ugliest situations we as people can imagine or find ourselves in, however, it is also one of the most unfortunate parts of our life in a human world no matter how we wish it not so, or how we attempt detent on every front, or how many songs of 'can't we all just get along and be peaceful at any cost' are sung. Personally, I would rather stand with someone that sees tyranny in the world and is repulsed by it and attempts to rectify the situation. I have growing disregard for those that turn a blind eye and say 'that isn't our problem, it doesn't affect us, why should be involve ourselves in something dangerous in order to push our faulted values as Americans on other nations.' While I am human and have grown weary of whatever wars are currently being fought (and with a thankful heart none are on our shores) around the world, I have to consider the fact that those under repressive regimes who lost their lives and that of their loved ones to the horrors of dictators with only annihilation in mind, are far more weary of war than this nation or I could ever imagine. Since our history began we have been at war. That was the foundation of our democracy-the struggle against tyranny for freedoms. And, while our strivings should always be for peaceful existence, we must always be aware that there are those, even within our nation, who don't have the same regard for those freedoms and would see us as a nation weakened. So, as I watched the ceremonies on television honoring the veterans and those currently fighting, I thought about those who consider this just another three-day weekend to celebrate with a barbeque, a beer, and a ballgame. I wondered if the children who will take a holiday from school understand what this day means for them - someone dying to provide freedom to grow up in a country where they are able to achieve their dreams if they try, or is it merely three days off like every other holiday now. When did we as a nation become so nothing? Where interests in buying the latest vehicle, IPod, trendsetting shoes, makeup, hair gel, candles of every scent possible, Botox, vacations anywhere you can find, as well as anything you can imagine to make life better take up so much room in our heart? I'm not condemning any of those items or the need to want them, because I am guilty in many of those areas. However, I am wondering when these items replaced righteous indignation and allowed elements of our society to deem others unworthy because of a disagreement in political policy? While it is true we as a nation have lost our brave and brightest young people in a war many disagree with, and I mourn for their loss, unable to completely put myself in the place of their parents' horror, I also remember that those people in uniform sacrificed their lives to make it a better world for someone other than themselves or me. As we remember our fallen of this country, I also remember those without a voice depending on our intervention around the world no matter how unpopular the situation or how maligned a country we become. I salute the many heroes, both deceased and living, who continually challenge their place in this world in order to provide me with the freedom to share my thoughts. Here's to letting freedom ring. Here's to remembering what Memorial Day is all about. Thank you for listening. Peace. P A Prayer For Our Nation God bless America And keep us safe and free, Safe from "all our enemies" Wherever they may be. For enemies are forces That often dwell within, Things that seem so harmless Become a major sin. Little acts of selfishness Grow into lust and greed, And make the love of power Our idol and our creed. For all our wealth and progress Are as worthless as can be, Without the faith that made us great And kept our nation free. And while it's hard to understand The complexities of war, Each one of us must realize That we are fighting for The principles of freedom And the decency of man, But all of this much be achieved According to God's plan. So help us as Americans To search deep down inside, And discover if the things we do Are always justified. And teach us to walk humbly And closer in Thy ways, And give us faith and courage And put purpose in our days. And make each one of us aware That each must do his part, For in the individual is where peace Must have its start. For a better world to live in Where all are safe and free, Must start with faith and hope And love deep in the heart of "Me." ~ Helen Steiner Rice ~ Here is another link you might find interesting: http://www.history.com/minisites/memorial/ |
~ Quote of the Day ~ If there's a book you really want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it. ~Toni Morrison Hello everyone; I never realized how true that quote was until my personal life began to reflect what Ms. Morrison has shared. Only a few know why or how I began my writing journey. I have told some that writing really wasn't my passion, if fact, I think I've shared that nugget of poo right here in the ol' blog. I didn't long to write as many of the writers on this site, as well as the authors of a myriad of writing books, have said. I never tried to get my thoughts down on paper since the age of ten while letting my muse guide me through a life of writing. I never kept a diary for two reasons. First, I was boring. Second, if perchance I wasn't boring, I wasn't sure I wanted anyone to have ammunition or blackmail to use against me when I got older. But in today's society, I probably should have opted for the blackmail situation in order to boost sales.  But hey, if you were one of those wonderkinds who new exactly what you wanted at ten, more power to you. You're probably a lot further along with your life than I am. Thinking back, all I wanted to do at age ten was to date Davy Jones of the Monkees. Okay, you all can get up off the floor and quit laughing hysterically now. But now that the fog of childhood is clearing a little, I do remember what happened with the Davy Jones thing, which should have let me know then I was onto something in the writing world. Storytelling. Or stalking. I also wasn't one of the children or women who told children stories. Go figure huh? When someone at work asked if I wrote children's stories, my pod-mate piped up and said, "Parents wouldn't want to hear the stories Patricia comes up with. The stories would damage their little psyches too much." I looked at her and laughed because it was so true. My reply was something like, "Well, I wasn't warped by the Brother's Grimm or Hans Christian Anderson." The look on her face said it all. Apparantly I was. But back to age ten. Since the only thing going then was the Davy Jones attraction (and a crush on a boy at school and the once a week free ice cream bar from being a lunch monitor ... I told you I was a geek and boring), my girlfriends and I would walk the perimeter of the playground during recess or lunch and make up a continuing saga of our life with the Monkees. I know, could this get any geekier? But I must say, we were more than a bit adventurous with our tales, and soon we had books worth of stories told to the each other and the universe. I think I should have written some of those stories down then, just in case I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. Or blackmailed. Screeeeech! Fast forward to a few years ago. I had an accident, and the injury left me lying in bed for a long time with not much to do except go to physical therapy and lie down when I got home. I probably should have been trying to figure out how to do day trading or something more lucrative like selling my walker and cane to someone with lots of cash, but I confess it didn't happen. I was never going to be successful at anything again. My only outlet then, other than screaming at my therapist, was reading. Three times a week I would schlep to physical therapy, and once every week or so stop by the library to pick up the latest books by my favorite authors. I even checked out War and Peace, got partway through it and returned it because I wasn't in the frame of mind to read the tiny print on onion skin while I screamed in my room. However, that book is still on my list to read. What I filled my life with then, as usual, were mysteries. And because I had time, I sought out all the authors with series, beginning with the first book and read through until their latest masterpiece. Basically I was reading five or six books a week. Little side trip here because I know you love them so much. When I was in my twenties, I went to a costume party. Yeah, I know, big deal, P. I made my costume, which was an ancient Egyptian dress because I like Egyptology. Anyway, the pianist for the group I sang in at the time asked where I came up with the costume idea. I mentioned I had spent several hours researching the period dress at the library. Her response was something like "I didn't think you ever darkened the door of the library. You don't seem like the type who would read." I didn't share with her that I had read almost half of the mystery section at that branch, but I guess that wasn't considered real reading.  I will admit being blonde came in handy then as I gave her an innocent dumb look and shrugged. And sometimes I'm really okay with people thinking me stupid ... less to live up to I guess. I still like the library and love to touch all the spines of the books while I read their titles. I've been hooked on the library since I was small and the bookmobile visited my grandmother's neighborhood during the summer.So, as I lay in bed reading all those books, I suddenly thought, wow, I've had this idea in my head for years, why don't I write that book and stop reading other people's works? Like the continuing story with the Monkees, I had gone through many plot ideas in my head with all the characters needed to write a novel. I knew those characters. I could see them walking through a room and conversing. I could feel their breath as they whispered to me. One day after thinking a plot through and writing chapters on the story, I suddenly was struck with an idea which would take the story in a completely different way. It seemed as if the heavens opened and I was given a key to the mystery in my head. Well, I'm sure it wasn't the heavens opening, but a certain realization of something I was missing as I wrote. I continued writing, keeping the other written parts for reference and a later book, and found myself immersed in the tale of Shamrock's Falling. Here's the really odd part. When I switched the plot to include a much deeper and extensive storyline, which would eventually become a series, I had one of the more strange mental conversations I've ever had. I remember the day as if I just lived it today. I was standing in my sister's kitchen (then I had no computer and had to take all my notebooks to her house and type through the night) and the male character in the story spoke to me. It was the whispering in my ear that was disconcerting. I could feel his body next to mine, his warmth disturbingly real. Naturally he was taller than me, so he had to bend a little to whisper in my ear. I heard these words from him, his tone disappointing with a seemingly little verbal pout intended to make me rethink my writing. His voice wound through my head on a non-existent breeze. "Why did you change the storyline? We've spent so much time together. We are the story, we're in love. Don't you realize what you have done?" Like I said, this was odd. But what happened next was stranger. I spoke back to him because he was so real. I told him this was a better story and to trust me with the plot and his place in it. His pout was still there. I could see his face, read the expression from his green eyes. Doubt. It was then that I realized I had no doubt when it came to writing that story. I continued speaking aloud to the character, explaining what was going to happen and that he really had to trust me to give him a better, sadder, more complex life. His problem was that he would have to share me ... um, not me, the character me - the heroine. Alright, me. I got too close. I became the person in the story and lived through the character's life. Words poured from my Papermate pen, filling so many spiral notebooks that I lost count. That was when I realized I liked to write. It still wasn't my passion, but through the act of giving myself over to the experience, the writer in me blossomed and became something other than an injured thing lying in bed staring at the four walls while escaping into another person's book. I began to trust me with my words. So huge, so daunting, so exciting. I wrote and wrote on that book, and as I wrote I realized the book was far too long. I decided I'd split it into two books and was into the fourteenth chapter when I stopped writing that story and came to this site for some feedback. (If you'd like to know what's up with that story and how the Riley McCabe series happened, feel free to read "Invalid Item"  ) My only feedback then was from a co-worker who read the first five chapters, looked at me with a smile, and wiggled her fingers so I would give her more pages to read. I cannot tell you what that felt like to see someone want to read more of my work. Then and now, it was a Godsend because I was still injured and making my way back into the land of the living. The writing gave me something to pour myself into while I worked at getting my strength back, as well as my singing voice so I could pursue my true passion.Tonight, I sit with my feet propped on top of a file box holding all the spiral notebooks for the Shamrock series. With hope, these novels will find their way to a publisher once I get them re-edited and into shape, the same way I have been fortunate with the Riley McCabe series. I have begun to really love writing. I am enjoying speaking about my writing with other people at work and getting feedback from them. And like the ten year old on the playground spinning tales of her involvement with Davy Jones and the Monkees, I am loving the storytelling more and more. One day I hope to go to the library and lovingly run my fingers down the spines of all my books. I know this is still a dream, but now I am able to see past my life into another where injury is somewhat replaced with survival. Here's the best part. When I was at the library a while back, the librarian asked me how I was doing. I smiled and said words I thought I would never say. "I just wrote The End on my first novel." How good that felt to finally acknowledge my accomplishment. I had made it out of bed, at least in my mind. For me, that was true success. Ta and peace, P |
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