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Or just a mind that thinks too much. |
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A place to practice my writing. Also where I will put my random thoughts, ideas, rants, and whatever else I have to say. ** Image ID #1901871 Unavailable ** ** Image ID #1779494 Unavailable ** |
| I've been using my paper notebook and neglecting my lap top these past few months. While I planned for this summer to be lax and carefree, I have been bombarded with unexpected guests and chores galore. Not only have I neglected my home-front, I have also neglected my writing and regretfully abandoned my "write something everyday rule" which has bothered me since the day I decided to settled for the remote control to ease the stresses of the days passed. I've jotted a few things down here and there when an idea sprung or I've thought of another character quality to add to my list that I hope will help me understand them better. I also decided to re write the first ten chapters of my novel which was a first draft anyway. Now that I have a better idea where the story is headed, even though I know the ending, I can or at least I think I can make it better. This is when my insecurities fall into place and the battle to write begins. Once I get started though, all of it falls back until it is time to edit. If my desire to write wasn't so great, I probably would have quit while I was ahead. Unfortunately, stopping is not an option, so I will trudge the murky waters of the unknown until the story is finished. Luckily for me, I have been blessed with amazing friends who never give up on me, encourage me to keep on keepin' on, and never cease to amaze me with the amount of love and support each one provides in their own unique way. Every time I think about them I smile and then give a huge sigh of relief because without them, I would still be alone in my head trying to figure out the first line. The last line is the easiest. The End. |
| These past few weeks, I have been missing my grandfather, who passed away a few years ago. I have always admired and loved him very much. When he was alive, all the family gatherings would take place in his small apartment that surprisingly held seven of his ten children and all of his grandchildren. There are at least thirty of us and I am estimating. I spent most of my childhood playing in his yard, helping him with his garden (actually, I watched mostly because I don't have a green thumb like him.) and always fetched his pipe and cane when he needed it. He was an extraordinarily tall man, and as a child I thought of him as a giant--a kind and gentle giant. One of the things I admired about him most was his patience and love for us. He always put our needs before his and was always there for me no matter how busy he was. I remember running to his house one day after a terrible fight with my mother. Since his door was never locked, I walked right in, sat next to him and cried in his arms for a long time. He never asked me what was wrong or tried to get me to stop weeping; he simply held me and kissed the top of my head until I calmed down. It was his strong and loving presence that calmed me down and the fact that he was there made me feel loved. He never asked me what upset me that day. He made me a cup of tea and we watched a movie together. Dinner time rolled around and he asked my grandmother to set a place for me at the kitchen table. We ate in silence and I remember him giving me his last piece of bread so I can finish my food. I remember being scared to go home when the phone rang and my mothers shrieking scream echoed through the receiver. For some reason, I remember thinking that my grandpa would be angry with me and order me to go home and accept my punishment, after hearing what my mother had to say. I studied him while he stood against the open doorway that led into his bedroom. His large hand held the faded yellow receiver up to his ear. His handsome face stoic while he subconsciously smoothed over the little bit of hair on his head. His long, lean frame leaning against the sofa untangling the long accordion-like chord that dangled onto the Italian style sofa's arm. I was afraid that he wouldn't love me anymore, that he would think differently of me and never look at me with loving eyes again. I was horrified that he would never let me enter his home and that he would be ashamed of me. I studied him; looking for any sign of displeasure, anger, anything really. When my mothers loud voice stopped, my heart stopped and my tears began again. My loud sobs drowned out my grandfathers response to his daughter. I heard him hang up and walk into his room. I didn't know if I should leave or stay. I didn't know if I wanted to face him now that he knew what happened. Bringing my knees to my chest, I buried my face in my hands and wept. A few seconds later, grandpa nudged me and squeezed something into my hand. It was a piece of chocolate from his secret stash that he hid from all the other grand kids. It was our secret stash that we would have when no one was around. This was his way of telling me that I was still his favorite and always will be. I never worried that he wouldn't love me again. I knew that no matter what happened, he would love me unconditionally. I unwrapped the chocolate and bit of half leaving him the other half with the hazelnut inside. He always loved that part. For the rest of the night we curled up on the sofa and talked about his life when he was younger, before he married my grandma; when he was a young man in the army. He told me how he fought along side the bravest of men and that he was thankful to have survived a war. I told him about the girls in my high school and how it seemed like a war trying to survive their cattiness. When I worked up enough nerve, I asked him what he told my mother over the phone that stopped her from storming through his back door and beating me to a pulp. He told her, "I can't live in a world when my granddaughter can't be herself and enjoy her life. If you ever make her smile go away again, I will disown you as my daughter." He was not only my grandfather, he was my mentor. He was more like a father to me than my own dad was. He understood me and loved me for who I am. I try everyday to be just like him. I wish he was here to talk to me right now. I hope that wherever he is, he knows how much I love him and how much I miss him. I really miss him. |
| It's been a while since I got the chance to write in my blog. I haven't really written anything long or chapter worthy. I haven't been dreaming like I normally do, in stories, and that has made me feel a little out of whack. Last night, I finally had one of my story dreams, and today I wrote the summary down while it was still fresh in my head. I do love the rawness of the first writing. The virgin piece I call it. It is where all the free and uncontrollable emotions go. Where nothing makes sense to anyone but you. I can read it over and over and know how the entire story will play out. To anyone else, it is just a paragraph or two of nonsensical ideas or scenes. A while back, I traded in my huge purse for a smaller more fashionable one. The great thing about this is that I don't have room for all the unnecessary "things" I used to carry around in my "baby elephant." It was so heavy, I would have shoulder pain if I carried it for too long. I am so glad to have gotten rid of it. The only fallback to having a cute little purse, is the lack of room for my old, battered writing notebook. I cringe at the thought that I have no paper on hand when I leave the house. Sure, I have my Ipod and my phone for quick notes, but it's just not the same as good old paper. I have been on the lookout for something small to slip inbetween my wallet and checkbook, but with enough room to at least hold a chapter; two if I write small enough. Today's family outing ended with me hunting for such a thing at Target. I was lucky enough to find two slim journals and a perfect fit at that. I no longer have this uneasy feeling when I look at my purse. I now know that I have the means to jot down my thoughts, ideas, or dreams wherever I am. I feel at peace now, and finally feel my muse stirring. Perhaps not having the paper on hand scared her away? Well my darling muse, I am prepared and ready for you at any moment. Please sit, stay a while, and let's have a chat. I'll go brew a pot of tea. |
| A few week ago, I met a woman at Walmart whom, now that I think about it interested me in a strange way. Shorter than me by an inch, her robust figure crowded much of the space around the box of specially marked down books that this Walmart had recently adopted. Like the favorite five dollar movies that are strategically placed throughout the store, an addition of five dollar and some change books have appeared next to it. Of course I would stop to peruse these books, (I do love to read and have an overcrowded book shelf and plenty of E books.) and of course I would spark up a conversation with the person next to me. "Here, this should be a good read for you," she said handing a book to a teenage girl. I assumed it was her daughter because of the bored and lost look on her face. I noticed it was a J.D Robb novel. "I heard she was great, a best seller in fact. Have you read any of her books?" I smiled at her and the girl. I picked up a Werewolf novel my little cousin mentioned she loved and gave the summary a cursory look. "Oh, no I haven't but she will let me know how it is." She pretended to look busy moving the books around as if searching for something other than the ten titles available. "I'm not sure if that book is appropriate for her. I haven't read her yet, but I heard there is sex in it. I also heard that she is a great writer." I noticed the girl was eyeing the book in my hand. "Oh, well I used to read that trash a long time ago.I should read it first I suppose." "I heard this book is good for her age group. My little cousin loved it. It's a twist on werewolves I believe." I handed her the book. She didn't take it. Instead, she crinkled her nose in disgust like she smelled something foul. She shook her head from side to side. "I am so sick of vampire books. The Twilight thing is so old now." I noticed the girls excited expression faded and was replaced with resignation. "Well this one focuses on werewolves and there is a plethora of books on them. Many were written before Twilight." I shuffled through some more books and set down the one in my hand. The look on the poor girls face broke my heart. I wanted to buy the book and give it to her but her haughty know it all mother would have thrown it away out of spite. What upset me about this situation was not the fact that this woman was controlling what her daughter read because I think any reading is better than no reading. What really ticked me off was the fact that she called a romance novel trash. I got the impression that she never read a romance novel before. I think I can go as far to say that she hasn't read any books after she graduated school. Even days after our encounter, I am left with the nagging feeling that I should of bought the book for the girl. There is nothing better than reading a book you really want. The weight of it in your hands and the smell of the pages are enough to put a smile on any book lovers face. I am not sure if I have a valid point here or maybe I am rambling along, but the fact that encounter stuck in my mind for days after means something. Writing it down helps alleviate the guilt I feel and justify the anger I harbored over a comment that I have often heard many times over the years. I will be thinking about this for days to come. Perhaps I will write a story about it. This would make a good scene I think. |
| I haven't dreamt in a week. I wonder if something is wrong with me. Maybe I have been too exhausted and fall straight into a deep dreamless state, or maybe my imagination has fizzled out. I dream in stories and always wake up with a new idea for something, but lately I have nothing to work with. My motivation to write is slipping away and I am desperate to hang onto what I can. Tomorrow, I am going to call random people and ask them what they dream of and see if I can write a short story about it. Should be interesting. What do you dream about? |
| I had another nightmare last night. The usual zombies attacking me and my kids nightmare, but this time with a twist. in my dream, I am a runner. I don't attack or kill them unless I have to. Even then I am batting my hands at them like I would swatting a fly. If my flailing hands do come into contact with them, somehow they end up dead and I run again. In this dream, one of the walking deteriorating zombies talked to me. She introduced herself and asked me for permission to eat me. Her eyes didn't have the vacuous stare the rest of them did and it confused me. "Excuse me. May I please feast on your flesh? I am very hungry." I don't know what upset me more. The fact that she was asking to eat me, or the fact that she expected an answer. This was the first time in these reoccuring nightmares that I happily drove a screwdriver through a zombies skull. I am not zombie chow. Why the hell am I so freaked out by zombies anyway? |
| My day was semi productive. Grocery shopping and visiting my mother the first half of the day was peaceful. Although I rushed here and there, I had some time alone. Hooking up my Ipod to my car stereo, I shuffled through a mix of songs and sang along on my little journey back and forth. When I arrived back home, I decided to spoil my kids and get them ice cream. Good ice cream which means it's not from the truck that strategically parks in front of the school in the same spot everyday. How clever right? It's like the old put candy in the checkout line trick. The kids stare at it while waiting and whine to their parents for some chocolate, or worse, a nuclear sugar concoction in an airplane shaped container or flashing stick. Or and flashing airplane on a stick. Really? I just spent the past half hour telling my kids no to all the other junk in the aisles that you stick on a hanging piece of plastic in the towel isle.The ice cream truck is just as bad. As soon as the bell rings, the speakers explode with an enticing melody capturing the children's attention on the old, battered box truck sputtering out toxic fumes. The symphony of whining starts,and the repeated begging begins. Their little voices nagging and eating away at the will of their parents until they give in and join the others migrating towards the blaring box of frozen treats. You think you got it all figured out ice cream man? Just know that you are hated by all parents. And why is it you won't stop in front of our homes when we are chasing after you on a hot day? Do you get some kind of enjoyment watching us run after you? Do you smile when our children cry because you left us in your cloud of toxicity? Leaving us to soothe them and promise to catch you the next time around. Your frozen treats suck anyway. I want you to know that I have trained my children's palate well. We have no need for your artificial flavors and soft serve concoction of tasteless iced cream. We found a new love, a home made kind that explodes with fruit flavor and comes with a never ending supply of sprinkles. Take that! |
| I had big plans for spring break. My first and most important one was to catch up on sleep, but it seems my son has other ideas for me. I love my little man to no end. His cute little morning hugs and kisses are worth it at six am. His bid for mommy time is sweet. He says that he likes not having to share me with everyone and thats why he wakes me up so early. How can I say no to that? My hubby has been nice enough to get up with him and let me sleep in a couple of days. The new xbox we bought has nothing to do with it he claims. Lol. I am choosing to believe him. Now how can I convince him that writing time is just as important as sleep? Any ideas? |
| Frazzled, freaked out, insecure, and I think scared? If you want the definition of what I have been for the past few months, the previous sentence pretty much sums it up. I have lost sight of why I am writing, which is for myself. I love all my readers. I am grateful to have them. They look past my grammar issues (which I am working hard to correct) and enjoy my stories. I stress about this handicap of mine most of all. On occasion I get a pissed of reviewer who doesn't hold back at tearing apart my work (and my fragile ego) and, in my opinion, must enjoy sinking their teeth into me and tearing out my insides. I know I am being melodramatic, but I really think they enjoy it. The best part is that they leave no constructive feedback, only an in depth paragraph or two of how shitty my story is and how much they hate it. Thank you very much sir. I do so enjoy the negative onslaught of hate you spew onto the screen. Question hater of my story. Why are you hiding your work? Do you not want me to see great writing with perfect grammar? I am going back to basics. Write for yourself. That was my original plan. My only goal. Write a book YOU would love to read. I don't care if I ever publish it. I might just publish one for myself so I can place it in my book shelf amongst my favorites. I won't stress about what others think anymore. After all, we are all in the same ball park. Thanks for stopping by folks. Tune in next time. Same Bat time, same Bat channel.  |
| Spring break please! Not because I will have time alone. That will never happen. I just chased my husband out of our room so I could do some writing. The guilt trip that came from him on the way out is starting to settle in. Really settle in. I don't think it is selfish to take a little time out for myself to get a paragraph or two in. But I am feeling bad about it now. My daughter is my biggest supporter. She loves to read while I write, and sometimes I have to shoo her away due to the content. She understands that I write about adult things sometimes. I notice her writing has gotten better and her teacher is writing good things on her paper. Yay! She's a smart girl so I don't worry about her anyway. My son on the other hand, is going to be the dare devil, skating off a rooftop, jumping out of a plane type of guy. He can't sit still for a second at home, if there is a high place, he is jumping from it. It doesn't even phase me anymore. I taught him how to land properly so he doesn't break anything and he is only allowed to land on the couch cushions. I am happy to have invested in a trampoline a couple of years ago. It serves as a way to expel his energy and the safety net around it leaves me stress free. This year I am setting the pool far away from the trampoline. Last year the neighbors got an earful of me yelling at my son to stop bouncing off the tramp into the pool. He saw me do it once. I thought he was asleep. Lol. |
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