Writer's Block

Edited 12/23/09



My Dear Reader,

         Alright, you've clicked! That mean's you're probably interested in getting to know me. I warn you, what you are about to read can, at points, be akin to incoherent babbling. Bear with me, I want you to understand a few things about me and why I write the way I do. 

         I've wanted to be a writer since my seventh grade English teacher gave me an "A" on an essay and told me I was a born writer. The funny thing is, she didn't seem to know it at the time, but a born writer is a terrible mess. That's me, a terrible mess. Why?

         Well, simply put, 2007 marked an unbelievably huge change in my life. See, two years ago, I lived with my husband in low income housing working as much overtime as possible since he was, as usual, jobless. It had been this way for practically the whole of the four years we'd been married. I was seven months pregnant with our son when we got married, and today have a lovely, if a bit rambunctious, five year old little boy.

         There are certain psychological and physical difficulties that run in my husband's family, and many of them have been passed down to my son. My writing, in a way, is my escape to a world of my own, where the difficulties I face as a parent are put on the back burner to pave the way for the creative kid who got that "A" in English all those years ago.

         According to my mother, I was too young and stupid at the time my son  was conceived to realize the hardship I was facing. For morality's sake, I married the father of the child before his birth. It is only now looking back on our ten years of on-and-off history together that I realize my mistakes, and it is unfortunate that the innocent little boy born of those mistakes may have to pay for them.

         For most of my life, I've been chunky. I'll tell you now, a chunky teenager makes for a rather interesting one. They are moody and incredibly overemotional, mostly because of low self-esteem. Kids are cruel, and especially cruel to chunky teenagers. It was in my early teens that I became interested in boys the way a -er- woman would be interested in a man. We're all well aware that it takes a special kind of personality in a teenage boy to be interested in the "fat girl" at school. Well, my first sexual experience was with a special kind of personality, if you could call it that. He was fourteen, I was sixteen. I am, despite my better judgment, still friends with him, though at the moment he resides in a state penitentiary for a crime I find it hard to believe he actually committed. (In the future you may find more about him within my portfolio. Please check back to this item for links if you'd like to know.)

         Given that, I spent quite some time contemplating the concept of boys. I had a slew of friends that were boys, yet somehow none of them showed an interest beyond a good conversation. Sometimes that's all that is needed, but I yearned for a fairy tale. I didn't get one, of course, but I thought I had prepared myself to make one up. From the day we met until we graduated in June of 1999, I had a terrible crush on the running back of the high school football team. It wasn't only that he was good-looking, but he was, for the most part, a really nice guy. I had a picture of him and me hanging on my mother's refrigerator in the house I grew up in. I have no idea where it is now...

         It wasn't long after my first sexual experience that I met my would-be husband at the local amusement park where I was working. I became infatuated with him immediately, and thus endured six years of his "I love you, wait, I don't know" routine. Eventually, it was his idea to ask me, tentatively, to marry him. So overjoyed with the prospect was I that I forgot to use protection one night during a particularly steamy love-making session and, presto, on our wedding day seven months later, I was as big as a house.

         Our married life was okay for a while. He worked at the park in the summers, and in the winters we survived on unemployment compensation. He had been determined at the time that I should not work, instead, I should be at home raising our son. That lasted until around his second birthday, when my husband finally pissed off his superiors enough that they not only fired him, but banned him from setting foot on park property for the following 365 days. I was furious, and most unhappy at having to return to work. I contemplated leaving him then. Not only was I working, but I was working alone. I decided to stick it out in hopes he might grow up and be the man I had hoped he'd become. He had very little employment between then, September of 2005, and when he finally landed a job I'd been praying for, at Wal Mart in April of 2007.

         I was so thrilled that we were actually making a life for ourselves, finally. We were living in our own house, a rental. Granted, it was public housing, but at least we didn't have either of our parents to answer to all the time. When he got the job, the rent skyrocketed, but we were still okay. The money came flowing in as long as we continued to work. I was almost happy. I love to eat out and shop, and I actually had the ability to do that. My only issue was that he was unbelievably lazy. I would come home from work on one of his days off and the house would be a mess. He refused to clean anything. I warned my husband that I was at my wits end, and if he lost this job, as he had many others in the last two years, that would in fact be the end of our marriage.

         In May of 2007, I became reacquainted with an old friend, a person I had nearly forgotten for the entire length of my marriage. He'd been a good friend, but he had a girlfriend that despised me, for what reason I don't know. I warned him that it was doomed from day one, but he wouldn't listen. I decided to leave him alone, knowing how much he loved this girl, I didn't want to be the reason for their breakup. 

         Anyway, in May, I found him again. He'd long since broken up with the girlfriend, but it didn't matter because by then she'd realized that we were nothing more than friends and suddenly took a liking to me. This particular friend introduced me to a friend of his, and by July, I was quite intrigued by this friend. We discovered that we had a lot in common. In fact, he was quite surprised that we hadn't already met, having had the same crew of friends in the years past. That same July, my husband did, indeed, lose his job at Wal Mart.

         In August, I moved myself and my four year old son into my sister's house. My relationship with my newfound love interest grew, and before long he asked if we should maybe get a place together. For the first time in my life, I would have a place of my own and not be the only one working to support it. I was quite up for the idea. It has, indeed, been a wild ride with him.

         Why, if I am such a terrible mess, do I write? Because I'm good at it, of course, a fact that I am positively thrilled other people tend to point out to me. I have a dream, encouraged by my loving and supportive boyfriend, my mother, and my very best girlfriend, to be famous. Fame, the good kind of fame, comes from exploiting one's talents. Writing is the only talent I'm truly confident with. Therefore, I write. And I continue to write, until one day I will write myself into history and leave my mark on the world. I pass the time between now and then by writing for my own amusement, and being a loving mother to my son, a trait I've only recently discovered has monumental rewards.

         Please review any of the items in my portfolio that strike your fancy. I assure you, there will be more in the future. Thanks again for stopping by, and for your obvious patience, since you have actually reached the end of my self introduction. Maybe one day you'll see me on the shelves of your favorite bookstore.

Kindest Personal Regards,
Juli