catching up in 2013

It's been awhile since I made an update.  Life has been going in some interesting directions lately and I've been trying to keep up and take stock of everything as it happened.  I know the universe is trying to help me on my path to betterment and being who I'm meant to be, but some days it's so hard.

In the fall, I started teaching myself how to cook.  I've always enjoyed baking, mostly because it was something I could choose to do randomly...whereas, I've always felt like cooking is just this requirement, another thing to do after a long day at work when all I really want to do is curl up with a book and read.  It's going much better than I expected.  It turns out I'm a pretty good cook.  I've been using the crock pot a lot because it just makes cooking on workdays easier.  And it's definitely nice on the wallet (and the hips) to save some more money by not constantly picking up crap.

I also started writing more again.  It's not a lot, but I'm trying to focus on the positive part - I'm writing again. I've also picked Morning Pages back up - I find I'm much less crazed during the day when I've completed my pages - even though half the time I end up writing, "Me so sleepy" and "I can't think of anything to write."

There is more going on in life, but I'm not really ready to talk about it quite yet as I'm still trying to process and figure it out.

I do want to get back to blogging and especially participating in Wishcasting Wednesdays and Creative Every Day.

it's almost fall...

I have been woefully neglectful of my blog recently.  There's been vacation, busy time at work before our annual event, and me trying to get my house organized.  My kitchen is actually looking good and I'm slowly getting my stockpile of beauty- related products organized in the linen closets.  The problem with couponing is that if you don't stay on top of your purchases, you suddenly have bags of shampoo and body wash cluttering your floor.

It's a work in progress, but it's almost done.   And then I will attempt to conquer the sun room.

Maybe by the end of the year, my house will be decluttered and organized and I'll be able to begin 2013 without feeling bogged down with stuff.

**

Most of my writing has been getting done in notebooks recently as I tend to have computer blahs after a long day at work.  I'm feeling the creative itch though - antsy and overflowing with ideas and just a need to do something.  Hopefully, that will overpower my lack of interest in my computer.

You wanna be starting something...

It's Wishcasting Wednesday and today Jamie asks:

What do you wish to start?

courtesy of we heart it

"The greatest amount of wasted time is the time not getting started." - Dawson Trotman

I wish to start writing every day.  I've re-begun my morning pages so I am doing the three handwritten pages a day, but despite signing up for Row80, I haven't been doing any writing beyond that except for the first few days.  Part of it is that work has been busy and I suddenly have a social life of sorts that requires me to stop being a hermit on my time off from work...so writing keeps taking a back seat.  Even when I do have time, I keep choosing to do other things - I need to catch up on my coupons, let me organize my closet, etc.  

I need to create a small niche of time that is just my own for writing.  Even if I end up writing pure drivel that should never cross another person's line of vision.  If I want to be a published author, I can't just wish it into fruition, I have to put in the effort.

Row 80: a newbie try

I heard about Row 80 a little while ago, but between life and the fact that it was already in the middle of a round, I figured it was better to put it off (I know, story of my life and something I'm working on). Round 3 starts on July 2, 2012 and I've decided to take part.  I've done writing challenges before and I do find that the accountability and goal-setting tends to help me more than it harms me.  Over the years, I've learned to keep it challenging but reasonable, based on what is going on in my life and what I can honestly undertake.  I've learned the hard way what unrealistic goals lead to and it's never pretty.

I'm still percolating on the specific goals that I want to accomplish and I have a few days to finalize, but overall I want to:

• write every day
• get back to my Artist's Way morning pages (which would be in addition to my write every day word count)
• write at least two stories

Indie Ink: Another Life Lesson

Note to self:  For future reference, when Megan tells you she has an omg!brilliant idea for how to spend Friday night, do not listen.  Stay home, put on ratty pajamas, and watch Sixteen Candles or one of those other movies about high school kids who were much cooler than self.

I was going to kill someone.  Loud music emanated around the room so loud that I could feel the beat in my chest, but it was nowhere near as shrill as the laughter of the drunk girl sitting next to me.  She kept touching me like we hadn't just met five minutes ago and kept singing the wrong verses to the songs followed by a bout of giggling.

No one told me that the only way to actually enjoy a fraternity party was to be super drunk so the sheer idiocy wouldn't register.  

"I don't know about you, but this is the best party I've ever been to," she slurred.  She tried to stand herself up from her spot on the worn leather couch, but ended up falling onto the floor.  She giggled and added, "Awesome."

I was momentarily torn between helping her out and taking a picture on my iPhone of the stupid drunk girl who molested me to share with the world.  My good nature kicked in, but I was too late.  Random drunk girl had crawled across the shag carpet to random drunk guy in a tie-dyed tee-shirt and draped herself across his lap .  It seemed the natural evolution of a party like this.  There would always be kegs of beer, stupid drinking games, disco balls and random drunks to find one another across a dirty carpet.

It turned out that college parties, like most other things in life, were highly overrated.   I wasn't sure what I had expected when I had agreed to come.  Maybe it was just the idea of being a junior in high school sneaking off to a college party with her ne'er-do-well friends, but I had been intrigued by the thought of hot guys who could talk to you about politics as easily as quote the latest South Park episode.  Unfortunately,  the guys at this party seemed incapable of any conversation beyond a basic grunt for more beer.

This had been a huge mistake.  When Megan texted me with the information, sneaking out to a college party had seemed like a good idea, a way to get myself out of the rut of high school and never feeling quite right in my own skin.  It would be one of those things that I could one day wax philosophical about as I remembered how much fun I had and what I learned about myself.  Maybe it would even be like a scene from a stupid teen movie where I meet the great love of my life over a game of quarters.

Instead, I had nearly been thrown up on twice, my friend had ditched me for the promise of a game of darts, and my father the career military ninja, was going murder me when I came home reeking of pot and beer.

"Jamie, there you are!" Megan squealed as she came down the stairs with a shirtless frat boy in tow.  She stumbled toward me - good thing I didn't believe her when she said she'd be the designated driver - and wrapped her arms around my neck from behind the couch.  She petted my head, god only knew why, and said, "Aren't you glad we came?  I'm glad we came!  This is Travis!"

Shirtless frat boy grinned at me and winked.  "Hey."

I rolled my eyes.  College boys were almost worst than the guys in my class.  I tapped my watch and said, "We need to go or we're going to be in trouble."

Megan continued to pet my head.  "Nah.  It's cool.  We've got time.  And Travis has a friend for you."

Travis winked again and said, "I do."

"Gee, thanks, but we really need to go.  Both Megan and I have really overprotective fathers.  And mine is legally allowed to shoot people."

"Cool."

I stood up and made my way around the couch until I could wrap my arm around Megan.  She giggled and said, "Jamie is always so serious."

"Yep.  That's me," I said.  I began to try to move us toward the door, but Travis-the-loser-frat-boy kept getting in my way.  I glared at him and said, "Move."

"My friend really liked you.  And I like Megs.  We can have fun."

"I feel like I'm trapped in a very special episode of a sitcom," I replied.  I grunted as I pushed past Travis and dragged Megan the remainder of the way out of the frat house.  I wasn't sure how college parties got the reputation for being cool, but this was one experience I could cross off my life list.

Megan waved back toward the house to no one as I guided her down the sidewalk.  She shook her head and said, "Party pooper."

"You're never allowed to talk me into some 'important rite of passage' again.  This sucks."

Megan pried free of my grip and almost crashed to the ground.  I managed to snake my arm back around her before she faceplanted into the concrete and pulled her back up.  Megan laughed and then her face quickly drained of color and she frowned.  "Jamie, why is that tree upside down?"

"Oh man.  The only life lesson I'm getting out of this is a long lecture from my dad when I drag your sorry ass back into my house."

"Your dad is hot.  I'd totally date him."

"That's gross and mentally scarring."

"It's a compliment.  You come from hot stock."

"Please stop talking.  I'm already reconsidering our friendship," I commented.  It felt like we had been walking forever, but we had only gotten a few yards from the house.  I peered down the street to wear Megan's car was parked and cursed under my breath. 

Megan rested her head on my shoulder, putting even more of her weight on me, and said, "Don't be silly.  We've been friends forever.  Nothing can come between us!"

I nodded because there really wasn't anything else to say.  I wanted to hate her, but I mostly hated myself for getting into this situation in the first place.  I used to be smarter than this.

Once we reached her car, there was another ordeal to pull the keys out of her jacket pocket and get Megan situated in the passenger seat.  I slid into the driver's seat and glanced at the dashboard.  I groaned and rested my head against the steering wheel.  This was just not my night.

Note to self #2: Learn how to drive stick shift.

---

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, lisa challenged me with "I don't know about you, but this is the best party I've ever been to! she drunkenly slurred." and I challenged Sir with "she came to and her whole life was how she remembered it"

the things you accomplish when you procrastinate

The holidays are a busy time.  First, Christmas arrives with all the things to do and people to see.  It's fun, but tiring.  And then it's time for some introspection and quality time before the new year arrives.  What went right?  What went wrong?  Where do I need to work harder?  What were my successes?  List all the great things that happened.

I haven't been able to participate in the Indie Ink challenge for pretty much the entire month of December.  I hope to start back to it next week in the new year.  I had two stories due for a yuletide challenge and being me I procrastinated a great deal on them.  It's funny the things I accomplish when I don't want to write.  Suddenly I have time to go through my closet, clean the kitchen, and read Tolstoy.  Anything to avoid the writing.  But once I get writing, it tends to be okay for the most part.  Sure, there are moments where I just want to write "and then they all died" no matter what the story I'm telling because that would just be easier than writing myself out of a plot hole.  But the voices in my head can be fun to play with.

I have a few posts to do over the next few days.  Thank goodness for vacation.

Indie Ink: Don't Look Back in Anger

“Callie, so much has happened in your life even without even including the meteoric rise to fame at sixteen years old.  I couldn’t help but wonder, is there anything you wish could’ve been different?”

It’s always the same with these guys.  They think they're Dan Rather in the making except they're stuck on the teen beat and ask stupid questions.   If they insist on treating me like an idiot, I can only do as my publicist and agent suggest and play dumb.  I flip my long, blonde hair and narrow my gaze on the perspiring loser in sweatpants sitting across from me.  “Not really, Dave.  I never look back.  My motto is what’s done is done.”

He laughs in that faux Hollywood way that means he thinks I'm barely functional.  He jots notes down with one hand while the other keeps straying into my personal space and grazing my thigh.  Note to creepy guys everywhere:  thigh high boots and short skirts don’t mean I’m a personal plaything for groping.  I shift in my chair to create a bit more distance between our almost touching knees – creepy dude sweat is so gross – and laugh right back at him.  I say, “I’m much more interested in living in the moment and enjoying what’s happening right now.”

“And who could blame you, considering you’re currently celebrating three consecutive number one songs, an album gone platinum and a sold out tour.”

There is something depressing about hearing your hard work and accomplishments shortened down to one sentence.  I try not to let it bother me though.  I need to be on my A-Game with the press at all times.  I nod and smile at Dave like my publicist instructed me to do.  We rehearsed this interview (along with several others) for hours and I’m afraid her head might explode if I veer off script.  No one wants a rogue pop star on their hands.

“But…” his voice raises an octave like he’s about to catch me in an A-HA question.  Like any of this can phase me anymore.  Like I’m not beyond it and more concerned with what to wear to the AMAs – the Vera Wang or Stella McCartney.  I stifle a yawn and bat my eyes expectantly and he says, “…but I can’t help but wonder if there is some part of you that not only thinks about the past, but has trouble letting go.  How can someone come from such a trying childhood and not occasionally revisit her history?”

I nod again like I’m considering the statement.  I’m so bored with this crap.  Yeah, I had a crappy childhood. Who didn't?  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dave, but I choose not to dwell on my past.”

I smile brightly and touch his arm.  I notice his pen slip for a nanosecond mid-scribble and I know I've got him.  He won’t know what hit him and I'll be able to get the hell out of here.  None of my fans want to hear about a girl who grew up with a nomadic aunt for a guardian while her parents went off to find themselves.  I don’t particularly care to look back on my pitiful origins either.  It’s over and done with.  So what if I have issues with being alone – it’s not really a problem for me anyway as I can't recall the last time I was by myself for more than two minutes – or can’t let myself trust people?  I am fine.  More than fine.  I’m a fucking star, who graced the cover of Rolling Stone magazine at sixteen years old.  I have enough money to feed a small country and to insure my aunt can continue her flighty existence with hobby after expensive hobby.  And surprise, surprise, my parents finally found themselves six months ago…at the gate of my Bel Air home.

“Not even a little bit?”

I giggle like I’m about to offer up some secret inner-working of my soul and respond, “The thing is, life is hard all over, ya know, and the only reason I’m different from any other sixteen year old girl with a sad story is because I write fun songs that people can dance to.  I feel like if I focus on the past, it lessens the gratitude I have for God and my fans.”

He raises an eyebrow, but he wouldn't dare call me out on my load of crap. He says, “Some say if you forget the past, you’re doomed to repeat it.”

He’s getting on my nerves with his profundity of nothing and sweaty brow.  The truth is that there is no way I am going back to living in a shitty apartment with no heat or air with my crazy aunt.  I’m done with that and I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure it never happens again.  Door is slammed shut on my humble beginnings.    My jaw tightens and I know I’m making the fish face that my manager hollers at me about.  I force myself to smile through it, but I end up coming off even worse, like an alien freakshow about to suck out poor Dave-the-blogger’s brain.

As if he can sense weakness bubbling under my sunny exterior, Dave presses, “Your parents are back in your life after abandoning you when you were three.  How does that feel?”

“It’s complicated,” I state.

“Do you worry they’re back in your life simply because you’re the Callie McCallister and worth millions?”

“I try to keep my personal life separate from the professional, but I will say this.  We’re all learning as we go.  Will it work out?  I don’t know.  Yes, it’s hard sometimes,” I pause, resisting the urge to shoot daggers at mister wannabe hotshot reporter.  I take a deep breath and breathe – in spring blue sky, out tar black – and continue, “If people really want to know more about who I really am, I think my emotions truly come through in my new single, Inner Me.  I wrote it late one night on a tour bus while we drove across Kansas.  You see, Dave, music is the way I allow myself to deal with life’s trials and tribulations.  It’s what allows me to sit here and tell you that I never look back and feel good about it.”

I don’t give him a chance to respond.  I stand up, shake his hand, and hurry off toward my assistant.  I’m so over this.

---

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Floreksa challenged me with "I never looked back" and I challenged Bran mac Feabhail with "If I had known yesterday that he would be gone, I would've done things differently."

Indie Ink Challenge: Destiny Is Deafening

“…Well I don’t believe I’m beautiful,
but at least I have my sister’s smile
And I resist the muses,
but they sing to me in exile
And destiny’s not deafening,
but it hushed me like a child…” 

Music is such a huge part of my life.  It’s one of the constant companions to my day whether I’m stuck in traffic on the highway, working out, or attempting to create a genius piece of writing.  Maybe it’s because I’m a writer, but I’m always drawn to lyrics.  Beyond melodies and harmonies, the actual words of a song are what tend to make it a lasting fave or a flash-in-the-pan-feeling-of-regret later in life (I’m looking at you, Vanilla Ice). 

There are certain songs that I feel automatically linked to; ones that resonate on a level I’m not sure that I appreciate on first listen.   It feels like the songwriter stole my journal and wrote exactly what I was pondering.   There also certain artists that tend to do that for me more often than not – Ani Difranco, Sarah McLachlan, Bruce Springsteen…their lyrics are poetry to me, ways of explaining life that make me wish I was more eloquent.

It made this week’s prompt harder than I expected, but I ended up going back to one song over and over again.  While it’s not my overall favorite song of all time, the lyrics in this song just tend to capture how I feel about life.   I used the lyrics as the title of this blog – Destiny Is Deafening – and I often find myself, good or bad, resisting the muses.  It gets me in a lot of trouble, actually.  Whenever I attempt to approach my writing (or my life), with a set-in-stone plan or outline, things shift into rapid descent, the breath rushes out of my lungs and I’m left unsure of what the hell happened. 

In the refrain, Idina Menzel sings, “Still I can’t be still, still I can’t be silent...”  Even when life and destiny are upon us, even when we feel like things are out of our control, we keep moving.  We’re not still or silent.  I never know if that’s good or bad, but it continues to sum up how I feel on almost any given day.  I don’t claim that’s the healthiest mentality and maybe part of what attracts me to these lyrics is the idea that there are others like me.  There are those of us who don’t feel completely right, haven't quite conquered life and destiny, but we keep moving and trying.

---

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Alisha challenged me with "hands down most meaningful song lyric(s) to you & whyt" and I challenged Gehan with "I hate that he tells me how much he thinks I'm worth and I really hate that I listen to him."  The response from Gehan is here.

Note:  I always recommend people check out Idina Menzel's music.  Her first album, Still I Can't Be Still, is my favorite and features the above mentioned song.

Indie Ink Challenge: Life of a Wannabe Couch Potato

“I like being a couch potato,” I stated.  I shoved a chip in my mouth and stretched out on the ugly-olive-but-oh-so-comfy sofa that my brother and I had found on Craigslist a couple of months ago. Our last one suffered a horrible demise during a run-in with a bitchy coven of witches, who overran the apartment with pestilence.  I cannot explain the levels of awful that was without shuddering.

My brother rolled his eyes and sat down next to me with a book in his hand.  He had the same light brown hair and blue eyes that I did, but even sitting down he towered over me in height.  Sean also looked much wiser and cooler than I did, which was never fair and I wondered if it was just because he was older.   The one thing I was sure of in that moment as he flipped the pages of his four hundred page novel…he would never make a good couch potato.

When Sean didn't say anything, I continued, “There’s something wonderfully normal about vegging out on a rainy day with some junk food and nowhere to go.”

“Yeah, it’s like Christmas,” Sean replied without even missing a beat in his book.

I glared at him and said, “This is the first Saturday in forever where there wasn't peril at the hand of jackasses that we had to handle or you weren't in annoying dictator mode.”

“I’m hardly a dictator.”

“ Isn't that what all dictators say?”

“No, they throw lazy bums like you in jail for insolent behavior and go on with their day.  I’m just not that lucky.”

I continued to glare at the side of his head.  Over the years, I've had to listen to a lot of girls go on about how handsome and great my brother was.  If only they could see him in all his snarky glory.  I yawned, stretched out again, and began the important task of flipping through the list of programming on the television.  It had taken years of whining, but I had finally convinced Sean of the wonders of cable.  Maybe in another ten years, he’ll be ready to try TIVO.

I glanced over the list of upcoming shows.  This was part of the trappings of cable. I already knew what I was going to watch, but I felt compelled to see what else was on.  It wouldn't have surprised me to learn that the cable companies were in league with a few demons on the invention.  It definitely screamed evil in that I-love-it-and-can’t-stop-myself way.  I popped another chip into my mouth as I scrolled through the long list of channels and upcoming programming.

And I gasped in horror.

Sean’s eyes snapped up from his book and focused on me.  “What’s wrong?”

“My day.”

“A minute ago life was grand.”

“That was before I was in the middle of a freaking television crisis of epic proportions.”

“Sounds awful.”

“Did you not hear the epic proportions part?”

Sean shrugged.  "I honestly don't know how to respond."

"This is serious, Sean.  I was planning to spend my afternoon catching up on Ghost Hunters International, but I just noticed there is a Teen Mom marathon on MTV.   I haven't seen the current season, but it's such an awesome train wreck - always makes me feel better about my own lame existence."

Sean dropped his book and snatched the remote out of my hand the same way he would a weapon - quick and efficient, leaving me to wonder if he was part ninja.  He put on the National Geographic channel, smirked at my groan, and said, "Problem solved and neither of us will be stupider afterward."

I crossed my arms.  "That was not one of the choices."

"I'm not watching Teen Mom."

"But Macy and Ryan are fighting again--"

"I am not watching Teen Mom, Cady.  I prefer not to partake in a sociological experiment gone completely awry, leaving me worried about the future of the human race if these are the people procreating."

I was not beyond a full-fledged pout-turned-tantrum if necessary.  I unfolded and refolded my arms in a very bratty manner and said, "That's what's so great about MTV shows."  His look was unflappable as he picked his book back up.  Sometimes I hated my brother.  A lot.

I grabbed the remote from his lap and said, "Ghost Hunters it is."

"That's not much better."

"You're ruining my happy lazy day."

"You know as well as I do that nothing on that show is accurate."

"It's a television show, not a dissertation on the proper techniques for dealing with ornery spirits and poltergeists."

Sean shrugged in the way that said I could do what I want but it wasn't the right thing to do.   It was a fixture in my childhood.  "Do what you want, but it seems like a waste of time."

"Seems like a waste of time," I mimicked in my best Sean-is-boring voice and I stuck out my tongue in his direction.  I flipped through the channels and settled in on Ghost Hunters as a new episode was starting.  I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Sean was back to reading his book.  We might not have the same ideas for how to spend a quiet day, but the lack of impending doom was a nice break.  I said, "Wouldn't it be great if the biggest decision of the day is whether to watch Teen Mom or Ghost Hunters International?"

"If you say so."

"I have nowhere to go and nothing to do and I'm going to enjoy it."

"Okay."

"I mean it," I replied.  I turned my attention to the show for a few minutes.  Not that I would tell him, but Sean was right about this show.  There really was a disturbing number of inaccuracies in how they dealt with ghosts.  

I tapped my foot against the coffee table and fanned myself.  It suddenly felt a bit hot in the living room, despite the wind billowing in from the open window.   I resisted the urge to get up and pace around the room.  It turned out being still and zoning out were not for me.

My brother glanced at me and said, "Let me guess, this is boring and you want to go do something."

"Yes please.  I'm not made for mindless television all day, just at night," I said.  I hopped up off the couch and slipped into my boots and jacket.  I bounced on the balls of my feet while I watched my brother amble around the room like an old man, gathering his keys and wallet and patting his jacket pockets.    Once he was ready, I flung open the door and hurried into the hall of our building.   "Sweet freedom!"

I wasn't looking at him, but I knew my brother was rolling his eyes in my direction as he locked the door. 

---

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Stefan challenged me with "Two things happened at once, it was which one to act upon that I couldn't decide..." and I challenged Sarah Cass with "It was a case of mistaken identity." (Her response is here.)

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Note:  My piece is pretty liberal with the prompt - but it's what came out, so I decided to go with it.  This is another piece that uses my character, Cady.

Indie Ink: The Last Twenty-Four Hours

“You know, the ancient Egyptians had a beautiful belief about death. When their souls got to the entrance to heaven, the guards asked two questions. Their answers determined whether they were able to enter or not. ‘Have you found joy in your life?’ 'Has your life brought joy to others?’” – The Bucket List

“You’re going to die tomorrow.”

“Excuse me,” I said, glancing around the room nervously.

The old woman who moved like she was bent in half stepped closer to me.  She tried to take my hand, but I pulled it protectively to my chest.  She sighed, the type that said this-is-nothing-new, and said, “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you’re going to die tomorrow.”

“What?  How?”

“I cannot tell you the details.  I hope this information helps you.”

**

She’s crazy.  She’s crazy and old and weird.  And she smelled like tuna fish.  I am not going to take to heart the words of a woman who smelled of tuna fish.

But she was right about the lottery numbers.  And the flash of bright light in the sky. 

Dammit, what if she’s right?  Am I just in denial?  Should I be preparing?  After all, if she’s wrong and I’ve spent my day living to the fullest would I really be upset?

**

So tomorrow is the last day of my life.  It seems somehow wrong that I’m going to die on a Saturday.  It couldn't happen right before I was supposed to go to a long, dreary meeting?  I wish I knew a few days in advance as I would've totally called out of work.  Not sure what I would've done with the time, but it would have to be better than editing reports from co-workers that had never met a Grammar text book. 

Only one day left.  I keep repeating it over and over again as though it will finally make sense.  I’m obsessed with how it will happen.  Mostly, I hope it won’t hurt.  I want to be one of those people that others always say, “Well, she didn’t suffer” or “she didn’t feel a thing.”  Of course, with my luck, it’ll be some freak accident involving space garbage, which will make me infamous in death.  Please no fire.  That is not on my pre-approved list of ways to die. 

I must stop worrying about this. 

Why couldn’t the damn psychic tell me exactly how it would happen?  Is that messing with fate or something?  Worried that if I knew a bus was going to mow me down, I wouldn’t go near a street?  Okay, that’s probably fair.  If I could avoid dying, I would.

Anyway, I’m not really one of those girls who suddenly wants to climb Mount Everest – hiking, ew – or the demented type who thinks it would be fun to go on a crime spree.  I’m still me, just with an expiration date hanging over my head, and I’d be worrying too much about people’s feelings to ever steal, murder or whatever people on crime sprees do.  My big plan is to be happy. 

**

I've made plans with my sister and friends for this morning.  Breakfast and shopping – might as well spend that cash in my savings account on my friends – and enjoying the camaraderie.  I’m not sure if I should tell them.   My sister knows.  I tell my sister everything and she would be pissed if I didn’t mention something this huge.  Not to mention, she knew something was up when I returned home after finding out the news.  At first she was more than a little skeptical, but after I went through the list of all the things the lady was right about, she’s been taking it hard.  I guess that’s to be expected.   Death is always harder on those left behind.    The question is – do I tell my friends?  Is it better to give them the chance to say goodbye or is it okay to be selfish and behave like it’s any other day?  After all, I don’t want to spend my last day with lots of tearful goodbyes and further rumination on how it will happen.

If you can’t be selfish on your last day on Earth, I don’t know when you can be.  I don’t think I’m gonna say anything.   I want to have fun, dammit.  Enjoy everything that makes me happy and not allow fear to hold me back.  Sky dive – or is that how I die?  Dammit, stop thinking about it!  – dance, laugh, and play.  I want to focus on the good and not all the what if’s and never-meant-to-be moments.  I want to see all the movies on my must-watch list and skim all those books sitting on my bureau that I meant to get to.  I want to make the most of it, proof that I lived a good life.

I’d like to believe there is a heaven, where I can catch up with my parents and let them know I’ve moved beyond my anger (though, let’s face it, I’m sure a “remember that time you gave me food poisoning” conversation will sneak in there) and I’m just happy to see them again.  I’d like to believe there is this other realm where we are our best selves at all times – wise and kind and fearless.   But there is something oddly appealing about the idea of reincarnation too; a chance to get everything right with a clean slate.  Sometimes I like the idea of coming back and getting another chance at life, but it seems like a lot of work and can’t a girl have some peace in her after life?  I’ll wait to make that decision until it comes up.   The only thing I know for sure is that I do not want to become a spirit trapped on earth or end up on an episode of Ghost Hunters, accused of molesting red neck boys in their sleep. 

Whatever waits for me, I like to think that I’ve lived a good life.  I was kind and generous more than I was selfish and mean.  That while I made mistakes, I learned from them and constantly tried to be better.  Isn’t that all any God can really ask of us – to learn and grown and continue to be our best selves?   

I’m not as scared as I expected I would be in this situation.  I’m still not sure I like knowing exactly when it’s going to happen, but it does give me time to spend my last day living and not worrying about the small things that can invade our lives.  

I guess I’m ready.

**

I ended up telling my friends the truth.  There was some disbelief followed by crying and hugging.  I think I hugged more in that one hour than I did throughout my life.  I didn’t really want to say anything, but it came babbling out.  Besides, I didn’t want to make my sister carry the burden of that knowledge alone or get blamed for my selfish choices.  That seems like a shitty going away gift to someone.  “I’m dying and everyone is going to hate you.  Bye-eee!”

I bought my closest pals Coach bags with my savings and made them promise to find me one day in heaven and tell me what happens with Jason and Sam on General Hospital.  I don’t know if any other planes of existence get ABC.

**

The good thing about death is that I have no recollection of the very last seconds.  I don’t have to carry the memory of a horrible death – was it horrible? – around with me for all of eternity.  The bad thing so far is that there is a lot of paperwork to fill out in the afterlife before you can officially “move on.”  I still don’t know what that entails, but at least I avoided the poor bastard line that led to some scary looking shadows.  I’m faced with one final choice as myself – do I take a leap of faith and go to heaven or do I go back to what I know and try living again?  It’s a big choice to make and I’m still not sure I know the answer.  I purposefully left that line of form 22-B blank until I talk to one of the transitional counselors.  I’m leaning toward heaven.   It would be nice to see people I’ve lost and loved again, but even if that’s not possible, the idea of heaven is a lot more appealing at the moment. 

**

So it’s settled.  Transitional counselor thinks my best option is reincarnation, and after mulling over our conversation, I agree.  There are still a lot of things for me to learn and according to his thick file folder on me, I have not fulfilled my true potential, so off I go.


I just hope I don’t come back as a jackass.

---

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Sarah Cass challenged me with "Tomorrow is the last day of your life. If you live it well, you will go on into heaven (or your version of it) - or hell depending on the life you've led. If you live it how you WANT to spend your last day, you will be reincarnated as anything you want. What do you chose? And what is the outcome?" I challenged Major Bedhead with "Around mid-morning one day, you realize that everything that is happening seems really familiar. After much thought you discover that you are reliving a day from your past; OR a dream/nightmare that you have had is now happening for real."  You can read Major Bedhead's great response here.

Indie Ink: How She'll Be Remembered

One day her epitaph will read, “Here lies Maggie – she was a beautiful mess” and she’s made her peace with that.  It’s just a fact of life, or her life anyway.  One of those things that was born out of a did-that-really-just-happen moment and over time metamorphosed into a dictionary-like definition of who she was.  At least in his eyes, and as much as she likes to believe she is this fierce independent woman, his view of her matters the most.

Besides, there are worse things a girl can be known for in life.

It used to bother her.  She wanted to hate him for it – who wants to think her entire existence can be narrowed down to those three words? – but he was always so damn aww-shucks about it that it didn't feel right to get mad.  Now those words are like an elixir when she's spazzing out about mundane things.  When she forgets where she leaves her keys or misplaces the glasses sitting on top of her head, he tilts his head back with a hearty laugh and says, “Sweetheart, you’re a beautiful mess.”  She smiles, breathes in and out and calms (and usually notices the glasses on her head and cringes in embarrassment).

He never says it with an ounce of unkindness or sarcasm.  His gaze is always adoring as he looks at her like “how did I get so lucky to have this beautiful mess in my life” and sometimes she thinks it’s just too much and there must be something more sinister, but it’s hard to fake his sincerity.  It’s another reason they’re a bizarre mishmash of a life thrown together.  She’s frazzled imperfections wrapped in a snarky cloth.  Sincerity has never been nor will it ever be her forte and he’s earnest and thoughtful and optimistic.

Somewhere in the universe, someone made a mistake and some sweet farm girl is suffering through a day with a surly fellow reading the Sunday paper and complaining about all that is wrong with the world.  She thinks maybe she should feel bad about that, but it’s not in her nature.

Sucks to be you, farm girl, but this beautiful mess is going to hold onto what she’s been given.

---

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Random Girl challenged me with "she was a beautiful mess" and I challenged Kelly Garriott Waite with "start a piece with the line, 'One day of work was all that stood between me and...'" and her wonderful response can be found here.

---

Note:  This piece definitely pushed me out of my comfort zone.  Work has been busy the past two weeks again and I've found myself blocked in some ways, so this was a great time for this type of challenge.  My goals with this were to try something new and not to over-think it too much.  Not sure if I succeeded yet, but I tried.

Indie Ink Challenge: I've Never Been a Fan of the Monster Mash

It's Indie Ink Challenge time!  

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I remember the first multimonsterathon, the convention for scary creatures to bond and exchange ideas for best doing their jobs. I had been forced to go, the wife nagging me about the special presentation in my honor and how I couldn't miss it. “Drac, they bought you a blood-stained plaque and everything.”

I’m still not sure who thought up the whole idea and why they weren’t immediately run out of the monster union, but these days anything goes. If they had asked me, I would’ve told them that it wasn’t the best idea.  Surely the man-eating squid wouldn’t get along with Frankenstein, and I could only imagine the nightmare when Godzilla’s cousin found out he had to room with the three-headed dragon. No, it really didn’t seem like the sorta thing that was going to be easy to deal with.

The reality was far worse. Humans make such a big deal about our ability to scare people and plague their lives with ghoulish nightmares, but if they saw us like this…maybe a good mob of townsfolk with pitchforks and fire was just what this crowd needed. Maybe it would’ve reminded the other creatures why we did this job.  We needed to cultivate the best ways to ignite fear deep in the hearts of a generation of people who watched things that made me blanch.  I mean, really, Saw V?  Wasn't it covered in the first movie?  We needed to reinvent the horrors that made each of us famous, bringing such torment into someone's life that the story gets passed on for centuries.  

Instead, the multimonsterathon was like any other convention out there, filled with schmoozing and bragging. A lot of people don’t know this, but there are a lot of egos running amuck in the monster world. One dinner with these creatures and you want to claw your own eyes out before Wolfman ever gets the chance.

“Guess who just landed a commercial?” the mummy said.

Only to be topped by an exclamation from the Creature of the Black Lagoon, “My agent just called me. I’m the villain in an upcoming Hollywood Blockbuster.”

The honorary luncheon was nice – some of the best virgins I’d tasted in decades – but it just served to remind me of the good ‘ole days. Times when a monster could do respectable work and leave humans quaking in their boots. Nowadays, thanks to shows like Buffy and Supernatural, everyone’s a critic.

Someone actually said to me, “Was that supposed to be scary? And what’s with the accent?”

He wasn't so high and mighty when I pounced on him in the cellar.  There was a look of fear on his face right before I drained him dry and left his body out as a reminder why Dracula was number one.

Yes, it seemed that even I wasn't immune to showing off, but there really was something to be said for a well-placed corpse to lend credence to the legend.  


While it was good to see the original Mummy-man again, I'd much rather sneak into the science museum one night than attend another one of those insipid gatherings.  It turns out that despite the hollow loneliness coursing through my veins where blood should be, I hate other creatures of the night.  

---

This week’s Indie Ink Challenge came from Stefan, who gave me this prompt: write something fictional and exciting. I challenged Jules with the prompt you didn't expect to fall in love. Jules' great response is here.

Reality Game Shows - Oh man, I'm the Paula!

Now that things are settling back down in my life and evil anniversaries and work events are behind me for another year, I decided to get back to my weekly participation in the Indie Ink challenge.  Make sure to check out the new-and-improved website.  It's looking great and a lot of work goes into that and the weekly writing challenge.  This week my prompt came from a fellow Jersey girl, Debbie of Tales from South Jersey, who asked me to write about a reality game show.  Since I watch way too many hours of reality television, this was a prompt that begged to be nonfiction.  Also, I challenged Sherree of Thoughts from the Farm this week and I can't wait to see what she does with the prompt.

---

As I watched the premiere of X-Factor last night, I realized something horrible about myself.  I am the Paula in life, less the heavy medication and sparkly wardrobe.  As much as I love Simon and how accurate, if not mean, he usually is with his reviews of performances, if I found myself in a position to judge someone, I would totally find myself saying something like, “That was definitely unforgettable!  You might not be an American Idol, but you are a great person!”  After all, I’m that person – the Paula – without a hit reality show.  While I might not be paid to judge people and discover talent, I find myself in situations where I’m judging others in some way or another throughout my day.  It could be a co-worker’s report or the service I received at Starbucks, simple but important in my daily life.  And there are times I want to shout or make a scathing retort, but the Paula in me can’t allow it.  Focus on the positive!  Find the good, even if there is a ton of bad in the mix. 

I’m not good at mean.  It doesn’t sound right coming out of my mouth and even when it does, no one around me takes it seriously.  The problem is – I always want people to feel good about themselves, but sometimes, people shouldn’t feel good about themselves.  And while I don’t condone ripping into people on a daily basis, sometimes there is something to be said for a serious tone and an honest critique. 

Maybe the realization that I'm the Paula isn't horrible.  There are worse things in life than being known as the nice one in a group.   There's nothing wrong with trying to make people feel better about whatever is going on with a smile and kind words.  But sometimes it would be nice to be able to channel Simon and speak the truth without fear of how it will go over.  I guess it’s all about striking a balance – being kind toward others, but not afraid to speak the truth.

And hey, at least I’m not the Randy, dawg.

---

This week's Indie Ink Challenge came from Debbie with the prompt reality game show.

Fiction: Careful what you write...

It's that time of week where I post my Indie Ink writing challenge.  Remember the days I used to be mad at myself for not posting until Wednesday?  Ha, I've sure learned my lessons about procrastinating.  I wrote about three different things before settling in with my other ongoing character, Elaina, for this week's prompt.  This week I challenged Runaway Sentence, whose great response is posted here, and was challenged by Sherree.  My prompt was "It's not what you said, it's how you said it."  This was such a great prompt and it sent my mind spinning in many different directions.  This is the one I've chosen to share tonight.

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I entered the cafeteria with a fake stride of confidence in my step.  The past twenty-four hours had been a life lesson in humility, or humiliation, maybe both.  My fellow students and a few adults, who clung to the greatness that was high school, were a little angry with me for something I had recently written.  Who knew stating the obvious would create such drama?

Note to self:  no one is ready to hear the obvious stated, which is probably why it's always so obvious in the first place.

I’ve decided to blame my latest foray into loserdom on Mr. Jenkins, one of my school’s English teachers and the faculty advisor for the Cougars newspaper.   “The pen is mightier than the sword, Elaina” and “There's a great amount of power in a few well-placed words, Elaina.”  Why wouldn’t I take that as a sign to write a scathing op-ed piece on the uselessness that was the Homecoming Dance?  Life isn't like Sixteen Candles and our football team hasn't won a game in twenty years.  Homecoming alienated a large portion of the high school population and turned the rest into dance-crazed lunatics.

The words had to be said and Mr. Jenkins didn’t stop me.   I’m guessing it was one of those he-wants-you-to-learn-that-fire-burns moments adults are so fond of forcing on you. 

“I don’t know what you were thinking,” Mike said as he sat down across from me at our usual lunch table.  He was very cool about not acknowledging the dirty looks people had been sending my way.

“I expected this sort of reaction from the rah-rah crowd, but even the persona non grata freaks are giving me the evil eye.  You'd think I slaughtered a puppy in front of toddlers." 

Mike shook his head as he dumped the contents of his brown bag on the table.  He said, "You're demented."

"And a social pariah."

He cocked his head to the side and shot me an appraising glance, the same one he'd been shooting my way since kindergarten.  He was probably wondering what God he had pissed off in a former life to end up with me as a best friend.  "It'll pass eventually."

I shrugged and said, "I hope I live to see that."

"I think you're overreacting a bit."

"I'm overreacting?   Principle Henry called me into his office and said that I was a rabble rouser.  He told me that I had to write an apology in the next edition of the newspaper and threatened to force me to join the social committee to show me the error of my ways.  I really hate high school.”

“I know, and thanks to your This Cougar Knows column, everyone knows.”

“Newsflash - it's your job to keep me from doing stupid things like this.  You know how I get.”

He rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, I do know how you get and would’ve stopped you if you bothered to mention it to me.”

“And that’s why I didn’t tell you.”

“Do you hear yourself sometimes?” he asked with an exasperated sigh. 

I waved him off and said, “That’s not the point.  The point is the entire school is angry with me for saying what we all know to be true.”

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think it was what you said, so much as how you said it,” Mike replied.  He shoveled a banana into his mouth and off the look on my face, added with a full mouth, “You basically referred to the popular kids as power-hungry ninnies and the rest of us as cowardly losers.”

“I was talking about myself in that cowardly loser bit.”

“I know that, but the rest of the school does not.”

“Idiots.”

“I wouldn’t use that in your apology.”

I glanced down at my sandwich, pretending not to feel a hundred sets of eyes watching me with disdain, but made no effort to eat.  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, feeling out of place in a way I hadn’t since the first day of high school, and tried to put on my brave face.  The problem I’ve always had with the brave face is that I’m terrible at hiding how I feel and people know I’m not brave or confident.

“Hey, don't get that look.   I'm sure something much more interesting will happen soon and you'll drop off the school radar.  I just wouldn’t plan on getting nominated for Homecoming Queen this year.”

“Are you telling me there isn’t a massive yearning to have a bitter, sarcastic sixteen year old wear the crown? I'm shocked.”

“You’re too young to be so cynical, Elaina.”

I grabbed a chip from Mike’s brown bag and popped it into my mouth.  “My father is in politics, Mike.  I’ve been cynical since the womb.”  I turned my head and caught a group of cheerleaders glaring in my direction.  I groaned and said, “I guess I should refrain from sharing my thoughts on prom and stick with scathing reviews of the hot lunches."

trees get lonely too

I'm really enjoying taking part in the Indie Ink Writing Challenges. I'll admit that this week was definitely a challenge - in the best sort of way - and forced me outside my comfort zone.  It's part of why I enjoy Indie Ink's weekly challenges.  This week I challenged Alison of Pretty Girls Don't Eat (her awesome response is here) and my challenge - write from the point of view of the last tree standing in a forest - came from the wonderful Kat of Sassy Irish Lass.

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It’s true what they say – be careful what you wish for. There was a time when every tree in our forest was clustered together. Branches would jam into one another, roots would collide in the soil and every tree would fight for dominance by growing as tall as possible to suck up all the sunlight it could.  We were mighty and ruled the ground and the sky.

Collective living is hard.  In the eyes of the forest, a tree isn't as strong or wise as those around it if it can't dig deep into the ground and soar high into the sky.  And the day-to-day grind over hundreds of years can drive even the most patient Red Wood Tree to yearn for legs and freedom.  It wasn’t that I didn’t care for my fellow trees, but sometimes even a tree wants to escape the sameness of its routine. 

Peace and quiet.  I didn't mean it like this.


Now I have peace and quiet in bundles.  Well, the quiet, anyway.  Hard to feel any peace knowing what I do about the way nature is being treated. 

I’m the only one left now. The others have been destroyed in forest fires, lost to nature, or the worst, cut down by greedy humans. There was a time when a select few of us would be sacrificed, but humans appreciated the loss it caused and never took more than they needed. We coexisted and thrived together.

Things have changed. Humans are different now. Every creature that passes by me knows this.  There are whispers in the wind and anger in the rain and snow that pelt the ground in frustration.   Nothing is safe or sacred and there is never enough to please them.


There are some that still care. I once saw a girl chain herself to one of my brethren and refuse to let the saws pass. Well, she tried. In the end, she was written off as crazy and carried off, while the tree was cut down and used for mother-nature-only-knows-what.


The sun hits me from every angle. The wind whips around me, rustling the branches and freeing the last of the leaves. Winter is fast approaching. I’ll sleep and try to hold onto hope as another ring grows around my trunk. I’ll mourn for my fallen friends and remember those times when people tried to climb to the tops of the tallest of us and their satisfied sighs of success as they took in the views and felt the world the way we do.


I’m not a wise enough tree to know what will be harder – to still be here, alone, come spring or to feel my own roots pulled from the ground as I join the others in a paper mill – but I’ll be here as long as I’m allowed. I’ll provide protection and homes for creatures and plants. I’ll entrench my roots even further into the ground and spread my branches out and up.

And I’ll wait.

---

celebrations and new goals...

I have not had a drop of soda in seventy-six days.  76!  That's huge for me.  I had such a terrible addiction to Coke and Cherry 7-Up.  It was insane and unhealthy and there was no real reason for it because I'm one of those people who actually likes water.  But I'm like a  junkie in need of a fix with soda - moderation doesn't work.  I had managed to give up soda for six months at one point, until one day I thought, "it's been long enough, a small diet coke won't hurt me."  It was like a deluge opened and I would have excuse after excuse for not stopping again.  It's a weird addiction to have, but I'm learning that the reasons I want soda are muddled in a mess of things and it's best to avoid it if I can. 

76 days!

I want to take this victory and use it to go into other areas of my life.  It's all about small steps, making small changes, and it's also all about making sure I'm proud of my accomplishments. 

---

In other news, I am using the WordPress journal I set up awhile ago to join in on a writing adventure with a great group.  It's the Serpentine Road and I know it will be great for unleashing my creativity.  I'm so focused on numbers lately that it's causing me to freeze up.  And it makes me dread writing - I hate feeling like that.  I'm also hoping to do more random writing in this blog as well.  I'm not sure where my block is coming from - life, fear, me - but I'm ready to plow through it.

Writer's Workshop: If you really knew me...

courtesy of we heart it

3.) If you really knew me, you would know that…

If you really knew me, you would know that I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m the girl fumbling around in the dark, trying to find the light switch or even a familiar piece of furniture to rest against and get my bearings. I can sometimes almost fool myself into believing I have some modicum of a reason behind the inner workings of my mind and where my passions truly lie. I can tell you, like a girl who is interviewing for a job, that I’m smart and detail-oriented and strive for perfection and that those same things tend to get in my own way all the time. I can offer up the standard, “work in progress” answer I use whenever I join a site and it requests a bio, but that's about it.

If you really knew me, you would know that my favorite words to use about myself are “work in progress” because I don’t know how else to define this journey. It’s a cop-out. I own it. Aren’t we all that very thing? How does that show how unique I am? How does it even explain anything about me?

If you really knew me, you would know that my friends have a very different view of who I am than I do. I don’t know whose is more accurate or not, but I’m betting theirs is nicer. My friends might say that I’m loyal and funny because I want so much for people to always know that I care about them. I never felt it growing up – always feeling lost and off-to-the-side and alone – and I wasn’t a very good friend to people when I was younger. I wanted so much to be liked that I didn’t know how to be there for people. I’m funny because, well, I’m from an Irish Catholic family that repressed everything. I handled losing my father with humor because crying was wrong – even at eleven years old, I knew that. I handled feelings of worthlessness with a quick joke at my own expense because it doesn’t count if I’m laughing at myself and it proved you couldn’t hurt me. Except you really could and I just set myself up for a lifetime of negative thoughts firing out of my synapses.

If you really knew me, you would know that I really hate and love my mother fiercely. I’ve missed her so much since she passed away two years ago and yet I’m so relieved she’s not my problem anymore. I used to curse my father, wherever he might’ve gone after he died, because not only did he leave me with her, but her whole survival seemed dependent on me. And yeah, even if you really didn’t know me, you would know that the dynamic wasn’t healthy and probably not my fault, but I wouldn’t listen to you about such things.

If you really knew me, you would know that I try to give off a “whatever” or laissez faire attitude about things, but I over-analyze and fret and run around like Chicken Little, “the world’s gonna end! The world’s gonna end!” I take everything to heart. Things stay with me forever and I hate and hate and hate.

I guess that’s another thing you can know about me – I’m not very forgiving. I hold onto everything. It’s filed away on an index-card-like brain cell, fermenting and growing, and you might never even know that you hurt me, but oh the wrath I will feel and the justice I will dispel in my own imagination.

Mostly, if you really knew me, you would know how uncomfortable I am in my own skin. I put a lot of focus on my weight. It’s been ingrained in me for as long as I can remember and it’s a huge part of how I identify myself. But even beyond the weight, I never feel right. Never good enough or funny enough or smart enough - I’m never enough.

It’s a horrible way to live.

So I'm right back whre I started because I really don't know myself. There is this amazing person inside me, fighting to get out and be heard and share her lessons with the world, but she is stuck in the quicksand of “not good enough.” It’s not so much that I’m fumbling around in the dark trying to find the lights, but that I’m too afraid to turn them on and truly see.

In the end, if you really knew me, you would have a one-up on me.

Day 13: Reverb 10 (Action)

Today's Reverb 10 Prompt:

December 13 – Action. When it comes to aspirations, it’s not about ideas. It’s about making ideas happen. What’s your next step? (Author: Scott Belsky)

I need to get back into a routine of getting up in the morning, working out, dealing with real life things such as work and family, and then carving out time for myself to write.  I'm always happier when I'm creating and writing, even when it's like pulling teeth or I'm feeling stuck or I'm just writing something that no one will ever see but me.  And while I will never be the girl who loves to work out - I pretty much dread every second of it - I do love how I feel when I'm able to surpass an old fitness level or break a new record or just that I showed up and took care of myself even when the voices in my head were telling me not to even bother.  Mostly, I love that I feel stronger and healthier and capable of anything.

It's just doing what I've already done, but not letting the bumps in the road completely undo me.

Day 2: Reverb 10 (Writing)

Day late.  I kept thinking about my entry for Reverb 10 while I was at work and then I got home, had time and totally forgot.  Just whoosh.  Right out of my mind.  So I'm doing two entries today.  I'm wild and crazy (and forgetful) like that.


December 2nd:  What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it?

Procrastinate.  I know that is so big and all-encompassing, but I'm not sure how else to explain it.  My procrastination isn't at normal levels.  It's epic proportions, egged on by my random OCD tendencies.  So I'll say to myself, "Self, just take ten minutes and read your journal."  Next thing I know I'm retagging entries or going through my ITunes library to make sure every song is properly accounted for with information.  I know it's my own form of self sabotage before the fact.  I look so far into the future and surely, the writing will be terrible, so why even bother?  It's illogical and untrue.

While I'm not sure I can completely eliminate those feelings, I can definitely work on recognizing it more often and working on the why, in that moment, I'm doing it.  And maybe that will help me.

Let enjoyment take over...

It's wishcasting wednesday!  In Jamie's own words, "Wishcasting Wednesday is a safe haven for wishes, a fertile field in which to plant wish seeds and have them witnessed and tended lovingly. It’s a place where magic begins."

What do you wish to enjoy?

courtesy of http://weheartit.com/entry/4225256

I've managed to get back into a routine of journaling and blogging, but I've had such issues with writing consistently since my mother died.  It's a strange thing.  She never appreciated or thought much of my writing.  She would tell me to grow up and act like an adult, stop living in fantasy worlds.  It often led to fights and, while it bothered me that she just couldn't understand (or at least accept) that I loved writing and creating worlds and stringing sentences together that made other people react, I always wrote.  Maybe it was one of my ways of defying her, and now there is no reason for that, but sometimes it just feels so hard to undertake the actual act of writing.  I'll say I'm going to do it.  I'll talk about how I miss it, but then I just can't do it. 

I thought this feeling would pass with time.  This January it will have been two years since she died and my writing is barely there.  It's like I'm punishing myself for something that wasn't my fault.  And it's not something my mother was ever right about either.  I'm worried I'll be bombarded with those pesky feelings and emotions and grief that are still simmering and the one place I've always dealt with things was my writing.  

The thing is, it would probably help me deal with things.  It's always the way I have in the past.  And writing is a joyful experience.  Sure, there are moments when I really wish a scene would come out the way I envision it in my head or a character would stop hijacking the story, but I love it.  I think a lot of it is that I'm afraid of what might come out. 

I signed up for Mini-Nanowrimo, a take on the Nanowrimo challenge, but instead of having to write one novel of 50,000 words, I set a certain number of words to write each day on any project I choose.  I thought it might be a good way to get me back into the practice of writing each day and to push myself to break through this self-imposed block.  

My wish?  I wish to enjoy the process of writing again, to take each day in November and the writing time I set aside, and be okay with whatever comes out.