Step Away From The Lights!!!!

I'm writing in drips and drabs, fits and starts: not really accomplishing much of anything here lately. Even my blog is sluggish.




What's up with that? Is there some kind of Christmas Conspiracy that drains the brains of writers? Or maybe there is some kind of hypnotic effect from all those little twinkle lights. I think that has to be it, why I'm not writing like I want to.




It's those little twinkle lights that make me think of softly falling snow, and hot buttered rums before a roaring fire, safely snuggled into the arms of the one who loves me beyond all measure. Those little blinky white lights suck you into various holiday fantasies and when you blink, and see reason once again, the disappointment is overwhelming.



Yep - little twinkly lights will definitely suck all the get up and go out of your day so be careful, folks. They are every where! Protect yourself:



1) Wear dark glasses: this will cut down on the hypnotic effect and just leave a mild glow of Christmas confusion. Plus, people will think you are a celebrity (or totally crazy).



2) Repeat 'Bah Humbug' at 30 second intervals to keep away the lure of the shiny lights (and anyone else who may have been contemplating wishinig you Good Cheer this holiday season).



3) Turn off the TV - even that celebrity reindeer with his own movie has a twinkly light up nose! No where is safe, you know.



4) Decline all offers of holiday goodies. This will make you cranky enough to really start hating the whole holiday scene. Trust me on this. Did you ever say no to chocolate and cookies over Christmas??? It's like having a day without coffee...definitely not pretty!



5) Last but not least, don't go shopping. Do NOT buy gifts for anyone! Seriously, have you ever noticed that every street you walk down is lined with those pretty, sorry, pesky twinkly lights that lead you from store to store? It's part of the master plot to suck the brains right out of you and leave you in a mushy puddle in the middle of the street, pointing at a display and saying, "Oooohhhh, isn't it pretty?"



See what I mean? I'm so totally caught up in a white, twinkly light Christmas that my mind won't go anywhere else. I can't even concentrate on writing a humorous blog entry because.....well, because it's Christmas and .....the little twinkly lights have me in their spell. I'm a willing captive.



Merry Christmas everyone. I'll be back in full force after the holidays, after everyone has packed away those little lights that I just can't shut up about!



Thank you for reading my blog this year - I hope I didn't disappoint.

Thanksgiving - Again

Today is Thanksgiving all over again for me.  I am so grateful today for pilots.  Yesterday, my daughter's plane had to make an emergency landing - both engines failed while in flight.  The pilot landed the plane safely and no one was hurt.  God, Divine Providence, the Goddess, Fate, Kismet, the Universe - whatever you want to call the sacred energy that lives within us all - was with the pilot and co-pilot to put that plane, carrying my beloved daughter, down safely.  I am so grateful to them for allowing me the possibility of seeing my daughter walk down the aisle towards the man of her dreams, for giving me another opportunity to give her a big hug and inhaling the scent of her shampoo which always reminds me of  her baby scent (even though she is in her twenties), for the chance to tell her just one more time how proud I am of all the obstacles she has already overcome in her life.  I am grateful for the chance to hear her laugh again, and to see her grow into the woman she is meant to be.  I've been given another opportunity to watch her face light up as she rides a horse - such a deep passion of hers.  I've been given another opportunity to be joyful that even though my family (just she and I) is small, we love each other.

That's what it's all about, right?  Love?  I think so.  Yesterday I was reminded in a cruel way just how quickly you can lose the one you love.  I was emotionally devestated yesterday.  When Alysha first called me and told me what had happened, I couldn't breathe.  I literally couldn't breathe.  After she assured me that she wasn't hurt, the realization hit me of what almost-was.  I had a blinding flash of how empty my life would be without her in it.  We do a lot of things together and really enjoy being with each other.  We love to have adventures - we took off one day to western NC just to go gem-mining for the fun of it.  When she was younger, I took her to Shackleford Banks so we could see the ponies and have a nice little beach adventure.  Our nice little trip turned into a scary event for a few minutes - we were charged by a mama horse protecting a newborn foal and had to run like crazy to protect ourselves.  My point is, we always have adventures together and wouldn't have it any other way...it makes for an interesting life. 

So Mr. Pilot and Co-Pilot, I'm very grateful for your training and appreciative of your calm efforts to land the plane safely with harm coming to none.  Today is truly my Thanksgiving Day - thank you, thank you, thank you for keeping my daughter safe for another day.

Not Gonna Make It

I really thought I could finish my Christmas novella on time (meaning before Christmas) but I can see that it's not going to happen.

I just can't seem to focus on this story.  I can't put my finger on any particular problem...it's just - not my style, I guess.  I really liked the idea and was quite excited about the plot (earlier entry about the sax playing guy) but it's just not coming together for me.

Maybe next year, I'll be able to present it as my gift to this special person.  For now, it's off to the stores to find a perfect gift.

Wish me luck!

The Blank Slate

For my followers, and those of you who aren't followers but read my blog faithfully, I must apologize for not blogging as often as I should.

Here are my excuses: 

1) Friday night I had a really bad date.  I mean, so bad that I did the unthinkable:  I cried at dinner.  This sounds weird but the guy was really nice and cute as all get-out.  He just was not able to stop making sexual innuendoes and I didn't know how to respond.  He admitted that he was a 'pretty intense guy' but he was 'a passionate person' and couldn't help himself.  He offered to rub my feet under the table.  Finally, I told him that I thought first dates were for getting to know each other and that I'd like to start over (I had been telling him that I didn't like and wasn't comfortable with the constant sex talk).  Well, that didn't go over so well.  After being honest with him - which was a huge step for me to actually voice my opinion to a man - he leaned forward and told me: "God damn it, I lived with that for 27 years.  This is me and I'm not going to change now."  I told him I wasn't his wife, didn't want to be his wife, that that remark was uncalled for and unfair to me AND to him.  That pretty much ended the evening.  He didn't even walk me to my car after dinner.  I really felt so disrespected as a woman...just because we met over a dating website doesn't mean that I'm not deserving of old-fashioned courtesy and respect.  Because of this, I let myself fall into the WTF mode and I didn't think about writing something up for Saturday.  Hmmmm, lesson learned here.  Note to self:  'Self, never use a man as an excuse for not working on your writing.'

2) Saturday morning, I brooded about what happened Friday night.  I had really liked this guy from his profile and also when we first were together, I thought that perhaps something could come of it.  This is a guy who actually understood that there are many layers to me and I'm much more than what you see on the surface.  I got over the shock and anger about 10:00 in the morning and went on to putter around my apartment in my PJs until it was time to get ready to go to a party with a woman's group I belong to.  What a marvelous time I had!  This is such a wonderful group of women; I think there were close to 30 of us there.  So...I didn't write Saturday because I was brooding about a man (see note to self above) and playing Suzy HomeMaker? I was being lazy. Come on, Cath, you're a writer. Can't you come up with something more exciting than the truth?

3) Sunday:  I spent the day doing laundry, ironing (I love it when I'm in the mood which I was at that time - I'm so over it now LOL), making my bedroom more feng-shui for romance and laughing that I had even entertained the notion of bringing HIM there. OK, I didn't write because I really was enjoying my day, doing all types of nesting, homey things and appreciating the foggy weather that forced me to stay indoors. It was great to re-charge my batteries.

4) Monday:  Work, work, work!  I didn't receive a paycheck so I was on the phone all day with various departments in my company, trying to track down how I could get paid.  I can't get to Arkansas for Christmas with my daughter if I don't get paid for the next three weeks.  Also, I really like to eat and that could get dicey without a paycheck LOL.  Not that I couldn't stand to lose a few pounds but I'd rather do it by choice than forced into it.  On a bright note, I got home to find 'Santa' had dropped off a gift for my cat, Sebastian, which really lifted my spirits. 

So, my brain has been taken up with the mundane aspects of my day-to-day life.  I'm hanging on by my fingernails but I'm hanging on.  I'll be blogging regularly again, dear readers, regaling you with my attempts at editing the novel I've written and also on my progress with the new works in progress.

Does anyone have a copy of Henry David Thoreau's "Walden" I could borrow?  I would love to read his experiment on living well.  More on that in a future blog.

***************************
The true harvest of my daily life is somewhat as intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening. It is a little star dust caught, a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched. ~Henry David Thoreau, Walden
***************************

I've Been Naughty, Santa

I know the jolly old fat guy is going to put a lump of coal in my Christmas stocking...I've been very bad the past few days.  Here's a transcript of my online chat with Santa:

M = Me
S = Big fat dude in the red velour sweat pants



M: Hi Santa. Glad I caught you on a break at work. Listen, I only wrote a few lines yesterday and I'm not sure how much writing I'm going to be able to get to in the next few days. You see, I'm working on my Sax story (see my earlier entry: Ain't Nothing Like Good Sax) and need to get it done before next week - the 19th to be exact - as it's a gift for someone special. I have good intentions, Santa, and I know they will be very happy that I wrote this for them. But I've been very naughty with my writing discipline here lately.

S: Who is this?

M: It's me, Santa. Remember me from when I was a kid? I was the one that kept her sister and brother awake to listen for the reindeer feet - sorry - hooves - on the roof.

S: No, sorry. Doesn't ring a bell.

M: Short, blonde, six years old and a huge fan of Christmas!!!!

No response...

M: OK - my name is Cathy. I know you are the man behind the curtain so just listen, OK? I'm a writer. As I said earlier, *voice laden with southern sarcasm disguised as a sweet drawl* I've been just a little slack here lately. BUT...even though I've not been writing as much as I should during the last few days, I did write my first novel in a month. I gathered my courage to read the murder chapter of my novel at an Open Mic night. I give sincere encouragement and credit to my writer friends as much as I can. Does any of that count?

S: Nope. One oh-shit wipes out a thousand atta-boys.

M: What??? Who wrote that rule, Santa?

S: It says in my book of kids gone wild that it was a guy named Murphy who coined that phrase. Had a law named after him.

M: Whaddya mean, Murphy's Law? Come on, dude. Really? It's only been a few days I've slacked off. *whine* Please, will you bring me something pretty for my stocking?

S: How about you post a current pic on my personal web site?  Ms. Clause won't mind.

M:  What?  OK.  I just uploaded it.  Look, I just want something shiny, pretty, sparkly, or chocolate in my Stocking Christmas morning. 

S:  Nice picture.  What's your name again?

M:  Cathy.  C-a-t-h-y.  Caaaattthhhheeeee.  The little girl all grown up who believed longer than she should in a man in dirty red sweat pants.  Dude, don't you ever change those things? 

S:  Hey, shouldn't you be nicer to me?

M:  Sorry, Santa.  As I was saying, even a gift card so I could buy it myself would be great.  Can I count on you this year?  The last couple of Christmas's ... well, let's just say you should have changed your name to the Invisible Man.  Nothing in my stocking for three years now!!!  I WANT SHINY.  I WANT PRETTY.  I WANT SPARKLY.  GIVE ME CHOCOLATE!!!

S:  I just moved you from the 'Maybe' column to the 'No Way in Hell' page.  Finish your story.  Talk to me then.  And be prepared to grovel, bargain, and beg because I have connections in the publishing industry!

I HIT THE X IN THE TOP RIGHT HAND CORNER

I am so screwed for Christmas. Anybody need a lump of coal?

Feelin' The Need For The Beach

The last time I was at the beach I had the most amazing sense of quietude descend upon me, as if a fairy fog had settled on my shoulders and enveloped me in a soft, velvet mist of silence.  In this soundless void, I was able to think clearly, to see my life as it is and where I should go in the future.  Because I was safely nestled in this noiseless bubble of time, I allowed to finally emerge whole story lines and wonderous books that I have been coddling in my soul, nourishing the idea of them until they are ready to be birthed.  I heard them in the crash of the waves, I felt them in the salt spray on my face, I saw them in the sea foam that danced across the damp, packed sand. 

There is a distinct clarity of thought to be found in the silence of the ocean.  Silence?  Yes, I find silence at the ocean's doorway.  The steady ebb and flood, ebb and flood, quiets all the noise that constantly fills my head at such a high volume that I can't hear my soul or answer the call of my heart.  It's a hypnotic soothing, much like a mother gently rocking her beloved newborn and humming nameless, heartfelt tunes.

I need that babying of spirit, that cystal clear clarity of thought now. The high, the pride, the happy-dance phase of writing a novel (my first novel!) has gone.  The mechanics of what's next with my book have all been listed and categorized and research plans have been made.  This book will not be finished until probably April at the earliest.  My daily life is once again interfering with the life I want to live and I'm working hard to accept both sides of my life's equation: working woman/writer. Stifling my creativity is having some strange side effects that I recognize but would be inappropriate to speak of here.

I need to go back to the water's edge, I need to be absorbed in the rhythym of the waves and draw upon her strength to bolster my own.  I am alone and have to find ways to take care of myself, to nurture me.  This is my way to do it: the beach.

Until tomorrow....

****************************
“I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.” -- T. S. Eliot
****************************

Book Number Two: A MURDER DOWN THE BLOCK

Quite a while ago, I mentioned some of the other books I have in the works.  In writer parlance, they are called Works in Progress or WIPs.  I have gone back to working on A Murder Down the Block, a story idea I had over a year ago.  The basic premise of my WIP is as follows:  New Bern, NC, is experiencing a rash of  gruesome murders.  While there are clues showing that they are all committed by the same person, each one is very different.  The first murder sounds familiar to my main character - a mystery writer.  A second murder occurs in a different part of town then the third takes place just down the block from her, and from the news reports on TV, she realizes that each murder was straight out of her discarded plot ideas for murder scenarios.  She goes to the police and tells them her theory and she immediately becomes a 'person-of-interest.'  Tessa has to figure out who had access to her discarded murder scenario pages - and what could possibly drive a person to commit such horrible acts? 

I'm looking forward to the research phase of my book.  I love New Bern.  This beautiful, tiny city on the water has a bustling downtown scene that is just teetering on the edge of Southern Upscale.  It's wonderfully laid out and makes for a great walking town.  Of course, having an honest-to-God palace (Tryon Palace) right smack dab downtown only adds to its charm.  I know I'll be using Gus and her store in my book (with her permission, of course)...she's from Scotland and owns her own wine and cheese shop just one block off the waterfront.  I've always made it a point to stop in and talk to her every time I've visited New Bern.  Her shop is great!  I'll use the historic Chelsea Restaurant and the rooftop dining area on Captain Ratty's will figure prominently in my book.  Another shop important to A Murder Down the Block is the hardware store that's around the block from Gus's place. 

So, what about School of Hard Rocks? I can go no further on that novel until I do some on site research at Diamond Crater State Park over Christmas.  That left me asking, What's next? What's next? 

I see why I needed the down time yesterday; I had to be quiet so I could listen.  What's next? What's next?  That vexing question has finally been answered:  A Murder Down the Block.

***********************************
Mystery creates wonder and wonder is the basis of man's desire to understand. ~ Neil Armstrong
***********************************

Not Even Hot Air

Well, this may be a first for me:  I don't feel like talking today.  Seriously, I have nothing to say that would be even remotely interesting.  I feel flat, lifeless, blah.  No reason for this.  I mean, I'm not ill, angry, depressed or any other negative emotion - just...quiet.  That's it.  I feel quiet today.

I think I'll use this down time (meaning I don't have fifty million thoughts running around in my head) to work on a few sections of my novel that need to be toned down.  Today would be the ideal day for that.

Okay, I've talked enough.  See what I mean?  No hyperbole, no tall tales, no artistic slant, no hot air. 

Until tomorrow.....
*********************************
Do not speak- unless it improves on silence. ~ Buddhist Saying
*********************************

Big Girl Panties

Just a few more days, I think, and I’ll be ready to go back to my novel. I actually took a peek at it this morning but I know me and 5:30am BC - that’s ‘Before Coffee’ - is not the time to be starting my initial revisions, LOL. I feel so terribly guilty now for taking this break from my book; it’s a feeling somewhat akin to ignoring a crying child. All you want to do is put my arms around the poor wee bairn and comfort the miserable child and make him feel better. However, this child needed a time out for his own good; my book has been recalcitrant so I’m sure it’s a boy. Now the time has come to apply some tough love – I have to start cutting out words and phrases to which I’ve become particularly attached. I have to take away things from certain areas to streamline my writing and slowly start adding in to other parsed-out scenes.

I keep thinking this morning of excuses as to why I’m ignoring this baby to which I gave birth such a short time ago. Why am I not ready to begin the revision process even though I hear its plaintive cry so clearly every moment of every day? My book cries for my attention and I put my hands over my ears singing my own child in ignore mode la-la-la-la-la litany to my self: I have to get my Christmas shopping done (alright, alright…started!), I need to do laundry, I need to shampoo my carpet, I need to clean my house, I need to get a pedicure, I need to workout (yes, I’ve used that thought as an excuse not to got back to my book). I need, I need, I need.

None of those excuses are valid. If I’m to live my life honestly, then I have to tell the truth here. I’m afraid. I’m afraid of this talent I have. Yes, I’m finally admitting that I have a small bit of talent for writing. I’m afraid of the need to write which consumes me when I give it free reign and insidiously invades my psyche when I try to bury its lure deep in my soul. I’m sometimes afraid of the things that come out on paper. I’m afraid to be finished! As long as I’m physically working on something, then I’m pursuing a passion and that, by anyone’s account, is a wonderful thing. But…what happens when I finish the revisions? What then? Do I have it in me to do it again? I’m not talking about starting another book: just the opposite, in fact. I have so many ideas that I’m afraid I won’t be able to focus on just one. I already have six totally different books in the works. Six! Will I ever finish them? You see, this is the nexus of my fear: I’m afraid this whole writing thing may be a fluke.

Aaaaarrrrgggggg! That’s been my favorite ‘frustration’ phrase for years and it so perfectly describes what I’m feeling right now. I am so tired of doubting myself. No, that’s not quite accurate…it’s okay to question myself if it’s in a positive manner. I’m tired of playing negative mind games with myself (I’m always the loser for it, pun intended).

Just a few more days and I’ll be ready to go back to my novel? I think not. Whether I’m ready or not, today is the day. I am a writer. I have a book crying out for my attention.

Enough, enough, enough!!!!  It’s time to put on my big girl panties and get on with it.

*****************************
Everything is a mystery, ourselves, and all things both simple and humble. ~ Giorgio Morandi
*****************************

Ain't Nothin' Like Good Sax

I'm sitting here in the business office of my apartment complex, typing my blog to the sounds of a really good sax player wailing out Christmas carols in the next room.  He's the kind of saxist that make music sound sexy.  He lingers on the the low notes and the vibrato of his alto sax makes the muscles in my stomach jump in response.  On the high notes, his sax is sweet and pure.  He lifts you up with him on the high notes and holds you there with the sweet promise of so much more to come.  I saw him as I walked in; he's a good looking man who is intent upon his music.  And I have to have him. 

Oh, not for me - but as a character.  My mind has already set up a scenario for a Christmas romance.  I could begin the book by writing a scene similar to the delightful women's brunch I just came from; perhaps the hero and heroine could be the son and daughter of two women who were plotting at the brunch.   They have become very good friends and realize that their son/daughter would be perfect for each other. They also know that the hero (the sax player I'm listening to right now who has, by the way, just started playing 'I'll Be Home For Christmas') and the heroine have each recently come out of relationships tht were destined to go nowhere.  They aren't looking for anyone, they both hate that their friends are constantly trying to set them up on blind dates, all that sort of rubbish.  So, how to get the two to meet?  Let's see:  I'll have the women plan on attending one of their social group's many Christmas events.  Their drive to the holiday play starts innocently enough but during the ride, they impetuously decide they need to step in and do something because no one should be alone at Christmas, right?  The two women conspire to bring the two together: each will call their son/daughter and tell them they are stranded on the side of the road - my moon roof is actually malfunctioning at the moment so I'll use that as their excuse for pulling over.  However, they won't tell their kids why they pulled over.  The unsuspecting hero and heroine will arrive in record time to rescue their mothers from unimagined horrors on the part of the daughter (mom on the side of the road in the dark equals rapists and boogeymen and all manner of bad things), to the more pragmatic reaction of the son (has mom run out of gas again?).   The daughter will be flying down the country road and pass the son.  As soon as she's back in her lane, she'll have to slam on her brakes to avoid hitting a deer.  Of course, sax player will have to stand on his brakes to avoid hitting her!  He yells out the window at her, she's already scared to death because she's now got a picture in her mind of her mother lying dead in a ditch somewhere (she's sure her mother is now a victim of a serial killer), and some jerk in a Jeep is yelling at her because she refuses to hit a deer and OMG now he's actually following her!  She calls the police to report that she has a stalker on her tail on a dark country road, and she also tells the police to check on her mother - that she's sure her mother, her organized, efficient, unflappable mother is in big trouble.  I'll get the two to their location with lots of flashing blue lights - sax player is, of course, oblivious to his possible imminent arrest as a stalker.  Seeing the blue lights ahead approaching behind him as he pulls up behind the daughter, he's thinking that something had actually happened to his scatterbrained mom after all.  Of course, their instant attraction is skillfully disguised as flashing tempers from the son and daughter towards each other when they actually meet, and their mothers can't help but stir the pot a bit with their angelic interference.  With these two moms as matchmakers, their kids don't stand a chance!  I'll write it as one series of comic events after another.  I have lots of ideas for this short Harlequin style story and can't wait to start working on it.

Hmmmm, a story idea just from listening to a man practicing his sax.  How's that for using each experience I come across as fodder for my writing?  And what to do if it turns out that this is not a good story for me to write...if the words won't come or if the plot just trudges along and the writing is boring, the humor too obvious or heavy handed?  I'll just follow the sage advice provided in this quote:

************************************************

The wastebasket is a writer's best friend. ~Isaac Bashevis Singer

************************************************

Welcome Home, Li'l Sis!!!!

People With Wonderful Stories

I met a couple last night - a really wonderful couple in their mid-thirties, I think.  They were such a joy to talk to; I felt like I had found long lost friends despite our age difference.  She is a chiropractor and if I understood her correctly, she works with animals as well as humans.  He is in Global Sales in the oil industry.  They went to high school together and just foufnd each other again last year.  They absolutely - and this word sounds so *violin playing in the background* romantic - twinkled at each other.  It's been ages since I've seen two people so crazy for each other (with the exception of my daughter and her wonderful boyfriend).  We exchanged e-mails and phone numbers and I will see them again tomorrow night.  Oh crap!  No, I won't be able to meet them after all - I have my niece's Christmas party to attend.  Whew!  I'm glad I remembered that.  I'll have to call them and reschedule for another time.

So, what does a couple in love have to do with my blog?  You will recall, dear reader, that in yesterday's entry, I wrote of how each person has a story to tell.  As a writer, I don't just listen to others' stories; I learn from them as well.  Last night I heard drips and drabs (another of my grandmother's sayings) of their love story.  Listening to them, and seeing them interact, made me realize what was wrong with my novel. 

My main male and female characters don't have a strong 'back story.'  A character's story just won't ring true if the reader doesn't know where they are coming from.  Here's an example:

Mary is a happily married woman; she has a thoughtful, caring husband and two super kids.  Life is good for Mary.  She's cleaning her house in the middle of a sunny summer day.  She is upstairs putting fresh sheets on the bed when suddenly she hears the third stair from the bottom squeak.  She knows it's that stair because it squeaks every time it's stepped on.  It's noon, no one should be in the house.  The kids are at school, her husband is at work...Mary's heart starts racing and she looks for a place to hide.  She frantically whips her head around, considers diving under the bed, considers hiding in the closet, perhaps behind the open door.  She's moaning no, no, please - no.   She sits on the edge of the bed and drops her head in defeat.  Mary watches the trembling in her hands, the tears roll down her face and her stomach roils in fear and loathing.

Most women, upon hearing a footstep on the stair in the middle of the day, would do one of a couple of things:  1) think it's their husband and call out to him, 2) just go check it out or 3) hide under the bed and call 911.  That's a normal reaction, right?  So Mary's reaction doesn't make sense unless you know her back story.  Let's say that she was abused throughout her childhood and every time she was upstairs and heard the stair squeak, it meant he was coming for her.  The knowledge of Mary's backstory adds that little something extra to the imaginary scene above.  It's that strong backstory that's missing from my novel.

I thank each person who feeds my writing appetite with their wonderful stories.  Without you, we writers would be passionless people.

************************
Storytelling reveals meaning without committing the error of defining it. ~Hannah Arendt
************************
Only two days left, Sis!!!!

The Old Woman By The Sea

I can't remember a time when I've haven't had some tale swirling around in my head.  But then again, don't we all have a story to tell? For some of us it’s of a personal nature, a verbal vomit in an attempt to rid ourselves of the demon that’s lived inside for so long. For others, it may be a salvation story: finding themselves again after a short or long period of wandering aimlessly through a life that was not their own. Some people may have funny family anecdotes that are worthy of presentation by stand up comics, while others have incredible tales of strength or sadness during an illness or death of a loved one. Whatever the tale – victory/defeat, joy/woe, strength/fear, overindulgence/neglect - our stories will out themselves in one form or another. Musicians tell tales with skillfully crafted melodies that take us up and down the emotional ladder, artists’ stories are told with a seemingly simple brush stroke. A writer? A writer tells their tales with the proverbial stroke of the pen.

I have many stories to tell. I’ve started a short story about discovery after death. Oh, not physical death but death of long-held negative, hurtful beliefs such as fear of failure, fear of success, fear of being alone, fear of everything, it seemed. Writing has been a renaissance, a re-birth for me. The old me started gasping for breath about the time I started writing this blog, I think because I was finally pursuing a secretly held passion. My old self died an ignominious death while I was writing so intensely during the month of November. About mid-November I woke up and realized I was a different woman. I wasn’t afraid of trying, I wasn’t afraid of failing and certainly wasn’t intimidated by the thought of success…I wasn’t worried about being too old, or too fat, or not perfect, or not talented enough. I woke up and realized I was happy.  I was writing, actually doing that which I had dreamed of for so long, doing that which excited me just to think about...I was doing it.  That one month, November, has changed me forever.

There was an old woman who lived by the sea
With an abundance of tales to share.
Tales of lives lived fast and sharp,
Of lives lived unaware.

There was an old woman who lived by the sea
With hardly a single care
Until the empty caught up with her -
T’was more than she could bear

There was an old woman who lived by the sea
Enveloped by an unfulfilled dare
So out she waded in the sea so deep
Looking for succor there

There emerged a new woman who lived by the sea
She relished the new day fair
And welcomed each moment of joy and sun
As she danced in the salty air

**********************************
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart. ~William Wordsworth
**********************************

See you Saturday, Li’l Sis.