Two girls running through the dark woods not as friends but as a predator chasing her prey.
Two girls running through the dark woods not as friends but as a predator chasing her prey.
This morning I perused through my Twitter feed and saw a blog on Martians Attack in regards to “YouTube Tuesday” that I figured I’ll take part and see where it takes me. 🙂
I’ve recently got into watching short films, and this particular one is an awesome Horror flick that’s not for the faint-hearted. The film by Matt Sears is about 8 minutes long, and is based on a two-sentence story:
A girl heard her mom yell her name from downstairs, so she got up and started to head down. As she got to the stairs, her mom pulled her into her room and said “I heard that, too.”
Watch it (if you dare) and let me know what you think.
If you’d like to participate in YouTube Tuesday, for this week, post a short film (from YouTube) that you enjoyed and tell us a bit about it. Don’t forget to include the link to this post in yours so I can check it out. Also, if you’re on Twitter, post a Tweet about your post using the hashtag #YouTubeTuesday.
A few weeks ago (technically, more than 4 weeks), I put up a Poll to see what kind of characters you preferred to write (female, male, or other). Here are the results:
The down-size of this poll is that it didn’t capture whether the writers were male or female so I can’t make any further correlations. It seems that overwhelmingly we prefer females as our characters.
I wonder– why?
Do you find it easier to write from a female’s point of view? Or, perhaps you feel there need to be more female main characters in books?
Another interesting result I found was how high the stat for “other” was. Again, this poll didn’t capture (or further elaborate) what “other” entails.
Imagination runs rampant.
Today, we’ll continue the “character” series with another poll. This time about Character Archetypes.
A man wanders around the dilapidated building long since abandoned by its dwellers, he wonders–“Is it too late?”
“For a moment…”
“In any given moment…”
“After several minutes passed…”
There are times, certain thoughts pass through my mind about writerly stuff and this morning was no exception. I’ve been writing for this month’s Camp NaNoWriMo, and I love using the above phrases and word selection. However, this morning, I thought–
“What exactly is a moment?”
Is it the same as minute or even second?
Or, is it something deeper?
*As we continue our Mental Health discussion, here’s a post by a very special guest, Simone Lisa. Thank you, Simone, for sharing your thoughts and experiences with us!
There’s a little glimmer of warmth, burrowing into my chest. And a chink of light, peeking into my spirit. If I listen carefully I can almost hear a heart-warming song. It has taken me awhile to recognise it – the song of hope. Unfamiliar. Really scary. Really positive. Hope.
Hope has a few different acronyms:
But I think my favourite is…
I have had years of being knocked over and having to pick myself up again.
Coupled with a lifetime of burying emotions and not dealing with personal issues as they arose, it became too much for me to cope with and I crumbled. Every time I thought things couldn’t possibly get worse, I was wrong. Every time I tried to stand up and move on, another phone call came in. Someone needed me again. Someone wanted my help. Someone else had died. Another problem arose. Too much. Endlessly and relentlessly battering me to the ground, and in 51 years I had never learned positive mechanisms to deal with stress. The past two years have been eye opening and debilitating, and while I went a long way backwards, perhaps that is the direction I first needed to travel before I could embark upon a different path.
The past few days I have felt hopeful. Every time I become aware of that sense of positivity, that I may have a future and things will improve, I worry I’m going to be battered to the ground any minute. The phone will ring and I’ll be given bad news. Again. I’ll be needed. Again. The phone will ring and I’ll be forced to choose between doing the right thing by family or the right thing by work. I’ll be put in lose-lose situations. Again.
But you know what 2017 has shown me so far? Nothing but positivity. Sure there are major stresses I’m still dealing with – but they are last years’ stresses and we’re working toward positive outcomes.
You know what else? I found myself singing in the car. Singing!! I love singing and I’d stopped years ago. It is so good for the soul. Like alcohol however, I can’t indulge when I’m sad and stressed. I don’t drink to cheer myself up – I drink because I’m cheery. I don’t sing to cheer myself up – I sing because I’m cheery. When I realised I was singing, I realised I must be cheery.
So it turns out I have hope.
More significant than all of these put together however, I am starting to feel a small sense of hope my eating disorder will improve. I won’t say disappear. Or aim for full recovery. I would be glad of those things – but so early in the phase of recovery (I may have been doing this a long time, but I went backwards before I moved forward. It’s a long and winding road…) I don’t want to jinx myself with unrealistic expectations.
You know what else? Without hope, I can’t recover. Without hope it is an intellectual exercise. Without hope I won’t make the right choice when faced with a difficult situation – I will make the most familiar and immediately comforting choice. Even if that decision leads to a poorer outcome. Because without hope, recovery is pointless. It feels temporary. Why would I make a good choice today if tomorrow it’s all going to fall apart anyway? I may as well eat a box of chocolate and be happy for five minutes.
Recovery is reliant on hope. Recovery needs my heart to be receptive – not just my head to be willing. So for today I want to say, my Heart’s Open Please Enter.
(Post originally appeared on Simone Lisa’s Blog )
Where to begin? Because of so and so, and of something that happened, I’m to start keeping a journal of my thoughts and feelings and whatever else I care to share. WTH.
Okay, let’s start from the beginning. My name is Carla Jones. I’m twenty-five, and I live with my parents. Eh, that sounds like an opener for one of those Alcoholics Anonymous sessions. I’m not an alcoholic, but I am a screw-up.
Damn. That sounds pretty harsh now that it’s out there. But this is what my shrink wants to read, so there you go.
I lived a fairly normal life, I guess. Grew up in a small town in the mountains. Mom was a telephone operator for many years before switching to being an administrative assistance at a local community college. Dad’s a salesperson at a hardware store. I have two sisters. Trish, the eldest, moved out of the house when she was eighteen. She joined the Navy. I hardly ever see her. Mandy, the baby, is off to college, studying power engineering. She’s the brains, like Dad.
Me? I’m the oddball. The one with all the problems.
Heck, I’m not even related to these people. Not by blood anyway. You see, my parents tried to have another baby after Trish was born, but nothing happened after four years. So, they adopted me. Mandy came along as a complete surprise three years later. That left me, a brunette with blue eyes, sandwiched between these blonde-haired, brown-eyed individuals. Yep, like an oddball.
We lived next to Mom’s parents (Dad’s parents died when he was a boy). Nana and Papa to Trish and Mandy, but not to me. They made that well known as soon as I was old enough to understand. I was to call them Pat and Dave.
Trish and Mandy were always into sports. I tried, but I was deemed too klutzy to play on any team. So, I turned to running. I never competed, though. All that hardcore training and competing in meets or races never interested me.
I never excelled in anything in school. It’s not for the lack of trying…it’s just that I really didn’t care. I studied just enough to pass the exams. That’s it. Mom and Dad never really pushed me. They pretty much let me do my own thing. They rode the other two daily, though. They accepted nothing less than As or Bs from them.
When it came time to head off to college, I had no clue what to major in. I wasn’t interested in science or math or business. I ended up picking a major in Communications with a minor in Creative Writing. I had always doodled with poetry and wrote in my journal, so why not take them one step further, right? Boy, my Dad was not happy with that. I asked, what’s wrong with being a writer or a journalist? He said that those weren’t respectable fields. So, in order to appease him, I switched to a major in Kinesiology with a minor in Athletic Training.
I got as far as sophomore year before dropping out. I sucked in science classes and ended up failing them.
I refused to move back home—didn’t want to endure the daily scorn from Pat and Dave or the disappointed looks from my parents. Instead, I moved to a small city an hour from home and got a job working as a writer for the city’s newspaper. I rented a tiny, run-down apartment downtown that robbed me of over half of my monthly salary. I had no furniture, slept on an air mattress, and ate meals on the grungy carpet.
I guess I got too carried away with my sudden independence, or perhaps I was just overly desperate to be accepted for who I was. The people I ended up hanging out with liked to smoke pot. Personally, I hated pot, but these people made me feel like I was a somebody, like I actually mattered, so I just went with it.
Anyway, I ended up getting caught with some weed and was sent to jail. Lost my job and my apartment. Dad bailed me out and took me back home. Not sure what he did, but he somehow got the charges against me reduced so that there was no court or jail time for me. However, the judge ordered me to see this shrink, and since I liked to write, this same shrink gave me this ridiculous journal assignment.
I’m writing this from my hospital bed. Actually, I’m in a psych ward within the hospital. The day after I wrote the first entry to this journaling assignment, Dad and I got into a big fight. Apparently, I’m a hardship to him and Mom, and it’s starting to affect their health and job stability. I guess I just lost it. I yelled at him saying something like, well, if I’m such a hardship, perhaps I should just remove myself from their lives.
I ran into the only bathroom in the house and locked myself in. I grabbed a shaving razor and proceeded to slash the top of my hands. Freaking out, Mom called 911. From there on, everything’s just a blur. I remember waking up in a hospital room, strapped to the bed. My whole body felt bruised. Mom was sitting beside me, crying. Dad, well, I haven’t seen him since that night. She said that it took three people tackling me to stop me from continuing to slice my wrists. I don’t remember that part, but she was right, both of my wrists are bandaged up. The top of my hands are also bandaged, so I can barely write this stupid entry.
This stupid assignment. Stupid shrink. I hate him. I hate them all.
I’m still here, in the psych ward. It seems that I’m not ready to be released yet. Or rather, my parents aren’t ready to take me back home. Either way, I don’t give a rip.
Mandy visited me yesterday. She said she was worried about me. She then turned around and told me how angry she was with me. How could I be so selfish to have hurt Mom and Dad. I told her to get out of my face. I don’t need this from her or from anyone for that matter!
Why is everyone against me? What have I done so wrong to be treated so? Pat stopped by for a few minutes. Long enough to tell me that my own parents were seriously considering having me permanently committed. She went on to tell me that she did some research on my biological parents. My mother gave birth to me at the age of 13. She had been raped by her 16-year-old cousin who then committed suicide shortly afterward. Pat said that I should never have been adopted and that I’ve been nothing but a heartache to Mom and Dad.
After she left, I just lied down on the bed and cried.
The shrink told me that I was actually starting to make progress and that I should continue to journal. Whatever.
Today, I wrote my first poem in months. It’s called “Alone.”
Heart is the bridge to
one’s soul, break it in
pieces and it will
strand you, immerse you
with unspeakable loneliness
You know what? After writing this, I felt better. Purged. Does that make any sense? I’m looking back over it, and am wondering…where did this come from? Am I really that pathetic? Do I really feel that way?
The answer is yes.
It’s been a while since the last entry. I have a good reason. Well, make that twenty-five reasons, as that’s how many poems I’ve written. I’m somewhat amazed at how dark and desperate some sounded. I thought about rewriting a few so they don’t make me out to be some kind of psychotic bitch, but I didn’t.
I worked up the courage and gave some to the shrink to read. I felt certain that he would definitely have me permanently committed after reading those particular ones (that would just please the family wouldn’t it?). I was stunned when he said that they were really good. Then he had to ask if I had thought about submitting them to places to have them published.
I’ve been released from the hospital/psych ward. Since I’m no longer welcome home, I’m now living in a halfway house of sorts. I’m working part-time as a dishwasher at a college. It’s nothing glamorous, just a no-brainer, tedious job. I did something last week that scared the crap out of me, though. I submitted a few of my poems to four literary journals. Shrink seems confident that one of these places will publish my work. I have serious doubts. I mean, who would want to read my stuff? They’re just stupid poems. Nothing special about them at all.
I’m in disbelief. I received word yesterday that my poems have been accepted by Julienne Literary Journal to be published. Oh. My. God.
I think I may have even hyperventilated because I found myself on the floor breathing hysterically with a bag over my face. All those poor people at the post office. God bless them for not freaking out on me.
Good news keeps rolling in. Apparently, Dad has been working with a judge to try and get my criminal/drug/psych ward incarceration expunged from my record since it was my first offense, and guess what? As of this morning, I’m a free woman with a clean record! I’ve a feeling that my shrink may have had a hand in this even though he vehemently denied it. I know better.
This will be my last entry for the journaling assignment—the psych sessions are ending. As I read through the earlier entries, I hadn’t realized just how full of anger I was, and rightfully so, but I’ve learned that I no longer need to be. There is so much more to life than holding on to the feeling of anger because people refused to accept me as I am. No more. I want to live my own life the way I feel is best for me. I no longer need to rely on others to help me feel worthy. I can do that for myself. Writing poems and journaling have shown me that. They became the keys to unlocking my true soul.
*First published with GFT Press March 2016
It’s that time of month again 🙂 The question for April is: what does writer’s block mean for me?
First of all, let’s define this term. Dictionary.com defines writer’s block as “a usually temporary condition in which a writer finds it impossible to proceed with the writing of a novel, play, or other work.”
Writer’s block means different things to writers. Some writers know exactly what’s causing their condition; others have no clue. Either way, it’s a distressing feeling NOT being able to create. In many cases the more frustrated one feels, the worse this condition becomes. And If you have no idea what is causing this creative blockage, it can last for months or even years.
It took me a long while to put names to what cause the writer’s block in me. There are three that come to pester me from time to time:
Well, that’s writer’s block for me in a nutshell.
What about you?
I have mainly three reasons:
What about you? Are you participating in any of these mentioned above?
He knew you don’t have to be brothers by blood when you’ve bled together as you faced the demons of the earth where even death can’t sever the unbreakable bond of brotherhood.
Just a little blurb this week about an essay I have published with the current issue of Doll Hospital Journal.
In the essay, In Search of Hope, I recount my struggles through various losses and disabilities that brought me close to suicide as well as my battle with anxiety and depression. Mental illness also runs in my family.
What helped me through all these?
Writing, and the love for my family.
For those of you struggling with mental illness, just know that you’re not alone, and to never give up!
*To read this digital issue, click on the Doll Hospital’s image on top and this will take you to the site to download the item. It will ask for $5.00 but this is only a suggested donation amount.
Over at I held a contest called, “An Ode to Spring,” where writers could write poetry about the coming of Spring (or hopefully, warmer weather!). Today, it is my delight to present you the 2nd Place winner, Tate Morgan, for his beautiful poem, Spring Love.
In spring lovebirds hover fancy
till morning lit by the dew
Takes back winter’s heartache
restoring the love in you
The desperate cries of anguish
from a heart that knows no joy
Feeds long upon its own regret
tossing the soul as if a toy
Give to me your heartaches
lie down in the meadow green
Let go the sorrow of past loves
have rain wash the soul clean
Always to blossom in springtime
love feeds us of our dreams
Washing away the winter sorrows
from each one or so it seems
Take all of what you’ve been given
set aside pieces in you there-of
No broken promise of joy’s embrace
can outshine a true heart in love
Enjoyed his poem? You’re in for a treat then! Visit his page for loads more. 🙂