*Written for #StorySaturday (Twitter)
As sure as the sun rises in the morn
and the moon greets the stars at night
as I am with dreams meant to be alive and true
As sure as the sun rises in the morn
and the moon greets the stars at night
as I am with dreams meant to be alive and true
As soon as the toboggan halted, the front door swung wide
and out bounded an elder woman, her hair as white as the snow;
but it was the smile that warmed her the most
for it reminded her of a mother she once had.
“Land sakes, Micah! Get that child inside before she freezes!” The woman said.
“Yes, Ma’am” He replied with a grin.
In moments, she found herself in a plush sofa before the roaring fire
and a bowl of hot soup in hand.
“You must be exhausted, child.” Mrs. Claus said as she sat beside her.
Her mouth full of broth and vegetables, she only nodded.
“We’ll have you in a cozy bed in a jiffy. It’s Christmas Eve you know. All the children must be asleep before he can arrive!” Her grey eyes sparkled.
She swallowed before asking, “there are other kids here?”
The woman’s smile softened as she reached out to push a stray strand of hair from the girl’s cheek, “Oh, yes! And you will be meeting them all tomorrow.”
“Everything’s all set, ma’am.” Micah’s voice drifted from somewhere.
“Thank you, Micah. I’m sure Nick will be by tomorrow to see you.”
“I look forward to it. Good night, and Merry Christmas ladies.”
She turned around in time to see the door to the outside closing.
He was gone, and suddenly she felt sad.
“Don’t you worry, child. You will see him again soon.”
As promised, the woman had her tucked in a large fluffy bed a short time later.
“Drink up this hot cocoa, dearie. It will help you sleep.” Mrs. Claus handed her a tea-cup sized mug which she downed in one gulp.
“I don’t like to sleep.” She said as she laid her head on the pillow. “Bad dreams.”
The woman caressed her forehead. “You will have no such dreams tonight.”
True to her words, the first thing she saw once her eyes closed were flying reindeer with Micah leading them.
Nearly a year passed since the start of the undead plague
she’s been on her own since
in an empty house, in a not-so-empty neighborhood.
she decorated the dead tree with handmade ornaments
made from cereal boxes;
took the last can of Spam as her treat for the white bearded man
and placed the plate on a table beside the sofa.
With a bat in hand, and the sounds of death rattling at the front door,
she fell asleep on the dusty furniture
in front of the cold, stoned hearth.
Rustling sounds awoke her
with a great start,
as she swung the bat through air,
a voice sounded,
a voice so beautiful and warm
it caused her eyes to sprang open;
she stared at the not-so-frightful sight.
A chubby man dressed in a red suit
stood before her;
she blinked and swinted
thinking she’d died already or just dreaming
but saw that this was no dream
he was really real!
He held out his hand,
“Come, let me take you to a wonderful place.”
In a blink of an eye, she found herself
on the roof-top
where a sleigh and eight reindeer stood waiting.
Santa, beside her now, smiled;
a smile she’d thought never would form on her lips again,
she returned with glee.
This month IWSG question is: if you could backtrack and do things differently as a writer, would you?
Wow, this is a loaded question. One I have pondered on and wondered about from time to time. Who hasn’t? Especially now that I’m in my mid (ish) 40s, this question keeps popping up in my mind.
My first inclination is to say “Yes!”
I’d have attended SUNY Potsdam (only) majoring in Journalism instead of bouncing around at least six different colleges and ending up with a degree in Physical Education (which I barely used).
As a journalist, I would have traveled the world. In this reality, I’ve only visited one other country…Canada.
Perhaps I’d even started my own magazine or newspaper company. Or, maybe even branched off into the publishing industry and became an editor or something.
And just perhaps I’d ended up living in Boston (one of my fave cities) where I’d pen my first and break-through novel that landed me on the New York Times’ Bestselling List.
If I’d done all the above, I wouldn’t be the person I am today.
As a writer. As a poet.
Living on a small farmstead in eastern North Dakota of all places 🙂 Writing full-time at home.
I’m richly blessed. I don’t think I would give this life up to relive it as a different person. It’s nice to dream about it, but that’s it, just a dream.
I like this reality better.
What about you? If you had the opportunity to go back and do anything differently as a writer, would you do it?
Back when I worked full-time in the Banking industry, I used to complain how I never had enough time to write. I’d get up each weekday morning by 4am to get myself ready first, and then get hubby and son up before hitting the road by 5:45am for over an hour’s drive (in 35 miles) into downtown Raleigh. I’d work 7am till 6pm (most days). By the time dinner and homework are done, it’s easily 9pm and by that point, I’m ready to crawl in bed. Weekends were usually reserved for catch-ups, house chores, and errands. I’d managed maybe an hour of writing time each week.
With being “retired’ from the work force (am only 46) due to disabilities, I have loads of free time on my hands. I’ve discovered, though, I waste a lot of time doing pretty much “nothing.”
Nothing being spending way too much time on social media, and watching internet-stream tv shows and movies. Well, these were what I was doing for the past year and a half before depression hit me hard.
Or, perhaps mid-life crisis?
I found myself looking back, and wondering what did I have to show for being here on this world? I really didn’t find a career I enjoyed (long story) so ended up in the Banking industry for the last 15 years of my working life basically as a glorified paper-shuffler.
Family put aside, I had nothing tangible.
I wanted more. I desired to leave a legacy.
At this point, I’ve published several short stories, essays, and poems; but 99.9% are online magazines.
I now want more.
Something solid, concrete. Something I can hold in my hands. And smell.
This means I need to get serious, and smart with my time management. I figure a way to start doing that is by tracking every word I write.
This means less time with social media and other forms of entertainment.
I value my writing gift, and feel I have at least one book within me, enough so that I need to start valuing my time more than I’ve done in the past.
So, this is where I’m at in my writing life. At a cross-road, and I’ve decided on the path to take. Now, let’s see where it takes me.
Got to love adventures, eh? 🙂
What about you? Where are you at in your writing life? Are you happy with it? If not, what changes could you make?
This month’s question: Win or not, do you usually finish your NaNo project? Have any of them gone on to be published?
I’ve participated in NaNo nearly every year since 2008, and I will do so again this year. I won twice, first time in 2008, which was the most complete first (and only) draft I’ve written. It’s an apocalypse-science fiction story I titled Hope Falls. It’s to be the first book in a series. I believe it has promise only that…
It’s still sitting on my hard drive (have a binder with printed pages as well–somewhere).
I love to see it published.
Why haven’t I done it yet? I mean, it’s only been NINE years.
Honestly, the editing/revision part scares the crap out of me.
Shorter works I can handle. Just not sure how I’d handle a book-length editing process.
I feel like a wuss.
And I’m worried. Really worried. If I’m this frighten over one manuscript why would it be any different with another?
Am I a lost cause? Can I break this rut I’m in?
I’m a published writer in that I have short fiction and poetry published in multiple zines (both online and print). My next goal is to be a published author.
I fear that dream may never come true.
This means that fall’s foliage is at its’ peak, and the sugar beet harvest is in full swing up here in the Red River Valley of North Dakota.
I woke up this morning to the ground covered in a thin layer of frost. Even had to turn on the heat briefly. With the warm air blowing through the vents, I counted at least four of my ten indoor cats huddled on top of them.
Darn, should have snapped a pic.
October is also the month to prepare for NaNoWriMo (aka National Novel Writing Month) so I’m taking a month-long course with Beth and Ezra Barany to help me plan a novel idea I have.
Like I said in a previous post, I have little problem with finishing short pieces, but a book-length? It IS like running a marathon (I’ve ran 5-ks in the past so I can only imagine what 20-plus miles would be like!) where I almost always fizzle out by the middle, and that’s it.
I either lose interest, or life gets in the way, or writer’s block sets it.
Excuses won’t get the book written.
I need to really look at why I’m not finishing.
Am I meant to be just a short story writer?
I’m unable to accept that.
I may never be a prolific novelist like Stephen King or Nora Roberts, and that’s okay. I just believe that I have at least one book in me that I must write. And this what’s been driving me to try again and again.
A quote by Maya Angelou keeps haunting me:
Now that I’m middle-aged, I have this growing fear of dying before I’m able to complete the kind of writing I was meant to do.
It’s a horrible feeling.
One that’s growing worse by the day.
The only one book-length manuscript I managed came during the 2008 NaNoWriMo, and that’s because of my curiosity to see if I could actually write at least 50,000 words.
Since then, all my attempts to write another book have failed.
I think it may be because those stories were not meaningful to me. They were just stories that I had a vague interest in, but as I laid down word after word, I lost interest.
I find that I can’t devote hours and days to something I have no real passion for. Life is just too short.
In my heart, I’ve always wanted to write a story that revolved around fatherhood and daughters. This desire…no, need have grown exponentially since my Daddy’s death in September 2014.
Three weeks ago, I saw a particular news article that gave birth to a story idea for such a book. In taking the above course, I’m working to develop this idea, flesh out the plot/subplots as well as create my two main characters. I plan to use NaNoWriMo as a jump-start to write as many words as I can, but the goal isn’t to win, but to ultimately have a finished first draft by the end of the year.
I believe I have found the reason and motivation to drive me to be successful this time.
Stay tuned for more later.
This month’s question: What if my writing isn’t good enough?
This group (also endearingly known as IWSG) is all about insecurities; and gosh, I have a boat-load of them!
Where even to begin?
I’ve battled with insecurities all my life, and they’ve filtered over in to my writing life.
You’ll never be good enough.
Don’t bother even trying.
There are so many ideas running through my head. And I have written many of them…but, they usually die (or get placed in the trash).
I have published several items (all short ones) so that is something, I suppose.
I keep feeling like I’m missing something.
Or, there is a story somewhere within that needs to be written and then released to the world.
In the past, in my previous work life, I had this nasty habit of self-sabotaging myself.
Not allowing myself to experience success of any kind.
And this is quite prevalent in my life as it is in my writing life.
It’s like I feel like I don’t deserve it.
You’ll never be good enough.
Don’t bother even trying.
A lot of this stem from childhood abuse. Others from a progressive disability.
Excuses, I suppose.
But they’re the Goliath in my life, and I’m the puny boy with no sling-shot or weapon of any kind.
Just a pen.
I’ve heard that a pen holds power. I just don’t have any faith in the holder of this particular pen.
Am I good enough?
Will I ever be?
Do I even bother trying?
“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there.
It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime.” – Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451
A young woman who lost her parents, one to infidelity and the other to a war in some foreign land, must choose between a childhood dream and her familial responsibility…real life sucks.
This month’s question: Did you ever say “I quit”? If so, what happened to make you come back to writing?
I wrote an essay on this last year, and today I took and created a video from it.
Whimsical images flash through my mind as I wait for sleep to overtake me only to be interrupted by the deafening crunches of the bones in my mouth.
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
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.