Monthly Archives: March 2022

Live deliberately

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I wrote this poem several years ago, but it popped up in my memories and is worth sharing again.

I am not here to just put my toes in the water.

I am here to cannonball off a spring-board,

fully plunging myself into the deep end.

I am not here to simply smell the flowers.

I am here to roll through the meadow,

to give in to careless abandon,

and to saturate myself in their fragrances.

I am not here to be a guest in my own life.

I am here to live deliberately,

to deeply inhale the essence of this life,

because I know, all too well, that life is short.

And at the end of my journey through this lifetime,

all the things I did,

and all the life I inhaled,

will hopefully serve to remind me,

that I lived a purposeful life, and that I made a difference.

The Waking Hours

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The title of my first novel came to me long before the story wrote itself in my head and it eventually pushed the words through my fingers and onto the keyboard of my laptop. I spent many hours listening to the voices of my characters telling me how they wanted to have their stories unfold, and I did my best to tell their tales as they wanted them to be explained in my books.

Fourteen months after self-publishing my first novel, and the three other novels that soon followed, my waking hours now consist of coming into full consciousness while plucking words from the cartoon balloons that linger above my head until they eventually fade into the new day. Many of my mornings, I scramble to madly dictate ideas that I received in my dreams into the Notes app on my phone before they vanish into thin air.

Yesterday morning, I woke up earlier than usual and lay in bed, enjoying the fact that I did not feel the need to release myself from the cocoon of my blankets and rush into the day. The words that followed me from my dreams were profound and gave me an idea for a great plot twist in the book I am currently writing. I could not document the words quickly enough before they faded back into the landscapes of my dreams.

I raced to the living room to animate my computer and do some research to find out if this new idea was remotely possible. My Google search gave me the thumbs up, and I spent the rest of the day going through the 65,000 words in my book to see how many changes I would have to make. Thankfully, this plot twist will not require too many adjustments to make the story flow properly and will allow me to insinuate this new ending without having to fully rewrite the book.

After getting the green light from my mentor, with only a few caveats to make sure I would be able to return to the initial outline if the new idea fell flat, I spent the remainder of last night reworking the story in my head and adding the words that were begging to be freed from the confines of my cranium to follow the path that had presented itself in my waking hours. I am excited to follow this journey and find out which ending wins.

On the days that I write

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Over the past fourteen months, I have worked extremely hard to achieve the rite of passage from wearing the badge of a ‘would-be novelist’ to being able to proudly give myself the moniker of a self-published author of four novels. The road I followed on this journey was certainly not the one I sought, and it was undoubtedly fraught with peril, but it is a road I would travel one hundred times over to regain the confidence in myself I never had, but I now exude.

On the days that I write, I go to a different place. I am not me sitting in my tiny living room, enjoying the sparkling white lights that should have been put away after Christmas. I am a conduit for ideas that come from places I have never seen, and voices I have never heard. I knew writing a book would be an interesting journey, but I never knew how many hours could pass while I was basically in a fugue state, writing words that came from the far reaches of my mind, and from people I have never met, but merely created in the depths of my imagination.

On the days that I write, these characters slowly become a part of my family. Their back stories may not be fully written into my books, but I know these people. I know what makes them tick, and I listen the words they want to say as I let their stories flow from my brain, through my keyboard, and onto the page. When people read my books, they get to experience the same introduction to these characters I had as I wrote about them. They were not outlines on a page before I began the story. They introduced themselves to me the same way they introduce themselves to anyone who takes the time to read my work.

On most of the days that I write, I am blessed to continually hear those voices. I have had days when the voices are silent, and I try to fill the words on the page anticipating where they would want to go, but inevitably, I end up deleting many paragraphs when the characters finally voice their opinion and tell me what I had written was wrong. We come to an agreement, I delete the words I had written in their absence, and the story continues according to their vision.

My stories are their stories. I have learned to listen and not plan. I have heeded their wisdom, and I am bound to tell the tales they want to tell. I am restrained by an unwritten agreement to not put words in their mouths or share stories that are not true to their characters. On the days that I write, I am happy those characters keep coming back so we can continue our journey together.

In Like a Lion

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Today, March 7th, is my still day. It is the day I hold my breath and try to fathom how eight years have passed since my mother died. I vividly recall trying to catch my breath after hearing the news shortly after 7:00 am, swinging my legs over the side of my bed and letting myself sob uncontrollably while the poor woman on the other end of the phone was so lovely and let me cry until I was able to pull myself together. The hours that followed were a blur. They were filled with emotional embraces with my brother and his family, endless phone calls and the inevitable trip to the funeral home. Many days it feels like it happened yesterday. Today is one of those days.

Tomorrow, March 8th, is my bridge day, the day I allow myself the time to rest and let the well of my emotion refill before I am required to dip into it again. These early days in March are saturated with a blend of sadness and tears, but they are also filled with a joy that is hard to describe as my family and I share the stories that will always make us laugh and still feel loved by those we have lost.

The following day, March 9th, is another melancholy day. It is the calendar day my father passed away sixteen years ago. Regardless of the weather, March always comes in like a lion for me. And although the 28th of this month is the day I came into this world many years ago, the beginning of March will always be stained with a sadness I am unable to remove. The two most important people in my life were taken away, and these three days in the month of March always deliver a swift punch to my gut.

As I recover from the annual blow, I remember how much I was loved. I fall back on the memories of their laughter and the fun we used to have, and I take solace in the fact they would be overwhelmingly proud of me for pursuing my dream to become an author. My dad was an avid reader, and he would be thrilled I have self-published four novels in the last fourteen months and have ideas for many more. My mom was my biggest fan, and I know she is always around me, telling me to ‘stick to my guns’.

Although the darkness surrounding these three days is oppressive, remembering their smiles will be the light that helps me find my way back to the happiness I know they would want me to embrace.