Category Archives: writing

Courage of conviction

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The Daily Prompt has inspired me once again.  Today’s prompt asks – tell us your favorite thing about yourself.

If you had asked me this question ten years ago I may not have been able respond.  Sure, there were things about myself that I liked.  I can sing pretty well, although I am too self-conscious to sing in front of anyone other than my dog.  I was pretty talented when it came to making and decorating wedding cakes.  But those things are just hobbies, things I seem to be able do with some sort of talent and things I enjoy.

During the past decade of my life, I seem to have gone through a metamorphosis, mentally and spiritually.  I found my inner compass and steadily began to acclimate to the new direction I was headed.  I found the courage of conviction to have a voice of my own.   I found the inner strength to truly believe that the talents I possess are worthy of comments, and I found the determination to follow my dream of being a writer.

Good things happen when you finally believe in yourself and my first published magazine article will be out in May.  That courage of conviction fueled the vehicle that led me here.  I trusted my talent, and more than that, I trusted myself.

I let my true colors finally shine through.

All is “write” with the world again

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When I was eleven years old the writing Gods opened the heavens, the sky rained idioms and I was saturated with words.  I stood in the downpour with my arms in the air, letting myself become soaked in their beauty and I was drenched in a freshly watered passion. The seeds of creativity took root and steadily began to grow.  The garden of ideas was a portrait of spectral beauty and has continued to blossom in my imagination.

Perhaps I didn’t realize the depth of that passion until I was old enough to understand the true gift of being able to express myself from somewhere deep within my mind.  At that tender age of eleven I began writing silly poems, at least I thought they were silly, but the words just wouldn’t stop.  I began carrying a notebook everywhere and would jot down each idea as it came to me.  During slumber parties with the girls, they would all sit in a circle on the floor giggling about the boys, and I would be in a comfy chair writing poems about them.  Eventually I just stopped going to the parties because their incessant giggling was too distracting.  We were twelve, I don’t think I missed much.

Teenage angst and unrequited love only fueled the creative fires when I reached high school.  What teenage girl doesn’t write reams of hopeless thoughts about boys, loves lost to the mean girls and the ones that got away?  My pubescent phase was a match made in heaven for the endless stream of sorrow filled words that tripped over themselves to be freed.  I still read some of those old scribblings and am transported back to those ugly braces and bad 80’s haircuts, but I still can remember exactly how I felt when I wrote those words.

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I lost that passion for a while.  Perhaps it was losing myself in a bad relationship, or perhaps it was just life in general that drained my will to create, but during that period I felt empty.  The voices that used to tell me their stories had fallen silent and I was alone with nothing more than my reality.  When the fog eventually lifted, I began writing my novel a few years ago, but it didn’t access all of voices that had been quelled.  It felt constrictive in a way because it followed one idea, and so it sat and the characters became idle once again.

This blog has helped to lift those voices into song and I am able to hear those choirs and the beautiful harmony they have been waiting to share.  I even feel compelled to write poetry again which I have not done in a long time.  The book now has new life being breathed into it and characters that were once cryogenically frozen in the tundra of my muted brain are now becoming reanimated.  Perhaps they too feel the freedom to speak their mind because they are no longer in the spotlight.  They have the will to move in and out of my consciousness and speak when they feel compelled to say something.  We are dating again, getting to know each other which is sometimes awkward because there are currently three of them and one of me, but the conversation is never boring.  We will continue our ritual dance of the double entendres and I will wait for the day that they are able to pick up the tab.

Romantic Monday with a quiet passion

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A poem for Romantic Monday.  Thank you again Edward Hotspur for encouraging us to channel the romantic in all of us.

Under a Blue Moon

I fit my frail hand into his as we gazed upon the moon,

the beauty of its reflection, comforting like a warm wind in June.

As the pale moon light enveloped us, we stood as one, unmoving,

engaging in a silent vow of love that would never need proving.

The stars returned our glances, embracing a life of their own,

smiling upon us as a distant loon lent music of eloquent tone.

A blend of harmonious voices, echoed the cry of the loon,

as we stood fixed, ever enchanted by the intensity of the moon.

The night air swirled around us, laughing as it tickled the leaves.

The song of the frogs was found in the night and carried upon the breeze.

The rippling of the playful waves as their longing to touch the shore,

gave voices to the rhythm of sounds, sharing a tranquil rapport.

The magical songs in the blue moon light quieted ever so slightly,

as the glow of the moon and the array of stars ceased to shine so brightly.

His grip on my hand remained tender and sweet as he turned to look in my eyes.

A night of feelings shared by lovers under a blue moon and starry skies.

What did you say, Jim? I didn’t quite get that.

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Perhaps it was Sage Doyle’s latest post about Grimm and his night out on E, but something caused me to open the vault in my brain that stores the foolish behavior of my past.  Things that should remain locked and guarded have bubbled to the surface and made me recall the few times I dabbled in some mild altering drugs.  I am relatively inexperienced when it comes to drugs – I don’t even like taking over the counter meds if I can avoid it, but peer pressure is an overwhelming thing and I succumbed.

The first time I was relatively young and my friends thought it wise to do some hits of acid.  Sure, I had smoked some weed once or twice, but I gave up on it fairly quickly.  I don’t like the feeling of being high and not being able to control how quickly I get there, or get back.  At least with wine, I have more control and can switch to water if I feel like I’m reaching the breaking point.  But hey, acid makes sense, no?   Abso-fucking-lutely not.

Flowery_Acid_Trip_by_CrystalSister

Real life quickly turned into That 70’s Show, but I was still in the now.  It didn’t seem to affect me at all.  I was almost disappointed until I realized how ridiculous everyone else looked.  They behaved exactly like you would expect people on acid to behave.  Hippy-speak was rampant and they all spent an obscene amount of  time watching invisible things float through the air.  Once the munchies kicked in, we all headed for the local burger joint and they filled their urges to eat their weight in french fries.  It wasn’t until I saw the purple troll streak by the picnic tables that I realized I was high.  I jumped up from the table and chased the little bastard for a good 5 minutes until I no longer had any oxygen in my lungs.  I lay on the sidewalk and made snow angels.  It was July.

I guess the acid trip had buried itself so far into the recesses of my mind that when the pressure was on to do magic mushrooms, I caved.  Once again, I seemed to be unaffected by anything more than the rank smell of these hallucinogens, so we drank some wine while we prepared some cedar-plank salmon, green beans and rice for dinner.  We had just plated dinner when the giggling started.  I thought the beans were the funniest looking things I had ever seen and once the laughter started, it didn’t stop.  The three of us were perched around the dining room table and none of us ate a bite.  I thought the salmon was trying to swim off my plate, so I built a barricade with the green beans to contain the fish and the rice was used like mortar to secure the walls.   I finally had to step away from my friends.  My ribs felt like each one of them had broken simultaneously from laughing so hard and being around them was not helping.

I took my wine out to my gazebo and lay on the wicker love seat, on my back and staring up at the tree that hung precariously above.  It took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the early evening and when I finally focused, I saw him.  I blinked a few times to make sure I wasn’t seeing things (of course I was, I was really freakin’ high) but he remained motionless – in my tree – it was Jim Morrison.  Now, for a guy that has been reportedly dead since 1971, he looked pretty good.  We chatted for about half an hour – Jim is very articulate and extremely witty for a dead guy.  And then he left me alone to pass out in my gazebo and sleep it off.

I have since learned to say a very emphatic NO when I am asked if I would like to partake in any sort of drug, besides wine.  I think we can all agree that is best.  Even Jim would agree.

The long overdue and a relatively new – thank you post (and an update).

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**At the same time I was posting this yesterday, the brilliant and funny Edward Hotspur nominated me for a Versatile Blogger award as well.  This weekend was better than the Oscars for me….although I was not appropriately dressed in gown and stiletto’s.  But my reaction may have mirrored an overly made up actress after a few glasses of wine.  Thankfully, my dog will never tell.

Here is the original post:

I am a bad blogger.  Not in the sense of my writing, I’m pretty confident that I can string some meaningful sentences together and I don’t foresee an end to my nonsensical ideas any time soon (sad but true).  However, I was given The Sunshine Award a while ago by Pretty Little Dreamer  and I failed to mention that award when I received it.  And today, I was thrilled to receive the Versatile Blogger Award from confessions of an online dater.   Thank you both so much….it is truly appreciated.

sunshineawardversatile-blogger-award

There are rules involved with these awards, but I like to throw caution to the wind and alter the rules slightly.  So many blogs grab my attention for so many reasons and there are too many to list here.  Sufficed to say, they make me think, they make me laugh and they make me cry.  I encourage you to peruse the list of bloggers that I follow.  Their words reach me on many different levels and I am developing some friendships with these kindred spirits.  They encourage me on a daily basis to continue my writing journey and they inspire me with their words.

As for me listing things about myself, it would be a short and uninteresting list.  Your viewing pleasure would be better served by clicking on the links to the pages that make me want to keep writing and free the words that long to be written.  The people behind these blogs are talented, funny and genuinely nice people and I truly hope I can follow in the grand footsteps they have left behind for me to follow.

Don’t get too close – I have vernacular diarrhea

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I’m not sure if it’s contagious, but I opened a floodgate of language and I don’t know how to shut it off.  It flows like a white water river and I am clinging on for dear life while I am plunged into the next swirl of words.  It invades my body like a virus.  It attacks my cells and leaves me listless at times. It feeds on my energy and drains the words from my head. It enters my dreams, controls my waking thoughts and it saturates my veins.  Symptoms of this particular strain include dry eyes, insomnia, gnarled fingers and the side effect of being addicted to electronic devices.  Upon researching this disease, I have come to realize that the language spores are mutating and this outbreak of writing has gone pandemic.

words

Throughout my brief journey in the blogosphere, I realized I am among many like me – people who are affected by this fever, people who have things to say, so many things to say and I really feel like I’ve found a place where I belong, a place where we can begin to find a cure this affliction.  We all have different ways of expressing our thoughts, but the common thread of loving words is woven among us and pulls us together forming a healing blanket of creativity. Expressive thoughts are voiced through poetry, humor, honesty and raw emotion and we are drawn into the same vortex of grammar, syntax and synonyms.

This particular plague can strike when you least suspect it and keep you computer-ridden for days at a time.  The only cure for this malady is large doses of imagination at regular intervals.  If the symptoms persist, please consult your thesaurus.

Soul Mates and The Red String of Fate

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I posted this early in my blogging days, but really wanted to put it out there again.  It still really resonates with me, and after meeting so many like spirits and hearing stories of their bliss, it seemed appropriate to post it again.

“The Red String of Fate is an East Asian belief originating from Chinese legend.  It is based on the premise that the Gods tie a red string around the ankles of those who are destined to be soul mates and will one day marry each other.”  Wikipedia

Some believe in the notion of having a soul mate and some do not.  I am hanging precariously balanced in the middle, only because I hold a strong conviction that the term should encompass much more than meeting your future spouse.  I have speculated this topic in my convoluted brain on many occasions.  Perhaps my definition of soul mate is too broad for the original intent for which it was created.  A soul knows instinctively when it has met a match.  True soul mates are not defined by a relationship, but merely joined by a common feeling, an intuition that you are meant to be a treasured part of each other’s lives.  You have assuredly had several friends in your life that inherently know you.  They understand your thoughts without you having to say a word.  They are a true kindred spirit.

I believe in reincarnation.  I trust that souls, lifetime after lifetime, strive to find each other again because they are meant to be connected.  Whether they are destined to be bound by the sanctity of marriage or merely cast as soldiers on the same proverbial battlefield, they are instinctively drawn to one another.  There is a compelling sense of familiarity, much like the feeling of deja vu – that firm belief that this experience genuinely happened in the past – and intuitively you are connected to each other’s energy.

Although my perspective on soul mates goes beyond husband and wife, I am fortunate to know many married couples that can, in fact, claim that they did marry their soul mate.  A chance encounter or a moment of serendipity, however it happened, their meeting had purpose.  Their love and respect for each other continues to grow through prosperity and adversity because their souls have known each other since long before their first physical connection.

Those ancient Gods may have had altruistic intentions, but just maybe they temporarily lost their peripheral vision. Conceivably their red string had a bigger purpose for tying two souls together that extends beyond marriage and perhaps that notion was lost in translation.

Although the red string may be nothing more than a fable or a well presented myth, it nevertheless gives us hope that people are brought into our lives for a reason.  The responsibility lies within us to discover what that reason is.

The start of my writing journey – thanks Mr. S.!!

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Today’s Daily Prompt is – Tell us about a teacher who had a real impact on your life, either for the better or the worse. How is your life different today because of him or her?

There are always teacher’s that will stand out in my mind for various reasons.  My Grade 9 Geography teacher spoke in such a monotone voice, I almost failed the class because I could not train my mind to pay attention.  But the one teacher that will always stand out as the person who helped to create the person I am today is my Grade 6 teacher, Mr. Stimson.  He truly loved his students and it showed in his teaching.  His lessons were not all taught in the classroom and did not entirely come from a syllabus.

We learned to be respectful, we learned how to survive outdoors during his Wednesday cookouts and we learned how to be decent human beings.  We learned that learning was fun.  His class was our first real introduction to creative writing and I never looked back.  Several years ago, after a very lengthy teaching career, he retired.  I know many people of all ages who had the pleasure of being in his class and every single one of them refer to him as their favorite teacher.   Upon his retirement, I wrote this poem for him.  Thanks Mr. S!!

 Inspiration

Words of Inspiration

He stood at the front of the classroom, a smile upon his lips,

A comical expression on his merry face, hands upon his hips.

He led us through his rhyming lesson, many not paying attention,

But something he said piqued my interest and I delved into a creation.

A whirlwind of thoughts flew through my mind, eager to be set free.

Nobody knew before this moment, that there lurked a poet in me.

Words and phrases I’d never known, spoke music in my ear,

Expressing my feelings in a rhyming prose, and this I did not fear.

He encouraged us to be individuals, to learn, to absorb, to think,

And when we achieved these remarkable heights, he’d always be “tickled pink”.

He is the epitome of teachers, a leader to some and a friend in many ways,

And for his attention and encouragement, I wish to give him praise.

His words of inspiration, helped me to reach inside my heart,

To find out what I hold inside, that tells me and others apart.

I have a special gift, a creative flair, that is very much my own,

But without his help, his caring words, it’s something I’d never have known.

The promise of you

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Thank you Edward Hotspur – you have inspired me to think deeply and more often about romance.  Cheers to you.

platonic-romance-logosmall

The Promise of You

I know you’re out there somewhere, searching for me as much as I’m searching for you.  You may already know me, but maybe we’ve never met.  You know that I’m sensitive, something that not many others know about me because I don’t like to feel vulnerable.  You appreciate my quick wit and you love the fact that I scream at the television during football games.  You value the fact that I’m more tomboy than girl and I can be ready to go in 20 minutes, from shower to door.  You smile at the thought of me choosing to spend too much money on a good bottle of wine rather than settle for a cheap imitation, and you know I practice the same theory in relationships.

Perhaps our paths have already crossed but the timing was off, or perhaps we’ve never been in the same space, but I know you too.  I know you’re smart and charming, you’re not too tall and your arms will hold me tight and make me feel protected.  I know you are funny and your face  lights up when you laugh.  And I know you have a bit of a bad-boy streak, but you grew out of most of it.  You still get that glint in your eye when you remember some of the things you got away with in those bad-boy days.

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Conceivably, you have met me but have not taken the time to realize I am everything you are looking for.  Perhaps we need to spend more time together, talking over drinks, laughing at the same jokes, looking into each other’s eyes and truly seeing each other and not just looking at each other.  Maybe when you look deep enough into my soul, you will see more than what simply meets the eye.  Maybe you’ve already seen it and are too afraid to say anything.  Maybe our friendship is of such great value to both of us, we are afraid to see what could lie beyond for fear of ruining the relationship we have now.  Perhaps our platonic romance is still gently fueling the fire that may evolve into a raging inferno.

Look at me again, but see me with different eyes.  Gaze deeply and see who I truly am beyond the perception of me.  Look at the cover, but open the book to see what the story is really about.  I’ll bet it has a great ending.

Inspiration is a wonderful thing

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My fellow blogger, Rutabaga The Mercenary Researcher has nominated me for The Very Inspiring Blogger award for which I am greatly humbled.  There is something special about being recognized by fellow writers and knowing that your words resonate with them.

So there are some rules to follow….

'Tis the award ~

1. Display the award logo on your blog.

2. Link back to the person/s who nominated you.  

3. State 7 things about yourself.

  • I love a capella music
  • I think Valentine’s Day is a cash grab for businesses – we should celebrate that love every day
  • I don’t think I could survive without coffee, and I’m not willing to find out
  • I could never be a vegetarian
  • I am a die-hard NFL fan
  • I have expensive taste when it comes to red wine
  • I’m happy 99.5% of the time

4. Nominate other bloggers for this award and link to them

So many of you bloggers out there inspire me with your photos, your poetry and your words.   I wish there were more hours in a day to read and visit more blogs.  I need to win the lottery!!  Here are just a few that make me want to continue my journey.

May we all continue to receive the beautiful gifts of words and imagery from those magical places in our minds!!

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” ~ Ernest Hemingway