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When You Hide From Writing . . .

Also known as procrastination in the extreme.  Yes, a lot has been going on in my life recently (like finding out I’m pregnant!  Yay!!)  But still, I feel that excuses are always excuses.  I can sit and write, even if I am having first trimester exhaustion.  I did actually take one Saturday and edit “Black Saturday”.  But that was one Saturday out of months of avoiding writing.

My writing cannot improve unless I actually write. Whether its 10 minutes or several hours, the amount of time spent isn’t important as just writing.  So, I say – no more.  Every day, lunch break or just before bed, whenever.  Grab my journal and creatively write.  

And as scary as it is, I’m going to do NaNoWriMo next month.  Without a single idea for a novel or what to write.  5K words in one month without any idea how to start.  Here goes . . .

 
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Posted by on October 16, 2013 in Writing

 

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Contemplations

I stared into the gaping maw, wondering if it would swallow me whole as well.  The black dress Grandma had me wear itched, the cotton scratchy and rough.  I didn’t understand what was happening.  At my small three feet of height, the world seemed so much bigger.  Scary big.  And this hole?  I felt that I was standing on the edge of forever.

I tried to ease back, and stepped into my Pa.  He wore his stern face.  The face he wore when I broke the lamp.  And when the cow died last summer.  He motioned with his head, and I turned back around before he got sterner.  I just hated facing that black pit.  I tried to not squirm while the Pastor said his bit.  It must have been nice, since all the women were crying.  But I didn’t understand what he was saying, so I just stood and tried to look stern like Pa.

When the Pastor stopped talking, Pa nudged me in my back.  I stepped forward slowly, scared to death.  I held the rose out at arms length as far as I could stretch.  I dropped it and it hit the edge of the pit before falling down into the black.  One lone red petal remained

Afterward, the women came by and hugged me a lot.  Most of them smelled like powder and it made me sneeze once in a lady’s face.  Pa stood next to me, looking very stern and just nodding when anyone spoke to him.  After the last few trickled past, Pa put his hand on my shoulder.  I looked up and saw that all his sternness had faded away.  His eyes looked wet and he gave me a sad smile.

“Let’s go on home, Mae.  It’s gettin’ dark.”

I nodded and took ahold of his hand.  We walked, slow, back to the truck.  I looked back to see the men with shovels putting the dirt back in the hole.  It wouldn’t swallow me now.

To Be Continued . . . 

 
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Posted by on May 3, 2013 in Short Story

 

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Research & Romance

I have been reflecting on the writing process over the last few days.  Part of my writing involves nonfiction, research based writing.  This is mostly for my classes, though I try to bid for jobs on E-lance and other forums to bring in a little extra cash.  I imagine that for most people, research can be tedious and boring.  For myself, it is an adventure.  I equate it to almost like an RPG game.  I can sit for hours researching without any writing in mind, simply to inform and learn.  But, I must admit, my creative writing is akin to a romance.

It woos me.  It calls me to sit and imagine and write.  Its an uncovering and discovering on a completely different level from research, like two lovers spending a lifetime learning each other inside and out.  This is new for me.  As I branch out of my nonfiction style, I am slowly learning more about this new romance.  It has taken some change and a different perspective.  But I am glad for expanding beyond nonfiction.  It’s worth it.

 
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Posted by on December 29, 2012 in Writing

 

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Inside Outside

“Leave me alone, ” the old man muttered as he puttered around the small room.  He tried to turn his back from the shade that continued to stare at him.  He decided to look out the window with the hope that by ignoring it, it would go away.

The outside world was thick with white fog.  He couldn’t see anything worth looking at, but he continued to stare into the blankness rather than turn around.  He closed his eyes and began to hum an old tune, something from his childhood.  His body swayed to the imaginary rhythm.

He stayed lost in the song for a while, always hoping in the back of his mind that the shade would be gone eventually.

The song ended in his head, so he opened his eyes to look out the window.  The fog still remained.  He shrugged and slowly turned around.  The shade was still there, but it had moved.  It had settled like a pile of dirty sheets in the corner.  It’s sides slowly rose and fell as it breathed.  The burning eyes followed his every move.

He walked over to a chair and dusted the seat before sitting down.  He refused to make eye contact with the shade.  He noticed a wrinkle in his pants and sat for several minutes fingering the fold, trying to restore smoothness to the material.

The old man looked up to see that the shade had resettled in the shape of a person in the chair across the small room.  It turned its head slightly and spoke in a deep, gravelly voice.

“Mr. Holt, how are you feeling today?”

Mr. Holt eyed the shade a moment, seeing wisps of smoke break away and go drifting upwards.  Maybe if he spoke to it and played along, it would go away.

“I’m fine.  A little tired.  Didn’t sleep too good last night, but then most people my age don’t sleep too good.”  Mr. Holt eyed the shade for a moment to see if it would try to swallow him whole.  It remained in the chair.  It appeared to be writing something but there was no paper that he could see.

The shade spoke again, “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Holt.  Do you know what day it is?”

Mr. Holt looked suspiciously at the shade, sucking on his gums before answering.

“It’s February 10, 1954.  My wife is at the store picking up groceries.  Why do you want to know?”  The shade looked up, the burning eyes seeming to brighten a moment, then looked down and continued the odd writing movements.

“I see.  Well, thank you for your time.”  The shade quietly hovered up from the chair and floated across the room to the door.  Suddenly, it stopped a moment and turned back.  “Do you know where you are or how long you’ve been here?”

Mr. Holt shrugged as if he wasn’t quite sure.  There were times this tiny room looked like his living room, sometimes like his bedroom.  The window never showed anything but thick fog.  The shade nodded once, and left the room through the door. Mr. Holt stared a the spot where it had been for a new more seconds, making sure it wouldn’t reappear to torment him anymore.  When it remained gone, he eased his head back and closed his eyes.  Soon, he was snoring.

Outside the door, Dr. Shuler peered through a two-way mirror, watching the sad man napping.  He shook his head, not sure what else he could do.  This man was living the same day 30 years ago, looking out imaginary windows in a padded room on the psych wing of the hospital.  When asked to draw a picture of the doctor, Mr. Holt would only use black and red crayons, drawing something akin to a demon.  He would move around the tiny room, lay in the floor to sleep.  It was as if a part of his memory had been removed.  And there was nothing Dr. Shuler could do.

 
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Posted by on October 13, 2012 in Short Story

 

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