I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother and I found all three.-author unknown
I ended my night by corresponding with my soul brother, Rory. I love that man more than words can convey. When I started writing just over a year ago, this wonderful writer started following me. Why he’s not published is beyond me.
I don’t have too much more to say about him, except that I’m happy he’s in my life. He doesn’t judge me. I don’t judge him. He’s the best brother a silly woman like me can have. Wish I could tell you all who he is. I promised I’d protect his identity.
I love you my dear, sweet brother. I breathe easier knowing that you’re out there rooting for me. And loving me.
If I ever get a book written, I’m going to be like the chick in the tub. Smoking, drinking champagne and speaking Italian. Giggle, snort!
When I first started blogging, I wrote a post called Steamy Windows and Nineteen. It was a favorite memory of mine. Kyle told me in an email that I wrote very well, but my best stories were about love. The more tragic, the better. I’m sad he doesn’t blog anymore. He taught me how to write erotica. I miss him.
I loathe most romance novels and writers. Nicholas Sparks, Danielle Steele, Nora Roberts, Stephenie Meyer, Robert James Waller, etc. Dear God, if I type any more of the author’s names, I’m going to hurl.
I’ll be happy to write like Robert James Waller though. I read The Bridges of Madison County and I swear to you I cried so hard, part of my heart broke. The damn thing won’t ever heal. The movie? Fahgettaboutit. I could be in the sunniest mood when I first start viewing it. By the end when she grips that door handle, I’m sobbing like a lost child. I swear to you I am pushing against that door with all my might. I want her to run to him. Even though I know she won’t. I pray that the story will end differently. I know it’s where I got the idea for the ashes of the woman to be buried with her writer in The Ghost of a Great Love.
I’m not trying to tout my work. Be all stuck up and snobby, like my writing is exemplary. Far from it. What I’m trying to tell you all is that I’m super frustrated by the revelation that I am a romance writer. I wanted to be deep. I wanted to be all cerebral and shit. It ain’t gonna happen though. This silly blonde woman wears her heart on her sleeve. I always have. Always will.
I have a fantastic editor. I won’t tell you his name, because he asked me not to. Plus he’s mine and I don’t share well with others. I’m working on getting published. I’ve found a couple of writing groups that I’m going to join. I’m even working with a local publisher/editor. I’m praying that something good will happen with this writing “thing” as an ex-friend calls it. I tell you though, if all I ever do is write on Rendezvous, that’ll be enough.
The image below is my 1/2 sleeve tattoo. I’ll be getting it soon. Starts at my left my shoulder and wraps around my elbow. See, I really will be wearing my heart on my sleeve. For everyone to see.
I was born April 3, 1968. The day before MLK Jr. was assassinated. The day before civil rights as we know it changed forever. Daddy was a MI State Trooper. A Boy in Blue. He strapped on a gun and went to work in the D after that dreadful day. He tried to establish order to the chaos. He and the other men that swore to serve and protect. Another baby that was to be my mother and father’s slipped away. Mom was devastated, but God had a plan. That plan was me. The mistake of my conception and birth was to fill a void in the life of Patty and Don. It was to fulfill a dream. It was my beginning.
After almost 45 years on this planet I have figured out why I was born. The realization came on January 4, 2012. I am here because I am a writer. I didn’t figure it out on my own. A dear friend pointed it out. Most days I still don’t believe it. This used to be a journal. It’s so much more than that now. The words, stories, pictures, music, poetry, inspiration, everything pour out of me. To finally realize why I was born leaves me in awe. I still have so much to learn. I want to feel everything and write it all.
There’s a book I need to write. A tragic one. About love between a poet and an American girl studying abroad. Drug addiction and rock bottom. Does she leave? Does she stay? Does he die? Does she? I promise it won’t be schmaltzy. I’m a romantic and I like to write erotica, but I HATE schmaltz. I want to keep writing my blog, but I have to get the book out. I’ll keep doing Friday Fictioneers. If I find a photo that rocks my world I’ll bring it to life. I can’t post every day and write a book though.
Now where did I put my notebook and pen? It’s time to get to steppin’.
Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for the prompt this week. I’ve been sinking my creative teeth into Friday Fictioneers and finding that I love the taste. The practice in discipline has been quite a learning experience. I figure if I can tell a story in 100 words, imagine what I could do with 100 pages. Or 500 pages. I’m getting closer to that 500 pages. Everyday…
I want you all to know that I’m working through some sadness in my life. I’m trying to keep the smile on my face, but it’s difficult. I know that my stories have been tearjerkers as of late. Hopefully, now that I know that the results of my surgery came back negative, I can enjoy a great 2013. Hugs, love and kisses to you all. On with the story.
If music be the food of love, play on.-Shakespeare
She reaches for the cello in the closet. Wishes he was here to rehearse their duet. She seats herself and begins to play their haunting, melancholy composition. Her eyes close and she feels the music flow within her. The sadness begins to disperse from her heart. She doesn’t hear him enter the room. He silently picks up the other cello. Sitting across from her, he sees her somber yet serene face. Places the instrument between his legs and strokes the bow upon the strings… She opens her eyes, gives him a wistful grin. They let the music extend their apologies.
Special thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for this week’s prompt. Not sure how this will turn out. I do believe Rochelle is right. These 100 word stories can be quite addicting. All criticism and kudos are welcome. Thank you for taking the time to read my story.
Jessie looks up from her laptop, and sees Ramona and Abigail standing in the hospital room doorway.
She asks, “What do you want?”
Ramona states, “We wanted to see you is all.”
“You two wrote me off months ago. Now that I’m terminal, you’re here? Fuck off!”, she responds.
Abigail starts crying, then Ramona does.
Jessie says, “Don’t you dare cry for me, you are only here to assuage your guilt. Get out.”
The two women turn and walk away, defeated. Jessie places her reading glasses back on her nose. Turns her attention back to the laptop and continues writing.
I try my best to throw myself into my writing on the days when I hurt. It seems my best work comes from those days when it rains in my heart.-Me
Thank you so, so much to Moonbeam McQueen and Cristi Moise for their nominations. Love, hugs and kisses to both of you. I thank you for your support. I fucking love you all so damn much!!!
It’s been almost a year since I started this silly blog of mine. It has evolved. I have too. I’m not even sure who I am anymore. I like this new person I’ve become though. I do. I’m proud of the words that I write. The goofy and sometimes profound things I say. The music, the madness, the dirty stories, and the friends I’ve made. This is quite a community. I’m so pleased to be a part of it. I love to write. Everything. Everything. Everything. This is my calling.
I have been nominated for over 20 awards this year. Over 20! Five just last week. I need a trophy case! Growing up, I was the girl that was always picked last for sports and I never won anything. I was the weird girl. The drama girl. The musician. The loud girl that was looking for attention and someone to love me. I had huge boobs too. That’s about all I had going for me. Fortunately I married a wonderful man. Had great children. Made a good life. There was sadness and depression in this life too. Addiction.
That’s how all of this started. I was transforming; evolving. I was losing 150 lbs and re-discovering myself. As a woman. Not just a wife and mother. But a woman. I was learning that I was viable and vibrant. Beautiful. I shared my story and found that it was the story of so many others. We’re all going through our own lives of quiet desperation. I’m not trying to sound arrogant when I say I’m beautiful. I never thought I was. I still struggle with it. I totally get it when P!nk sings, Don’t Let Me Get Me. I’m prone to self-destruction. Madness even. Here, in this sphere though, I feel safe. Normal. It is my haven.
Everyday I fight a war against the mirror Can’t take the person staring back at me
I’m a hazard to myself Don’t let me get me I’m my own worst enemy It’s bad when you annoy yourself So irritating Don’t want to be my friend no more I wanna be somebody else
Select the blogs you think deserve the ‘Blog of the Year 2012 Award’.
Write a post and tell about the blogs you have chosen and present them with their award.
Please include a link back to this page and include these rules (do not alter the rules or the badges).
Let the blogs you have chosen know that you have given them this award and share the rules with them.
Click on my Facebook page on the right hand side of my blog
As a winner of the award – please add a link back to the blog that presented you with the award – and then proudly display the award on your blog and sidebar … and start collecting stars…
The groovy thing about this award is you can give it to as many bloggers as you want. My list is long and probably doesn’t include everyone that is should. If I’ve forgotten you, I’m sorry. Also you can win this award up to six times, so pay it forward. And send it back to me if ya want. Wink, wink.
You Jivin’ Me Turkey: I followed this guy because he’s a quotes whore and so am I. I have found him to be so much more though. He’s a charmer and a sweet, sweet man. I long to share a cozy couch, 80’s movies and popcorn with him.
Thanks to Rochelle for this prompt. A groovy photo from Joyce Johnson. I’m finding that this is kind of fun. Wonder what the hell I can come up with today.
Gargoyles? Demons? Ghosts? Vampires? Hmmm. What does it mean? Should I be scared? I’m not one for fear. I like the unknown. Should I follow the hand that points the way? Or should I turn back? The face below it is kind of garish and demented. But I find myself drawn to it. I put my hand to my lips and giggle. A nervous habit, I know. My impulsiveness takes over and I turn right. I walk past the metal work with the silly grin. I make my way down the darkened corridor. And find myself bathed in Heavenly light.
Writing to me is simply thinking through my fingers
Adam Boy asked me a couple of days ago, “Mom why do you want to be famous?”
I replied, “I don’t really want to be famous, I want to be remembered. To change a life.”
He said, “Mom in 100 years no one will remember you, and that’s okay because no one will remember me either.”
I told him, “Baby I was asleep for so long. I’m awake now, and I don’t ever want to go back to sleep.”
Adam replied, “Mom it’s okay that you’ve changed. That you’re awake. Most of us are only husks; shells.”
I looked at him in wide wonder. I wondered how he got to be so smart. And yet so jaded at such a young age. He’s only 21, but he speaks with the wisdom of an old man. Even though our children grow up, they still do things to amaze us. He’s so much smarter than I will ever be. Both Meggie and Adam Boy are. I’m proud of that fact. But I also told them that if they turn into arrogant fucks, I’m going to kick their asses. We’re a Blue Collar family. We are loud, opinionated, and down right rude, but we are good people. I did not raise my kids to be assholes.
Now to talk about writing. Writing has changed my life. I’m awake now. I’m thinking through my fingers. I’ve helped a young woman keep from committing suicide. I’ve connected with so many people all over the world. I’ve found my home. I’ve found my tribe. We are the tortured souls that have something to say. We do it with our words. We write what others are afraid to. Hell, the first time I posted erotica on my page I was petrified. Then I realized it was only part of me. I can write about anything. And I do. I’m so proud of that fact. So damn proud!
There are so many people that I want to say thank you to. I can’t name them all. I first want to say thank you to my best friend Lisa. She’s the one that told me to write. That I had a talent for it. She gave me the name for this fun bloggy of mine. I want to thank Kyle. He taught me so much about writing. And my sweet friend Rich too. Louise, ah my beautiful Louise. Then there’s Bradley. I love my dear Bradley. My brother in arms though, is t. I don’t have a brother, but if I did, I’d want it to be t. He’s the peas to my carrots.
Please keep reading. I promise more stories, more journal entries, more rants, and definitely more erotica. As always if you want me to write for you, send me a picture. I’ll make it come to life.
Love and hugs,
Special thanks to Rochelle for the lovely prompt. I’ve never done this before, so be gentle. By the way, I love the fact that Rochelle loves purple. Purple is my favorite. 100 words exactly. Woohoo!!!
They were perfect in the glimmer of the summer sun. It changed when the leaves began to fall. He left her here. Alone. She wonders whatever possessed her to move here. To give up her other life. For him. In this lake house his presence is everywhere, though he is nowhere to be seen. Only his ghost lingers. His words, lies, and empty promises. In the cobwebs and dust that she feels no desire to remove. In empty corridors, she can hear the echo of his voice. In an empty bed they used to share, she clings to his pillow.
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