Ghost of Christmas Past!

Daily Prompt:

What is your very favorite holiday? Recount the specific memory or memories that have made that holiday special to you.

* * * *

Sleepy eyed I’m awaken by my brother. I glance over at the clock, big red letters flashed, 6:30 am. This was an every year thing. Tim would quietly walk through the house to me and wake me up. Him and I would then tip-toe into the living room, still in our pajama’s, sit in front of the Christmas tree Indian style. We’d wait.

One particular Christmas, I remember, was the very last Christmas we spent with our grandmother – who shortly after had seven strokes, back to back, and was paralyzed. An air mattress was laid out in the living room floor, on it laid my grandmother and her boyfriend of fifteen years. Excitement boiled within my brother and I that we couldn’t wait, we thought about making all kinds of noises to wake someone up. Instead. We waited. Just like every year.

Sitting in front of the tree was a tan teddy bear with a red sweater. I knew it was mine. I wanted it. I knew who it was from. And I wanted it. (I still have that bear and I was 11 when this Christmas happened.)

Every holiday is easily remembered, however I cannot recall everything. Some of my memories of my childhood is blurred or isn’t remembered correctly.

I can remember my last Christmas while my mother was still alive. She was so excited about the present. My mother decided that every year we’d get one big present, usually costing her over 100$. A large box sat behind the tree with my name on the tag. I had no idea what it was. The morning when we opened it I pulled out every ‘Nsync doll, and the full collection of glass bobble heads. That is all I wanted, nothing else meant as much as those dolls. (I also still have those.) I was 15. A few years ago, however, some kids broke into a shed my brother and I own, pulled out every single bobble head and destroyed them. I cried. I felt like I lost my mom all over again. A week later my brother handed me the collection of bobble heads. The day he realized they were broke he got onto Ebay.com and purchased them for me. I was 24.

I can remember the last year I spent with my dad. Not perfectly. It was a bad year. But I remember that I threatened to mush his food because he had a trek after having everything in his throat removed due to throat cancer. I remember that night because of the fact he was there, and after that he lived a couple months before passing. I was 23.

Last year my brother and I, (not a Christmas memory), went to Denny’s for dinner. His wife and step-children went to her mothers and my brother had to work that day. After he got home we got ready and had dinner together. It doesn’t seem like much to a lot of people who I tell about it. But after some of the past years, that was perfect. Just my brother and me. I was 25.

This year I am excited. I’m hoping nothing horrible happens and we have a great day. Of course, though, my brother has to work so we’ll have to wait until he gets off. But either way I’m happy. I’m ready. Finished shopping for presents. All I have to do is buy the dinner.

The one thing I’m sure everyone noticed – the years I remember, are the last years I spent with certain people. My grandmother. My mother. My father.

I lost the spirit after my mother passed away and I’m just recently getting the urge to celebrate back. Hopefully I keep the urge and it continues to grow. However, I’m Santa Claus this year. I have many stocking stuffers.

20 Things to Do…

…once a month.

1. Write a letter.

Whether it is to a long lost friend you haven’t seen in ten years, your neighbor about a tree that hasn’t been chopped down, or your spouse telling them how much you love them. Just sit down when a pen, piece of paper, and write a letter. The contents would be strictly up to you.

2. Open the door for a stranger.

We all watch those black and white movies where a tall, good-looking male stranger holds the door open for a short, thin, beautiful long haired blond female – she smiles, thanks him, and at the end of the movie it shows their wedding and birth announcements. I’m not saying holding a door open for a stranger will bring love, nor am I saying it “has to be a male for a female”, anyone, should hold a door open for a stranger. If you’re entering or exiting a store and you see a stranger approaching, pause, and hold the door open for them.

3. Smile and say hi to a complete stranger.

Little things honestly mean the world to people. A small smile, whether it’s timid or a large, face covering smile, just smile and follow it up by a simple hi. Strangers remember gestures like that all day – possibly passing it on to someone they find further into the day.

4. Dance around your house in your underwear.

Male. Female. Adult. Teenager. Human. Witch. Mutant. Horse. The next time you’re home alone, turn on your favorite song, and dance in your underwear. Dance, honestly, as if no one is watching. (Even if you choose to dance with someone there.)

5. Give someone a dollar.

I don’t mean tip a waitress a dollar. (I hope you tip more than a dollar.) Walking down the street, into a store, or at a cafe – see a stranger? Hand them a dollar. Smile. And walk away. Maybe somewhere down the road you will receive that dollar back from a complete stranger.

6. Take a walk.

You don’t have to go alone. By all means, take a friend. But put on your brightly colored sneakers, go outside, and take a walk. A long walk.

7. Pick a weed from a field.

Take that simple, ugly weed home and place it in a vase. Add a tiny bit of water and place the whole thing in your windowsill. Take care of it as if it was a long stemmed rose. Love something that isn’t loved by many.

8. Go to your local animal shelter and love on any animal.

People tend to forget about how helpless those poor animals are. Locked up day in and day out, possibly getting out into a fenced yard to run for a few minutes, just to be put back in a small cage that is filled with their feces and urine. There is honestly no telling how long those animals have been there, will be there, or how much longer they’ll be alive. Just give them a few minutes of love.

9. Volunteer at a retirement home.

LOVE OLD PEOPLE! Hold their hand. Listen to their stores. Men and women are put in those places because their families are tired of taking care of them, unable, or don’t want to. They, just like the poor animals, sit in their rooms all day and night in their bed staring at walls, televisions, or nurses. Just once a month take a couple hours and go say hi. Take them some cookies, or even some flowers to brighten up their rooms.

10. Read a book – cover to cover.

Any book. I’m not picky. However, I could give you some ideas if you need some. Go to the library and pick a shelf. Close your eyes and point. That book. Read it. Read one chapter per month throughout the year. But read that entire book.

11. Turn off your cell phone.

Yes. Seriously. For four hours, turn off your cell phone. This would be a great time to read that book, or take that walk.

12. Get a gym membership.

& use it.

13. Draw a picture.

Even if it is a stick figure. Use a sticky note or an envelope from a bill.

14. Write a story.

“Once upon a time, there was a small green cricket…” Now, finish that.

15. Learn a new language.

I’d request you learning Spanish or sign language.

16. Take an hour long bubble bath.

Male. Or female.

17. Have a glass of wine at the end of the day.

Cannot afford an expensive wine. Doesn’t matter. Buy a bottle from Wal-Mart.

18. Take a road trip.

Even if you only go three towns over. The next state. Across town.

19. Don’t be a hurry.

Slow down and take a breath. On your way to work. Or during lunch. Take your time.

20. Do what you love!

Someone once told me that they hated their job, spouse, and life. That’s a horrible way to live. Always do something you love. Love someone who brings joy into your life. I love to write, however I’m not paid for it. But I still do it. I write randomly at places that would probably surprise a few people. I’m always thinking about writing even when I’m not writing. Never settle for second best when there is something you love to do. Love to paint? Then paint. Love to sing and dance? Do it. Don’t let anyone tell you that you cannot do something just because it doesn’t pay the bills. Follow your dreams. Do what brings you joy!

Life is too short and can be taken so quickly. Be over. You should never do anything to inhibit your happiness. DO you wish to be on Broadway? Then go. Move and try. Don’t stay in a small town and hope that one day you’ll be discovered. Because one day may never happen. You could be waiting forever.

It’s no secret for anyone that I want to be a published novelist. I dream of being able to hold a book, with my name on the front of it, in my own hands. Be able to look in a mirror and tell myself that I have done it. However, it’s not about the money. This is for me!

During lunch the other day, I went alone, and I took a pen and notebook. I sat and wrote. Quietly. I sat there and wrote down thoughts. Many words on many pages. The waiter didn’t rush me. I watched as people came and gone. Next to me was an older couple. As they were leaving the woman stopped and smiled down at me.

“Are you doing homework?” She asked.
I smiled, put down my pen, and leaned back in my chair. “No. I randomly write.”
“I thought so. You looked intense.”
I shook my head. “Yeah. I love to write.”
She smiled and shrugged on her coat. “I can tell. ON day, you will put out a book.”
I had no idea what to say. SO I just smiled and watched as she left holding hands with her husband.

That dear lady has no idea who I am. We’ve never met. She doesn’t know that I am in the process of writing a book, and that every day I get further and further to being done. That I hope, one day, to be published. She just knows how intense I looked as I wrote.

I wonder now, that I have had time to think about, if maybe she knew something I did. They say, pets, children & older adults see things that we don’t.

A Letter:

Daily Prompt:

Who is the person in your life who can do no wrong? Describe this person and tell us why you hold them in such high esteem.

Dear Timothy,

There are not many people left that I truly cherish. We have been through a lot and every day we face more side by side. At times it feels like a dream, and we’re sucked into it. I feel, sometimes, if someone pinched us hard enough we’d wake up and we’d be 15 & 16 again. Back to reality. Back to the life we knew was ours.

We an Hansel & Gretel, if you will. A fairy tale brought to life. (I’ve been watching too much “Once Upon a Time.”)

I know that isn’t true. We aren’t dreaming. We are living life the way we are supposed to. However, my dear brother, I know there is so much more we have to face. Together.

I was asked today who is the most precious person in my life. The only person I could think of was you. You are everything in my life. If I ever lost you I have no idea what I would do. How I would go on.

You’ve always been the strong one. The one that isn’t afraid. That doesn’t shed many tears. Someone with a heart of gold, even if you decided to stop believing so high of yourself. You’re intelligent, nice, and do so much for so many people who take you for granted. I know people think, sometimes, that you’re no good. But to me, you’re exactly what people need in their lives.

You are comparably different than everyone in my life. You are the only one left that tells me how it is. The only person I can honestly put all of my faith in and know that I won’t be disappointed in the end. I know, just as you do, you’ve disappointed me. But not on purpose, and I know this.

Nobody is perfect.

But I know you will always be damn near perfect in my eyes. You are my big brother. Someone who sticks up for me. Believes in me. Takes care of me. I know that as long as you’re near me I can accomplish anything I want. You’re more of inspiration to me than you’ll ever know, and I want to thank you. I love you more than you’ll ever know and don’t want you to forget it.

Love always,

Your Little Sister.

Death.

Daily Prompt:

Unexpectedly, you lose your job. (Or a loved one. Or something or someone important to you.) What do you do next?

I try to focus through the dark. A dark that seems darker than dark. Is that possible? The tears finally stopped leaking, my eyes are left swollen and sore. Almost dry. Who would have knew it was possible to have dry eyes after crying for days. Days that seem to blur together.

I realize I’m standing in the middle of the room clutching myself in hopes this is all a dream. A horrible dream that I wish to wake up from. I don’t move as the door opens, a friend standing in the door way. Her eyes red. Has she been crying? Why would she cry? This is my death. I’m supposed to be sad.

My friend walks in the room and sits on the edge of my bed. She doesn’t turn on a light. She starts to cry again. I reach my hand out. I want to make her feel better but instead, my hand just slips through her emerging on the other side. I crouch down in front of her, trying to see into her eyes. Urging her to be okay. She must be okay.

Aggravation settles deep within me. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. They are supposed to be happy. Making jokes, searching for what they want out of life. Not this. I throw my hands up in the air and remove myself from the room. I have to find something. What am I supposed to be finding?

The house is empty. Nothing. No furniture. Just a piece of lined paper with writing on it. I bend down, slightly, to pick up the paper but stop, remembering what happened with my friend. I straighten back up and stare down at the piece of paper. I slide my foot toward it, but instead of it just sitting there, it slides across the wood flooring. I take two steps, bend, and pick it up.

Dear Self,

I wanted to accomplish so many things in life. None of which I did. No one will remember you and your few friends & family will not remember you in about three weeks. Three weeks. That is all you were worth. Nothing more.

Now you’re dead. What do you have to show for it? A wooden coffin that is right now being thrown off a bridge into a large body of water to float away into the hemisphere. A few tears were shed today while you were hiding at your funeral.

I couldn’t read anymore. I drop the paper and hurry toward the front door. It swings open, moving through me as if I wasn’t there, a shiver runs through my body. More people. People I don’t know. Why are they here? They walk through the paper and it shreds into a million pieces and flies away through the air.

A gust of wind. I turn and exit my house. I blink.

My house? It’s gone. Confusion clouds my judgement. This cannot be real. Why didn’t I move on? The next life. Something else. I look around, noticing all of the streets connected to one another with no street signs. No houses, people, animals, or buildings. Nothing.

What will I do next? Everything in my life is gone. I’m gone. What is my next move if I’m lost? Will I ever be found?

(Not sure this is what it wanted. But I started writing & this is what I got.)

Deleted. (For Me.)

I deleted my other blog. Completely. All the posts dating back to 2011 are gone.

I do this a lot. This, I do believe is the third time I have fully deleted my blog on this site. I do have another blog. But I have had one on this site for many years.

Why do I do it?

Aggravation. Irritation. Inflammation. Probably not the third.

I go to this site daily. Stare at the main screen, and sometimes will pull up a blank blog. And I will think about writing, anything. But nothing gets wrote. It stays a white screen. Eventually I close the browser and go back to whatever it was that I was doing before.

Deleted. Meaning I have no followers anymore. All 13 people will no longer see my blog posts. My randomly paced, promises of more blogs, not seen. Gone. Maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe I forgot what it means to write. Maybe I’m writing for all of the wrong reasons. Everything I write I write in hopes that someone will read it. Someone important. Someone will see it and think “gosh, I must find this girl.” But nothing. I don’t get that! It’s not surprising. Not many people read what I write.

But that’s okay!

Everyone starts at the bottom. I am not sure why I ever thought something would come of anything. I like to write. People do a lot of things they love to do and not expect anything to come of it. One day – if I’m mean to – I’ll do something with my writing. Until then, I really need to focus. Focus on what it means to write. The joys I get out of it. Go back to writing for myself. Stop writing for other people. Stop thinking that what others think matters.

Write for myself.

Seems simple enough, right? You’d think it was. For me, however, I want to make people happy. Especially with my writing. I’m not exactly saying that I want to write the next Great American Novel. I don’t want awards and I don’t want money. I just want someone to read what I write and think “that’s what I needed to read.” Be able to hold a book, with my name on the front, and tell people just how well it was written. How much the book, the words, the story felt real to them. Now, it’s all the can think about.

But – that’s not writing for me. That’s writing for other people. I have to start writing for myself. Me.

Why is doing anything for yourself so hard? Every time I try and do anything for me. Just me. It always seems to backfire and it ends up being for someone else. Weight loss. It began for me. Then crept into something for other people. I’m not even sure what people it’s for. Writing my novel. It began for me. Me. Through the chapters it has became something else. Something completely off of what I wanted. I wanted to finish it. Get it published. So I can finally prove to people that I can and will accomplish something. But why should I care what people think of me? What I do or don’t accomplish?

I don’t write daily. I should. But with the novel hovering over my shoulders and so many people who “want to read it” it became something I began dreading. I always use the same excuse, “I will get it finished. I’m just in a rut.” I’m not in a rut. I no longer enjoy doing it. When you begin to dislike something you’ll never finish anything. I have so many unfinished pieces of writings, that it is overwhelming. Questions weighing on me. The same ones: “When will I finish just one?” “Am I in over my head with this book?” “Should I stop writing on it and write something else?” “If I stop now, will I ever pick it back up?” “Should I give up writing all together?”

Why not give up writing? I give up everything the moment it begins to get hard. The moment something seems out of reach, I quit. Walk away. Never look back. I have done this all my life. High school. Jobs. College. Nearly done it with the job I have right now. But I stuck it out. It got better. But when will the ability to write get better.

If I have to try this hard to write – doesn’t that mean I am not meant to do it?

But if I’m not meant to write. What am I meant to do? What is my purpose if not to write? I don’t

Pictures.

I find myself digging through pictures a lot. Never sure of what I’m going to do with them and which ones I am going to put in frames. My memories, my family, are left with just pictures. Millions of pictures throughout my house. Memories that I sometimes forget. Like the trip to Walt Disney World my family and I took with I was 15. I haven’t forgotten it. However, I cannot piece together every single thing we did or seen. Everything that was said, sometimes is a blur to me.

Pictures, however, make me remember. I remember the small things. Like the guy standing in front of me when I was trying to take a picture of a large parade they do every night before Tinker Bell swoops from Cinderella’s castle and flies around in circles before flying back into a window at the top. Looking at those pictures I realize now that it’s the same guy with his family.

After the parade, Tinker Bells flight are fireworks. Fireworks, at which I’ve never seen anything more amazing since. They lit up the night sky in multiple colors as the crowd around me found love. Couples holding hands or stealing kisses. Flashes of colors in everyone’e eyes. My dad wrapping his arm around my mother as I stare in bewilderment at the sight before me.

Love.

It’s such a small thing to remember. The whole trip. Without pictures, however, I can only remember the not-so-great parts. The day we were walking and I didn’t realize there was different types of heat. Florida, a heat all of it’s own, threw me out. I waved my imaginary white flag above my head as I took a seat on a bench above a large beautiful tree over looking a water ride. I sat, breathing, in the shade as people whipped past me on a water ride that left the ground and slide far into the sky. I wanted to ride it. Every part of my being wanted to stand in line, get into one of the logs, and ride through the water as it splashed the passerby’s that got a little too close. I didn’t, though. I was scared. I was petrified of leaving the ground. Being too far into the sky. Instead, I sat on that bench and watched everybody walk around munching on snacks that are way over priced, drinking out of a bottle of water that is nearly fifteen dollars.

My attention was quickly drawn back to reality the moment an older gentleman squirted me with water in my face. My eyes flashed around until I caught him, staring. My mom smiled and thanked him, no one else thought to. He smiled back. “She looked a little white. I was worried. She needs water.”

I couldn’t get over just how generous this man was. As I continued to sit there, breathing, letting the water run off my face and sizzle on the ground I felt something hit my head. Not hard. Just a small thump! I felt my hair. Pulling my hand back I realized there were birds in this large tree that I decided to sit under. Birds don’t quite know how to find a restroom.

My mom laughed for hours. She is probably still laughing as I write this.

Pictures show a persons life. It shows what they did, who they were with, including the love and affection one person shares with another. I remember a time where I took pictures upon pictures. Snapping pictures so quickly people were hiding my camera. I loved it. Still do. But the urge has faded a little since my brothers wedding.

I had one job that night. One. Pictures. Take nice pictures as they walked down the aisle. As they said “I do!” As they finally had their first kiss as man & wife. I couldn’t even do that. I couldn’t bring myself to tell my brothers wife’s friends that I needed the lights on. Because they didn’t. The camera’s they purchased were better than mine. Digital. Compared to my 35 mm, that needed light besides the flash, I let them control them. I let them decide for me that I didn’t know what I was talking about. I took the pictures. I took many pictures. I didn’t receive one single good pictures. They were either too dark, or too far away, or someone standing in my way.

Haven’t taken pictures much since.

Early yesterday morning someone asked me to do their Christmas pictures of their family. They’d pay me. How can I turn down an offer like that. There are only two things in life I’ve ever had a connection with. One: Writing. That will always be my baby that nurture. Will, until the day they put me underground. Two: Photography. To show the world how I see things compared to them. The beauty in things. I can’t draw it by hand. I use camera’s.

I am going to take her pictures of her family. I’m going to speak up and I will make sure they turn out decent. I just wish that I would have spoke up at my brothers wedding. Because then, they’d have pictures that were decent and not complete crap.

Pictures can mean a lot of things for a lot of people. For me, it’s life. It’s love. It’s memories. It’s family. It’s everything wrapped up into one single multi colored piece of paper. Something so small means so much to me. I have cried over pictures ruining. Water being sprayed over them, sticking together. Then, by the time I realize it’s too late. They are glued together. As I listen to the pictures peel apart, that wretched sound of paper stripping the life from itself, I cry. Tears streaking down my face as I grip the pictures tightly in my hands. It’s a heart breaking moment. Losing life. Losing memories. Losing love. Losing family. Especially when you’re family is gone.

Moments in pictures. A stolen kiss. A stolen laugh. Someone caught off guard as they shove the biggest corn dog in their mouth at a large fair. Moments, small moments, caught by a single flash behind a camera.

Take more pictures through your life. Write on the back of them. That way when you’re eighty and you open a box from you life. You can remember exactly what is going on in that part of your world. Something so small.

15 Minutes.

Daily Prompt : You have 15 minutes to address the whole world live (on television or radio — choose your format). What would you say?

(I find myself standing on a stage in front of millions of people. A hush has fallen over the crowd. It’s quiet. Except for a couple coughs and readjusting their seat. They wait. Cameras flash as people take pictures. Film crews, many, surrounding the stage that I shakily stand on. It’s Christmas Eve. The world has gone crazy on the debate whether or not Santa Clause is real. The world is watching. I fumble with my index cards as I look at the crowd, one more swoop through, and wonder if anything I was about to say would mean anything to any of them. I clear my throat.)

Dear People of the word, (My voice sound weak. Almost hoarse. I know if I’m going to get this to work, I must sound more proud. I straighten my back and take a deep breath. Starting over.)

Dear People Of The World, (A couple people smile in the front. I wonder if they know how nervous I am. How everything I was about to say I meant and I believe.)

Lately. (I adjust my skirt.) We have had a big debate on the existence of Santa Clause. Whether or not he is real, or an old fairy tale our parents told us to keep us in line – since no one has ever saw him. Thinking on this topic makes me think of a cartoon I watched the other night, “Yes, Virginia”.

(I stop for a moment and take a breather. I glance down at my hands, which are knotted and intertwined in themselves. A pretzel. I didn’t realize I could get my hands to look like this. The crowd, the world waits for me to continue.)

I have tried, many times in my lifetime, to explain why people should always believe in Santa Clause, whether you are 6 or 106, and until I watched that cartoon, alone in my cold living room, did I hear the best way to explain the reason. (I wipe my forehead free of sweat.) Out of curiosity I Googled the clipping from the newspaper in the cartoon and realized it was a real clipping from a newspaper from September 21, 1897 and written by a news reporter by the name of Francis Pharcellus Church.

I want to read this news paper clipping from the New York Sun if you’ll have me.

(Out of a small pocket on my jacket I pull out a folded piece of paper. I unfold it, shaking just a little, and run my eyes over the words that were printed on the sheet. I couldn’t believe I was standing in front of these millions of people. The world. Explaining to them why anyone, no matter how old they are, should believe in Santa Clause. I begin:)

Virginia O’Hanlon wrote to the sun, this is what she wrote, “Dear Editor, I am eight years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Clause. Papa says, ‘If you see it in The Sun it’s so.’ Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Clause?” After a quick response, Mr. Church replied, and he wrote:

‘Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except for what they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginia’s. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.’

(I folded the piece of paper and placed it back in my pocket, never looking up at the crowd. If I were to drop a pin, I’d hear it. I closed my eyes and took a moment for myself before lifting my head and revealing a jaw dropped audience. A couple, sitting in the middle of the front row, smiled, tears speckled their cheeks. I felt my heart expand. The crowd stood on it’s feet, applauding. I smiled.)

Thank you. (I took my bow. I took that moment to enjoy everything. Even if I didn’t win over everyone, even if I didn’t win the debate, I believe that I got my point across. The love and beauty, never being written so well since, still rings in my head from that clipping. I enjoyed it. If one person, or two, enjoyed it as much as me. Then I did my job.)

(I turned on my heels and began walking away. I didn’t stop until I got back to my hotel room where I dropped, roughly, on my bed and pulled a sheet over my face. I was still fully dressed as the last bit of sun peeked it’s “Hello!” through my window. I didn’t know what would happen the next day but I was proud. I was happy, and for me, that was enough.)

Ice + Cold = Me Still Not Writing.

Thursday into Friday it sleeted here. Constantly. Crazily. All night. Meaning – I have been stuck in the house (only leaving once to go to the Post office & pick up my copy of “Gabriel’s Redemption” by Sylvian Reynard.)

You would think, not being able to leave, I’d jump into writing and work nonstop on my novel. Right. That would be the smart thing to do. Write while I can’t leave. Finish the first draft. Seriously? Why would I do that?

I should be working on the draft rather than just sitting in my house watching Netflix. A couple nights ago I decided to watch “Once Upon A Time” and now I’m addicted. In fact, as soon as I finish this post, about how I’m not writing, I’m going to watch more of the show on my laptop.

I still have all intentions of writing, I do. I have all intentions of finishing it. But I’m still stuck. I have wrote the beginning and the end. I’m having trouble finding the middle. Think of it as a sandwich. I have two pieces of bread and no bologna. (What a meat to think of, bologna.) I have a couple parts in mind to use, and I’ve basically wrote them out. However, it needs something else because it doesn’t make sense otherwise.

I will say this much, though. I may not be writing but I am thinking about it constantly. Always have paper around – in my purse, car, beside my bed, at my desk, & on my coffee table. I went out a couple Friday’s ago with some friends. In the middle of a ‘bar’ I began writing. Jotting down notes. Inspiration hits me at odd times and in weird places. That’s why I always have paper and a pen. However, that particular night I did not. I rode to Denton, Texas with someone else, leaving paper in my car. But someone had a slip in their purse along with a pen.

Maybe I am in over my head. Maybe not?

*shakes head* I WILL finish this book.

(If I can get the first draft finished I will upload a synopsis about it and see if it would be worth reading. Basically seeing if someone might want to buy it and if I should go ahead and try for it to be published. So here is to finishing the first draft. *lifts mug of cocoa* ching!)

Don’t be a jerk! It’s Christmas!

It is the fourth of December.

December – a month where you’re supposed to be happy. It’s beginning to get cold – if it isn’t already cold. (I live in Southern Oklahoma – it’s just beginning to get cold.) Go out in public with a smile and help people as much as possible. Sometimes I forget that I don’t live in a pink world with cotton candy trees where people just break out in a musical number at the drop of a dime. (We can only wish.)

I was slapped in the face tonight with how much of a moron I really am. I went up to Family Dollar in hopes of finding a cheaper set of headphones because mine aren’t working anymore and I love listening to music when I write. I parked, wobbled in, and began searching. Once I found everything I needed (about eight things) I headed to the register. There were two people in front of me so I just stood to the side a little because they knew I was there, including the cashier.

Apparently, when I’m standing somewhere I tend to bob my head so I was doing that. (I noticed and stopped.) Waiting. I’m a patient person. Always have been even when I was a child. I figured if someone is in a bigger hurry than me there is a reason behind it. I’m never in a hurry. When I get into a hurry I tend to get flustered and never regain my composure. It’s easier for everyone in my life if I just take my time.

There I stand in line with my few items waiting. People get in line and go before me. Now I’d like to point out, I am 5’3″ but I’m as wide as a barn – you can see me. I promise. People were acting as if they couldn’t see me. They’d look at me and continue on. Finally it is back down to two people in front of me, I get a little excited because I’m about to leave. A boy in his teens gets in line, he glances at me, I do my normal “smile and nod my head.” Nothing. I shrug it off. Maybe he thought I like them younger and now totally want to attack him in the store. Who knows really?

A couple minutes flash by, the lady in front of him had a basket full, overflowing. I glance around a lot when I’m waiting in line. I take in the scenery, if you will. I glanced back over at the kid and now an older woman, possibly in her 40’s, is now standing with him. Her eyes never leave me. Yes, she is watching me like a hawk. I shrug that off. (I seriously am just that mellow.)

The woman is finishing up her payment and the teen looks over at his mom and gestures toward me. The mother (remember, she’s in her 40’s talking to her teenager) turns her back to me and proudly exclaims, “If the bitch was in line she would be next.” Then the mother pushes her son forward, almost bumping into the woman in front of them, and begins putting their stuff on the counter.

First, I’d like to say that I have very good hearing. I can honestly hear people whispering in a loud room.

Two, it takes a lot to piss me off. I just don’t see the point in being angry, at anything.

Three, that 40 year old mother of a teenager is a prime example of why teenagers now days need a good swift kick to the teeth. Because their parents, who they look up to, don’t teach them right & wrong.

Four, that mother angered me. I cussed to myself all the way to my car. Through the drive home. To my sister-in-law as I was dropping off the stuff for her. All the way across the street. To updating my Facebook status. And now, I’m still complaining.

You’re supposed to teach your children how to be respectful. If you have a basket full of stuff, someone has eight, you’re supposed to teach them that it’s okay to let them go first. But no. This woman will raise that teenager to be the type of person who is walking through Wal-Mart, someone ACCIDENTALLY bumps into him, and he punches them in the eye followed by some horrible language and a screaming match where he is eventually arrested.

Good luck in the world, young man. I wish you luck.

(Side note, this was written by a 26 year old. Goes to show just how much parents have changed in a few years.)

Writer Page.

I keep thinking about some of the articles I have read about being published. (I have never been myself.) I want to make a living out of writing. I dream of being an author, published, and everyone owning a copy of a book that I have wrote. I honestly don’t know if that will happen – I really don’t. But I do know that I have to start somewhere. Other than of course finishing my novel.

So tonight, as I listen to the Christmas Carol, I made a facebook community page – & I’m the only one that has liked it so far. I understand, right now, it will be fanless. I understand that because I’m still a nobody in the writing world. One day, however, I’d like to become a known writer in the writing community. Tonight, however, I understand I won’t.