Tag: personal

Epic Journey…

The Boyfriend & I met in Yahoo! Pool when we were 18 or 19.  We bonded over things, not a lot of things, just some things.  Music.  Movies.  But mostly our love of writing.  He and I realized that we both have a soft spot for writing poetry, short stories, or even EPIC STORIES OF GREATNESS!

After we found each other again (after losing touch) the first question he asked me, “Do you still write?” (Of course I do!)

A few years ago The Boyfriend asked if I needed anything from the store before he came home from work.  I gave him my small list, which contained one item, and after a little bit I get tagged on Facebook and I wanted to share with the world (the few followers I have) what was wrote.  It’s been hidden far too long and I feel like people need to read it.

*Please be advised that as I type it up I will probably change a couple things because I’m OCD when it comes to a few things.

**Originally wrote on December 10, 2014 by Christopher Graves.

Journal Entry 547:

It was a normal day in the kingdom as I was sent out to deliver supplies to the local barters to insure that justice and peace was being upheld.  As I sit upon the horse drawn carriage I began day dreaming about a great adventure full of danger and caution; one the old ones wrote about.  Suddenly, I was disturbed by the Queen’s dove.  In its wing, it held a letter of great importance, since the dove only carries the most urgent letters.  I reached for the letter and as my fingers gripped the parcel the dove quickly flew away leaving a small bag of coins, a key with no teeth, and a map.  I unrolled the parchment and a grave message was written upon the page.

My champion, our kingdom is in grave danger!  The flames of hell are approaching our doorsteps and only you, alone, can calm the flames.  You must venture into the dark kingdom of Wal-Mart and retrieve the relic known as “The Tampons”.

I smile, as if my prayers had been answered.  At once I cut lose my faithful steed, Malibu, claimed my possessions, and off I went to begin my epic journey.

Journal Entry 604:

The days drew countless as I drew near the dark kingdom of Wal-Mart.  The grey sky started to turn black as I witnessed with my own eyes the twisted and hellish gates that housed this kingdom.  As I drew near the smell of death and burnt flesh filled my nostrils.  What lay before me?  Creatures wearing aprons covered in blood and the crowns of dead men that cried “Merry Christmas… Merry Christmas”; fear set in as I placed my back to my steed.  As I crept closer I notice a bucket full of gold – the coin bag!  How would the Queen know?!  I tossed the gold into the bucket and at once, every creature attacked the coin bag, ripping it into pieces sending the coins towards the heaven.  I jumped on this chance and made my way into this hellish realm sending my steed back to safety as I journeyed into the kingdom – along and frightened.

Journal Entry 804:

I fear this may be my last entry as the kingdom has drained what sanity I have left.  The map is of no use to me as it sends me in circles.

Has the flames of hell already taken my home and devoured all I know?

Journal Entry 805:

I found that the map wasn’t false as I had though originally, I just had it upside down.  As I pass many relics and artifacts of wonder, I leave them be, since they are not mine to take nor do they pertain to my quest.  I follow the map far into the back past “cosmetics, personal hygiene and the place known as Pharmacy”.  I take the key with no teeth and insert it into the key hole of a large chest and once it opens I claim my price.

Content, I find a nearby entrance and make my way home… to my Queen… to my Kingdom.

To be, or not to be Canadian.

Sitting here trying to figure out what to write about I realize that I have really never talked about me.  Not the whiny, poor-me-I-cannot-write-about-anything-because-my-brain-is-broken me but the ‘actual me’.  The person behind this contraption we call a computer, which brings me to this post.  I figured, why not?  Let’s write about the girl every now && again.  

Today, let’s discuss in short about why people call a girl that was born in Amarillo, Texas, raised in a small Oklahoma town – Canadian.

There are funny stories about Canadians.  That they are nice, wouldn’t harm a moose, loves everything, don’t have military because they don’t believe in war – I mean the Prime Minister cried on a televised event because people were being mean.

I’m called Canadian down here.  Because I’m nice, wouldn’t harm a moose, loves everything, and I don’t have a military – I mean, I cry when people are being mean.

I’m mostly joking.  Also, I realize that Canada does have a military.

Yeah, I know this post isn’t too serious, but I wanted to write something – write everyday – &&& I couldn’t think of anything else.  So I figured a small giggle would help someone, somewhere.  If not, well, know that I would make a great Canadian and I’m way too nice sometimes.

Heh.  I’ll try & think of something smarter and more “grown-up” later to write about.  But for now, this is it.

Thoughts Crashing Into Each Other.

The other day, standing in the shower, for a brief moment – I seriously started thinking about stomach surgery.  Packing up a little car, going for a ride, talking to a doctor, and having surgery to shrink my football stomach down to a lemon.

In that moment, I quit.

I quit wanting to try, wanting to prove people wrong, and wanting to be proud of my weight loss.  In that moment I decided that I will never pull the weight off, and that I’ll be obese the rest of my life.  (Even if I don’t want to be.)  I decided that I was only fooling myself into thinking that I can do it.  (Even though a few years ago I was doing it and a few months ago, I was doing it.)  I decided that the journey was too long and if I got the surgery that it would help and take away half the battle.  I’d go down one hundred pounds so quick that I would have the energy, and the oompth I’m missing out on.  I’d probably be taken off some medications and have a different outlook on life.

I got out of the shower and stood in front of the mirror and stared at myself.  I looked at all the extra that I have.  I lifted my arms and looked at my sides, I turned and looked at my back.  I felt tears, but I didn’t cry.  I didn’t let the feeling overtake me and I didn’t let the tears win.  I dried off, got dressed (in my black t-shirt and black shorts, which I wear all the time because nothing else fits and I cannot afford clothes that fit me), and sat on my bed – in the dark.

I started thinking about life and things I want to see, or accomplish, or feel, or live.  I started thinking about complications, and possible outcomes after surgery.  I started thinking about that conversation I’d missing out on when someone says, “oh wow, you’ve lost a lot of weight.”  I remembered that I always wanted to say, “Thank you, it’s taken a lot, but well worth it.”  I think about how the conversation would be different if I have the surgery:

“Oh wow, you’ve lost a lot of weight.  You look great!”
“Thank you, but I cheated, I had the surgery knowing damn good && well that I could do it on my own.”
The look on their face will be priceless, their smile would falter and they’d have a look on their face that screamed ‘I’m sorry I asked’.
I’d walk away, hating myself, because deep inside I know I could do it without it.

A few days passed before I ever talked to The Boyfriend about it.  We were standing in a gas station, I had just bought three egg rolls out of the hot box, and we were leaving to come home.  It was early (my late) and I had just gotten off of work – I was hungry, but I didn’t want to go home and cook.  Who wants to do that when you just worked twelve hours and had to get up in six hours to work twelve more?

The cashier had just told us that she and her husband had the surgery.  Together.  I scanned her face, her arms, body and I sighed.  That look flashed through my mind.  She’s older than me, but it briefly frightened me.  Would I look like that?

On the way to the car I told them boyfriend, “I’ve been thinking about the surgery lately.  Maybe it would help.”  He was silent at first, like he usually is when it comes to my weight conversations, but then he spoke.  He sighed, and told me that if I wanted it he wouldn’t stop me, but he doesn’t want me to have it.  He always tells me,  but sometimes after doctor visits and they tell me I’ve gained weight since the last visit, if a doctor tells me I have to have it or death will occur, that he would step aside and let it happen.  But he doesn’t want me to get it – I understand that.

I told him, once we were sitting down in the car, that maybe if I had the surgery, it would give me the weight loss boost I’m needing (or think I’m needing) to get the rest off.  His face fell slightly, and he just stared at me.  I know what he was saying without him saying it.  It’s not hard to figure out his feelings toward something he doesn’t agree with.  I understand – I don’t agree with it, if it’s not the last option.  (I don’t think someone that weighs under 250 pounds should have it.)

It’s been a few days since then and it’s been on my mind.  The thoughts – the shower – his reaction – his look – that conversation.

What I’ve realized since then is a few things.
One.  I know I can pull the weight off by eating better and exercising.  I’ve done it before.  (Some part of my body seems to start hurting after three months, and I stop, put all the weight plus more back on, and then hate myself.)
Two.  I want to be able to tell people that I did it with hard work, determination, and a lot of blood/sweat/tears.  (Surgery will not help me do that.)
Three.  I think I love myself too much to put myself through it.

So what has all of this thinking made me realize?

I still want to work hard, take years and pull the weight off by myself.  Not with help from a surgeon who is out to make a million dollars by fifty.  I know it’s going to be hard, a long battle, and it’s going to take a lot of time.

But I can do this.  I just have to get my butt in gear and stop making up excuses as to why I can’t, or wont do it.

Soulmates.

Soulmate: noun.  A person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner.

People are given two soulmates in their lifetime.

A lover.
The one person who opens your heart to a whole new world and wonder no one can give you.  A single touch electrifies you.  Intensity.  Love.  Honesty.  Affection.  Spiritually.

A best friend.
Someone to spend life with that doesn’t hate you, scar you, && is always there to help && protect you.  Love.  Honesty.  Spiritually.

You can love many people in a single lifetime.  Some stay, but most leave.  Boyfriends.  Girlfriend.  Friends.  Co-workers.  Life hands you hundred’s of people in your life but the ones who matter never leave.  You may not talk daily, or see each other often – but you know, deep inside, they are there forever.

Growing up I always said, and believed, that a person can only have one soulmate until I realized that’s not exactly true and funnily enough, I realized this while watching One Tree Hill.  I will always believe you can only be “in love” with one person in your lifetime.  I don’t believe you can feel something THAT strong for multiple people.  (You can love as many as you want.  Big difference between loving someone && being in love with someone.)

But sometimes I forget about best friends.  That one person you meet and you simply think to yourself this person, I like this person, they will be mine forever.  &&& it’s true, you may not see them on a daily basis, or even monthly basis.  But you know, &&& they know, &&& everyone knows – they are your person.

Your.  Person.
Your bestfriend.
Your companion.

Everyone needs that person too.  You need the one person in your life who isn’t going to tear you down, or make you feel inferior to everyone else.  Someone who doesn’t crumple your spirit, or squeeze you like an orange if you want to believe in rainbows and unicorns.  Someone who will not get mad when you trip them into the mud, or lock them out of the car on a rainy night.

Reading that you started thinking about your wife or husband.  Boyfriend or girlfriend.  But do you think of your best friend.  The person you met in elementary school or junior high.  Possibly high school or college.  Or if you lacked social skills and didn’t develop much until adulthood, maybe you’re thinking about a person at work.  A girl or a guy that makes your life a little less stressful and enjoyable.  Life is hard enough trying to maneuver your way around it – it’s even harder when you’re alone – that’s why God gave you people.  Two people.  The two people that will get you through life without too much struggle, or too much pain, heartbreak, or sorrow.

Those two people.
Your lover.
Your best friend.
Your soul mates.

 

Maybe…

…I’m not well read enough.

The one thing all authors tell you when you ask about writing books is to read.  &&& read often.  Other than of course writing.  &&& writing often.

I find myself jotting down sentences to paragraphs all the time.  I have a notebook that I keep in my bag (work bag) that has writing all over it.  A sentence, or paragraph, words or names, or even ideas for a story.  Some of it is something I read in books, or something I thought of while sleeping.  I keep notebooks beside my bed, and in my purse.  There are some in my car, and in my dresser.  &&&& to make sure I write at least once a month I am still contributing to a work newsletter where I put a few pages and write on a story for months.  I just finished on, The Cure (which the last part will be uploaded here soon.)  I’m about to start another once I figure out what I want to happen in it.

But what I have been lacking a lot of lately is reading.  I got into a slump a while back and just never finished books that I started or even series.  I told myself this year, 2018, I want to read at least 50 books.  That’s approximately four-ish books a month.  I’m sadly not on part with that, but I’ll get there.  I hope.  I am keeping up with my totals on Goodreads so I know how many I read and how many more I have to go.

As of today, February 8, 2018, I have read two and never finished another.  It tally’s the book I never finished because I left a review for it so according to it I have read three.  I have been wanting to read a series that has been out for about a year, I am reading the first one right now, but I don’t have the other two and cannot find reason to purchase them when I have at least fifty books at home, right now, that I Haven’t read.

But that’s my goal.  That’s my thing this year.  I plan to read this year and hopefully it can help me with my writing.  I also plan to continue wiring for the work thing and hopefully soon I can pick back up Frost (which I think I’ve decided to rewrite it, yes, again.)

So I’ll keep that up and keep this updated on how my progress is going.  But one thing is for sure – I need to get to reading.  Because I still have 48 books to go which is approximately 4 books a month (still) leaving me with 8 more to go.  Yup!  I’m behind.  I sadly don’t want to finish “The Raven” by Sylvain Reynard because I have read all of the other books I own by him and I don’t have “The Shadow” or “The Roman”.

But that’s okay.  I have a few others laying around on book shelves that I need to finish.  The Crossfire Series by Sylvia Day and a few by Christina Lauren.

I’m rambling now.
Closing now.
Have a good evening.
I’ll talk soon.

Last minute thought.  I am also putting in a goal to write in this more often.  If I cannot seem to write stories I can at least write in this blog daily.  Most days.  Maybe not everyday.  I don’t have that much going on in my life.  But a couple times a week.  More than once every three months.

Am I a Cliché?

I’ve been feeling weird the last few months.  && the one thing that has plagued my mind the most is whether or not I’m just an average cliché or not.  I know it’s silly to think of yourself like but it’s there.  Floating around in my brain.

Since I was about eighteen I have been trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life.  What is it that I WANT to be – to do.  I can always remember being younger and wanting to be in the medical field, help people – but once I lost my mother my mood shifted and I didn’t want to deal with the pain of telling their loved ones that I lost their person.  So I’ve been trying to figure it out ever since.

But now I feel as if I may just be another cliché.

I can always remember having the love for writing – which isn’t a big secret if you know me.  I remember writing my very first poem in school then spending years writing poems (I no longer have any of them, which is probably a good thing) before I slowly moved into writing short stories and then began my first novel.

But why is that making me feel like I do?

I’ve noticed lately that EVERYONE is a writer.  If they don’t have a career path, any idea what they want out of life, or are stay-at-home mom’s – they are automatically a writer.  They keep blogs, posting daily, write stories that they share with people, and self-publish novels that they write in about a week.

If they are not “writers” they are ‘chefs’ or ‘photographers’.  *SIDE NOTE: I’m not bashing writers, chefs or photographers &&& you’ll see why as you read on.*

My second love is cooking and secretly, deep down inside, I would love to open a restaurant.  Third love – photography.  I even bought an EOS Rebel 35 MM camera when I was eighteen thinking that I will become a photographer.  I even looked into photography schools to learn how to be better and develop film myself.

But just like when it comes to ‘writers’, a lot of people say they are photographer or chefs because they don’t know what to do with their lives.  When I was looking into the photography idea I noticed just how many people do that themselves and I thought ‘if everyone is a photographer then what am I doing?  I cannot compete with the whole state of Oklahoma.”  (I’ll always have a soft spot for photography and any chance I get I take pictures for people.)  But unfortunately, most of the people in my life call the other “photographers” around to do their photos.  Or… they use their phone and take their own.  That’s fine, whatever.

But am I just like the rest of people trying to do something with my life that EVERYONE seems to be doing?  I will always have a love for writing, but am I being ridiculous in thinking that I will be published?

I just turned 30.  I am 30 years old.  I feel like I haven’t accomplished anything in my life.  Sitting here thinking about my writing and I realize that I have never finished a full story.  Even Frost, the novel I’ve been working on since November of 2012 – I’m still not finished with it.  I actually decided to “rewrite” it.  Now I’m sitting here with a half finished novel and I honestly think it’s complete crap.  I wonder sometimes if that’s why I haven’t finished it.  I even try to tell myself that Stephen King threw away Carrie – he hated that story.  Threw it in the trash.

When it comes to cooking I’m perfectly find just cooking with the family or for them and friends.  I can live my life doing that.  It’s fine.  One day I might open a restaurant, but I won’t be bummed if I never open one.

Photography is a very slow dying out occupation because of cell phone cameras and small pocket sized digital cameras.  Why pay someone to do something your sister can do?

Writing.  I have had a love for that since I was ten or eleven.  (No, I didn’t start writing when I was four – that’s dumb.)  In 2012 I told myself I’d be finished and published by 30 – but here I am.  With neither crossed off my list.

I guess what I’m trying to figure out is what do I want to be doing for the rest of my life?  I know for a fact that it’s not my job right now.  I do NOT want to make it a career because I barely like it.  (No offense to the job itself.)  Honestly, I know the answer, but does it make me a cliché knowing that I don’t like my job, don’t really have any future plans but I want to be a published author?

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