Up & Down.

I gained 8 pounds.

I get that it’s holiday season && everyone usually gains weight. But I didn’t really have the room to gain the weight. I also get that it’s not a lot of weight && weight goes up & down. But I’m sticking with the I don’t have the room to gain weight.

Last night before dinner my blood sugar was 515.

I cried.

I cried for three reasons:

Because my blood sugar was 515.
Because I was scared.
Because I really wanted what I had made. (Nachos)

I told Boyfriend I needed to get back to walking && exercising. MOving around & such. Last couple of months we have been eating horribly, stopped walking, etc. Today I we went grocery shopping && then afterwards, before I didn’t have the stamina anymore, we went for a walk. Almost 2 miles worth. Took approximately 50 minutes. But I did tell him while walking that this time last year I couldn’t walk two circles at the park without having to stop && sit down for a few minutes before finishing. Today I went six circles (the park is small) without having to sit down. Did I start hurting? Yes, of course, but I’ll take pain over having to stop before I walked for 30+ minutes.

The 8 pounds isn’t a horrible thing. It’s just ruining my small goals I have made for myself. I can’t hit them if I’m going in the wrong direction. A few changing && it’ll be better but first I have to start shopping better. Tonight I’m making stuffed mushrooms, mixed veggies. I won’t talk about the meat I chose – normally I eat chicken. Tonight I’m choosing not to. But as I told Boyfriend while walking – I have to walk out some calories so I can eat my meat.

The rut I have been in for a while is slowing ending. Whether it’s the exercising rut or the writing rut. I have been able to edit some more on my story. The last two weeks I have finished four chapters, which usually takes me four months.

So my two goals for the next couple of months:

Finish Editing Frost so I can finally find someone that can edit it again for me && tell me if it’s crap or not.
Finishing losing weight && attempt to not be so much of a horrible diabetic that maybe when I eat Chinese food it won’t go into the 300’s. (The 515 last night was because of what I chose to eat for lunch, I knew it was bad, but I did it. Now I know not to do it again.)
OH! & attempt to write more in this. I always say, every year, that I’m going to write more but I never do. I purchased a book off of Amazon the other day, “One Line a Day for Five Years” – maybe that’ll help. I have thought about finding one of those sites people use && put a couple of the chapters up of my story, but then I’m scared. So there’s that.

So with that, I’m going to wander back over to my chair && probably play a card game on my phone while I wait to make dinner. My stomach is growling.

Rain in the South

Something Simple.

I am writing/editing.

It’s been a while since I spoke about my writing journey. Lately, it’s been about my health and that journey. But last week, while I was off from work for a few days, I found myself finally pulling it back out && working on Frost. Did I finish it? Of course not. But I did finally get chapter ten finished, and retyped on my USB. Then I followed that up with chapters 11, 12, 13, 14, 15 && 16. I am now working on chapter 17, which is… a lot longer than I thought it was. However, most of it will be taken out.

When I began writing Frost, I was going for numbers versus content. Well, I recently read a self-published book and it was HARD to get through. In fact, I never finished it. I bought it, so I did help the author, I just didn’t enjoy it. After reading that one I realized that going for numbers versus content isn’t going to work. So I have a lot of “junk” in my writing that I need to take out. Which is where I’m at right now. Trying to get the “junk” out but keeping what I need for the book to make sense.

I know I’m going to be my hardest critic, like, there isn’t another person on this planet who is going to hate my writing as much as I hate it. So me trying to edit what I wrote is hard. I’m hard myself because of my word phrasing or my tenses, or spelling errors. I am hard on myself because I think it’s crap && no one is going to want to read it. Or the ones who want to read it hates it because it’s crap.

That’s what I feel when I look at it. That it’s pure crap. Nothing but && needs to be flushed with the rest of the crap. But I’m trying. I am, I’m honestly trying to finish it without throwing it in the trash. Although, if I did throw it away maybe it’ll be like Stephen Kings book, Carrie, that his wife dug out. I mean, he did throw that away. Hah! who am I kidding? I will NEVER have a career in writing like Stephen King. I will be lucky if this book even gets published. Hopefully, if it does, I’m not dead && someone in my family is going through my stuff and find the book && read it and then publish it. Dude! It would suck for the book to be popular, when I’m dead.

But that’s how it usually is, right? Most great writers aren’t found until they are dead. Eh, but with social media, I don’t think that would be the issue. The issue is that I haven’t completely finished the book and I began it in November 2012. But I’m sure I’ve stated that before && I’ve also stated that I finished the rough draft in January of 2015. So, since then, I’ve been trying to edit it, which I have rewritten the first five chapters approximately 500 times. Like, if I were to rewrite those chapters anymore, I’m pretty sure I’d have to rewrite the whole book. Every time I go to edit another chapter my mind starts reeling && I ended up wanting to change something else. But alas, I keep having to tell myself that I cannot keep rewriting the book.

Telling myself something is a lot easier than actually doing it. I want to find someone that will edit it for me. A professional editor, if you will. But at the same time I don’t want to ask one because it’s their job so they’ll want money && I don’t have any to give them. So then I thought maybe I could get a friend of two to read it && see if it’s even worth finishing. But I still have the option of complete strangers. Strangers will tell you the truth. Friends && family, not usually. Because in their heart of hearts they don’t want to hurt my feelings. So they’d read as much as they could, then tell me it’s great to finish it, but in reality it’s crap and I end up putting it in the back of my closet && never writing again.

That’s my writing rut, by the way. I have been in this position for years. It’s not something that just popped up all of a sudden. When I read articles about how to get out of the rut it always says to read more. Read often – read all of the time. Reading is supposed to help a writer get out of the funk. But, up until just recently, I haven’t been able to read a full book. I’ll begin a book, get bored, and never pick it back up. Even from my favorite author. I have read all of his books except one – because of the reading rut. I don’t want to start the book, then get bored, && never pick it back up. So I just never did. However, I was scanning through Amazon the other week and found a set of books. I bought the first one to check it out and ended up reading the whole book in one day. Went back && bought the other two. They aren’t long books, but the way I have been lately, a novella is a great way to start back up. Which, is I think, half of the reason I have been able to edit my book. Do I know that for sure? No – I could have actually just been really bored last week and thought hey, my book is there.

But I will say if you get the chance to read the three book series I’m a Therapist && My Patient is… by Dr. Harper, read them. Apparently they began on /reddit and after a lot of asking for them in a book, he finally wrote them. I have enjoyed them, but some people say they are stupid. So I guess it just depends on your taste in books. My taste ranges it just depends on how it’s written.

I’m honestly hoping to have my book completely edited by the end of the year, but I realize we are only a few days away from August so the year is almost over – it might not happen this year. But I don’t plan on not being able to finish it, so I will eventually. Maybe one day I’ll look up an Author and it’ll say that it took them ten years to write their first book. Doubt it. But maybe…

I’m keeping faith, though, that if I ever actually finish this one, get it published, that if I choose to write another one that it won’t be this hard or take THIS long. Wow. The ten year thing was a joke until I just counted the years. Dude! November of 2022…. will be ten years. That’s crazy!

I guess if it does take me until next November I can call it the Ten Year Book. It’d go along with calling Boyfriend the Seven Year Dude (Syd).

Hap..i..ness

She sat in her chair, surrounded by cats, as she watched Him play PubG on Xbox One, listening to sizzles come from the kitchen. It’s late, nearly ten o’clock at night, &&& she still hasn’t made dinner. Not on purpose, of course, she overslept and then had to go grocery shopping for dinners and Thanksgiving. It took longer than expected, but what did she expect? It is two days until Thanksgiving.

She didn’t plan for this && couldn’t find shoepeg corn.

Her mind ran rampant thinking about things – stressing && obsessing – not silently, either. Of course she isn’t quiet, she’s a female, with thoughts, things to do, buy && give to people. It’s okay that she worries, freaks out and falls apart because in the end she finds herself just in time to make the ultimate come back.

Holidays are still hard for her. A part of her believes that’s half her holiday blues. Yes! Even someone like her, who loves Christmas as much as she does, gets the holiday blues. This year seems worse than last and last year she buried a pet.

She dreams of happiness around this time but seems to find loneliness and despair. Not just her – but everyone: strangers, friends, co-workers, family. Her heart aches for people so much she finds herself stashed away.

She stashes herself away afraid of feeling empty musical notes or reading Christmas cards that are full of lies. You’re not happy – stop faking it – but who wants to read that?

Merry Christmas from The Grinches!
Our new year plan is to divorce because Mr. Grinch has been cheating with is 5’2″, 125 pounds, blonde co-worker who smells like fruit loops. Little Timmy pees himself when he’s nervous and Mya is seventeen, full of attitude, dresses like a hooker, && is about to flunk out of high school – oh! &&& they both want to live with their father, who coincidentally isn’t actually their dad, but they don’t know this. Their dad? Was a 47 year old drummer in a parody rock band. He’s dead now.

No one wants that to ring in the holidays. But that’s how everyone feels. Dark, hopeless &&& scared – but she’s here. (Imagine that she just tossed her arms in the air, smiled and is now Superhero standing in her underwear.)

Hope. That’s all anyone can hold out for. 2019 is almost over and everyone can look into the future.

2020 is fast approaching. She will clink her glass, smooch her boyfriend with dreams of fairy tales, new beginnings and finish the dream.

Dreams. She has decided it’s time to stop, put food down, and do what she needs to do to accomplish her aspirations in life. Everyone gets one life and no one can live it for you. It’s something you have to face with the “I CAN” attitude mixed in with the “I WILL” mental state.

Does this scare her?

Of course, but at the same time she knows it needs to come off the back burner and be treated liked a loved one. Nothing good will happen if you don’t jump in head first, naked, into a lake of piranhas. Don’t fear the rocks of the unknown. You’re going to hit them, she has accepted this and is purchasing a bunch of Excedrin, bandages, and antibiotic ointment.

The journey will be long, tiresome, and lonely at times. Whether you’re looking into the serpent eyes of divorce, sickness, starting over, opening a business or buying a house – the end will be worth it when you can stand on your own two feet and tell the world you did it; that you made it out on the other side and you have the proof.

Dinner is about finished and she is famished. She will be back around the bend soon to talk about how her life is, and what she has been up to. But for tonight, she’ll leave you with a thought: How will you make 2020 the best year yet?

Happy Thanksgiving All!

&&& I was like, “whatever bitches”…

Angel reruns, a banana popsicle and making tator tot casserole for dinner made my brain rumble. Actually, no, what made my brain a rumble would be me reading Gabriel’s Inferno again – for like the, 1,000th time. (So many times a friend asked if my book was still together: which it is, by the way.)

What makes a writer a writer?

I have been asking this question to myself a lot lately. Not because I doubt what and who I feel – but because – am I allowed to call myself a writer? Are you only considered a writer if you have published a book? If so, are actors who write autobiography’s writers? Are chefs who have twenty cook BOOKS, writers? But can you consider a person who is always thinking about writing, but doesn’t write daily; who stares at blank word documents and sighs because they words won’t flow out of her fingertips? Someone who can read book after book and get so many ideas for a novel, but cannot seem to get passed the first sentence to make anything happen? How about the girl who has actually written a novel, but can’t seem to finish editing out the crap parts without dousing it in gasoline and lighting it on fire?

Am I considered a writer or am I a wanna-be writer who dreams of it, but won’t let herself have it because she can’t center her brain enough to do it? But in the same sense, how can I consider myself a writer but not the girl next to me who writes poetry in her basement wearing all black with candles lit and Nightwish playing in the background? What makes me a writer and not her? Are we both considered writers?

I feel like a fraud at times. I’m probably just overthinking things – like usual – but how can I be something if I won’t allow myself to be it? I feel like a fraud because I only think about doing something. I did it, once, but now I’m stuck and afraid. I’m afraid because what if my story that I wrote is as bad as I feel? I mean, it cannot be too good if I can’t bring myself to read it to edit it – can I? &&& I don’t want to ask someone else to edit it, right now, because I know how bad it is.

I bought a indie writers book – she self-published &&& one of the authors I enjoy reading was promoting it. So I bought it, why not? It was only 1$. As I was sitting at work reading it on my Kindle all I saw were errors. Spelling errors. Sentence errors. Run ons, and paragraphs that made no sense. I even read through a part that sounded like the character in the book was a pedophile. I eventually stopped reading it because it went on && on &&& on &&&& on about absolutely nothing. At one point I couldn’t figure out what was happening. That’s what I fear. &&& I know for a fact that a part of my story is exactly that. It’s rambles. It’s nothing. It’s pure crap.

When I started writing Frost, I read how long people think romance novels should be and I went with that. So instead of going for content I wrote for numbers. Page numbers. Word numbers. I was trying to reach 100,000 words without realizing just how much garble I had. So now, when I edit it, I’m trying to take out the garble and leave the story. The content. The thing that will bring readers back. But when I sit to edit the garble I get sad because of how much there really is.

I swear I have a chapter where one of the characters is making dinner. I wrote paragraph after paragraph him making dinner and their thoughts and their crap. It LITERALLY has no place in the story. No one cares that the character likes spaghetti or that they know how to make it. I could have simply wrote “before she arrived he busied himself in the kitchen, making the only dish he really knows: spaghetti.” But no, I wrote how he put the water in the pot and salted the water, and how he boiled the noodles to perfection and made the sauce and poured the wine and she watched. The other character just watched him do it without them ever saying a single word to each other. Instead I could have wrote “he pulled out her chair and poured a glass of wine, living in a small town he doesn’t know much about fine wines, but the lady at the store recommended this one. She took a drink and smiled, showing her affection for the wine choice. She has never been a fan, but knowing that he picked and offered it, today – she loves wine.” I went on to say how he made the plates, put down the spoon and fork, sat in front of her, and then went on to talk about how they ate it. HOW THEY ATE IT! When I could have said “he was no chef, but when it came to spaghetti, he felt it. He gently sat a plate down in front of her. ‘Do you want some cheese?’ Her nerves collided with her brain, but nodded and smiled. He smiled, thinking it was cute every time she blushed, and grated some parmesan on top. Not a lot, but enough to top it right off. She looked around the table at the spread and felt like a queen. It had been a long time since she was offered so much and was allowed to sit at the table and enjoy it with someone. He is going to spoil her, was the only thing she was thinking.”

But here I am. My story isn’t written like that. Maybe I should stop complaining. Complaining doesn’t get me anywhere or do anyone any good. It doesn’t get the story edited or completed. It doesn’t help me in publishing it or allowing someone to read it. What I NEED to do is just get back to it – open the story back up and finish it.

But how do I get passed my irritation I have with the story to actually finish it? I still love the idea, the concept, but a part of me doesn’t like the characters. That’s the problem – I think – I don’t like the characters I built &&& that’s something a writer must do. When I read interviews or listen to authors talk – the one thing they all say, “I love the characters and I loved watched them grow and build into something great!” I have changed and rearranged and renamed and rebuilt my characters so many times – that I am just fed up with them and all they are about. I keep thinking about things I have to have in my story and I keep screwing it all up. I don’t NEED a gay character. I don’t NEED a suicide attempt. I don’t NEED guys being animals. I don’t NEED girls being damsels. I don’t need half of what is in it, but I Have it, because a part of me thought it had to have everything in one. If I put everything into one story then I will have nothing left for my other twenty novels I want people to read.

&&&& who said I had to have 300 pages? If I don’t make it to 300 pages, that’s fine – that just means it’s a shorter book. But of course, I wanted words and length so I wrote and wrote until I had such and such amount of crap and garble that now I have to… you know.

&&& now I’m sorry for the rambling but I think I’m just mad at myself. In 2012, when I began this story, I really believed all of this. Now, the 2019 me is trying to fix the crap that 2012 me wrote. It’s aggravating…

Once upon a time…

Once upon a time there lived a boy who had way too high of hopes for his deranged girlfriend. This boy, who most people refer to as Potato Foot, was a handsome fella, and played a lot of video games. His girlfriend liked to sit behind him and watch as he played Players Unknown Battleground like a crazed maniac. His girlfriend like to attempt to know what she was talking about, but usually he had to correct her because she is a bit of a ditz.

The Boy was superhuman and could pick up a house and toss it feet, if not miles. The Boy has never tossed a house, but the Girlfriend is pretty sure he could if he wanted to. She has noticed that when the Boy puts his mind to something, he usually achieves it.

The Girlfriend, however, cannot seem to even write a sentence anymore. In the past, she could write && write &&& write, but now, when she opens her laptop, all she finds that she does is stare at a blank Word document. Sometimes she thinks that her ability to write, has gone down the toilet. Just flushed, swirled down and now is in the sewer with all the rest of the crap.

The boy, being his loving boy self, tries to tell the Girlfriend that her writing isn’t crap. But she cannot believe him since he has never read anything she has written. But in his defense, The Girlfriend doesn’t usually share her writing – with him, or the neighbor, or the best friend, or even the cats… especially the cats – those mean little I’m going to judge you animals.

The Girlfriend had so many dreams && sometimes she feels like they were washed into a gutter and now the rats are chewing them. This made her sad – not because her dreams are trash and unrealistic, but because – rats.

The Boy laughs sometimes at how silly the Girlfriend is and thinks and talks and walks and chews and…. Okay, maybe not – it’s not the point. He just seems so perfect, being able to shoot fish in a barrel, but her – nothing. She cannot even fail properly.

The Girlfriend tries to accomplish new things but in the end trashes it to the floor in a small pile of crinkled paper. It’s not that she doesn’t want to achieve greatness, she just doesn’t think she is worthy of it. What makes her better than the next person who wants wonderful things to happen? Her dream is to be a writer of books. She wants to be that person that has a book that touches a soul – even if it is just one.

The Boy is always telling her she can do anything if she puts her mind to it. But the Girlfriend knows you’re supposed to use personal experience and likes and loves and feelings and relationships to build stories off – but what happens when the writer hasn’t done anything to build from? What if the things the writer has been through, they are tired of writing about?

Once in a world she could write and write and write and write about feelings, and experiences and death, but now with her Rainbow and Butterfly mind she wants to write love and happiness and finding a way to smile. She wants to make someone feel as if they’re floating in thin air from just the words she chooses.

But words – what if her words aren’t perfect and her paragraphs are dirty, and her sentences are thirsty? How can a writer have issues with wording and grammar and still write a book that pleases all the senses?

She will ask people, a lot, about ways to write more and their answer is always the same – to write more you need to read more. What happens if you’re in a reading slump and every time you pick up a book you begin yawning and fall asleep? Not because the book is boring but because you just don’t feel like it. Kind of like when people tell you to drink more water, but the more water you drink the more boring the taste is. Then you wonder how people can drink the water because it doesn’t actually have a taste and when they give you some line like it’s refreshing, and you think ‘so is Dr. Pepper if you drink enough of it’.

The Boy, however, doesn’t seem to have these kinds of problems – at least the Girlfriend doesn’t notice this. He laughs things off and carries on his merry way. He grabs controllers and plays video games forgetting troubles for a few. The Girlfriend used to use writing for that – just jump in headfirst and live through characters a life worth living. But does that mean her life isn’t worth living?

She is happy and enjoys life. How many people can say they have fallen in love twice in a lifetime with the same person and finds themselves falling more and more every day? She can. How many people can say that by thirty she would realize that she has lived longer without parents than she did with them? She can. But how many people can say that by nineteen they had figured out exactly what they wanted to do with their life and just needed to put it into action? She can.

Putting it to action is her problem. She has a memory card with thousands of writings – beginnings – no middle and no end. She finds herself sometimes going back and opening her old writings and trying to finish them, but she can’t. There is no ending. Her writing seems to go on forever, but the forever isn’t a good thing, because it turns into crap. Then when she finally does write a full story, whether it is short, middle or long, she shreds it to pieces before she can stop herself and ends up with the dog ate my homework writing that makes no sense at all.

The Boy tries to help her the best way he can by supporting and telling her to start writing and saying how their future could be great – if she would only write more. Finish what she has started and do something great! Greatness, she wonders, was it ever in her future to begin with? People her age seem to have already gotten what they want out of life, family, career, but she sits on her throne staring off into the distance of an unwritten world of greys and whites covering a rainbow that was once thousands of colors.

Where did her colors go? Where can she find the colors to pull them back into her life so the rainbows, and unicorns, and cotton candy comes back into her eyes?

But even in the bleakness of rainbow-less worlds of soggy sandwiches and stale potato chips, she can still find a small hole in the fence and write something. Maybe nothing touching or excellent but something – small and ordinary. She finds her wording sometimes to be dramatic and wholesome and perky. But parts, in the same writing, would be swollen and contemporarily empty.

She blinks back the thoughts of quitting and moves on down the wet pavement to the stop sign and stares emotionless for a while before she turns back around and goes home. Home, a place of solitude and happiness. Home, a place where she can put her feet up and know that no one is judging her, except for maybe her cats. Home, a place she can close doors off to people and things and other worldly beings and pretend she isn’t home. They can knock and ring the doorbell and peak into the windows but all they’ll see is empty space. Home, a place where dreams and aspirations live in the air where they’ll be plucked and hidden in a box deep into the abyss of what is known to her as a closet. The closet holds secrets that sometimes need to be spread around, so people know what they are up to. Cleaning out the closet is a real thing and maybe she needs to open hers wide open so the world can swallow her whole.

She doesn’t know where life will take her if she is barefooted all the time, but she does know wherever it leads, the Boy will follow on the back of a fedora wearing horse with a cape yelling “GO GIRLFRIEND!” She knows out of the whole world that he will be her cheerleader, the one person that she can count on, and know that when it rains, it’ll pour – but he’ll be holding the umbrella getting soaked because his ball cap that he wears backwards doesn’t block the rain.

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.

Been a while…

I hope everyone is still hanging around especially since it’s been a while since I’ve wrote anything. Whether it’s been a blog or just writing in general. Sometimes I get in slumps and cannot get anything to flow out of my fingertips. (At least that’s the excuse I’m giving as to why I haven’t been writing on Frost. The blog excuse is different…)

A few months ago we adopted two cats, a white one named Milo && a black one named Chang. (We lost Chang on Sunday &&& I miss him terribly.) The Boyfriend and I left for work and apparently the cats got extremely upset and went crazy in our bedroom knocking over a glass of water I had sat on my side table. The end result? Well, I just bought a new laptop, if that can give you any indication where the water landed &&& what it destroyed. Yeah. I had to wait until I had the money to replace the laptop.

o&&&& I would just like to say that I never realized how much I depended on my laptop when it came to writing. I bought it, got it home, opened the box and sat it up then I just sat there staring at it. My first thought? “What am I to do now?” I mentioned my thoughts on Facebook &&& everyone basically said the same thing, “You could write now?”

&&& they are right, I could write. I could write all kinds of things. But the part of my brain that has control over my writing is dead. Actually, no, it’s not dead – it just has so many ideas that I can’t keep up with it. Then there is Frost.

Oh Frost. Remember when I said that Frost was finished. The first draft, that is. It is, I didn’t lie. However, every time I sit down to edit the story I always seem to change things. Then I stop working on it for a while and when I pick it back up, I change things again. I can’t stop myself! IT’s like a bad habit. Almost like my own little drug.

My drug of choice? Changing my story over &&& over again. If only they had a meeting for that. Or an app. Maybe an app that would zap my fingers every time I thought of a new way to change it. (((I’ve also changed my characters names at least eight times since I started writing it back in November 2012.)))

How long does it take before people stop believing you about writing a book? I started this story in 2012, can still remember what I was doing, what I felt like and the fact I sat on my bed (didn’t have a desk) for six hours straight writing. I feel like I’m doing something wrong, most people finish books within a year, and here I am six years later.

I don’t know.

Off thought, I think I may like this new editing screen. I’m not sure how long it’s been different, but this… I like.

The Cure: Part One.

I began boring myself with my writing. Running out of people to write for. So while at work I decided to email the woman who runs a monthly hand out paper and asked if I might be able to write a story for it. After talking about a few things we decided on an on-going story. I figured I would share it.. I have no idea where I’m actually taking it but this is the beginning and I’ll have Part Two in June.

He dodged the strike as the bolt of lightning flew just passed his face pushing him over onto his back. He rolled underneath a broken tree and flung himself forward getting back to his feet and without missing a beat he continued to run. He could feel his heart beat in his toes but pushed forward hoping to escape. But where he was he couldn’t quite figure out as all of the scenery around him was new.

Zaire was scared, a feeling he hasn’t felt in a long time, but tonight as he made his way through a forest trying not to trip, he felt it. He didn’t waste any moments by stopping and looking back to see if he was out running them, or try to find things to hurl at whatever may or may not be behind him. He didn’t like the chase he was in but he has to keep going; had to let it keep following him to get to where he needed to be.
The lack of knowledge is what scared him the most. He had no idea how many people were behind him or what they were after.

His breath hitched and came to a complete stop the moment his body came in contact with a large Oak tree. Falling backwards he slammed hard onto the ground a tiny puff of dirt flying up around him. His head was groggy but he could see the figure standing above him. It didn’t move, but span the length of three large trees and continued to grow. Zaire felt the eyes of the large shadow bore into his soul. A small growl rumbled around him as his eyes fluttered shut.

**********

Zaire stumbled out of his front door dropping all of the paperwork he had been holding. He huffed as he bent picking up one paper at a time. Lucky for him the wind wasn’t blowing and was actually able to pick them up without having to run a mile; he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have made it. The last few days for him have been good days but today didn’t seem he was as lucky.

He took a couple deep breaths sitting in his driver’s seat trying to settle his stomach. He fiddled through the papers he had dropped attempting to put them back in order from ascending date. He knew he should have bought that brief case he was looking at the other night but talked himself out of it thinking it wasn’t an important purchase. Surprising, even to himself, he hadn’t started purchasing items that wasn’t necessary.

The sun was bright as he made his way the new doctor’s office, 1124B Room 13 West Sioux Ave – he repeated that to himself many times since he googled the address. His last doctor decided he needed to see someone who may specialize in his condition and actually help, rather than give a time line of when he may perish all together. Anything was better than nothing – he felt as if he still had a lot to live for, even if there is nothing in his life.

He did have everything he could have imagined including a job, and a girlfriend. His job was great, for him, at a book publishing company as an editor. He may not have made as much money as he wanted to but he had so many opportunities of moving up in the company that he just wanted to wait for his turn. His girlfriend left three months into the whole process, just as his hair began falling out, stating that she wouldn’t be able to be seen around town with a bald man who could fall over dead at any time. It took a while for him to recover the break up; especially since she did it over the dinner he planned to propose. He still has the ring sitting in a drawer – for the longest he hoped she’d come back.

She never did.

He stood on the sidewalk out front of the doctor’s office and hesitated for a brief moment. The building wasn’t what he was expecting especially since it was more of a duplex and it was connected to a large strip club he used to frequent as a teenager. A few friends of his recently took him in there and either he was stupid as a teenager or his taste had changed.

He noticed that you were no longer allowed to smoke inside of the bar but instead it reeks of incense and the lights are kept dim, he was sure it was to hide stretch-marks as the “talent pool” wasn’t terribly deep and they didn’t want to ruin the general male fantasy. One of the bartenders that were leaning against the bar; she had to be near thirty with a Barbie-thin waist and was ridiculously fake-looking. She stood out compared to the rest of the bartenders as they were ordinary, like they went into a Wal-Mart and picked random customers to mix drinks and smile – a lot. The building is run-down and sad – a nice older building that was aging badly on the side of town that is still circling the drain and losing many manufacturing jobs in the past forty years.

He was having second thoughts about going to this doctor.

Taking one last long breath of fresh air and adjusting the hat he had put on getting out of the car he made his way up the dark steps and into the building that seemed just as dark as the coloring of the building. Maybe some of the lights were out, he thought to himself as he began looking for room 13. The building almost felt like a library to Zaire as he walked, almost in a tip-toe, down the long corridor. The walls were bare and solid white and smelled of licorice.

He cautiously approached room thirteen, not knowing for sure what was about to happen – will he finally be told how to cure whatever it is he had? Or will this be another dead end for him?

The door squeezed open as he pushed on it gently and he walked into a large well decorated room with thirteen chairs and three welcome windows. A woman in her mid-forties smiled a large crooked smiled in his direction and waved him over. He faked a smile as best as he could and stood in front of the window she slid open.

“How may I help you this fine morning?” Her long straight red hair bounced as she spoke.

He squinted toward her name tag that dangled from a lanyard around her neck, still clutching all of his paperwork tightly to his chest, which read Ruby. “I have an appointment to see the doctor.”

“Oh yes, yes, yes.” Ruby clicked a few buttons on her keyboard and blinked toward the computer screen. “You must be Zaire.”

“Yes ma’am, he told me to be here around ten and that he would be able to fit me in. It isn’t going to take long for him to tell me I’ll be dead in a month.”

Ruby shook her head, “Oh darling, don’t think of it like that. Doctor Zephor has performed miracles before. Maybe you’ll be his next.”

Zaire made sure not to hold his breath for miracles. When everything first began it just a headache then moved to body aches and chills. From there he began having muscle pains and his bones began breaking easily along with scabs forming on his arms without hurting himself. Then his hair loss began along with the sight in his left eye, which is now glossed over, and is missing about four teeth. He either wanted the cure for whatever it is he has or death – which ever happened first.

A thick accented voice called from an open doorway, “Zaire McIntosh – the doctor will see you now.”

The office was pretty empty except for a cluttered desk holding a laptop, a television that hung in the corner, and two chairs. He sat nervously still holding all of his paperwork close to his person waiting for the doctor to come and speak to him about options. Zaire leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. His body was so tired all he wanted to do is go home and lie down and sleep for a little while. For a brief moment he dozed, finally able to shut his brain off momentarily.

A small wheezy voice broke into his slumber slightly waking him. His eyes opened enough for a light to shine through and he turned toward where the voice came from. At first he didn’t see anyone and figured he had to have been dreaming but then, as he began to doze again, a girl with long brown hair and large brown eyes sat beside him.

“You don’t look very healthy.” Her voice squeaked at every other word.

He blinked at her a couple times, “I don’t feel very healthy. That’s why I’m at a doctor’s clinic.”

“Do you have hemogoblinataris?” She asked in a matter-of-a-fact way.

Zaire coughed, “I don’t believe I know what that is.”

“It’s what my town has that’s destroying the whole thing. You resemble what a lot of them look like.”

“Did you come here to get medication for it?”

Laughter freed itself from her. “Medication… No, there isn’t one; the doctor will even tell you that. I however know there’s a cure.”

“If there isn’t medication for this then how would there be a cure?”

She sighed, “It’s like an antidote, if you will, and I was told where it’s at.”

Zaire crinkled his forehead, “Then why are you here and not there getting it?”

“I came to talk to the doctor because when I was told about it they said it’s either here with this crazy doctor or in the other location. So I came here first and spoke to Dr. Zephor to see if he had it. He said there is no such antidote for this disease and anyone telling me different is giving me hope that doesn’t exist.”

He sighed, “Is this contagious?”

“There isn’t much known about it, but as far as I have seen, no, it’s not. I haven’t gotten it but ninety-percent of my town has it. I was one of the lucky ones that were out of town when the grains came in. Everyone made so much bread that week and everyone who ate it got sick. Do you know how you got it?”

He looked at this girl who sat in front of him with so much more knowledge about something that was killing him slowly and he knew nothing. He has visited so many doctors and had so many tests but no one could tell him what it was or how he got it. But as he sat there he thought back to when he first began getting sick. “When did they get the grain?”

“Oh goodness, three years ago, I think.”

His thoughts drifted off into space, “And you said they made bread out of the grain?”

Her eyes softened slightly, “Did you eat it?”

He sighed, “I think so. Of course, I’m not one hundred percent, but I’m pretty sure I did.”

Zaire placed all of his paperwork onto the desk belonging to Dr. Zaphor and leaned back in his chair, his heart pounding. He was told once a while back that it was probably something he ate but of course he kept denying it. Why would someone poison food that could and would harm people who hadn’t done anything to anyone else? He couldn’t grasp why anyone would think someone would deserve to die.

The girl let out some air, “My name is Quinn.”

He kept looking off into space, “I’m Zaire.”

Quinn nudged Zaire’s right arm, “You know, I’ve decided to go on a mission to get the cure. If you’re able, you know, you could come with me. I could help you and you could help me – especially since you and I both need the same exact thing.”

He thought about it for a couple moments thinking about the fact that this was the first time he had met her. What would possess someone to ask a complete stranger to accompany them on a mission trip to find something that they honestly don’t know if it even exists?

“How do you know for sure it actually exists?”

Quinn laughed to herself, “I don’t know that it does for sure. The only thing I do know is that I have to try everything I can to help my town. I cannot just let them all die and you look like you’re a little too young to die yourself. So why not?”

“What is old enough to die anymore? Everyone is dying too soon to everyone in their lives unless like are in their 90’s – then everyone says the same thing, well, they lived a full life. Did they really? How do we know if they fulfilled everything they wanted? Who is to say they lived a full life? We aren’t them – we don’t know.”

“Woah, Zaire, I’m going to take it you’re not quite ready to die.” She smiled to herself, “Come with me.”

“So, let’s say I agree and go with you, where exactly are we going?”

Quinn stood up and walked over to the door before stopping, “Tesla Island.”

Zaire stopped for a moment, “Seriously?”

“Yes, I’m completely serious. They say there is an old cave on it and right next to it, not in it, but next to it there is a spot that if you dig you pull up an old box. Inside the box is the recipe of how to make it.”

“Wait, we have to make it?” Zaire didn’t like the idea of doing that.

“Well, yeah, how else would we get enough for you and my whole town?”

Zaire knew better than to agree to this. He knew better than to put all of his hope into something that more than likely doesn’t exist. Why would someone just randomly put a recipe for a disease that no one would know if someone would ever get in a box on an island? How did Quinn find out about this? If someone messed with grain knowing they’d all die from it who would go against that and help cure it?

“One last question before I say yes or no. Who told you about where it’s at?”

Quinn opened the doctor’s door and looked at him with an emotionless stare, “It came to me in a dream.”

“Seriously, a dream,” Zaire was speechless. Who, in their right mind, starts on a mission from something they seen in a dream? “I think I’m going to sit out on this one. I just don’t think I can bring myself to do this if it’s just a guess.”

“Fine,” Quinn huffed, “Suit yourself!”

On the drive home Zaire had a lot of information to process. Doctor Zaphor finally came into his office after Quinn left and told him exactly what the others did. He said within a year, if even that, he’d be dead and it would probably happen when he’s asleep. The thought scared him – not because he’d be dead, but because he hasn’t accomplished anything he wanted to. What does he have to show for himself? Who is going to remember him? All of the thought swirled around in his head making it hurt. He knew this wasn’t healthy but he was nowhere near ready to part the Earth.

“I wanted to write a book,” He said out loud to himself as a tear began to fall.

But he couldn’t write a book – he hadn’t done anything. He played it safe all of his life and now – now what does he have to show for it? Nothing – an empty house, no friends or family around, no job and no love of his life.

He pulled into his drive way and put his car in park. He got out and walked away leaving everything he once thought would save his life behind in the car. He made his way into his house and straight into his bedroom where pictures had been scattered. He stopped and looked around realizing this isn’t how he left his house. Who had been in here? Curious, he made his way back into the living room and then into the kitchen – both rooms had been destroyed.

What would someone be looking for in his house? It’s not like him to keep things sitting around that has great meaning or worth a lot of money. He only has one prized possession and that’s a ring that he put in a box in a vent – no one would find it.

His cell phone ringing startled him.

“Hello?” He almost didn’t answer since he didn’t know the number.

A monotone voice rang in his ears, “Do not go with Quinn.”

“Excuse me, who is this?”

The voice’s tone didn’t change, “Do not go with Quinn.”

“I don’t…” Before he was able to get all of the words out his phone went quiet. He held his phone in his palm staring down at it. What just happened? What could Quinn be into that would have someone call him out of the blue and tell me not to go?

A small tap at his front door brought his attention from the caller. He made his way to the door. He wasn’t used to getting visitors since he had gotten sick. It was if everyone had decided that what he had was contagious and they just stopped coming around. He was more or less okay with that since every time someone was around him they’d only give him the I’m so sorry your sick look and he was tired of it.

He cracked the front door open just wide enough to see out of it. “Quinn?”

“I really need your help Zaire. I cannot get this cure without you.”

Zaire thought about the phone call and wondered if this was such a bright idea. But the side of him that was hoping for a cure was a lot stronger than the side telling him not to. “Why me?”

Quinn fidgeted on her feet. “I need someone that has something to lose to do this with me. I need dedication.”

“I just don’t know if this is something I would be interested in doing.”

She huffed, “So you’d rather just die than go on a small vacation with a person who just wants to help?”

“You don’t want to help me; you don’t even know me…”

Quinn interrupted him, “Who cares whether I know you or not. If you want to die I will leave and if you don’t be ready by eight in the morning because that’s when I’m catching the boat.” She turned quickly and left before he had the chance to say another word. Great, he thought, now I have to think about this all night.

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.