Tag: writing

Once in a dream…

When I was younger I had a dream. It seems silly to me now, but as a child, it’s what I aspired to. I dreamed about what it would be like to stand in front of a crowd, chanting my name, holding lighters up wanting more.

I wanted to be a rock star!

I didn’t want to do it for the money or even the fame. If I wanted that, my choice would have been to be an actor – I just wanted to sing – to be on a stage.

That’s half the reason I chose to be in band – the other half, because I love music. Being in band (I played clarinet) gave me the opportunity to be on a stage multiple times a year. But it wasn’t enough, so in middle school I signed up for the talent show. First year I sang a Britney Spears song, yes, seriously, I was in middle school in the early 2000’s. The second time I sang an ‘Nsync song. (It may be the other way around – I’ve slept a lot since then.)

I may have lost both years but it was by far the best moments of my life. (That’s sad, right?) I probably would have kept entering it but thanks to a group of guys and their screamo, they stopped holding it. They eventually started again, but it was after I dropped out. (That’s for another day.)

As I have gotten older the feeling has calmed however the feeling still appears. My job has an event center which of course has a large stage. Sometimes we’ll have classes and I’ll space out staring at the stage – daydreaming.

The feeling has exploded but not exactly for the stage. I may still get that fuzzy feeling for the stage, but now I get that feeling for the printed word.

I was told once, “If you’re meant to do something you’ll always be thinking about it. When you go to sleep, wake up, and in between.” When I was younger it was singing, performing; anything dealing with the stage – that I thought about all the time. As I’ve aged my thoughts have changed and it’s always thinking about writing.

When I’m not writing, I’m thinking about it. That’s, I think, why I get so frustrated when I get “writers block”. It’s also why I get so angry at myself when I think about ‘Frost’.

I know I question whether I’m supposed to be a writer or not a lot, but it’s not because I don’t want to, but rather – shouldn’t it be easier? Is it normal for someone to take over six years to write a book? I mean, technically, I ‘finished’ it back in 2015. Since then I Have been attempting to edit it – all I seem to do is change things. I basically rewrite it, become aggravated, stop writing for months just to pick it back up – starting over at chapter one, to begin rewriting it again. I swear I have rewrote ‘Frost’ at least thirty times.

I’m never happy with it. I even know that I’ll always be my biggest critic – so why do I do this to myself?

I have this plan! My plan! A great plan! Since I am my biggest critic, and I will probably never like my writing, I decided that after it’s finished – COMPLETELY – I would offer three people the chance to read it and tell me what they think. People I know won’t sugar coat it, or lie because they don’t want to hurt my feelings. I know it’ll be rough, most first books are – I am not going to be the next Jane Austen (I find her work hard to read). I just want to find my voice, my way – be the best Barbara Hightower I can. That’s all I can achieve. I can’t try to be another writer – just me. Because I know, if I am not, I’ll always be disappointed in myself and that’ll be a crappy life.

But first – I must finish ‘Frost’ – which I say a lot. For most, that’s a simple request, but for me – Queen of Procrastination – not so much.

I figured I would end this with a poem –

Silence! I scream loud!
A void, I feel deep, expands,
Forming frustration.

Until next time!
Peace. Love. && Fried Chicken.

PROOF! That I am in fact, editing Frost. Was able to get two chapters done yesterday.


Missing…

I miss being able to write poetry. It’s something simple but I’ve lost grip of it.

Some of my saddest moments logged many poems (that I no longer have). It was a way to unclog my mind when I needed help but wouldn’t ask for it. I have tried recently to write a simple poem – maybe I’m not sad anymore. Depression isn’t as strong, hasn’t been for almost five years.

Shouldn’t I be able to write about happiness? Write about love? I should be able to write about anything, right? But when I sit to write a poem, all I get is blanks. Unless you ask for a Haiku. They may be silly but I can write them all day long.

Haiku is actually the type of poetry that got me into writing when I was in fifth grade. After I wrote my first one, it opened my eyes to the beauty of words. My love for words has grown into a passion.

Writing – my first love. My first soulmate.

As I have aged, so has my writing. Has it gotten better? I’d like to think so, but that’s for others to decide, not me. I hope, just with any writer, that mine has gotten better – I at least know for certain it’s gotten better since I wrote my first poem.

All jokes aside – it’s been twenty years. Gosh… twenty years. Never realize how old you are until you break down the years. For example: my mother was fifteen years younger than my father. Fifteen years doesn’t seem much – until it’s broken down. My mother was born in 1962 – in 1962 my father was fifteen. At 18, my father enlisted into the military and had his first son – my mother was three. This was in 1965. Everything seems hunky -dory until it’s broken down.

Twenty years… writing has been my longest relationship. My best friend. The one thing I can turn to when I needed something that I couldn’t get from another person. I just hope one day that I will have something to show for it.

Like… a novel – or three.

But here, my darlings, just for y’all… a haiku:

I’m great! I’m awesome!
One day I will be published.
For now, I will write.

It’s not ‘traditional’, but I’m not from Japan. >.<

Goodbye 2018 : Hello 2019

2018 – was horrible.

I’ve noticed a lot of people seem to agree with me on how horrible last year was. I honestly cannot think of anything good that happened – just bad. Buried my grandfather && a close cousin. I watched as the days passed showing me nothing but grey skies and sadness.

But as I sit here, January 2, 2019, I am hoping for a better year. I would say it couldn’t get any worse, but that’s not true. It could get 10x worse, but I refuse to allow that. Hopefully.

2018 I made one resolution. One I honestly thought I could fulfill. I did not – so I am keeping it for this year too: finish Frost. Completely.

But for 2019, I am adding a new one: to get healthy. To be a better me. What it will take? Only time will tell.

For now, my top goal is my book. It may never be published through a big company, and be found on every bookshelf worldwide, but at least I can say that I finished it. Wrote it. Something that I have wanted to do since I began.

So, that’s where I sit. 2018 was crap. 2019 HAS to be better. 2018 I accomplished nothing. 2019 I HAVE to accomplish something. 2018 was not my favorite year. 2019 shall be the first of great many years to come. 2018 was not my worse years (that would be 2003 && 2011.) But it is up there. 2019 – please be better.

Night Owl to Early Bird…

As the alarm clock blares its music at four o’clock in the morning, I hit snooze and wonder how much longer I can sleep before I’m late for work.  I have to be there by 5:30, so it doesn’t give me much time to continuously hit snooze.  But I do – over & over again.  The alarm blares again, I stare at the time: 4:30; crud!  That’s all I think.  I need to get up, I’m sure there is SOMETHING I have to do before leaving for work.  Shower – maybe?

I fling the blanket off of me but I don’t move.  My legs are glued to the bed with memories of sleep dancing around my head.  I wiggle my toes trying to get the determination I need to get up.

 I sit up and stare at the wall.  My bedroom is still dark, && dark means sleep – so why am I not still sleeping?  My feet hit the carpet and they begin moving around the bedroom and into the bathroom – I leave the light off, it’s still too early for lights.  (At this point, I still haven’t put on my glasses, because glasses means it’s time to get the day rolling, &&& I’m not at that point yet.)

To move around my bedroom I have to pass my bed multiple times && each time it gets a little harder to not get back in it, cover up, and pretend the world doesn’t exist. But I tell myself – Barbara, you only work three days a week, that’s it!  Three!  You can do this.

Yes, that’s right.  I work three days a week, Saturday through Monday – So I’m off Tuesday through Friday.  Sounds great, right?  It is!  I love these days, I have been doing it since 2011, so I must like the job.  I do like my job – would I rather be a full time writer that sits at home every day writing the next novel that people carry with them in their hearts/souls and tells everyone they must read it? 

Well, duh!

But I have to be logical about this whole thing.  If it’s something I want, then I have to work for it, and until I actually finish Frost, that’ll never happen.  So it’s this job.  I began working this job in 2011, but I worked nights.  5:30 PM – 6:00 AM.  I’ve always worked nights.  Never had a reason to not work nights.  I was single, lived alone – it didn’t bother people if I came in at weird hours.  But now – eight-ish years later, I’m not single and I don’t live alone.  Nights still wasn’t a problem.  But I recently changed my hours, this year – August.  Now I work 5:30 AM – 7:30 PM.  Why would I do that?

I’m pleading insanity.  People do it all the time.  Go to sleep around ten o’clock at night and wake up at four in the morning.  People have been doing it for a long time.  So why do I have such a hard time with it? 

The boyfriend && I both work in the same department here.  So we cannot work the same shift (I wouldn’t even if I could, wouldn’t be able to do it.  I’m too much of a worry wart.)  He was given the chance to go full-time, which means overlapping into my shift.  Then an opportunity to go full-time led me to another shift.

Its 8:28 in the morning as I type this && I feel like I need a three hour nap.  Maybe 12 hours. 

 But as I finish up getting dressed, packing my lunch, walking to the car and making my way to work – I’m already exhausted.  So I drew up a sticky note to put on the computer screen I sit at to help myself make it through the day. 


“It’s going to be a good day!”

I find myself staring at it at times, hoping it’ll give me that boost.  It hasn’t worked yet, but I’m leaving it there as long as I can.  (All of the shifts share computers.)

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.

I’m a strange cook…

Or so it feels.  I don’t have many things in life I am good at, but cooking is one of them.  Not only that, I actually enjoy cooking – a lot.  It’s something I’d do for a living if it was ever given to me.  I love standing in the kitchen and chopping onions, bell peppers, or carrots.  I love to make pasta, ground meat, or chicken dishes.  I love finding new recipes and trying them just because I can.  

But with dishes I have been making for years some think they are strange – and after talking to some people, I am starting to see just how strange they are.  &&& no, I’m not talking about “eating strange foods”, I’m talking about the fact that I make foods, that everyone makes – strange.

Let’s start off slow.  Tuna salad.

Everyone I know makes it differently, whether it’s because they don’t like the taste of tuna so they have to have something in it that will overpower the taste, or for some that don’t like mayo.  I put the normal stuff, can tuna, mayo, pickles… But then I add onion, tomatoes, && mustard.  Sometimes, if I’m feeling it, I’ll add shredded lettuce.  But the one thing everyone says is weird – I add scrambled eggs.  Yes!  I said it.  Scrambled.  Eggs.

I’ve had multiple conversations with people about how they make it and they all say, “Yes, I add eggs – boiled.”  Then there I sit, speechless, because it’s me against the world. 

Spaghetti.  Everyone I talk to tells me their spaghetti consists of pasta, sauce && meat.  I usually have a weird look on my face so I get asked, “what do you put in yours?”  Pasta, meat, sauce, mushrooms, black olives, red/green/yellow/orange bell peppers and onions.  Mix.  Mix.  Mix.  Top with “foot cheese”.  Serve with bread.  Enjoy.

I’m not worried about the fact I make food weird, it’s not a big deal to me.  I’m used to it, I like my cooking.  (My waist size proves that.)  I guess I just don’t know where I got it from.  I spoke to my grandfather before he passed this year and he said that him and my mother both used boiled eggs, and he didn’t use tomatoes (my mother did).  &&& I have only met ONE other person that puts vegetables in their spaghetti.  

Most people learn recipes from their family, friends (mostly, apparently, grandmother), co-workers, siblings, aunts, uncles… but me?  None of the above. (According to the boyfriend, I am a self taught bad ass.)  I don’t remember my mom’s cooking.  The only thing I remember is that she loved to cook, but I don’t think I could really tell you one thing she could cook besides tator-tot casserole, which I do NOT put corn in.  My grandmothers, well, one lived six hours away, so I wasn’t around her much, && the other… well, let’s just say that her spaghetti had a whole tub of butter in it.  I don’t want to cook like her.

I find it sad that I didn’t get recipes passed down to me, but I lost my mom a lot sooner than she had anticipated, so of course she wasn’t thinking about passing recipes down to me.  What 40 year old mother to a 15 && 16 year old is thinking about death?  So I’m at a point in life where I do not know how to make cornbread dressing, but I figured out a recipe I like.  I don’t know how to make all of the Christmas goodies (divinity, peanut brittle…), so I just don’t bring it up.  

My grandfather made a wonderful potato soup that I never got the recipe to.  He passed away this year, a couple months after me asking for his recipe.  Then there was his chili (which I don’t know how to make) and his salsa (that was so hot I’m sure it burns off taste buds).  

I did teach myself to cook.  I started around the age of fifteen or sixteen.  It came down to I either learn or I have to eat bologna sandwiches for the rest of my life – I didn’t find that appealing.  So I started out with soups, which I burned a lot of.  But my dad ate it anyway.  He always ate it, no matter how gross, or burned, or unappealing it was – he ate it.  For me.  (I also miss him).

I didn’t have much of a start so I started watching A LOT of food network shows.  &&& when I say a lot, I don’t mean that as a small amount.  If I wasn’t watching SpongeBob SquarePants, I was watching some kind of food show.  I have continued to watch them, even now, without cable, I watch a lot of food shows.  I look up recipes and redo them to fit my taste.  

That’s how I learn.  But I still have no idea where I got the smart idea to put scrambled eggs in my tuna salad.  Please, people out there, if you use scrambled eggs rather than boiled eggs, let me know.

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.

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.

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.