Surgery and Writing

What do surgery and writing have in common, you ask? Besides the inherent need for the occasional slicing and dicing and the rush of knowing you are elbows deep into a seemingly alien world that is just as fascinating as it is messy?...
The is the fear. The never ending barrage of 'what ifs'. The seeking for knowledge that you hope will give you a stable place to stand before taking the next step. The craving for something to tell you which way to go, which road to take. To stand up with flashing neon signs that assure you that this way is the right one.
I don't wish to compare the craft of writing and the work of a surgeon's hand, I only wish to convey the place where my feet rest on the path of my life.
A couple months ago I was diagnosed with severe Endometriosis. It is a condition where the lining of the uterus gets a wild hair up its ass and decides to grow where ever it choose. (pardon my highly medical terminology). This condition is different for every woman that has it. For me, the growths are everywhere, infesting my pelvic wall and cuddling too close to some other organs it has no business being friendly with. In a nutshell, it is very, very, annoyingly, nauseatingly painful. (and I have a pain tolerance that should be ranked as a super power according to people that know me).
You see, I am not one to admit to pain nor do I happily acknowledge it. I prefer to ignore it, push it down, pretend it is happening to someone else. This is not healthy and I know that. No one ever forced me to mask my pain. No one ever got in my face and screamed "There's no crying in baseball." This is just who I am. But now, I am facing something that I can't ignore, no matter how hard I try. In the past year, I have undergone two surgeries and a few different treatments...all in vain. I am now looking at a surgery that will change my foreseeable future, a total hysterectomy. I am twenty six, no kids...
It is a big deal and I know that. I have researched options, I know the risks, the benefits, and I have made a well thought out decision but that doesn't make it easy.
Now what does this have to do with my writing? Oddly, some of the fears are the same. Some are not logical, I can admit that, but both put me in a place where I am vulnerable. (and this is NOT my c
omfort zone).
I am also at a place where I know that my first novel needs to be cut to pieces. It needs to be gutted, rearranged and sown together in way that more efficient, effective.
Like the surgery I face, I now it needs to happen and I know the way things are function in its own way but it not optimal...not in the slightest. And it things keep going the way they are...improvement is not in sight. I think too often we settle for how things are because of fear. We know things are bad but we would rather deal with bad then with facing the terrifying step in a new direction. We stay with bad because some jacked up part of brain has convinced us that it's safe...bad is not safe. Stuck is not progress and fear is part of the human condition. Fear will always be there but to make bad into better that fear is something we must step through....something I must step through.
These next few months are going to hard...and I hate to admit that but I have faith that in the end, stepping through the fear will be worth every second...with my writing and my health.

NaNoWriMo

That time of year is almost here. This will be my first time participating in whirl of creative abandon that is the National Novel Writing Month. The challenge: 50,000 words in 30 days. Visit http://nanowrimo.org/dashboard. Support writers, support readers. Celebrate language and the written word.

I will attempt to blog during this next month. Being my first time trying a challenge like this, should be interesting. In preparation, I needed a writing prompt, an idea. I asked a friend to give me a type of person, a place, a genre, a time period and an object. All of these things, I told her, would be worked into the story. Here is what she said,
         A person who is deaf
         Nepal
         Mystery
         1940's
         Urn of Human Ash

Here is what I am writing,

Geet wakes up in a remote village high in the mountains of Nepal with no memory of who he is or how he got there. All he remembers is the murder of a man. Now, deaf and lost, Geet must embark on a journey to find the murderer that plagues his nightmares.

With the help of Yaya, an elderly woman who tends to his wounds and Atmajyoti (Ata), a young orphan from the village, Geet sets out to discover who he used to be and ends up learning who he has become.

Wish me luck!

Heart of Darkness--Joseph Conrad

         Heart of Darkness is one of my favorite books. Written as a frame narrative, this novel follow's Marlow, an ivory transporter, on his journey down the Congo River. Conrad describes the river as, “... a mighty big river, that you could see on the map, resembling an immense snake uncoiled, with its head in the sea, its body at rest curving afar over a vast country, and its tail lost in the depths of the land.” 

         Through his obsession with a man named Mr. Kurtz who is an ivory-procurement agent, Marlow is drawn deeper into the heart of darkness.  The book explores the relationship between savagery and civilization, the basis of imperialism. The book is a hypnotic mixture of language and deep symbolism  I first picked up this book when I was sixteen and the words have stayed with me till this day. 

"It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream--making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams...No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence--that which makes its truth, its meaning--its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream-alone..." 

— Joseph Conrad (Heart of Darkness )

Demons to fight

Abuse and assault plagues every race, age, ethnicity and gender. Never feel alone in your struggles. You are not the only one with demons to fight.

Male Survivors of sexual assault quote their abusers

Ivory

Excerpt from my in progress novel. Character scene flash fiction. 

Ivory

Ivory slung her bag over her shoulder as she shouted up the stairs, "Jimmy, let's get a move on."  She pulled her thick hair into a knotted ponytail, trying not to watch the clock by the door.

James appeared at the top of the stairs, wrinkled clothes and an extreme case of bed head. Hitting the bottom of the stairs, he swatted away Ivory’s hand as she began straightening his hair with her fingers. The summer had left streaks of blonde in his brown hair.

She grabbed the sides of his face and planted a kiss on his forehead, leaving a lip print, James quickly wiped away with his sleeve. Laughing, she said, "Let's go. I'll race you to the bus."

"Why do I have ta go? It's still summer," James moaned.

"I got three interviews today. Besides, you need the help with reading," she explained as she grabbed her keys and ushered her little brother out the door. James muttered something under his breath and waited on the stoop until his sister locked the door before bolting down the sidewalk.   

The normal crowd was already gathered as they reached the bus stop. Skidding to a stop, James bent over to catch his breath, coughing out the words, “Beat ya again, Iv." Red blush flushing his caramel colored cheeks. Ivory swung an arm around James' shoulders and gave him a squeeze as the bus rolled to a stop.  People filed onto the bus, chattering as they disappeared from the sidewalk. James wiggled from her arms, "Love you Ivory. Good luck today."

"Love you too." She whispered after him. She stood and watched as her brother moved out of her reach, disappearing into the morning traffic. 

            The screech of the tires pierced through the air. The world stood still, silent but for the retched sound of metal on asphalt. The car rolled. The biker disappeared into the heap of heaving metal. People watched but no one moved.

Dropping her bag, Ivory darted toward the overturned car. She reached the car at a dead run, sliding Ivory rammed her foot through the remainder of the window. Crying roared from the back seat. The woman dangled unconscious, blood tainting her cream-colored blouse. Brushing the shards of glass away, she climbed into the window, contorting herself around the woman. Ivory took her knife from her pocket and cut the straps of the seat belt allowing the woman's weight to collapse against her chest. 

Glass dug into Ivory's forearm, her hip, and her legs as her fingers found the woman's neck. A tiny pulse brought a sigh of relief as well as the sight of a man outside the window. Ivory realized the man was not a police officer, not a paramedic, but the homeless man who slept two streets away. Of all the people on the sidewalk, in the parked cars, in the buildings, this man was the only one that was doing anything. Ivory fought down words of anger. How could all these people just stand there?

The man carried the woman a couple feet away and began cleaning her face. Ivory turned and climbed back into the window. The car shifted. Fear soaked into her thoughts with the crackle of glass and the groan of the heaving metal. Adrenaline rocketed through her veins as the little face came into focus. The little girl hung from her car seat, cries pouring from her tiny lips, mingling with the sweet sound of sirens in the distance. Then came the smell of smoke… and gasoline.

"Shit." Ivory clamped her mouth shut and lunged forward, squeezing between the seats. Seconds ticked away. New waves of adrenaline washed over her as her body threatened to panic. Tick. Images of the truck engine flashed. The drip of oil, of gas and the smell of smoke. Tick. Tick. Her fingers fumbled. Then a flash of clarity. She twisted her leg, bracing against the seat and cut the child free.

Ivory gasped and she carried the child away from the mass of tangled metal. Sirens wailed. Flashing lights. People rushed about. Someone took the girl, pulling her from Ivory's grip. Tick. A man's face appeared inches from hers, his voice throbbing in her ears. He seemed to be shouting. The man turned and stepped toward the wreckage. Ivory grabbed his arm and with all her strength, whispered, "Fire."

That night, Ivory left the hospital sometime after dark. The nurse had offered to call a cab but Ivory declined. James was at a friend’s house, giving her time to ‘rest’. Ivory kicked a rock, cursing under her breath. Being a ‘hero’ hardly seemed worth it when it came with bills she couldn’t pay. The night air wrapped around her shoulders as Ivory turned down the alley behind local nightclub.

The sound of voices entered the ally brushing past with the breeze. Footsteps followed. Ivory jerked around, seeing nothing. She breathed, her heart thudding against her ribs. She was never this jumpy. Wiping her eyes with one arm, she subtly pulled her knife out of her bra with the other. It was probably nothing but just in case. With her knife open pressed against her forearm, Ivory tucked her head and walked.

The arm seemed to come from nowhere, lacing over Ivory's mouth. Her feet left the ground as the man slammed her against the brick wall. Ivory sucked in a breath as the man dipped his head into her hair. The man made a primitive, guttural noise as he ran a hand across her stomach. He grabbed her wrists, moving to shove them over her head but his fingers found the blade. He stumbled back. Ivory landed a kick to his chest. The man lunged knocking her to the ground. He straddled her, his fingers around her neck. Adrenaline washed over her as she fought. Scrambling to her feet, she ran. Head swimming, heart beating in her ears, she never saw the truck...

Bucket List as of 9-20

September 20

Bucket list (9 I have done and 20 more I haven't)

1. Kiss in front of the Disney Epcot Fountain (like on Boy Meets World)
2. Ride a train in Tokyo
3. Zip line through the rain forest (Honduras)
4. Swim in the Ocean (California, Bahamas, Honduras and Brazil)
5. Taste the Great Salt Lake, Utah
6. Visit Disney World in another country (Tokyo)
7. Sing in front of people
8. See/participate in a baptism in a river
9. Write a Novel

1. Float in the Dead Sea
2. See the northern lights
3. Go to Thailand
4. Climb Mount Fuji
5. Take a safari in Africa
6. Stand on the shore in Greece
7. Stand on the top of Cesar’s Palace in Las Vegas
8. Be an extra in a Zombie movie
9. Learn to bow hunt
10. Be a third degree black belt in Taekwondo
11. Visit the Library of Congress
12. Have a novel published
13. Possibly have novel made into movie (big big dream)
14. Visit Pompeii
15. Touch the heads on Easter Island
16. See the Mediterranean Sea
17. Visit the Galapagos
18. Visit the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam
19. See a play on Broadway
20. Stand in the middle of Time Square

How I Actually Act!

This photo says it all. It is a daily battle, fighting how I think I should be and how I am. For years, I was the first person through and through. I said the right things, did the right things. The problem was who I was looking at for the definition of 'right'. Raised in the heart of the Bible belt, my faith is close to my heart but I'm not talking about the 10 commandments or the 613 some odd laws set forth in Leviticus. I am talking about the stereotypes we think we have to follow. I am talking about the part of the social code that gets caught in our minds and twists into some deranged fact. We do this before we know we've done it. We take pieces of this and that and thus create an order we feel forced to follow. (The only one putting this demand on us is, in fact, ourselves.) 

I am lucky to have parents that never pushed me to be someone I wasn't. They were content to let me run in the yard talking to imagery friends. They were fine that I was shy around people. They were cool that I got a B in 5th grade. But I wasn't. Yeah, I was mature for my age. Due to childhood illness, I had to grow up differently, faster. Being 15 years younger than my brother, I spent a great deal of time around other adults. But it was me that pushed me...for some cockamamie reason (a reason created from a series of synapses that decided to fire at odd times) I thought I had to be the smart one, the responsible one, the strong one, the put together one. I pushed me to be who I thought I was supposed to be.

Now don’t get me wrong, you have to strong at times, mature, responsible and logical but I was taking it to the extreme.

You can be mature and still be you. You can be professional and still be yourself. You can be strong, responsible, grown up and still have that fire and imagination that fueled your childhood escapades.

A friend told me today that perfection is not the absence of flaws but being complete. I like this concept because perfection is unattainable but wholeness as a person…is hard as hell but totally doable. 

Cold by Morning (Flash Fiction)

Cold by Morning by Lora Douglas

Ten, nine, eight, seven.

Harper exhaled as if blowing out each number from her mind. Her steps echoed off the mirrored walls in the cramped, dinky gym. This was the perfect moment. Just her, her breath, her heartbeat and the imaginary road to fame, fortune and abounding success. 

Six, five, four, three…two...one.

Her hand hit the stop button, her feet jumped to edge as the treadmill hummed to a stop. Harper skipped off the machine. It seemed to sigh and lag against the wall.

"Good run old timer." Harper patted the treadmill like a faithful friend. "I ran your ass today, didn’t I? Ten miles ain't bad. Sorry I had to make it a quickie tonight." She laughed causing her sides ached, her legs felt like Jell-O and her muscles screamed in agony. It was glorious.

Harper fixed her high ponytail, stray waves of caramel brown stuck to her face and neck. Sweat rolled down her skin. With a flare, Harper tossed her towel around her neck and strutted across the concrete floor toward the woman's showers. Coming to the apartment complex gym at three o'clock in the morning always meant two wonderful things. First, all the dirty old men were asleep and second there was no line for the shower. Oh and third, she could sing as loud as she wanted. 

A trail of clothes lined the faded yellow tiles from the bathroom door to the showers around the corner. Harper began humming, building momentum and volume. As the hot water heater roared to life sending a spay into the shower stall, Harper busted out,

"I got the whole place to myself, I got the whole place to myself, I got the whole place to myself, yes I got the whole place…to myself!" She laughed her new version of He's Got the Whole World in His Hands. "Funny how childhood religious fantasy songs stuck in your head."  Harper giggled.

She danced under the hot water and steam. Whipping her hair, letting the shampoo suds shoot tiny bubbles.  Striking a dramatic pose, she grabbed her conditioner bottle as a microphone and bellowed verse two "I got the itty bitty shower to myself; I got the itty bitty shower to myself…"

After a round of Baby Got Back and a grand finale of American the Beautiful, Harper switched off the water. Donning her pink and yellow beach towel, she patted around gathering her scattered clothing. Laying the pile on the small wooden bench, she kicked open a locker on the bottom row. She fished out her gym bag and trading her damp clothes for soft, red, Victoria Secret pajamas. Oh, she and Victoria went way back. Every since Harper could by her own clothes, her and Victoria became great friends. 

"Victoria and I share all our secrets." She smiled at her little joke. It was a popular line she could use with a teasing smile or a smoldering gaze.

After she finished changing, she tied the laces of her running shoes and slid out of the women's room into the cool gym. The small box fan on the far wall sputtered and whistled. This was her sanctuary.  Harper sighed and leaned against the wall. The cold concrete crept through her sleep shirt and traced shivers down her back. In here, she could just exist. The smell of rubber and sweat was comforting.  Here she could sweat, grunt, scream, curse and there was absolutely no one to judge her. No expectations. No reason for self-control.  Just one last look at her Merveilleux palais, her wonderful palace and she tightened her grip on strap her bag.

Harper inhaled sharply, pulled her shoulders back and prepared her mind to step back out in the real world. The warm Cali air fit around her like a favorite blanket. The parking lot was still, the only movement was a stray cat strutting down the sidewalk.

"Why didn’t I move here sooner? I can't believe I waste so much of my life in that podunk town." Harper smile and continued her conversation with the evening air. "It almost fall and I am out here before the crack of dawn, in my tank top and shorts. This is the life." She pranced down the pavement adding a twirl for good measure.

This was the life. California, the sun the surf, who would not love this? The question hung in her mind. She loved it here, didn’t she?  It was almost 5 am when Harper got back to her apartment. She locked the door and glided to her bedroom, leaving a trail. The floor creaked with weight of her collapse.  Harper sprawled out and spanned across the push, queen bed. The ceiling fan hummed.  Harper fixed her pale blue eyes on the spinning blades.

"The sun will come out tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow…" Her faint whisper in the dark. She grabbed a pillow from behind her head and turned hugging the small, satin square. If little orphan Annie could end up happy, then dammit, so could Harper Jane Addison.  Her voice came out a breathy whisper, "There'll be sun. When I'm stuck with a day that’s grey and lonely…"Shadows danced on the ceiling and flowed down the walls. Harper was asleep before she reached the chorus. As far as new beginnings go, this one wasn’t half bad.

He was dead, never to raise a hand at her again and the cops weren’t even looking in her direction. The hint of trail she left would be cold by morning.

Thank you  to my wonderful Beta Readers!!

The social researcher in me apparently loves the concept of Beta Readers. Peer reviewed work is the core for evidence based practice. My inner geek will not bore you with a lecture on evidence based research but it will delight in the varied, demographically diverse group that is my volunteer readers. When I sent out the request, I expect two or three yes and I was blessed with 14. Thank you to each one of you. I look forward to the rest of this process, (all nervousness and self generated fear aside).


To writers,

   Treat your beta readers like the treasures they are. Their support can be astonishing and their input is valuable.


Why Beta Readers are Worth Their Weight in Gold

How to Beta Read

You are Enough

“Just remember that Dumbo didn't need the feather; the magic was in him. ” 

                                                           ― Stephen King, On Writing

           We are hell bent on being other people. We change our clothes, hide our accents, lie about our childhoods, ‘embellish’ our resumes and train our minds to tear us down. Because we believe that who we are is not enough. Others will not accept us. No one understands us. If they knew what I was really thinking they would walk away.

                 The voice in our head, our inner critic, tells us we are below par at best. Not only does it tell us, the voice has hard evidence. It drags us through our mistakes (both real and mistakes we fabricate in order to justify why we feel bad about ourselves).

                   I can address this through many perspectives, a person of faith, as a social workers, as a woman but in the end, the answer is the same. YOU are you for a reason. YOU are enough. I know you just blew me off. Your mind came up with a reason that explains why I didn’t mean you. 

                   I don’t know you. I don’t know what you’ve done, how you think or how you feel. No, I will never know exactly how you feel but I've been through my own version of hell. I have also met, worked with, cried with people that have been through every tragedy you can imagine.

                  And I believe, 100% that YOU are enough. You are worthy of love, of respect and of acceptance. You are not alone in your suffering, in your pain. You are not trash. You are not insignificant.

                 The magic is in you and who YOU are is enough. 

Pins to post

Pinterest can be dangerous but ever so often, I find the perfect pin that states something I cannot express. After hours of editing my first novel, it felt good to see that my train of thought was 'normal'. To all the writers out there...do you find yourself happy to sit and edit one day and then the next you would rather have a root canal after a visit to the gynecologist (women) or a prostate exam (men) and then go a party with no alcohol, where you are under dressed  and they are serving food you cannot eat?...I know that was completely over dramatic but now editing doesn't sound so bad. Back to work :)                                       

For I was a Warrior

For I was a Warrior

I was born in a time of war

In a world of blood and honor

I grew with head held high

And the weight of people on my shoulders

It was the age of kingdoms

The time after the fall

It was my Father’s land

His empire

I knew the feel of the blade before I could run

I knew the motion of horse

The smell of ciders

The sight of villages burning

The smell of flesh under fire

Still haunts my dreams

Along with ravens

That dive, bring blood to my fingertips

I know the rush of the last breath of life

As it seeps from a gaping mouth

I know the thick, warm feeling of blood

As it moves around the skin

Victory is all there is

Failure is not an option

War is what brings peace

And peace is only for weak minded

It is a reason given to continue war

To continue the flow of blood

And the heat of fire

I am a man of Victory

An honord heir

No man has bested me in battle

No beast knocked me from my feet

But I have yet to face an enemy like one I was now

The enemy is quiet

Waiting the shadows

No threat was posed at first

No attempt was made

The enemy watches me and I watch the enemy

Eyes that bore into soul

Render me motionless

Cause rage in boil in my gut

Dreams surround the enemy

Dreams that jerk me awake

Cold sweats

And gasping breaths

The enemy must be vanquished

The enemy must disappear

Victory is all I have know

And it is all I shall ever taste

This enemy cannot win

It mustn’t

It cannot

I will die before I succumb

But dreams surround the enemy

Blood retreats and ravens still

Screams give way to silence

And fear gives way to desire

The enemy must be vanquished

The enemy must disappear

For I fear I will fail

For I am a warrior but a woman is winning.

Lora Douglas 2012 

I am not...

I am not a blogger. I confess. Social media is a wonderful thing but all in all it scares me. It's not that I don't have things to say, I do, I just pull up twitter or facebook or this blog and my mind goes blank. Ok, not really blank. It begins racing through all the things I could write about then promptly begins explaining why each thing is stupid, meaningless and a complete waste of the infinite cyber space. Once I get that paranoid rambling under control then my mind goes blank. Void. Nothing. Just colors...and I don't think anyone wants me to narrate the colors in my mind.
Yellow
red,
green...
Ok enough of that.
You see, I think in pictures. Completely in pictures. My thoughts are movies without sound. Flash cards. Blips. To translate my thoughts into words, and even better, into complete sentences, is a task I had to quickly learn as a child. Maybe one day, I can share some stories about that process and how even now it is difficult to put the pictures into words.
I know this information isn't earth shattering, maybe at worst boring, but hey if you are in the same boat, I feel ya. I get it. This little mental quirk makes somethings very difficult. Like learning a foreign language, spelling, reading aloud and writing. My stories are silent movies in my head that I must translate onto paper. It is hard, frustrating and at times, a downright pain in the ass but I do it because it is apart of me. And what fun in something that doesn't challenge you?

Have You Seen Me At All

Have you ever seen me at all?

I am the girl you pass by on the street

The one staring at the ground

The girl laughing in the hall

The one with people all around

I am the person in the corner

The one’s scream no one hears

The person that sits alone

The one whose smiles insincere

Have you seen me at all?

You pass me on the street and don’t offer a second glance

I’m your friend to whom you confided the world

I’m the one in your arms

The one you hold and kiss

You try so hard to know me but there is something you have missed

Have you ever seen me at all?

Have you really seen me?

You see me everyday

You smile and you wave

You look down and turn away

You laugh with your friends

You tell me the teasing joke

In the end we’re all the same

Well all go unnoticed

However, some try to see

The person living inside of me

We all look past yet we are all unseen

Maybe it’s time for someone to see

The beauty waiting inside of me

Behind the façade of appearance dwells a dark reality

For I am not what I want to be

But in what I am is all I can be. 

Lora Douglas 

Rewards

Friend of mine made me a chocolate tofu cheesecake as a reward for finishing my manuscript. :) Another friend, is taking me for snow cones. Nothing better for completed childhood dreams than childhood rewards. 

Exciting Note

After a year and half (to the month), I have finished my first manuscript. The story was been alive in my mind for years but February of 2012, I began putting it on paper. Today, I finished it. *embarrassing happy dance*

Now on the hard part. :) Editing, revising, editing, revising, beta readings, revising, pitching and more revising. Journey on.

Little Moments

Have you ever had a moment that seemed to happen at the exact, perfect time? If you ever get a chance to read my novel (when/if it gets published) There is a section that discusses fate and coincidence. I don't believe in either one. I believe in choices and consequences that follow. That being said, I think even moments that seem to come out of no where are caused by choices.
Tonight I was sitting and working on the last big cumulative moment of my novel and I was having a difficult time finding the right tone. I am one of those writers that listen to music when I write.  Music helps me clear my mind and it aids in dropping the barriers, both mental and emotional that keep me second guessing. Music keeps me sane, keeps me focused and frankly is a cornerstone of my creative process. When I'm stuck in a section, I turn to music.
Working on this particular part, I exhausted my playlist and took an extensive break with Pandora.com. I had decided to stop looking for the 'right' song and just continue writing. A short while later my husband gets my attention and tells me that he just heard a song that he wanted to share with me.
KaaBam...moment.
The song was perfect. At any moment we could have made choices to stop this moment from happening. He could have turned off the radio. I could have not started writing tonight. We both could have gone to bed since it is 2 in the morning and we both have to be up at 7. Any number of things could have prevented this moment from happening but it happened. So here is a thank you to moments like this and Zac Brown Band's song 'Junkyard'. For those of you who have not heard this song, I have included the link below.
I think sometimes we take little moments like this for granted. We try to write it off as coincidence, nothing special but that is a travesty. I'm not saying to put things like this on a pedestal, I'm saying appreciate and recognize it for what it is, wonderful in its own right.
 Like our writing off of little moments, we also write off bigger things...like other people and ourselves. We think that we don't matter. That we are just something that happened. The trials in our life try and convince us that we are not worthy of importance. Worthy of time, of love, of understanding. That evil little voice in the back of our minds calls us a failure, a mistake. It yells when think too much of ourselves. It laughs when we fall and it tears us down every chance it gets.
Well, that voice is wrong. Our minds are wrong when it tries to tell us we are not worthy. Other people are wrong and sometimes we are the ones that are wrong when we deem others unworthy. Each person, like each little moment, has an impact, has a purpose. Each person is worthy of love, of respect and of understanding. Don't be too quick to write something or someone off because it is little moments that change your life. And ordinary people that change the world.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BpCkRFeJ6nI

First Complete Manuscript

I am days away from finishing my first full manuscript. Ever since I was a child, I have been one of those who start a million projects but either get bored or distracted before I....

See what I mean? When I sat down February 2012 (after pushing from friends and family) I made it a goal to put one of my stories into writing.  The past year and a half has been a roller coaster and a lesson in self confidence, patience, persistence and conquering the fear of white. Well, like I said, I am just days from finishing my first manuscript. It is the first book in a series of four. Granted, this is a first draft so the book is not quite ready to be shared but hey I will have finished it.

Even though at times, it feels like I am nearing the end of the process I know that I am actually far from it. Finishing the book is the easy part but I am that much closer than I was two years ago. (a closet writer that was terrified to even utter that I wrote stories.)

I am working on coming out of the proverbial closet. I have been writing books and stories since I was about five years old. Until this past year I have kept this part of myself hidden for fears that I am sure you are familiar with, "I'm not good enough", "I have nothing to say, well nothing people want to hear", "Me? A writer? Ha!". 

You know what? I am done with that, being afraid, coming up with excuses. My husband tells me "You're a writer so act like one."

First step: Say out loud to friends that I want to be a writer. Check

Next: Let someone, a real person, read my work. Check (only freaked out a....good amount)

Next: Utter the words "I am a writer." Check

Now: Start acting like one.