sometimes I write things

I like most things.

[passivelyaggressively]

2017-2018

[whispersnakeplace]

What a Time to Be Alive

3 January 2017

So, yeah, it’s been a wild ride from start to finish.

One of my favorite things about writing this every year is rereading and reflecting on the previous year’s. I like seeing just how far I’ve come. I like seeing how my goals have been accomplished or changed or even abandoned. I am always reminded that even bad years are good years. I’m a little less emotional about time passing this year because no big changes happened in my personal life over the cusp. Like, here are some constants:  Still dating Bobby (we’ll be two years old on the 12th!)  Still have a 4.0  Still doing Chinese  Still staying out of trouble  Still Cassie’s best friend  Still have 3 nieces/nephews  Still healthy  Still happy Those are all good things and I’m thankful that they’ve stayed the same.

Regarding my specific goals for 2016, I accomplished 11/13. The two that I didn’t accomplish (going snowboarding and visiting Old Bethpage) have been on my to-do list for 2 years now, so it’s a little annoying that I still haven’t accomplished them. I am feeling good about my prospects for this year, though. I’ve put out the word that I want to go snowboarding and as long as I keep my eye out for events, I know I’ll be able to go to Old Bethpage.

Last year, my theme was Remember Me 2016. To an extent, I succeeded. But, I think in larger part, I didn’t. I made a lot of good steps, but I still beat myself up too much at times and overextended myself—especially regarding my work schedule. I forgot to remember what I need whenever my life started to get busy. I’m going to continue to focus on taking care of me this year. I ended my post last year with, “I also expect a happier, better me by the time I’m back here reading this.” That has most definitely been accomplished.

2017 is going to be filled with preparation for my future as an English teacher. I acquired a mentor through my school and we’re really working well together. She’s already helped me refine my resume and become more professional. I applied for a dual-degree program in December and I’m waiting to hear back about my acceptance. If I get in, then I can start taking my graduate courses this month—which is SUPER exciting!

Another exciting thing is that I’m turning 21 this year. I can’t wait to be unconcerned about age restrictions when trying to go to concerts and restaurants.

Brooke is starting kindergarten in the fall and I just know she is going to love it. But Jonathan sure is going to miss his big sister.

Honestly, I’m feeling really good. I am confident that a lot of good and very exciting things will happen in 2017. I am determined to find positives and be happy. I guess it’s list time:  Go snowboarding  Visit Old Bethpage  Find a more consistent, better paying job  Set healthy boundaries for myself  Cultivate my return visits  Keep going to the gym  Run 3 miles without stopping  Keep doing fun things from Groupon  Have better, more consistent personal study  Auxiliary pioneer at least 3 times  Join LDC (again)  Unhurried meeting preparation  Actually prepare for field service  Read the Daily Text everyday  Finish The Artist’s Way  Finish Mostly Harmless  Start and finish Living in Wonder  Read for fun outside of school requirements  Write my morning pages  Stop hate-following people on social media  Stop comparing myself to people on social media  Take a hiatus from social media  See my friends more  Stop dwelling on all things unhappy  Experience life in the moment  Eat healthier  Sleep better  Try to have a consistent 7:30-8:00 wake up time  Eat breakfast  Keep my room clean  Go through all my stuff and simplify and donate  Save money  Maintain my 4.0  Be happy  Be healthy  Be balanced  (I kind of want to do a selfie-a-day but lbr, I’m not gonna keep up with that)

In addition to this list, I have my theme:

High Self-Esteem 2017.

All my bad habits just lead to me being sad and mad at myself. I don’t want to feel sad and mad at myself. I want to love me. And, I mean, I should because I am pretty great. This year is all about continued self-improvement, balancing my life, and embracing all the positivity and possibility of 2017. I have a feeling that big things are going to happen. I have the power to make changes. I have the power to be who I want to be. So, I’m going to.

Man, I’m excited for this year.

[passivelyaggressively]

Nuclear Family (A short story based on Fatherland by Robert Harris)

Ever since he betrayed his father to the Gestapo, the Fuhrer had taken keen interest in the boy. Only 10 years old and already more loyal and more courageous than half the men in the Reich. Boys like that were not easy to come by in ’64, let alone the son of a degenerate traitor. After March had been taken away, the Gestapo brought Pili to see the Fuhrer himself. This was nearly unheard of, especially with Fuhrertag being the very next day. Nonetheless, Hitler wanted to see the young boy whose patriotism was foremost in his heart.

Over the years, Pili’s progress was followed and recorded closely. Twice a year he would have lunch with the Fuhrer. His mother and Uncle Erich were thrilled with him. On Pili’s 18th birthday, and graduation from school, the Fuhrer placed him directly into the Sipo. From there, he only progressed more and more—eventually becoming an advisor to the Fuhrer himself. When Hitler came to pass in early April of 1984, Pili was nearly a guest of honor at his funeral. By the time the casket was finally lowered and covered with dirt, Pili was ready to begin his rule as Germany’s next Fuhrer.

*    *    *

“‘When diplomacy ends, war begins.’ I am not the first to say this. Unfortunately, diplomacy with the Americans has failed once again.” Pili addressed 14 men in the office of the International Criminal Police Commission in Berlin. “The Americans have shamed us. They have tried to disgrace the name of our beloved Fuhrer. I will not stand for that!” His fist slammed onto the dark mahogany table. Jaeger, the youngest in attendance, flinched. He was just as much of a toy as his father.

“Sir, Fuhrer, sir, we have had 12 years of peace with the Americans. Why would we want to change that now? We all know what was published in the papers were lies,” Jaeger boldly presented.

“In 1964, America was finally beginning to recognize us as the power that we are. They were finally giving us the respect we deserve. Then, that damned newspaper was published and all that progress became undone! Yes, what was published was very clearly lies. We know that. But that does not mean there has not been doubt raised among our people and around the world as to how great Hitler truly was. We cannot let there be any doubt. Would you want our Fuhrer to be known as the man who killed the Jews and lied to his people? Do you want to continue to be disrespected?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I see we have an understanding, Jaeger. Now! Adler! How do you propose we make known our intentions?”

*    *    *

“Papa! Papa!” Adolfa ran to her father as he walked through the front door.

“Papa! Papa! I heard about the war!”

“Hello, my little soldat, how did you hear about that?”

“Mama told me! But Papa, why are you declaring war on the Americans? What have they done? I’m pen-pals with a girl in New York. Her name is April Maguire-Ford. Will she be okay?” Pili furrowed his brow and tilted his head.

“I’m sure she will be, Adolfa. Would you like me to explain why Germany needs to declare war on the Americans?” They walked into the kitchen and sat down at the island where Adolfa had been coloring.

“Yes, Papa.”

“Okay. Hand me those crayons.” Pili reached for the notepad on his left. He picked up a red crayon and began. “In 1964, when I was about your age, the American president, Joseph Kennedy, decided to make a visit to Germany. The Americans wanted to enact a détente. Détente is when two countries that didn’t get along in the past try to for the future; it’s an easing of tension. During World War II, Germany and America fought against each other. So, in 1964, the Americans decided that it was time to be on good terms with us again.” Pili drew two men shaking hands. One had an American flag over his head, the other a swastika.

“What happened when the president came?”

“Well, he never did.” Pili crossed out the handshake and circled the American.

“But he was supposed to!”

“He was, yes. But something terrible happened a few days before his trip.”

“What happened, Papa?”

“Your grandfather, Adolfa. And an American girl. They happened.” Pili began a new page.

“My grandfather? But what did he do? What did the girl do?”

“Your grandfather was never very loyal to our Fuhrer. Sure, he was a man in the kriminalpolizei, but that didn’t mean much. He had no integrity, Adolfa. No honor! No respect!”

Pili’s voice escalated and he snapped the red crayon in his vehemence. Adolfa flinched. He picked up a blue crayon and continued in a calmer tone. “He and this girl conspired together to try and destroy the name of Germany and the name of our great Hitler.” He drew March and Charlie huddled on the floor of an apartment studying stacks of papers. “Your grandfather, I must give him this, died a noble death near Kattowitz on the morning of Fuhrertag. However, the girl managed to escape. He, and the excitement of Fuhrertag, had the Gestapo and all others in the police force distracted and occupied. The men guarding the border roads simply waved her through.” Pili circled Maguire. He drew an arrow from her to a poorly drawn rendition of Switzerland. “She then made it back to New York with special papers.” He drew an arrow from Switzerland to an even more crude drawing of New York.

“Papers? What papers?”

“Lies about our Fuhrer! She brought them to the newspapers and they were out by the afternoon edition on 21 April 1964.”

“What did the papers say?”

“That does not matter. They were lies.”

“What did the Americans do?”

“They called for a trial.” Pili took a new sheet and drew two men standing before a judge with their names written underneath them. “It took years before the trial came to a completion. At the end of it, in 1972, Reinhard Heydrich and Odilo Globocnik were executed.” He pointed to the men respectively.

“What did they do?”

“They were sentenced on account of ordering the mass murder of Jews and for building killing-houses to do so.”

“But the Jews were just sent east. They weren’t killed—were they, Papa?”

“No, little soldat, and that is precisely the problem. Heydrich and Globocnik were only punished because their names were on the special papers—papers that were faked! The Americans then tried to place the blame onto Hitler, saying that he ordered those men to do those things. But, they could never find his name attached to anything. The Americans had no proof that our Fuhrer had anything to do with what Globocnik and Heydrich were accused of. Nor could they find any evidence of those proposed killing houses in our country. So, after the trial and sentencing, America left Germany alone. They left the Fuhrer alone. But that is not enough! The girl and the trial put doubts in the minds of our people and of people around the world as to what happened to the Jews. That sort of doubt is completely unacceptable! I will not stand to let the name of our great Fuhrer and our great country be tarnished!” Pili drew a rough outline of the American flag and then violently crossed it out.

“But wouldn’t a war only make people doubt more?”

“No, Adolfa. A war will prove that Germany and its new Fuhrer are not to be messed with!”  He drew a map of Germany with a swastika overlaying it. He put down the crayon and handed his drawings to Adolfa.

She leafed through them thinking about what she was just told. She looked up at her father. “Thank you, Papa.”

*    *    *

Adler began: “That girl, Charlotte Maguire, who caused all of our problems, I have been keeping tabs on her. About 10 months after returning to America, she gave birth to a girl named Marchelle. Apparently, she was pregnant when she left Germany. She stayed in New York City. In August 1970, she got married to a man named Harrison Ford. Then, on 4 July 1974, she gave birth to another girl named April.”

April! April Maguire-Ford. Adolfa’s little pen-pal in New York. Of course the girl would refuse to take her husband’s name. Adler continued: “I propose we start there. This is personal. I can have one of our men, who is already there, take the youngest girl. Then, we declare war on President Reagan on the morning of their independence day—which is also the child’s birthday.”

Pili stood up and said, “Excellent. But then, what do we do with the child? Use her as a bargaining chip? Dispose of her? Leave her unattended and disoriented somewhere and let her be found?”

“She will just be the first that we take. The Americans disgraced us; it is not enough to simply blow them apart; we must humiliate them as well. Their president is the spokesman for family values. Destroying their family units will be an extra slap at their dignity,” Adler said.

“First destroy the nuclear family, then drop the nuclear bomb,” Pili concluded.

[whispersnakeplace]

I Did It

1.1.15.

I don’t even know where to start with this this year. I am so happy, it’s unbelievable. In last year’s writing, I said that by the time I was back reading what I wrote I hoped for a lot of changes. Well, I did it. I “embraced the change” like never before. I allowed my life to...

[writerswritecompany]

250 ways to say ‘went’

Buy the Poster: WriteAtHome

[passivelyaggressively]

On September 11th, 2001

            Everything became still; it was as if the very ground itself held silencing power. At first, my sight was overpowered by the gleaming Freedom Tower that loomed 1,776 feet above me. But then my gaze turned to the trees. I was surrounded by 400 White Oak trees in the middle of loud and busy New York City. And it was quiet. I stepped slowly in effort to fully embrace each element of this grandiose memorial around me. There was so much to take in. I reached the reflecting pools after only a few moments. I walked up and stared down at all the names. I was reluctant to touch the engravings because it felt like I wasn’t worthy of resting my hands on the name of someone meaningless to me, but so special to somebody else. It felt like a sacred monument that I didn’t deserve to touch because it didn’t belong to me. I continued to stare. I shifted my eyes to the glimmering water cascading down the walls into a black abyss. I tried to see the entire pool at once, but it was too vast to take in. Before walking away, I let my hand fall and I traced the name closest to me. It was a name forever etched into the hearts and minds of the people in this city. It felt cold. My fingertips glided across its carefully crafted edges as my eyes shifted back to the water. I didn’t notice anything else going on around me. I probably could have stayed there for hours.

I approached the museum as the sunlight hitting off of the Freedom Tower emitted a luxuriant shine. It was magnificent. I shuffled through the doors and passed through security. Upon grabbing my things, I headed toward the first staircase. To my right were two rusted out, enormous steel tridents that stretched from the bottom of the staircase to well above my head. They used to be located in the base of the twin towers. I continued on into the first part of the museum. It was dark. The lights were turned low with the walls a dark grey and the floors a dark wood. Photographs of the minutes and days prior to 9:03 AM on September 11th, 2001 were everywhere. It hurt the most to look at those.

Slowly, I made my way through the hallway. There was a light grey map spanning the far side wall that showed where all four planes took off and eventually came to rest. I turned to my right to be greeted by tall grey panels with blue lettering illuminating them. Every language imaginable was displayed on these panels. They each told the story of 9/11. There was an audio playing that read aloud different parts of what was on the columns. It was in that moment that my heart first began to feel the pain and respect that 9/11 demanded.

As I followed along the path, I came to a section where “missing” posters were lighted in blue onto the wall. They changed every few seconds. My feet were cemented to the ground as my eyes darted from one poster to the next. Eventually, I kept going. There was this staircase heading down to the next lower level. It’s known as “Survivor’s Staircase”. It is the only staircase remaining after the collapse of the buildings. Hundreds of people fought their way down on that staircase and lived. I imagined that happening as I stopped to take a photo. I put myself in that position and all I could feel was afraid. My heart fell deeper into my stomach as dense, acrid smoke along with violent coughing, screaming, and blaring alarms covered my mind. I turned away.

A luminescent, blue tiled wall dominated the new space. In the center of it was a quotation by Virgil: “No day shall erase you from the memory of time.” It’s true.

The next section had me floored. Hundreds of wires and mutilated steel stared me in the face as I took in the base of the cell tower that was one atop of the north tower. When that fell, all communication was cut; the airwaves went quiet. Fire engine three was only a few feet away. Every single member of fire engine three passed that day. They were the first of the first responders. Seeing their tuck completely mutilated had me stunned. I never thought I would see the destruction so personally. I’ve avoided everything to do with 9/11 since it happened 13 years ago. I never watched the news, never viewed documentaries or looked at photos or listened to interviews or attended ceremonies. Upon seeing that fire truck, I was overwhelmed. I remembered why I avoided all those things.

I walked a bit further down the corridor and came face to face with the original foundation belonging to the World Trade Center. The last twelve feet of the wall slanted inward. On this section was a blue map projected out that had messages written from people visiting the museum. The messages scribbled were from people belonging to every corner of the world. Some were stories, some were thanks, and others were of hope. It felt like the whole world came together in that one little spot.

Further into the room was an immaculate glass case. In it, was a photo of my friend’s dad. His name was Dennis Michael Edwards, a partner with Cantor Fitzgerald on the 105th floor. After that, I felt the full weight of the exhibit. I turned silent.

I then made my way into the crux of the exhibit; no photography was allowed. The room was set up as a timeline.  I slowly and carefully made my way though each remnant and story surrounding that day and the days immediately after. Audio clips were playing of emergency calls and news broadcasts. The day was happening all over again inside that room. I was lost in everything around. Each one of my sense was fully encapsulated in that day, in that moment.

Eventually, I found myself in the jump section. There was a series of photographs of the brave people who jumped from the highest floors to avoid suffocating and burning to their death. They only had two choices. My heart was grabbed by a quotation on the final wall. It read, “She had a business suit on, her hair was all askew. This woman stood there for what seemed like minutes; then she held down her skirt and then stepped off the ledge. I thought, how human, how modest, to hold down her skirt before she jumped…I couldn’t look anymore.” I stopped looking too.

A little further down the way was a bike rack. This rack and each bike were at one time completely covered by the white, ghastly soot that the felled buildings produced. Above one of the bikes it said, “I didn’t want that day to end. Terrible as it was…it was still a day that I’d shared with Sean.” I walked away with my heart ready to sink into the floor and my eyes more wet than usual. It was too surreal.

Everything about the 9/11 Museum and Memorial was elegantly put together. Every single last piece held meaning. From the way the names were grouped by association and not alphabetically, to using personal messages recorded by family and friends. There was meaning in building down rather than building up, in not putting everything in a glass case, in not having bright lights, by keeping the space open and clean and simple- Not one thing was done arbitrarily. That alone makes this museum and memorial a feature of reverence and a feat of strength. 

[passivelyaggressively]

Swings and Fall.

I looked at Max and asked, "Do you want to swing?" Without the slightest hesitation, we both took off running. "Ever since I was little the swings were always my favorite," I told him.

"I like them too!' he said. We started swinging around the same pace. I flung my body back and watched the sky and sand take turns in greeting my face. I looked over at Max and shouted, "Close your eyes as you go!" Obediently, he did it.

"Whoa! It's actually kind of scary!"

"I know! Especially when you're coming down!" After that, we stopped talking. We both became lost in the consistent change of up and down, back and forth, while staring over the fence, under the trees, and across the water. I threw my body back with my eyes closed. Every part of me dropped into the earth then quickly flew up into space. I opened my eyes and my fence and trees and water went blurry. I lost my glasses to the sand in my childish venture.

My up and down changed. My swing became slowed in my daze. I let it decelerate to a mild lilt. Right then, the season changed. Fall held my hand with a gentle breeze and three little girls playing soccer to my left. Everything was alright.

[passivelyaggressively]

Cracks and Architects

I've been writing this story too quickly. Like, literally writing each part each week in about an hour or so. It's just not working out. I need to go back and change some things around in order to make the situation more plausible and realistic. So, to make up for such horrid lack of activity, I will be posting shorter works two or three times a week.

In April, I will be participating in Camp NaNoWriMo. I'm going to be writing at least 10,000 words of a story... of which I'm still not sure on the plot. But, I have a few more days to figure it out. Camp NaNoWriMo begins April 1st, so, I will be basically posting on here as much as I can in order to prepare. 

Do you guys have any ideas for my next story?

Send me some suggestions by clicking here!!!!!!!

[writerswritecompany]

How the senses make stories seem real

A picture is only worth a 1000 words if you can’t write.

And with that extreme statement I am sure I have managed to annoy a good number of photographers. I love looking at beautiful pictures, though. I can stare at them for hours. A single image can tell a story. It can convey emotion. It can transport you. It can captivate you. But I am a writer and I don’t have a camera. How can I do this with writing? How can I evoke that kind of emotion? How can I fascinate my audience?

A photograph is an image. So I use my eyes - my sense of sight. If it is a landscape with a snow-capped mountain and a lake and pine trees, I remember when I was near a snow-capped mountain. I remember the reflection on the water. I remember feeling the cold wind. The smell of the pine trees. I remember who was with me.

My senses make sense of my surroundings. Profound, right? When I write using my characters’ senses, my reader should be able to interpret the surroundings I describe.

Here are five examples from my own little library. 

by Mia Botha for Writers Write

[writeworld-blog]

mystyic asked: Do you have any tips for fantasy or science fiction writers?

[writeworld-blog]

Yeah, I think I can drudge up some tips for you! How about these?

Read How to Write Science Fiction & Fantasy by Orson Scott Card. This thin, unassuming how-to book is considered by a lot…

[passivelyaggressively]

Cracks and Architects (Part 3)

                                                 * * * * *

 “Hey, hey there, calm down, relax a minute, take a deep breath.”

“Who are you? What is going on?”

“My name is Ashley; this is my husband, Isaac.”

“But who are you?”

His teeth. “I used to work here as a custodian. I took care of this place with everything I had. And it’s where we met, but we weren’t allowed to date, against the rules.” They’re so white.  “I met her on that staircase to get up to the roof one night when I was working the graveyard shift. I was polishing the steps when she came by asking if she could help. I had been alone for a few hours at that point and company was always nice.” How’d he get his teeth so white? “After this place closed up, we got married.”

“What even was this place? I saw a bunch of papers in one of the rooms but they were too waterlogged to read.”

“Oh this place was kind of like a… hotel. People came, stayed a while, and left. They got served breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” Her hair is so orange. “It was a nice set up.”

“I’ve loved this place ever since I started working here. When it closed, I, I was heart broken. So, Ashley and I decided to come back and start fixing it up. Maybe make our own business. We’ve cleaned up this room and two others. But we’ve got a long way to go.”

“Why did you take me from the roof? I was busy. And you tied my legs to the floor. What are you trying to do, kidnap me?”

“No not at all. We brought you down because it was starting to rain and we didn’t want you to get wet and sick.”

“Then why’d you knock me out? I don’t remember the trip down here and my head is awfully sore.”

“It’s just a hangover. You drank seven beers.”

“No, it’s not, actually.”

“We tied your legs because we didn’t want you to leave before we could talk to you. It’s important.”

“No.”

“We didn’t even get to say anything yet!”

“I’m hearing plenty of words right now.”

“Come on kid, listen-“

“No.”

“We just-“

“Stop.”

“Isaac! Shut up and let me talk to her.”

“I’d be willing to listen if you’d just untie me. I’m capable of being reasonable.”

“Listen, sweetie, I can’t untie you, not yet. We don’t know anything about each other yet, we have no reason to trust each other yet. That’s why we need to talk first. After we talk we can loosen things up.”

“Literally.”

“Isaac!”

“It’s true!”

“Anyway, do you understand what I’m saying, Sally?”

“What do you want to speak about?”

“Well, we’ve been thinking. This place could really be brought back to its glory days. With a little bit of teamwork and some elbow grease, we could have this place as good as new. Then we could run our business out of here.”

“And what’s your business?”

“Why, we have our own bakery!”

“And how’s that going?”

“We’re rolling in the dough!”

“Oh, really?”

“Ashley, let me talk. Now, listen, kid, are you going to help us? I’m sure you’d love it. It’ll look good on the college apps, too. ‘I volunteered to help pioneer a struggling business!’ It’d be great! They’d see you as a real go-getter, a girl with ambition. Colleges love ambition. They strive-“

“No.”

“Come on, at least try one of our cookies. I’m sure after you try one you’ll change your mind.”

Gosh, how long has it been? Hours? A day? I feel like I haven’t eaten in a week. I mean, they seem nice enough. I don’t trust them but goodness, I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungry in my life. When did I even last eat? Friday morning before school. I had toast. But that was it gosh I “Fine. I’ll try your cookie.”

“Great! Thank you so much!” Calm down, Ashley. “Here you go!”

“Wait how did you know my name? We skipped the pleasantries.”

“Oh, we-“

[passivelyaggressively]

Time Goes Fast

**this is a break from Cracks and Architects**

“I am and always will be the optimist. The hoper of far-flung hopes and the dreamer of improbable dreams.” 

As I wrote the title to this post my heart and tummy became swarmed with butterflies. They’re still here; two hours from now stars 2014. This is a really big year for me. And I’m scared. 

I’m scared that my future is becoming real. I’m scared things won’t work out. I’m scared I’m going to lose people. I’m scared I’ll stop loving to learn. I’m scared my life won’t be what I want. I’m scared I won’t live up to my potential. I’m scared I’ll be forgotten. I’m scared I’ll lose my passion. I’m scared I won’t be responsible with my money. I’m scared I won’t make a difference. I’m scared I’ll mess up. I’m scared I won’t do enough. I’m scared I won’t be who I want to be. I’m scared.

On June 27th, 2014, I will be a graduated student from Commack High School. In all honesty, I don’t want to think about it. My senior year has been going remarkably well, and I don’t want it to end; I don’t want to graduate. I hate endings. I feel like I’ve finally figured out what I’m doing and come June, I have to start all over. I have a plan for after school, but life is life and I never know what’s actually going to happen until it happens. I’m going to work at the Huntington Crescent Club and do a part-time enrollment at Suffolk Community College for writing/literature/English. This being in hopes of one day down the line becoming a full-time, published writer.  I really do believe I can do it and believing is half the battle. I’ve got a solid friend base and I’m closer to my family than I ever have been before, but I’m still scared.

Big things are happening:

I’m turning 18

Dawn and Richard are having a baby

I’m graduating

I’m going to college

Brooke will be 2 years old

People are moving

Concerts (these are always big things)

I’m working for real

I’ll be an “adult”

Everything is changing and it’s changing a lot. 

But being scared is okay. People think that brave people have no fear, but actually, brave people are totally afraid. They’re just intimate with their fears. “Courage isn’t a matter of not being frightened, you know. It’s being afraid and doing what you have to do anyway.” Brave and courageous people lean into discomfort and do what scares them because heck, isn’t that what living is all about?

I refuse to ever be a coward, so, it’s time I embrace my fears and start thinking about 2014. With that being said, I make my theme for this year, ”Embrace the Change 2014”. 

In 2010, Jason Mraz wrote about his tradition for bringing in the new year and it’s one I’ve adopted since then. The most important part of this tradition is to have a clear intention set for midnight and act on it as soon as the clock strikes 12. This year, I have a few intentions and I’m sure they’ll grow as the days and months progress. For now, here they are:

become a published writer

finish everything i start

paint

be courageous

draw

stick to my goals and intentions

follow through on my word

sing

VEDA

NaNoWriMo

induldge in new experiences

stay happy 

As soon as the earth finishes it’s rotation and January 1st begins, I have a few projects rearing to go. I’m going to add posters to my wall and I am going to write the next part to my story. I also am going to take a trip to the book store tomorrow in my quest for The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron and Live in Wonder by Eric Saperston. 2014, and all the years to follow, will be brimming with greatness.

I hate when people say “this year sucked, next year probably will too” or “please, let this be a good year!” because, honestly, “every life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don’t always soften the bad, but vice-versa, the bad things don’t necessarily spoil the good things and make them unimportant.” There is good in every year, every day. Don’t focus on the bad, it won’t do you, me, or anybody else any good. Be a fan of positive articulation. Every year is a good year.

So, yeah, I’m sacred. I am down right petrified of what’s to come in the following months. But, I’m going to take courage. I am going to face my fears and embrace all the changes. Because, well, ”everything’s got to end sometime; otherwise nothing would ever get started,” the Doctor. 

Life is fast, faster than I can believe. My butterflies are gone now, and by the time I’m back here rereading this post, I hope for a lot of changes. 

[thegirlwhocrieswolf]

Love & Misadventure now available via Amazon or The Book Depositoryfor FREE worldwide shipping and major bookstores including Barnes & Noble, Kinokuniya, Fully Booked, National Book Store, Books Actually, MPH, Periplus, Waterstones, Borders, Indigo/Chapters + more.

[lavenouscam]

"She’s strong like the ocean, like the waves along the coast.

She’ll pull you in, then push you out so you never get too close.

She’s passionate as sin and mysterious like the night

And her smile will stop your heart like a Deer in the Headlights”

[passivelyaggressively]

Cracks and Architects (Part 2)

I really hope this works. I’ve never tried drowning my sorrows in alcohol and wallowing in self-loathing. I’ve been told those are destructive habits. But, I mean, there’s a first time for everything, right? I don’t plan on making a habit of this, I really don’t. This should be the first and last time I’m ever even up here. Now if this bottle would just… oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. How am I supposed to get this open? I thought only the expensive stuff took bottle openers!  Well, I could probably smash it. No one’s around, no one will hear it. This is needing so much more effort than I planned on giving. There’s no other way I’m gonna go through with this unless I drink, I’m too chicken, I don’t have the guts. Alright, glass shards let’s be friends.

Well, there goes half the bottle. I better not imbibe shards with this Bud. Well, then again, it wouldn’t really matter. At least I have seven more. I bet if I take the rock and just bang the cap I could get it off without shattering the whole top part. And it was loud. I don’t like loud.

All the great artists had destructive tendencies. Or like, they weren’t okay in the head or had a really messed up family life. That’s why they could make so much art. That’s why their art resonates with so many people. That’s why they ended up in museums, why people remember them hundreds of years later. Like Vincent Van Gogh. He had depression and seizures; the guy cut off his own ear! Michelangelo was probably bipolar. Sylvia Plath underwent electroconvulsive therapy and tried to commit suicide a whole lot of times until she finally succeeded at age 30. She stayed in a place like this. Virginia Woolf lost her mom and half-sister in death when she was just a teenager and she was sexually abused by her half-brothers. Then she lost her home during the London Blitz. And Ernest Hemingway! The guy is a brilliant writer and he was an alcoholic! Some of his stories, they’re some of my favorites. He was a genius and he drank all the time. He probably even wrote half of his stuff while completely wasted. Artists are so messed up.

I think architects are sorts of artists. They have to be. I mean, they put the things they see in their heads down on paper and then those things become reality. There were probably some really messed up architects out there. Probably the guys who build the really weird, non-traditional homes. The homes that are shaped like whales and stuff. They probably hated the houses they lived in as kids, so they decided to grow up and make better ones. For real, they must get so sad when they come back to one of their projects and it’s completely falling apart. Like this place. I’d be so angry.

Gosh, why does this stuff taste so bad? I’d rather just jump off this building now then wait till I’m wasted. I think that’d be better. No one’s going to notice when I don’t come home tonight. No one will notice when I don’t come home tomorrow either. Or the next day. Or the next month. I probably won’t even be found for a few days or even weeks; there’s no security guards at this part. But when they do find me, my parents will probably make a bundle collecting on my life insurance. That’d be good for Sarah. They could use the money to buy her her first car or put her through school. Everybody knows they’d never do that for me. She’s the oldest, the golden child. She’s the seventeen-year-old-soccer-captain-on-the-honor-roll favorite. I’m only 14 and I’m just average. I’m not bad and I’m not perfect. I’m just alright and I float. I hate floating. I hate the cracks. I just hope it’s not some kid who finds me. I’d feel bad for that kid. He’d probably turn into an artist.

I remember watching a guy jump off a building once. I was only eight. He was so tiny up there. Then he was on the pavement. He was red and brown and black. His eyes were wide open. He’d watched himself fall the entire 80 stories. I wonder what his life was like. Maybe when he was in third grade he was bullied. Then maybe in high school he wasn’t the smartest kid. Maybe when he got married his wife bullied him and he couldn’t tell anybody. He must’ve been really sad. Maybe he was an artist too. But I don’t remember. He just looked so empty lying on the street. Everybody tried pulling me away but I wanted to look. I wanted to see what emptiness caused him to jump. I wanted-

TO BE CONTINUED

(I apologize for not posting last week. I had to write a paper a night for school so I just didn't have time. But here you go, enjoy, share and thanks for reading!!!!)

[explore-blog]

The year’s best books about writing and creativity

[epees]

Some resources for those writing medieval-type stories:

list of medieval jobs

more medieval jobs

lords of the manor

ladies of the manor

medieval ladies

medieval weapons

medieval names

more medieval names

guide to medieval terms

more medieval terms

how to write sword-fight scenes

armor