Long Time, huh?

Yeah, I haven't blogging mostly because I haven't been here and because I really haven't been writing.  Because I wasn't really here.  You know how it works.  I might write some more this weekend.  So be prepared.  But don't expect anything much.  Because I'm still busy having fun this weekend with my sisters.  And I have a math lesson that I probably should do. *sigh* Oh well...

I'm Not A Writer

This is what you CAN'T tell yourself.  Ever.  If you hit writer's block and you think it's eternal, don't give up writing.  What do we do, then?  Our story has reached a point where it is "stuck".  You can't push it forwards anymore, the details are getting too heavy and you can't remember what the point of your story is.  Don't give up writing.  Don't tell yourself that you're "not a writer".  Because you can be.  You only have to try.  Try your hardest.  If you get to the point you want to give up, don't push yourself.

Writing is like Yoga.  When you do yoga, you look around at all the other people who are more flexible, more balanced, stronger, fitter.  Oh, you think, I'm so weak.  I can't do this.  But if you try, you eventually will get better.  But don't push yourself too hard.  If you can't settle down into a pose, don't force yourself down.  That's how you injure yourself.  That's how you pull a muscle or pop a joint.  If you can't do a pose at all, don't stop doing yoga just because you can't do a single pose.  Try a different pose.  Start with a different story.  Try again. Start over.

Writers are only famous for writing, but what people don't know about them is how many times those writers had to re-write the stories.  They don't just sit down with 300 sheets of paper and a pen and finish their story in a week.  Writing is a slow process that you need patience for.  You have to re-read your work, cut out characters, stitch in new ones, edit out a scene or two, maybe you even have to cut out a chapter.  Re-do your work a little before you decide to give up on it.

Don't be lazy.  The longer you put off your work, the longer it will take to get back into it again.  Don't say that you don't have time for writing because, if you have time to go on Facebook, you have plenty of time to write a sentence or two everyday.  I bet you can write a paragraph daily.

Don't write all the time.  You need to read a little and write a little.  And you don't have to start at the beginning.  You can read a page or two in the middle.  Take notes about your characters.  I know that I always forget what color eyes my characters have or how old they are.  Write down in a different file or a different sheet of paper all of the important things there is to know about your characters.  Eye color, hair, age, grade, occupation, family, pets, whatever you can think of.

Do whatever it takes but DON'T GIVE UP ON BEING A WRITER.  Because you aren't a bad writer, you're just bad at motivating yourself to write.

Bad Wolf Day

It's a Doctor Who thing so, if you don't watch doctor who and don't care about/for him, just skip this post.  If you watch doctor who and you haven't gotten to the episode about Bad Wolf yet, I'm not going to explain it and spoil it for you.  Just ignore this post too.  You'll understand in time.

Today, June 3rd, whovians around the world will join as one and write Bad Wolf everywhere.  You are also chosen to do so, on this day.  Go out, my fellow whovians and Bad Wolf the entire world! Mwa ha ha ha!!! Okay, I'm just kidding.

I'll be back to posting more of my story later today...or tomorrow.  Patience is a virtue.  Keep it that way.

Things in your mind 1234

I found Rachel to be a reasonable companion in the months that followed.  She was quiet, but thoughtful, as are most reserved people.  School was eating me up and my class mates were getting on my nerves.

My friend Holly had a brother who was killed in a car collision with a drunk driver.  It was one of those hit-and-run things; just like that, he was gone.  It happened a long time ago, before I met Holly, but it kills her every time she thinks about it.  Some people get angry, shout and beat things when they think back on something tragic.  Others just shut up like a clam and won’t say a word unless you pry them open with a crowbar.  Holly is more like the latter; except all the time.

The first time I really met her, we were sitting through our physical science class and learning about Newton’s second law of motion when she suddenly slammed her book shut.  I sat behind her, usually, and was especially startled by her reaction.  When I asked her about it later she said that there was a picture of a guy pushing a car that looked awfully like her brother’s car.  I laughed and rolled my eyes as I usually do when I find something ridiculous.  It’s terrible how involuntary rolling my eyes has become.  She got incredibly upset and didn’t say a word to me for a week.

I pestered, nagged, then begged her to tell me more so I could understand; that my eye-rolls mean nothing and that she should ignore all my reactions.  Finally she got sick of me asking all the time and told me, “I’ll talk to you later” since we were in the middle of history class at the time.  At lunch time she pulled me over to a table that was basically empty except for one random girl who was chewing on a pretzel thoughtfully.

“Look,” she said as she stared me boldly in the eyes, “my brother died, when I was eight, in a typical car crash.”

“Okay.” I said thinking that it couldn’t have been that bad; most brothers I hear about are annoying twerps who don’t know when to get out of their sister’s hair.  Then again, I’d never lost anyone I really cared about in my life.  Most of my extended family lives far away and we don’t travel to see them ever.  I’ve never gotten attached to anyone outside my mom and dad and even then, their arguing all the time makes me not want to know them.  “Is that all?” I said as I pulled a hamburger out of my lunch bag.

She sighed impatiently, “He was a good brother and we rarely ever fought with each other.  He always was there to listen to me.  We had a tree house in our backyard and we would go up there when our parents quarreled with each other.”

Ooh, I thought, someone who might get me.

“So,” I interrupted rudely, “cool brother, evil car crash, the end.”  Some days I wish I would think twice before I say anything.

“No!” she said smacking my thigh.  I jerked back in shock, but she continued, “You don’t get it!  You won’t listen.  You’re just like everyone else.  They all think, ‘get a hold of yourself, Holly’, ‘time to move on: what’s past is past move on with the present’.  Even my parents have moved on.” She sighed heavily, trying to calm herself down, “It didn’t take them long to fall back into their usual pattern of dispute.  They’ve since argued themselves into a divorce and now I don’t even see my father anymore.”  This is when I noticed how hard her heart must be.  If I were relaying these details, instead of her, I would be in tears.  I felt sorry for her, but I knew she probably didn’t want that.  I looked away from her cold, white face and at my hamburger which I had been squishing until my hands looked bloody from the ketchup that had oozed out of it.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled as I dropped the sad burger onto its wrapper, “I didn’t realize…”

“That’s the point,” she continued, “no one realizes anything.  No one gets my pain.”

“But I do!” I reached for her hand, she hit a spot I’d tried not to touch on much.

“No you don’t, you think it’s ridiculous.  They all do.” She pulled her hand back and studied it, seldom glaring at me.

“I do understand the whole parent’s arguing thing.  Mine fight all the time.  Yesterday, my father mentioned that our spaghetti didn’t have its usual parmesan cheese sprinkled atop it and my mother went on some dramatic tantrum, she teaches acting at the local theater, you see, so it gets really overwhelming.  I can’t stand it so I—”

“But you still have both of them.” She cut in.

“Well, yeah…”

“You’re a lucky one.”  She got up and left me there at the table.  I stared at my sticky red hands. What had I done?  Why can’t I say anything right the first time?  I rolled my eyes, again, this time at myself.

“Be patient with Holly.  She’s been through a lot without anyone standing as her backup.”  The lonely kid at the table was still nibbling at her soft pretzel, “You have friends you can count on and she doesn’t.”

Okay, weird.  Just a tad bit creepy.  Has this kid been spying on me all this time; a stalker?  I didn’t want to stay to find out.

Why the Rainbow?

As you may or may have not noticed, I've colored the text in my stories.  Why would I do that?  Well, when you start to read a very long post and, suddenly, you have to get up to do something; a chore perhaps or maybe you realized just how long you've been procrastinating and decide to do your homework.  I don't know because I don't personally know you.  But, whatever the reason, you go away and then come back and realize that you've lost your place.  All of the paragraphs are black and you can't remember which black paragraph you left off on.

Now, if the paragraphs are colored, you can think to yourself, "Oh that's right!  I was reading the blue paragraph!"  It makes it a lot easier to stop reading something too.  You can say to yourself, "I'll stop reading when I finish reading the green paragraph"  Not that you will for sure.  I know when I read, I never stop reading when I want too.  Ha ha!

Things In Your Mind Continued Again

Three hours of baking and choking later, I found myself on the neighbor’s sofa; shaking my head at the disaster our cookies turned out to be.  My mother believed them to be still edible and delivered them to our neighbors, the Zimmerman’s, for them to try.  Thank God I was able to sneak a box of girls scout cookies into my giant purse or else we would have been dead for sure.

“So…” said Mrs. Zimmerman, “You’re the baker in the family, are you?” her concerned eyes met mine.

“Only when the final product turns out well!” I laughed nervously, looking at Joey Zimmerman who was staring at the demon cookie tray.  He then excused himself to the kitchen to put them away for the time being.  I was curious whether ‘away’ meant in the garbage or ‘away’ in the dog dish.  I giggled to myself.

The Zimmerman clan consisted of Nancy who was married Charlie Zimmerman.  Coincidence?  I thought so.  They had a son, Joey; and adopted daughter, Rachel.  Rachel was probably a year or two older than me and Joey looked approximately my own age.

Rachel was very pretty for her age.  Most of the teenagers at my school had a minimum of three zits on their faces at once.  Bleck.  Besides being spotless, her hair was a golden crown of curls.  I looked at the drab lock of my own hair I had been chewing on in my apprehension and resolved to get a perm as soon as I saved up enough money.  Which would probably be never.

Her brother was equally handsome but I decided that I would never date him because I never liked men with large stick-out ears.  It makes me anxious that they might be listening to my thoughts.  Or so I told myself.  He had a similar nose but aside from that fact, Rachel looked as related to him as a horse is to a monkey.  His hair was short, straight, and dark and his skin was tan and freckled in comparison to her pale unblemished skin.  His eyes were dark brown and hers were pale blue.  In fact, the longer I looked at them, the more unalike they seemed.

Their parents were younger than my parents and what few wrinkles lined their faces were gentle and almost non-existent.  They seemed to get along well and never once did they walk out of the room to discuss each other’s behavior.  They didn’t frown at each other or sigh when one of them made a lame joke.  I was instantly jealous of our new neighbor’s capacity of cooperation.

After some plain and uninteresting chatter began among the adults about financial problems, school, and a touch of politics, us kids went off on our own business and sneaked into the kitchen to spy at the alien cookies that I wasn’t even sure I made.  I unveiled the failed monster-piece as I gently lifted up the thin sheet of plastic wrap that was pulled securely around the cookies.

“I hope you’re not allergic to wheat germ.” I said, letting my sarcasm out of the cardboard box of my mind.  I tried up until this moment to restrain any sardonic remark to escape my cluttered mind and out my lips.

“Weird.” Joey said as he picked up a flat brown patty.

“Gross!  Put it down, Joey!”  Rachel had been silently sitting on a bar stool pulled up to the kitchen’s cool marble countertop.  That changed when Joey teasingly held the floppy cookie over his mouth by one edge with his thumb and pointer finger.  The disgusting blob fell into the gaping dark hole that was Joey’s mouth.  He chewed thoughtfully, his eyebrows crinkled, and his nose wrinkled.  I sniffed the horrid circles of glop and almost instantly gagged.  I offered one to Rachel who jumped and almost fell off her seat.

“Well,” Joey said after I cleared away the ruinous cookies, “it’s the thought that counts, I guess…” we both laughed but I knew there was still hope when I remembered there was a box of thin mints in my bag.  I reached for my pink-and-green, paisley, printed purse that was hanging on a chair in the dining room, un-snapped the latch, and watched Rachel and Joey’s eyes grow wide as they eyed their, apparently, favorite kind of cookies.  “Mmm…” he said licking chocolaty crumbs from his chapped lips; probably his only physical imperfection…besides his Dumbo ears.  I giggled to myself at this thought but quietly enough that he didn’t hear me.  “You know, Thin Mints are awesome.” Joey held up a glass of cold milk and grinned ear to ear, “I propose a toast!” he said standing in his chair.

“To good health, perhaps?” I said casting a glance at the trash can that just devoured my mess.

“—No, to Girl Scouts: the real heroes of the day!” Rachel happily licked crumbs off her lips.

“I’ll drink to that!” I said gulping down my cool glass of milk.

Things in Your Mind Continued

The next morning was an unpleasant one.  Apparently, we were getting new neighbors and Dad and Mother were trying to decide which kind of cookies would be better to take over to people they didn’t know.  Dad insisted that the peanut butter and dark chocolate chunk cookies would be a great way to “win ‘em over”, but my mother wanted to make them no-bake, no-flour, no-allergy cookies.  She found the recipe online and thought that it would be safer to take something that didn’t contain “horrible allergens”.

Being Saturday, it was the perfect day to meet the newcomers: no school for me, and Mother would only be busy doing laundry.  The only inconvenience was that Dad would be working that evening and wouldn’t be able to say hello to them on this particular occasion.  Good, I thought, now the only one she can fuss at is me.

 “Why do you care what I bake anyways?  It’s not like you’re even going to be there.” I heard my mother squall at my father, “Oh for heaven’s sake, Amy; why must you wear those atrocious pajamas!  Oh, my dear, it’s practically summer.”

I came down in my flannel pajamas that I’d gotten for Christmas last year.  My shirt had a cartoonish snowman on it while my pajama bottoms were a warm-pink color and sprinkled with images of mugs of cocoa, reindeer, and snowflakes.  These details are only important when I mention it was practically May.

“Mom, why do you always have to be such a drama queen, it’s not like there’s a paparazzi of cameras hiding in my closet.” I laughed aloud but then I regretted the phrase I let slip out.

“How dare you disrespect me in such a foul way?” My mother was a drama instructor at the community theater and had actually directed a few productions there; one of the few nice things about her.

“Well, sorry.” I said drawing out the R’s in my statement.

 “Don’t you even; sorry are just words coming from you!”

“If that’s so,” I continued hating my unstoppable mouth all the while, “Then saying that you’re a ‘drama queen’ should be quiet meaningless.”

“Amy, now Amy…” she tried to cut me off.

“Actually, if my very heartfelt sorry didn’t mean anything—”

“…Your heartfelt sorry, excuse me!”

“Then my half meant name shouldn’t have been heard!”  I concluded, snatching up a box of tea from the kitchen to make myself a cup.

Dad sat silently at the dining room table.  He’d learned enough to know that it’s better to let my little battles with my mother boil down before saying anything to either of us.  He sipped at a glass of orange juice and finished the last few bits of egg on his plate.

Mother sighed and offered to make me a scrambled egg.  She scolded me for my mindless mouth but forgave me in the end.  I carried my cup of tea to the table along with my mother’s coffee for recompense for dealing with me so much of the time.

“Darling, guess what we’re going to do today!” The way my mother said it made me sure that I would hate it.

“Drive racecars on the ceiling and paint the walls with gunpowder, I don’t know, Mom.”

“We’re getting new neighbors today and I thought that we might be so nice as to give them a warm welcome.”  She completely ignored my derogatory remark.

“Mom, you told me that yesterday and the day before that.  Probably for half the week you’ve been reminding me.”

“Have I now?  I haven’t been keeping track, so it’s good that you have.” She sipped her coffee thoughtfully.

“Sport, what say you make some of those amazing peanut butter and dark chocolate chunk cookies for our new neighbors?” Dad looked hopefully at me knowing that I would take taste over safety.

“See, I thought we could make this one recipe I found online,” Mother searched through her purse for it.  Mom and online is never a good combination.  Especially when she’s on Facebook posting baby pictures of me.

“Well, looks like you can’t find it!  I think we should go with good ol’ choco-chunk!”  I exclaimed just as Mother picked a white, neatly-folded sheet of paper out of her purse, “er—No, looks like you found it!”  I knew she was going to guilt me into choosing her recipe.  I heard the words in my head before she said anything: It’s healthier, safer, more time-friendly, cheaper, and it would save her a trip to the store.  I knew that I couldn’t persuade her to choose something besides her fancy-schmancy recipe.