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.

Pencil Tips

I'm going to show you one of the most useful things I've learned for creating a good character.  I found this in one chapter in the book "Writing Magic".  It shows a list for figuring out your characters.  I'm probably confusing you because all that's coming out of my mouth is words.

But I took that list and I tweaked it a bit for my liking and now, whenever I want to improve my characters, I open this file and fill it in.

See:

There, you just have to fill in the blanks.  Does your character have curly hair?  Maybe he/she is bald! What do they keep in their pockets usually? A charm?  Dirty old tissues?  Every detail tells you a little bit about your character.  Make your characters as complex or simple as you wish.

Most of all HAVE FUN!  :)

I would like you to see something

If you are looking at my blog posts, you may notice these little boxes at the bottom of the post:

If you look at them you can see that you can click on them.

They let me know how you like a post/story.  Also, don't forget that you can comment on my blog as much as you want.  Your feedback is necessary to me, as a blogger.

From a File Called, "Things In Your Mind"

                “I hate both of you!” I shouted angrily.  I switched the television off and tossed the remote to the side in my frustration.  My head throbbed angrily as I listened restlessly to my parent’s argument, “If you don’t want to enjoy a movie as a family then I’m going to go do some homework by myself.”

“Stay out of it Amelia Gertrude Wilkes!” my father exploded.  I hated it when they called me by my middle name.  Couldn’t they have thought of a prettier or more creative middle name for me?  My friends all had beautifully flowing names: Gracious Hope Lewis and Holly Ivy Bush, just to name a couple of them.

“You wouldn’t understand, Darling.” mumbled my mother turning from the dispute to pay attention to my complaints.  Fighting was quite normal in our household, but that didn’t mean that I tolerated it anymore than if the arguing were abnormal.  I wished my parent’s could pay as much mind to me as they did to their disagreements about watching a soap opera to the sports game on TV.  Neither of which I particularly cared for.

“You always say that!  You’re always saying how I’m too young to understand these things.  I’m thirteen years old!  What is there out there that ‘I wouldn’t understand’?  How can I ever understand if you don’t first try me?” Just then I stood up abruptly, hoping to appear intimidating enough so that maybe my parents would listen to me for once; slim chance of that ever happening in this household.

“Don’t raise your voice at your mother!  You must learn to manage your feelings, Sport.” My father pointed toward my room and nodded as he said sternly, “To bed!”

I bristled at this comment but, as I rolled my eyes reluctantly, I headed for my room.  When I shut the door, I did it so calmly that no one could have guessed the emotions bubbling inside my little heart and the thoughts flashing through my young mind.

“’Manage my feelings’ my foot.” I growled irritably.

It’s that age where you’re realizing that you no longer have an interest in your old childhood things and you’re led to think about throwing everything away.  You no longer care for that story you wrote in second grade or the effort you went through to appeal to the cute sophomore boy at your high-school.  Your life feels like nonstop school; leisure time has been eaten up by homework and your weekends are consumed by the long days spent at church and Youth Group.

Welcome to the reality of a world that’s always on the run.  Life’s far too short to watch the sun go down.  The few minutes of time free from school are zapped by your parents constant bickering.  Then you’ve realized that you haven’t truly been happy with your life since you were in first grade.  Your parent’s were still young then.  They loved each other’s flaws because it made them the great character that they were.  Not to mention the economy wasn’t pressing your family as much, all of those years ago, with worries about college and scholarships.  Then again, there wasn’t such a big recession back in the ninety’s when you were little.

I leaned my back against the body of the door and looked despairingly at my bedroom floor as if the answer to all my life’s problems might be found in between the carpet fibers.  I sighed heavily as I heard my parent’s murmuring through the wood of the door.  I pressed my ear softly against the door to hear their conversation clearer.  Occasionally blurred words formed comprehendible sentences.  Eventually, having enough of listening to the bombs explode on the battle field, I climbed silently onto my bed and glanced at the colossal cat curled up in the center of the bed. I rolled my deep blue eyes, but couldn’t restrain a smile at the purring mass of fur lying peacefully on my mattress.

I stroked the sleeping feline who consequently stretched its paws out, flexing its sword-sharp claws against the thick autumnal-colored, crocheted blanket near the foot of my bed.  My cat wrinkled up its face and then gave a mighty yawn, exposing small, pointed, white teeth.  The giant, ginger-furred mass, whose name was coincidently Ginger, began cheerfully purring a song to me as she gently bathed my hand with her prickly, pink tongue.

“Well at least there’s one person in this house I can depend on.” I laughed sarcastically as I gently wound Ginger’s tail around my delicate finger.  I chuckled briefly at my cat who had now become exceedingly distracted by a lose piece of yarn sticking straight up out of the net of warm, wooly yarn; no longer folded neatly as Ginger searched vigorously for the stray string that had excited her attention to begin with.

My satisfaction was short-lived and I was soon frowning at my life again.  I had various thoughts, some sweet, some bitter, some of both.  Remembering memories of the good days when my parents got along. I started telling myself not to be discouraged and that I would probably laugh at this, one day. Then I began wondering about the future; my future.

Facial expressions varied for the five minutes I sat in my room.  Smiling at thoughts of bittersweet moments, sighing as I created romantic scenes in my mind which I seriously doubted could ever occur, groaning when I remembered that I had half a report still to finish and shedding a tear as I wished for my life to change.

After reminiscing over the past and sharing thoughts with my cat about the future, I got up off my comfortable perch on the edge of my bed, regained my composure, set about dressing myself for bed and writing a sentence or two for my school report.  There’s always tomorrow, I figured.  Homework, watching TV, life; it can all wait a little while.  As I crawled under the covers and shoved Ginger to the side, I reached for the pull chain of my lamp. I, unfortunately, knocked a book and various collected trinkets and trash off my nightstand in the process.  I’ve always been known to be a bit clumsy when I have a lot on my mind.

I groaned and rolled my eyes, for the third time in the past half an hour, as I reached down out off my bed to pick most of it up.  To add to the situation, Ginger decided to be a complete nuisance and climb down off my bed by using me as a ramp.  When I turned around to see what the strange weight on my back was, Ginger slipped and started to tumble off of my back, taking me with her.  I let a small shout as I anticipated myself squishing my poor, dear cat with my gravity.

When I looked up I was surprised to see that I had landed on a giant pink teddy bear instead of a large orange cat.  Ginger was already at the door pawing pleadingly for the wooden obstacle to move out of her way when I looked up worriedly to spot my favorite fluffy fur-ball.  Ginger looked at me with her biggest, saddest, wettest eyes and made such a pathetic mewing sound that it could have been classified as a squeak.

I relented to my spoiled kitty and allowed her an exit by opening my door a crack and watching as a pool of golden light poured into my room, only obstructed by Ginger’s bulging shadow.  Ginger cried out her gratitude and escaped through the small opening.  I noticed a large scuffed, brown, leather shoe in the doorway and stopped myself from slamming the door on it.  I sighed patiently but continued to focus my gaze on the foot.

“Are you alright?” came the warm and worn voice of my father.

“Yeah…Just the usual bump on the head.” I muttered, “I’m fine, no ice or anything.” I persisted, answering my father’s unasked question.

“Alright then, Charlie; if you need something, just holler.” ‘Charlie’ was my dad’s nickname for me.  When I was just a baby and my parents were deciding on a name for me, my mother wanted to name me Amelia and my father wished to name me Charlene.  There was a short argument about my name and, being a kind gentleman, my father ended up yielding to Mother’s choice of name.  He still tells me that I look more like a Charlene than an Amelia and still calls me Charlie, to my mother’s dissatisfaction.  I have a feeling that my middle name was not his choice either.

He turned to leave, but then thought better of it.  I could feel his gaze on my soft-brown waves of hair.  Then he quietly lifted my chin up with his thick, leathery forefinger so that I was staring into eyes: full, dark, and piercing.   As if some silent apology were spoken, I replied softly, “It’s okay; I’m used to it.  I just wish you two didn’t spend so much of our together time arguing.”

Dad was quiet.  I let go of the side of the door and allowed it to float gently open, more gold channeled into the darkness forming a brilliant pool of brightness.  I always was the one with the imagination in this family and I still think of what it would be like to swim among the warm, yellow tide.  I pictured metallic dolphins playing innocently with generous people.  The people were happy; always laughing as if they had never faced fear, pain, sorrow, or death.  Lately I’ve stopped visiting my imagination as much.  It probably has to do with me getting older, peer pressure, or the fact that imagination isn’t valued like knowledge, power, and wealth are.

I turned towards my bed and retreated to the part of my room untouched by the beauty of the glow.  I scooped up many useless things that I forgot I had even left on my dresser: a keychain, several friendship bracelets from random people at school, a deflating balloon, a CD I listened to once or twice, and…  I put the things away in a drawer for safe keeping until tomorrow morning when I’d either find them a home or throw them out with the garbage.  I held out a book to my father.

 “Sometimes I forget how little we use this.“ I said solemnly.  I rested my forehead sleepily on his shoulder as he traced the indented cross on the rough cover and flipped through the delicate, dog-eared pages.  I suddenly realized how drained my energy felt after all of the exertion of conflicting emotions about conflicting parents.  I sighed slowly but heavily as I closed my droopy eyelids softly for a moment.

“I think you should get some rest…” my father’s sentence trailed off into the night as he ambled out of my room distractedly, still clutching the closed book in his rough hand.  I closed the door gently and watched the glorious luminosity being consumed by the murkiness of my room.  Wasn’t life just like that?  Suddenly, life is so bright and glamorous just to be ripped from your hands and shoved into the uncertain shadows of demons.

This Summer's Writing Assignment...

Okay so everything seems to fail.  I can't stay on the same track for more than three days.  So what I've done is a whole blog make over and I'm going to post  down, specifically, writing.  I'm going to start posting all of those crazy stories I talk about for you to read.

PLEASE COMMENT!  If you like what I've written, if you think it's the most vile piece of garbage you've ever seen on the internet, if you think I should post a story about a cat that falls off a fence and into a rabbit hole then, by all means, DO IT.  I like to here from my followers about things and I'd like to improve my writing skills some this summer.  I'm going to post some stories as soon as I'm done talking here.  Done!

Doodle of the Day 3

This one doesn't look like my best drawing, but sometimes, when I'm drawing, making it all look nice isn't what's important.  Sometimes it isn't the details people like, but the simplicity of a few lines meeting to form a meaningful picture.  For me, yes drawing can be done with thousands of techniques to make it look real, but when it all funnels down, The most important thing is conveying your feelings.  Here, I don't show the entire picture.  Although the duck is standing on a cliff looking on at the world below, I've only shown you his face and neck and another duck flying off into infinity.  It was meant to give a feeling of peacefulness, adventure, and hope...  Maybe even a slight loneliness or feeling of independence.  Also, realize the shadow on the back of his neck, as if to say that it will be brighter going forwards than looking back.  Good pictures leave you with questions and wonder.  This one seems to ask, "Will the duck follow after his friend?"  "What does he think as he looks off into the distance?"

Doodle of the Day 2

FISH!

Doodle of the Day

I'm going to post a series of doodles.  Let's see what I've got for my first:

Super Scribblenaut for you!  This is the first thing I drew in this notebook.  Now I have a brand new Drawing Book that has thicker paper, but for these old ones, live with the writing in the background.  Thank you.

Let's Talk About How Long It's Been Since I've Blogged

Or not.  Lots of things happened this spring including tent camping in thirty-degree weather and painting sets for our Out of the Box group.  I could go into detail on those subjects but I don't feel like it.  Weird, I haven't been feeling like rambling on about nonsense, lately.  If you've read my collaboration nailblog with Muppet, you will have noticed this.

Lately I've seen how pointless this blog seems compared to my nail blog.  It's like my brain exploded on blogger and I'm expecting you to scrape it up.  I don't mind if you skip this blog, but at least take a look at my nailblog.

I have no new art on my computer.  I feel like I've failed Blogger on this one.  But I'll think of a way to revive this zombie.  Just hang on a few minutes...or hours...or days...

Why?

We Are Used to Things Like This

Yay IPod Photos!

So, I've been sketching on my IPod and I thought you might like to see some of them.

New pictures of Cosmo

You probably wonder what Cosmo did for Christmas.  She had a whole fashion show.  She was competing with my okapi, Brownie.  Here's what happened:

 The end.