I'm on lunch break at work right now. An early break at that. I'm not really too hungry and even if I were, I refuse to pay $4 payroll deduct for what I hear is not too good jambalaya and red beans and rice I should "stay away from." I've checked all 3 of my emails and facebook in about 10 mins. Updates, likes, comments all read and responded where needed. So what now? My RP partner still hasn't responded.. I feel like getting another, but I don't know if I'd like the maintenance. We'll see.
So I thought I'd hack out a blog. At least if I'm putting words on a page, I can feel somewhat productive.
Update from the last blog: I feel like I'm still keeping up with my resolution. I've finished 2 books before the end of January and have started a third. I know I could spend more time reading, but I misplaced the current book I'm on. Heh. good job, right? Anyway, I do feel like the reading had helped me write more. Or at least want to write more. I've come up with a new character: Drucinda. Still trying to work out her backstory. I'm not married to the idea of her alliance yet. I'm thinking antagonist. Or at least shady. Meh, I'll figure it out.
I've also discovered from reading more that simple really is better. I mean, I don't have to swallow a thesaurus in order to get my point across. Sometimes simple really is better. For example, it's better to say "She looked as though she hadn't slept since the news of her son's disappearance." than "She had the sad, tired eyes of a woman who had never stopped crying over her lost son." Or something.
It's sad to think I still haven't found my "voice". I know I wrote a blog about that a few weeks back, but I still feel that way. Maybe I need to enroll some writing classes or invest in some (more) literature. Like a workbook or something. I know there are programs online that will tell you if you're using too many adjectives or whether your writing sounds 'male' or 'female'.
I think I'll need to return to the basics. I felt invincible in high school when I was writing nearly everyday. I just knew I could only get better and I'd have a manuscript once I'd graduated college. Well it's been 5 years since getting my diploma and I still have nothing to show for it. It still stings when I tell people I have an English degree and their immediate response is "Oh, you gonna teach?". Then I explain I have a creative writing concentration and they lose interest. Maybe I need to dedicate an hour to writing. Anything. Everyday. Just write. I'd love to be like "Yes, I have an English degree and I've sent my manuscript to [insert well-known publisher] for review. I expect an answer by the end of the month." For some reason, I imagine myself holding a glass of wine when stating that. Seems so hoity-toity.
Alas, I thought I'd write a story today. But I guess it's just another whine fest about why I'm not successful. Better luck next time, readers.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
12.2.13
15.1.13
ReSOLUTION
Anyone ever wonder why people give up so easily on their new year's resolutions? I mean, here we are, January 15th and I'm sure the gyms have already thinned out and the initial burst of exercise equipment sales or diet shake craze have subsided. But still, there are some people who hold firm to their resolutions.
Me, well, I've always been a lazy bitch who never completes anything (see all failed story ideas/blog posts). It's a wonder I completed college. Still, I'm sticking to mine. So far, at least. I gave up soda once again for 2013 in an attempt to jump start a diet/healthier living for myself. Though I could definitely use a stricter diet to adhere to than "don't be a fatass." Part of that is also wanting to fit into a fierce dress for the ball coming up in Feb.
That's right. Ball. Me. In a formal dress and the whole nine since... My sister's wedding. Should be interesting. Anyway...
One of my other resolutions was to take my writing more seriously. Or, you know, actually do it. This stunning revelation came to me a couple nights ago when Chris and I were laying on the floor in his office. Not what you think. He was sitting on the floor putting together his Megazord (or taking it apart, I'm not really sure) and I crawled down there with him. Anyway, he looked up at my trunk, at the papers and books stacked under his lightsabers and Lego references (can you tell this is a grown man's 'office'?) and asked "What's that really thick book there?"
I looked up at the book in question and instantly recognized it. "My Writer's Market," I answered. He pulled the book out and starting thumbing through it. "Do you even know what it's for?" I asked him.
"Well," he said opening to a random page, "It's got a list of publishers and.. what they print.."
I couldn't help but sigh. I have never used that book. The book I saw for the first time in high school and vowed that I would have when I had a manuscript ready to sell. The book I begged my mom for for Christmas the year I graduated college in an attempt to jump start my career and ease her mind about both her daughters now having liberal art degrees. The book I haven't opened since 2011.
So why do we make resolutions? Do they actually solve anything? It's not the resolution's fault the resolver isn't so resolved.
I really do want to work on my writing. I want to finish something; something I can be proud of. Don't get me wrong: I love writing and I'll do it until I die. I just want... more.
Today, I'm sitting in LSU's union lab with two documents laying in wait in the start bar. I don't know why I prefer this space to my own apartment or the cliched coffee shop. For some reason, I feel more productive in this environment. I'm trying to write Dreamwalker (again). I think I'll make that my big project for 2013. Not to say I'm going to finish it by the end of the year, but I'd like to have a good chunk fleshed out.
I thought by writing a blog I'd have a chance to just freewrite to get the creative juices going. I've also been reading more. If you want to write, you have to read. You have to know what's out there. What's been published. What works. What people read. So I guess that's another resolution: Read more.
That one's going well, surprisingly. I just finished a book I received for Christmas and I'm starting another either today or tomorrow. Maybe the more knowledge I absorb, the more I can produce. Pretty sure that's a scientific law of some sort. Maybe by reading others, I'll find my own voice and be able to stick with something.
There are so many people I know who write with such raw honesty about their human experience on their blogs. I wish I could do that. Truth is, I don't really have much to say. I'm pretty safe when it comes to my day to day life. I don't pick up guys in coffee shops with a flash of my eyes, take him home, fuck his brains out and never hear from him again. I don't have any great tragedy that's forever changed my day to day living. I'm not smart enough to fabricate a story about robots or intricate little devices that haven't been realized in the real world yet. Still, I want that type voice. That voice that just grabs you and says, "Hey! Listen to me, you might learn something."
I wonder what people hear when they read my stuff. What does my voice say? (feel free to comment)
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
Me, well, I've always been a lazy bitch who never completes anything (see all failed story ideas/blog posts). It's a wonder I completed college. Still, I'm sticking to mine. So far, at least. I gave up soda once again for 2013 in an attempt to jump start a diet/healthier living for myself. Though I could definitely use a stricter diet to adhere to than "don't be a fatass." Part of that is also wanting to fit into a fierce dress for the ball coming up in Feb.
That's right. Ball. Me. In a formal dress and the whole nine since... My sister's wedding. Should be interesting. Anyway...
One of my other resolutions was to take my writing more seriously. Or, you know, actually do it. This stunning revelation came to me a couple nights ago when Chris and I were laying on the floor in his office. Not what you think. He was sitting on the floor putting together his Megazord (or taking it apart, I'm not really sure) and I crawled down there with him. Anyway, he looked up at my trunk, at the papers and books stacked under his lightsabers and Lego references (can you tell this is a grown man's 'office'?) and asked "What's that really thick book there?"
I looked up at the book in question and instantly recognized it. "My Writer's Market," I answered. He pulled the book out and starting thumbing through it. "Do you even know what it's for?" I asked him.
"Well," he said opening to a random page, "It's got a list of publishers and.. what they print.."
I couldn't help but sigh. I have never used that book. The book I saw for the first time in high school and vowed that I would have when I had a manuscript ready to sell. The book I begged my mom for for Christmas the year I graduated college in an attempt to jump start my career and ease her mind about both her daughters now having liberal art degrees. The book I haven't opened since 2011.
So why do we make resolutions? Do they actually solve anything? It's not the resolution's fault the resolver isn't so resolved.
I really do want to work on my writing. I want to finish something; something I can be proud of. Don't get me wrong: I love writing and I'll do it until I die. I just want... more.
Today, I'm sitting in LSU's union lab with two documents laying in wait in the start bar. I don't know why I prefer this space to my own apartment or the cliched coffee shop. For some reason, I feel more productive in this environment. I'm trying to write Dreamwalker (again). I think I'll make that my big project for 2013. Not to say I'm going to finish it by the end of the year, but I'd like to have a good chunk fleshed out.
I thought by writing a blog I'd have a chance to just freewrite to get the creative juices going. I've also been reading more. If you want to write, you have to read. You have to know what's out there. What's been published. What works. What people read. So I guess that's another resolution: Read more.
That one's going well, surprisingly. I just finished a book I received for Christmas and I'm starting another either today or tomorrow. Maybe the more knowledge I absorb, the more I can produce. Pretty sure that's a scientific law of some sort. Maybe by reading others, I'll find my own voice and be able to stick with something.
There are so many people I know who write with such raw honesty about their human experience on their blogs. I wish I could do that. Truth is, I don't really have much to say. I'm pretty safe when it comes to my day to day life. I don't pick up guys in coffee shops with a flash of my eyes, take him home, fuck his brains out and never hear from him again. I don't have any great tragedy that's forever changed my day to day living. I'm not smart enough to fabricate a story about robots or intricate little devices that haven't been realized in the real world yet. Still, I want that type voice. That voice that just grabs you and says, "Hey! Listen to me, you might learn something."
I wonder what people hear when they read my stuff. What does my voice say? (feel free to comment)
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
18.11.12
The Great One
So I'm bored at work. And I found a way to browse "in private". Which I hope means the boss doesn't have to know. Hehe.
Just because I'm not able to write an entire novel doesn't mean I can't treat y'all to some shorts. Well-- a short. Enjoy:
In those days, we couldn't imagine anything but pain. It was inconcievable to have a child born to our world that would not starve and know suffering. The ancient texts told tale of a once-yellow sun and bright skies, but most were believed to be fables by now. The one thing we still believed in, amazingly, were stories of the Great One; it was our one hope. We had waited for generations for the Great One to return, defeat the evil that kept us bound in darkness, and restore our world to prosperity.
But after years of waiting, I stopped believing. I could see only darkness, only hopelessness. As I looked into the eyes of my baby sister for the first time, so innocent and so pure, I felt nothing but anger. How could something so frail be destined to live the life in store for her? It was a miracle she had survived her first night. The same could not be said for our mother. It was a difficult pregnancy and a grim birth. Still as I held that newborn baby girl in my arms, I knew something needed to change. If the Great One would not return, I vowed to make things better myself.
Eleven years later, nothing had changed. We still lived in squalor, fighting for each breath. The evil that had held us in such a state had not weakened, but redoubled its effort. Many of us were tired of fighting. Too many failed rebellions led some to join the other side. We were not only fighting for our lives, but now we faced an all too familiar enemy: Each other. Though I tried my best to shield her, my sister witnessed horrors unlike any others I had experienced at her age.
She remained innocent. Or as innocent as a child living in our world could be. Her smile had dimmed, but she still believed in the Great One. Her faith was inspirational, though not enough to sway my beliefs.
And then, the towers fell.
"It's a sign!" she screamed as she ran inside from the fury on the streets. I had been repairing the outer wall of our home. She repeated the statement several more times before finding me outside, up to my elbows in the mud-paste I had fashioned for the repair. "Did you hear? The towers have fallen!! They've fallen, Haidren. It's happening, it's finally happening!" She threw her arms arms me, holding me tightly. In eleven years, I had not seen a smile as bright as that one. She looked up at me, her eyes searching for one glimmer of hope in mine. But there was only darkness.
Instead of rejoicing, I questioned her. "What are you talking about?"
Our father followed shortly behind her. In his hands he cradled a wrapped bundle. "It's true," he said as he unwrapped the bundle and revealed a scorched piece of stone. I couldn't believe my eyes. There in my father's hands was a part of the towers that had stood for so long, raining down nothing but destruction. I sank to my knees. "They said those towers were indestructable..."
"But the first sign! You remember the prophecy, Haidren."
I exchanged glances with my father. "They're only words, Rena."
"But it's happening. Right now!"
"It's true, son. People are rejoicing in the streets without fear. I've seen it for myself."
I turned back to the wall. "Those towers have stood for generations. No one's ever been able to bring them down. It's just not possible."
Just because I'm not able to write an entire novel doesn't mean I can't treat y'all to some shorts. Well-- a short. Enjoy:
In those days, we couldn't imagine anything but pain. It was inconcievable to have a child born to our world that would not starve and know suffering. The ancient texts told tale of a once-yellow sun and bright skies, but most were believed to be fables by now. The one thing we still believed in, amazingly, were stories of the Great One; it was our one hope. We had waited for generations for the Great One to return, defeat the evil that kept us bound in darkness, and restore our world to prosperity.
But after years of waiting, I stopped believing. I could see only darkness, only hopelessness. As I looked into the eyes of my baby sister for the first time, so innocent and so pure, I felt nothing but anger. How could something so frail be destined to live the life in store for her? It was a miracle she had survived her first night. The same could not be said for our mother. It was a difficult pregnancy and a grim birth. Still as I held that newborn baby girl in my arms, I knew something needed to change. If the Great One would not return, I vowed to make things better myself.
Eleven years later, nothing had changed. We still lived in squalor, fighting for each breath. The evil that had held us in such a state had not weakened, but redoubled its effort. Many of us were tired of fighting. Too many failed rebellions led some to join the other side. We were not only fighting for our lives, but now we faced an all too familiar enemy: Each other. Though I tried my best to shield her, my sister witnessed horrors unlike any others I had experienced at her age.
She remained innocent. Or as innocent as a child living in our world could be. Her smile had dimmed, but she still believed in the Great One. Her faith was inspirational, though not enough to sway my beliefs.
And then, the towers fell.
"It's a sign!" she screamed as she ran inside from the fury on the streets. I had been repairing the outer wall of our home. She repeated the statement several more times before finding me outside, up to my elbows in the mud-paste I had fashioned for the repair. "Did you hear? The towers have fallen!! They've fallen, Haidren. It's happening, it's finally happening!" She threw her arms arms me, holding me tightly. In eleven years, I had not seen a smile as bright as that one. She looked up at me, her eyes searching for one glimmer of hope in mine. But there was only darkness.
Instead of rejoicing, I questioned her. "What are you talking about?"
Our father followed shortly behind her. In his hands he cradled a wrapped bundle. "It's true," he said as he unwrapped the bundle and revealed a scorched piece of stone. I couldn't believe my eyes. There in my father's hands was a part of the towers that had stood for so long, raining down nothing but destruction. I sank to my knees. "They said those towers were indestructable..."
"But the first sign! You remember the prophecy, Haidren."
I exchanged glances with my father. "They're only words, Rena."
"But it's happening. Right now!"
"It's true, son. People are rejoicing in the streets without fear. I've seen it for myself."
I turned back to the wall. "Those towers have stood for generations. No one's ever been able to bring them down. It's just not possible."
4.11.12
500 Going on Fail
So here it is, Day 4 of NaNoWriMo officially. Anyone wanna guess my word count? A staggering 511 words! w00t.
I have to admit though, I only wrote for about an hour on the 2nd...
But now I have the Jason Mraz playing and the creative juices--well, those are actually a bit stilted. I think I'm having trouble concentrating. I thought if I wrote something else first, this project would come easier. So I responded to some RPs to "flesh the crap out" as Christa would say. But as I stare at my dismal word document of a NaNo, I can't think of a single word.
Here's what I have so far (since I promised updates):
Katie sat in the waiting room of her father’s office absent-mindly flipping through an outdated magazine. Someone had ripped out the pages for a picture of a hot celebrity or for an ad. Katie continued to thumb through it as the clock ticked away. She had been there for forty-five minutes already and would probably be there for another twenty minutes before her father was ready to bring her home to her mother. Every now and then she would look up at her father’s receptionist, Miss Stephanie. Stephanie tacked away at her keyboard barely paying attention to the fifteen year old girl waiting for her father.
Perfectly manicured French tips danced across the keyboard of the receptionist’s computer. Katie watched as the little strips of white jumped like bugs on the lettered tiles. The beaded bracelet on her left arm shook with each new word. It was like an accidental symphony. There was no music in her father’s waiting room; just an awkward and heavy silence. Save for the typing.
The office was too sterile for Katie’s tastes. Her father had decorated the clinically white walls with pictures of landscapes. She didn’t know where these places were or who had painted the pictures, but they were boring. There were no people, no animals; just land. Miles and miles of land stretching from one end of the frame to the other. Apparently, her father thought this relaxed his patients before entering his office. Katie looked at the shut door on the other side of the waiting room. Her father’s name was printed in black lettering on a gold name plate: Dr. Michael Fellows, Psychologist. Katie looked at the clock again. She had been sitting for nearly an hour now. “So, how crazy is this one?”
The typing stopped and the lady gave Katie a disapproving look. “None of your father’s patients are ‘crazy’,” she mimed quotes in the air. “And even if they were, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. Doctor –patient privilege.” She turned her head back towards her computer monitor and continued typing. Katie tossed the magazine back down with the others and sighed.
She stared at a painting hanging on the opposite wall from her. The grass was dotted with wildflowers or daisies or something like that. It was a hilly pastoral scene lying under a blue sky. Katie thought the picture could have used a few houses or at least a barn. Maybe an abandoned tool shed so she’d have something to imagine about while she waited for her father. Not much came to mind staring at a field.
The phone at Miss Stephanie’s desk beeped. She picked up the receiver and said sweetly, “Yes?” There was a pause. Katie instantly recognized the sound of her father’s voice from the other end. “Yes she is, Dr. Fellows.” The receptionist looked over in Katie’s direction then back at her monitor. “A little over an hour now.” There was another pause. “Alright, I’ll tell her. You’re welcome. Goodbye.”
“He’s going to be a while, isn’t he?”
Miss Stephanie nodded.
Not too shabby huh? Yeah, well, I'm proud of it. I guess. It's a start. It's very heavily weighted with back story and character establishment. I need to turn that filter off. The one that asks 'Why is this here?' or 'What does this say about that character?' I need the voice that says Fuck that, get the word count! Yeah, where's that voice?
:~o*'Isianya'*o~:.
I have to admit though, I only wrote for about an hour on the 2nd...
But now I have the Jason Mraz playing and the creative juices--well, those are actually a bit stilted. I think I'm having trouble concentrating. I thought if I wrote something else first, this project would come easier. So I responded to some RPs to "flesh the crap out" as Christa would say. But as I stare at my dismal word document of a NaNo, I can't think of a single word.
Here's what I have so far (since I promised updates):
Katie sat in the waiting room of her father’s office absent-mindly flipping through an outdated magazine. Someone had ripped out the pages for a picture of a hot celebrity or for an ad. Katie continued to thumb through it as the clock ticked away. She had been there for forty-five minutes already and would probably be there for another twenty minutes before her father was ready to bring her home to her mother. Every now and then she would look up at her father’s receptionist, Miss Stephanie. Stephanie tacked away at her keyboard barely paying attention to the fifteen year old girl waiting for her father.
Perfectly manicured French tips danced across the keyboard of the receptionist’s computer. Katie watched as the little strips of white jumped like bugs on the lettered tiles. The beaded bracelet on her left arm shook with each new word. It was like an accidental symphony. There was no music in her father’s waiting room; just an awkward and heavy silence. Save for the typing.
The office was too sterile for Katie’s tastes. Her father had decorated the clinically white walls with pictures of landscapes. She didn’t know where these places were or who had painted the pictures, but they were boring. There were no people, no animals; just land. Miles and miles of land stretching from one end of the frame to the other. Apparently, her father thought this relaxed his patients before entering his office. Katie looked at the shut door on the other side of the waiting room. Her father’s name was printed in black lettering on a gold name plate: Dr. Michael Fellows, Psychologist. Katie looked at the clock again. She had been sitting for nearly an hour now. “So, how crazy is this one?”
The typing stopped and the lady gave Katie a disapproving look. “None of your father’s patients are ‘crazy’,” she mimed quotes in the air. “And even if they were, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. Doctor –patient privilege.” She turned her head back towards her computer monitor and continued typing. Katie tossed the magazine back down with the others and sighed.
She stared at a painting hanging on the opposite wall from her. The grass was dotted with wildflowers or daisies or something like that. It was a hilly pastoral scene lying under a blue sky. Katie thought the picture could have used a few houses or at least a barn. Maybe an abandoned tool shed so she’d have something to imagine about while she waited for her father. Not much came to mind staring at a field.
The phone at Miss Stephanie’s desk beeped. She picked up the receiver and said sweetly, “Yes?” There was a pause. Katie instantly recognized the sound of her father’s voice from the other end. “Yes she is, Dr. Fellows.” The receptionist looked over in Katie’s direction then back at her monitor. “A little over an hour now.” There was another pause. “Alright, I’ll tell her. You’re welcome. Goodbye.”
“He’s going to be a while, isn’t he?”
Miss Stephanie nodded.
Not too shabby huh? Yeah, well, I'm proud of it. I guess. It's a start. It's very heavily weighted with back story and character establishment. I need to turn that filter off. The one that asks 'Why is this here?' or 'What does this say about that character?' I need the voice that says Fuck that, get the word count! Yeah, where's that voice?
:~o*'Isianya'*o~:.
29.10.12
NaNoWriMo: Part 4!
I am still not used to this new-fangled Blogger site... Took me about 10 minutes of staring at the screen--the incredibly cluttered screen with all its buttons and menus--before I found the "new post" button. I seem to remember it being a lot easier to post in the past. "Compose" was the biggest square on the screen. Those were the good ol days.. Le sigh.
Anyway, here I am again: Writing. Which, apparently, is what I want to do with my life. It's what I went to school for. It's what I love. I like to think I'm good at it...
So on that note, here's my official blog post announcing my NaNoWriMo participation this year. Again. Yay! I know I've failed in the past. 4 times over. But this is a new year. And even though I never finish, each year my love for writing is renewed... it's my hatred of deadlines that kills me.
But I figure if I announce it here online for "the world" to see, it may help me continue and maybe actually finish this year. So feel free to comment and ask me about my progress. In fact, I'm begging you to do so.
Why should I do that? you ask. Well, my novel idea this year is spectacular! Duh.
I'll post excerpts throughout November. Probably work out some of the writing here. And of course, track my progress.
Here we go! (again)
.:~o*'Isianya'*o~:.
Anyway, here I am again: Writing. Which, apparently, is what I want to do with my life. It's what I went to school for. It's what I love. I like to think I'm good at it...
So on that note, here's my official blog post announcing my NaNoWriMo participation this year. Again. Yay! I know I've failed in the past. 4 times over. But this is a new year. And even though I never finish, each year my love for writing is renewed... it's my hatred of deadlines that kills me.
But I figure if I announce it here online for "the world" to see, it may help me continue and maybe actually finish this year. So feel free to comment and ask me about my progress. In fact, I'm begging you to do so.
Why should I do that? you ask. Well, my novel idea this year is spectacular! Duh.
I'll post excerpts throughout November. Probably work out some of the writing here. And of course, track my progress.
Here we go! (again)
.:~o*'Isianya'*o~:.
23.10.12
Your Best Move
Wow... There are so many things to go into this post. First, I feel I should mention that I had to change 4 email passwords and log into two separate Google accounts before realizing that the entire Blogger system had changed. I am not a fan. I also don't appreciate how my browser is forcing me to choose, modify, and link accounts with every new window. It's very frustrating. Hey Google, if I wanted to link accounts, I wouldn't have separate ones! Also, just because my alternate email account is another Google account, doesn't mean I want to have the password sent to that one for an email I'm not even using anymore. And since you won't let me change the account email, I guess I'm stuck in a cycle of Hotmail, Google, TigerMail, and then.. yet another Google. Okay /endrant
Secondly, once I finally do get into my Blogger account, I'm very disappointed to see that everything has changed. As I'm writing this, I find the staunch white composing screen a little off-putting. Definitely not good for late night writing. There's too many menus and toolbars condensed around the edges. I liked the old cluttered look. It made since to me. This.. Well, this will take some getting used to. Again, thank you Google.
So, here we are: My actual blog post.
I don't really have much to talk about. Only that I happened to stumble back into my friends' blogs recently which I thought were dead. But no, my friends have been writing. And writing often. Me, not so much. My friends are writing with such abandon and such honesty that I'm a little jealous. A lot jealous. I notice that I censor myself so much. Even as I'm writing this, I'm constantly backspacing, reading, re-reading, backspacing again... There's just this little voice inside of me saying "Are you sure that's what you want to say?" Is that the right word choice? The most varied sentence structure? How does it sound? Does anyone actually want to read this? More often than not, the answer is always a resounding NO.
A few years ago, I met a woman named Megan. Megan was a tutor at the middle school I was also tutoring at after school. She wasn't with my company, but her class was across the hall from mine. And our kids would ride the same bus, so we dismissed around the same time and monitored our kids after the tutoring together. It didn't take long before we discovered a bar around the corner from the school which we would go to religiously every Thursday for 1/2 half off margaritas and live music. Then one day Megan asked if I and another tutor in the same hallway wanted to go to her place for homemade wine and games. Anyone who knows me knows I don't turn down free wine. So I went.
Megan introduced me to a delicious pink wine she had made and even gave me a bottle to take home. Which my sister and I polished off in a few days. Megan and the other tutor, Freddie, were playing chess. Freddie had just made a move after much thought and consideration. But Megan stared up at him and asked, "Are you sure you want to make that move? Is that the best move you have?" Both me and Freddie looked at Megan in disbelief. Megan blushed and explained that her father was somewhat of a chess expert and taught her how to play. As a girl, Megan's dad would play with her and her brothers, encouraging them to make their best moves. He would stop the game, take back their play and tell them to try again. They would be told to make their "best" move. The most strategic one. The most clever one. Again, the best.
The point is: That story has always stuck with me. Make your best move. In chess. In life.
I have a story inside of me. A novel. A great teenage fantasy novel. (Or two) But I'm haunted by Megan's story. Is the best move I have? The best story I can write. And I don't have an answer.
My friends can write their blogs frequently and honestly. But me, I'm censored. I'm afraid. I can't make my best move. Maybe because I don't have a play to make...
Secondly, once I finally do get into my Blogger account, I'm very disappointed to see that everything has changed. As I'm writing this, I find the staunch white composing screen a little off-putting. Definitely not good for late night writing. There's too many menus and toolbars condensed around the edges. I liked the old cluttered look. It made since to me. This.. Well, this will take some getting used to. Again, thank you Google.
So, here we are: My actual blog post.
I don't really have much to talk about. Only that I happened to stumble back into my friends' blogs recently which I thought were dead. But no, my friends have been writing. And writing often. Me, not so much. My friends are writing with such abandon and such honesty that I'm a little jealous. A lot jealous. I notice that I censor myself so much. Even as I'm writing this, I'm constantly backspacing, reading, re-reading, backspacing again... There's just this little voice inside of me saying "Are you sure that's what you want to say?" Is that the right word choice? The most varied sentence structure? How does it sound? Does anyone actually want to read this? More often than not, the answer is always a resounding NO.
A few years ago, I met a woman named Megan. Megan was a tutor at the middle school I was also tutoring at after school. She wasn't with my company, but her class was across the hall from mine. And our kids would ride the same bus, so we dismissed around the same time and monitored our kids after the tutoring together. It didn't take long before we discovered a bar around the corner from the school which we would go to religiously every Thursday for 1/2 half off margaritas and live music. Then one day Megan asked if I and another tutor in the same hallway wanted to go to her place for homemade wine and games. Anyone who knows me knows I don't turn down free wine. So I went.
Megan introduced me to a delicious pink wine she had made and even gave me a bottle to take home. Which my sister and I polished off in a few days. Megan and the other tutor, Freddie, were playing chess. Freddie had just made a move after much thought and consideration. But Megan stared up at him and asked, "Are you sure you want to make that move? Is that the best move you have?" Both me and Freddie looked at Megan in disbelief. Megan blushed and explained that her father was somewhat of a chess expert and taught her how to play. As a girl, Megan's dad would play with her and her brothers, encouraging them to make their best moves. He would stop the game, take back their play and tell them to try again. They would be told to make their "best" move. The most strategic one. The most clever one. Again, the best.
The point is: That story has always stuck with me. Make your best move. In chess. In life.
I have a story inside of me. A novel. A great teenage fantasy novel. (Or two) But I'm haunted by Megan's story. Is the best move I have? The best story I can write. And I don't have an answer.
My friends can write their blogs frequently and honestly. But me, I'm censored. I'm afraid. I can't make my best move. Maybe because I don't have a play to make...
28.3.12
Hello Old Friend
Wow. Two posts in one month! There was a time when I would have considered that unacceptable. Now, I'm actually impressed with myself for taking time to write again. I've been so busy. I've been so tired. I've been.. highly unmotivated. I know that's not an excuse. I can't say I want to pursue a career in writing one day and then neglect something as easy as freewritng for myself. There's no excuse. I don't have to churn out something spectacular each time. I just have to try.
God, I hate my job so much. Really, I do. At first, I was excited about the prospect of having that big, post-graduate, 9a-5p job. But this is nothing more than a temp assignment that's driving me insane. The stress is more than I'm accustomed to dealing with. More than I think I can handle. I'm crying more, sleeping less and drinking... Well, let's just say there's only liquor and water in fridge at home. I know my health is suffering because of this job. I wake up tired, I don't sleep well at night, and I'm having more and trouble focusing throughout the day. On the drive to work, there's this billboard that reads: "1 in 3 people will die of heart disease this year." I pass that sign everyday on the way to work and think, I'll probably be one of those three. I'll probably have a heart attack at 27. Or develop some stress-related heart condition as a result of this job. And for what? I have nothing to show for it other than the amazing people I work with. But everyone is looking for another job. It's odd. I feel like I've been tricked.
On top of that, I feel like I'm failing in my personal relationships as well. I don't communicate well, if at all. I have trouble opening up. I build walls. I reinforce them. I reinforce the reinforcements. So I have all these things building inside of me with no hope of release. I drink myself into a numbness nearly every night and start over in a few hours. It's like a reset button. Although, it's not really a clean slate each morning. The problems are still there. It's more like a save button. I just clear off whatever's bothering me and store it somewhere else. It's not healthy, or so I've been told. But it's all I know. It's how I've learned to deal. There's nothing worse than being "that girl". The one who always wants to talk about fer feelings. The one who's too insecure to function.
I may be that girl, but I don't want to be known as that girl.
I need a vacation. From life.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
God, I hate my job so much. Really, I do. At first, I was excited about the prospect of having that big, post-graduate, 9a-5p job. But this is nothing more than a temp assignment that's driving me insane. The stress is more than I'm accustomed to dealing with. More than I think I can handle. I'm crying more, sleeping less and drinking... Well, let's just say there's only liquor and water in fridge at home. I know my health is suffering because of this job. I wake up tired, I don't sleep well at night, and I'm having more and trouble focusing throughout the day. On the drive to work, there's this billboard that reads: "1 in 3 people will die of heart disease this year." I pass that sign everyday on the way to work and think, I'll probably be one of those three. I'll probably have a heart attack at 27. Or develop some stress-related heart condition as a result of this job. And for what? I have nothing to show for it other than the amazing people I work with. But everyone is looking for another job. It's odd. I feel like I've been tricked.
On top of that, I feel like I'm failing in my personal relationships as well. I don't communicate well, if at all. I have trouble opening up. I build walls. I reinforce them. I reinforce the reinforcements. So I have all these things building inside of me with no hope of release. I drink myself into a numbness nearly every night and start over in a few hours. It's like a reset button. Although, it's not really a clean slate each morning. The problems are still there. It's more like a save button. I just clear off whatever's bothering me and store it somewhere else. It's not healthy, or so I've been told. But it's all I know. It's how I've learned to deal. There's nothing worse than being "that girl". The one who always wants to talk about fer feelings. The one who's too insecure to function.
I may be that girl, but I don't want to be known as that girl.
I need a vacation. From life.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
16.3.12
If These Walls Could Talk
I was cleaning off my desktop and found this picture...
Well, I say "clean", I guess I mean more so.. sort. It's still more than halfway cluttered with old files and icons. Like this picture. Anyway..
This picture may not look like much.. But it's the sum of a lifetime's work, dedication, and perseverance.. And it's the site where I've had some of my fondest memories. It's like a dream.. But looking at this picture reminds me that it's just wood, metal, plaster, and brick. What makes this picture so special--this place so special, is what it's become. How I feel when I'm there. Not the walls, but how I feel inside them.
I think captain Jack Sparrow said it best: "That's what a ship is, you know. It's not just a keel and a hull and a deck and sails, that's what a ship needs but what a ship is... what the Black Pearl really is... is freedom. "
Yeah, that's it. Freedom.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
Well, I say "clean", I guess I mean more so.. sort. It's still more than halfway cluttered with old files and icons. Like this picture. Anyway..
This picture may not look like much.. But it's the sum of a lifetime's work, dedication, and perseverance.. And it's the site where I've had some of my fondest memories. It's like a dream.. But looking at this picture reminds me that it's just wood, metal, plaster, and brick. What makes this picture so special--this place so special, is what it's become. How I feel when I'm there. Not the walls, but how I feel inside them.
I think captain Jack Sparrow said it best: "That's what a ship is, you know. It's not just a keel and a hull and a deck and sails, that's what a ship needs but what a ship is... what the Black Pearl really is... is freedom. "
Yeah, that's it. Freedom.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
5.2.12
Rest and Just Believe
I'm always amazed at the graciousness of God and His presence in my life. I see it in the things that make me indescribably happy like my godson's smile or the peace that I feel when I'm attending mass. Further more, I'm humbled by (as a great inspiration of mine would say) "moments of unscripted grace." Here's on that happened today.
Lately, I've been feeling overwhelmed by the new role that been placed in my lap: responsible adult. Neither of these two words describe me very well. Nor do I aspire to become either.. not any time soon, anyways. I'm tired more often than usual; I have no time for myself; I'm frustrated and irritated more often than not.. It's not very good.
However, something happened to me today that just made me stop, throw my hands up, and give it to God.
This weekend, my mom came for a visit. She was helping me buy new clothes for my new job. More professional wear. Which, as you might imagine, I have little to none of. Anyway, I was really excited to have my mom come for a visit. Even more so because I knew my sister and brother-in-law would be going home. So it'd be just me and her. I know it's a terrible thing to say, but I know my mom prefers the company of my sister over me. It just is what it is. So I was doubly excited learning she'd be making a trip just for me.
Well, when she got to BR she told me she wanted to get on the road pretty early the very next day. Meaning she'd stay less than 24 hours. I was a little jolted and hurt because I thought she'd try to make time for a proper visit. Time for me. But that didn't happen.
I also wanted to discuss my car situation. I thought she'd have good news for me. I thought we'd discuss things. But when I brought it up, I found her evasive and, even more upsetting, indifferent to what I'm going through. She even took my sister's side on another issue that had upset me earlier that week. But, as I said, I've been irritated a lot lately, so maybe that could explain that. Oh well. Point being: I was upset. And hurt. And feeling.. overwhelmed and ignored. Which, in a person like me, is not a very good combination.
So, on the way to mass this morning my mom and I were listening to inspirational music and a song came on that just grabbed me. The words were just what I needed to hear when I needed to hear them. I can't describe the feeling I got hearing the lyrics as they played.. powerful is about as close as I can get. I was nearly moved to tears. Coupled with the homily of mass, this song really helped me relax and prepare for the week ahead. And the responsibilities that will come in the future.
It's called "All Things Are Working" and here's some of the lyrics:
Falling apart
and tearing at the seams
Tribulation lends a hand
and squeezes all your hopes, your dream
You say you retreat,
you say you just can't win
Before you let your circumstance tell you how the story ends
Know that His word says you can stand,
He'll cover you with His grace
Everything you need is in your hand,
So lift up your head and say
All things are working for me,
even things I can't see
Your ways are so beyond me,
but You said that you would
let it be for my good,
so I'll rest and just believe
I don't know what God has planned for me in the future. And this may be far from my trial, but I have decided that I will allow Him to take the wheel and do His will. I can't let every little problem and difficulty get my down. I have to trust Him and His judgement. And in return, I know He'll provide me with everything I need. Even strength and understanding I can't see myself having or helping. I will try my best to be patient (although it's not a strongpoint for me) have faith. I'll rest and believe.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
Lately, I've been feeling overwhelmed by the new role that been placed in my lap: responsible adult. Neither of these two words describe me very well. Nor do I aspire to become either.. not any time soon, anyways. I'm tired more often than usual; I have no time for myself; I'm frustrated and irritated more often than not.. It's not very good.
However, something happened to me today that just made me stop, throw my hands up, and give it to God.
This weekend, my mom came for a visit. She was helping me buy new clothes for my new job. More professional wear. Which, as you might imagine, I have little to none of. Anyway, I was really excited to have my mom come for a visit. Even more so because I knew my sister and brother-in-law would be going home. So it'd be just me and her. I know it's a terrible thing to say, but I know my mom prefers the company of my sister over me. It just is what it is. So I was doubly excited learning she'd be making a trip just for me.
Well, when she got to BR she told me she wanted to get on the road pretty early the very next day. Meaning she'd stay less than 24 hours. I was a little jolted and hurt because I thought she'd try to make time for a proper visit. Time for me. But that didn't happen.
I also wanted to discuss my car situation. I thought she'd have good news for me. I thought we'd discuss things. But when I brought it up, I found her evasive and, even more upsetting, indifferent to what I'm going through. She even took my sister's side on another issue that had upset me earlier that week. But, as I said, I've been irritated a lot lately, so maybe that could explain that. Oh well. Point being: I was upset. And hurt. And feeling.. overwhelmed and ignored. Which, in a person like me, is not a very good combination.
So, on the way to mass this morning my mom and I were listening to inspirational music and a song came on that just grabbed me. The words were just what I needed to hear when I needed to hear them. I can't describe the feeling I got hearing the lyrics as they played.. powerful is about as close as I can get. I was nearly moved to tears. Coupled with the homily of mass, this song really helped me relax and prepare for the week ahead. And the responsibilities that will come in the future.
It's called "All Things Are Working" and here's some of the lyrics:
Falling apart
and tearing at the seams
Tribulation lends a hand
and squeezes all your hopes, your dream
You say you retreat,
you say you just can't win
Before you let your circumstance tell you how the story ends
Know that His word says you can stand,
He'll cover you with His grace
Everything you need is in your hand,
So lift up your head and say
All things are working for me,
even things I can't see
Your ways are so beyond me,
but You said that you would
let it be for my good,
so I'll rest and just believe
I don't know what God has planned for me in the future. And this may be far from my trial, but I have decided that I will allow Him to take the wheel and do His will. I can't let every little problem and difficulty get my down. I have to trust Him and His judgement. And in return, I know He'll provide me with everything I need. Even strength and understanding I can't see myself having or helping. I will try my best to be patient (although it's not a strongpoint for me) have faith. I'll rest and believe.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
2.2.12
Cubicals, calls, and stuff--oh my!
Okay, so I actually ran out of stuff to list for the title, but this is the obligatory new job post. That's right, I finally got my big post-grad, big girl job. Which, I guess if I were much of an adult, I wouldn't refer to it as that, but eh.
As of Wednesday, I'm training to become part of the Resolutions Team for Home Depot's corporate office. That means I'm issuing customer concessions and solving problems for the biggest home store in the world! Omg. Right now, I'm basically just listening in on phone calls (complaints) and watching the other members of the team do their work. I did get to key in a few gift cards, but more on that later.
So, day one:
There are 4 of us from the recruiting firm (it's not a temp agency, it's a recruiting firm) who started in Resolutions. We arrived at the large concrete and glass building at 8a like we were told and waited in the lobby for someone to give us further instructions. And although we're all young adults (actually, one girl told me she's 28), we were like children on the first day of kindergarten. The room was silent. Every time someone came through the door, we picked our heads up hoping they were coming for us. Most people just breezed through with a kind smile before swiping their keycard and moving through the door at the back of the lobby. We were silent. And scared.
Melissa, a Supervisor from our department, finally came in at about 8:05a (though it felt like we had been waiting much longer) and retrieved us like we were the last kids at daycamp. "I'm sorry," she said hurriedly like she had just ran down the six flights of steps it would have taken to get from Resolutions to the lobby. "They told me you all would arrive this morning but I didn't know where to find you." No one said anything. She motioned us to follow her and we did.
We all herded into the elevator and Melissa pressed 6. The top floor. The elevator is half glass, so I watched as we slowly ascended into the air. The elevator slowed feet from the ceiling and then lurched to level with the floor. We all filed out after Melissa and followed her into the office.
The office floor was about what I expected: a large room filled with cubicles and people buzzing around doing work. Melissa then began assigning us to employees to shadow for the day. I was assigned to Ammie. She was very nice and enthusiastic. I liked working with her. Under her. Watching her. She has the efficiency of an elementary school teacher: very patient and always smiling.
At 10a, though, it was time for Ammie to go to lunch. Since I didn't know any of the other temps, I just went to the large break room on the third floor (which Ammie showed me)and read my book. Alone. Because it was so early in the morning, I guess no one else was on lunch so it was pretty empty. Which I didn't mind; I always value good reading time.
When I got back, Melissa informed me that I'd be moving to someone else's desk. She wanted Ammie to work on another task. So I moved to work with Lakesha. Everyone calls her Kesha though (like Keisha, not Ke$ha). She was more comfortable than Ammie. She joked around with the other team members and was way more relaxed. I guess she's been there longer. Anyway, I did some work with her and then I had to move again.
This time it was Carlos. There was already another temp with Carlos, but he let me sit in. It was a little cramped with three people in big rolly chairs--wow, I just realized I typed "rolly chair" and not office chair--into one cubicle. Carlos is what you would call a class clown. He moved around the office talking and joking. It was interesting. I can't really say I learned much from shadowing Carlos. But it was still interesting.
So, yeah, that's about how it's going so far. I'm excited to have a 9-to-5 and be all corporate America-y. Actually, it's 8a-5p, but yeah.
More to come! (hopefully)
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
As of Wednesday, I'm training to become part of the Resolutions Team for Home Depot's corporate office. That means I'm issuing customer concessions and solving problems for the biggest home store in the world! Omg. Right now, I'm basically just listening in on phone calls (complaints) and watching the other members of the team do their work. I did get to key in a few gift cards, but more on that later.
So, day one:
There are 4 of us from the recruiting firm (it's not a temp agency, it's a recruiting firm) who started in Resolutions. We arrived at the large concrete and glass building at 8a like we were told and waited in the lobby for someone to give us further instructions. And although we're all young adults (actually, one girl told me she's 28), we were like children on the first day of kindergarten. The room was silent. Every time someone came through the door, we picked our heads up hoping they were coming for us. Most people just breezed through with a kind smile before swiping their keycard and moving through the door at the back of the lobby. We were silent. And scared.
Melissa, a Supervisor from our department, finally came in at about 8:05a (though it felt like we had been waiting much longer) and retrieved us like we were the last kids at daycamp. "I'm sorry," she said hurriedly like she had just ran down the six flights of steps it would have taken to get from Resolutions to the lobby. "They told me you all would arrive this morning but I didn't know where to find you." No one said anything. She motioned us to follow her and we did.
We all herded into the elevator and Melissa pressed 6. The top floor. The elevator is half glass, so I watched as we slowly ascended into the air. The elevator slowed feet from the ceiling and then lurched to level with the floor. We all filed out after Melissa and followed her into the office.
The office floor was about what I expected: a large room filled with cubicles and people buzzing around doing work. Melissa then began assigning us to employees to shadow for the day. I was assigned to Ammie. She was very nice and enthusiastic. I liked working with her. Under her. Watching her. She has the efficiency of an elementary school teacher: very patient and always smiling.
At 10a, though, it was time for Ammie to go to lunch. Since I didn't know any of the other temps, I just went to the large break room on the third floor (which Ammie showed me)and read my book. Alone. Because it was so early in the morning, I guess no one else was on lunch so it was pretty empty. Which I didn't mind; I always value good reading time.
When I got back, Melissa informed me that I'd be moving to someone else's desk. She wanted Ammie to work on another task. So I moved to work with Lakesha. Everyone calls her Kesha though (like Keisha, not Ke$ha). She was more comfortable than Ammie. She joked around with the other team members and was way more relaxed. I guess she's been there longer. Anyway, I did some work with her and then I had to move again.
This time it was Carlos. There was already another temp with Carlos, but he let me sit in. It was a little cramped with three people in big rolly chairs--wow, I just realized I typed "rolly chair" and not office chair--into one cubicle. Carlos is what you would call a class clown. He moved around the office talking and joking. It was interesting. I can't really say I learned much from shadowing Carlos. But it was still interesting.
So, yeah, that's about how it's going so far. I'm excited to have a 9-to-5 and be all corporate America-y. Actually, it's 8a-5p, but yeah.
More to come! (hopefully)
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
30.1.12
Shadow
I wanted to experiment with writing emotion. I decided to go with the one I've experienced the most recently and felt the deepest: Death/loss.
---
Carrie Morgan was too young to remember her grandfather’s funeral. In fact, if you asked her about it, she probably would shrug it off and tell you it was “Sad, I guess.” She wouldn’t’ remember holding her mother’s trembling hand as they stood outside the church, greeting the family members as they fluttered in, one after another like black rose petals picked up and scattered by the wind. She wouldn’t remember being squeezed into the front pew, snuggly pressed between her mother and aunt just a few feet from the open casket. She wasn’t yet old enough to read all the words printed on the programs, which had managed to outline a full 82 years of life in less than 300 words. She wouldn’t remember standing in the graveyard, holding a rose, watching as they lowered the casket and her father said goodbye to his father; her grandmother’s anguished cries of “Edward, oh my Edward” fell on her deaf ears.
But what she did remember was growing up without her grandfather. Years after the funeral, she could recall the void left in her family by his absence. Her grandmother seemed to move slower, as if the weight of loneliness were too much for her to bear There was no joy at her grandparents’ house. Carrie could remember staring at the pictures hung on the walls and set on the coffee tables, waiting for her grandfather to somehow spring forth and re-introduce color into what had become a very grey adolescence.
One late afternoon, hen the whole world seemed still and quiet, Carrie found her grandmother sitting by the window in her old rocking chair gazing at nothing in particular on the other side of the glass panes. There was a squirrel which immediately caught the young girl’s attention as it darted from one end of the yard to the other, pausing only cock its head up and stare sideways back at the house. Still, her grandmother’s eyes were eerily vacant, her face emotionally hollow. She looked like a doll, Carrie remarked, only the craftsman had forgotten to paint her smile on. And although she couldn’t remember her grandfather’s funeral or draw on any pleasant memories to cheer her grandmother’s mood, she felt in that instant the cold chill of longing.
Carrie walked over to the her grandmother resigned to that rocking chair, reached down deep through her soul and pulled out a pinch of courage. “What do you miss most about him?” Her voice was so thin that it crumbled on her lips and the question tumbled to the floor – a jumbled mess of emotions. She thought abut asking again, but couldn’t find another bit of courage to draw upon. Instead, she took her grandmother’s hand in her own and just held it there. At first, her grandmother was unmoved. Her hand rested on top of Carrie as easily as a dove might land on a branch. But Carrie held it there, just reminding her grandmother that she was there. There for her.
After a moment of still observance, her grandmother sighed deeply. It was the type of sigh heavy with sadness; the type of sigh that burdened the person that breathed it and anyone within distance of the breath. Carrie felt that sigh. It hung in the air until her skin had absorbed it and it weighed down her very bones.
“Shadow.”
The word was so unexpected that Carrie was sure she hadn’t heard correctly. Truly, she answered, “I don’t understand.”
“I miss his shadow most.”
“But Grandma--,”
“When I had your grandfather with me, I loved everything about him: his smile, his eyes, his touch on my hand, his voice, even his snoring. But his shadow.. That was special. You see, even when we were alone, cuddled up in front of the fire our shadows would be dancing on the walls. And when we went to bed, he held me in his arms, and I felt safe under the covers. But on the wall, our shadows molded together to form one and I never felt closer to him. His shadow followed him wherever he went, and mine followed his. We were bonded by our love and our shadows were never far apart. And now that he’s gone, I miss that shadow. I miss that silent, constant reminder of his presence.”
A week later, after years of loneliness and waiting, Carrie’s grandmother went to meet her grandfather. And though she couldn’t remember any part of her grandfather’s funeral, Carrie remembered this one. She spent every minute looking for her grandmother’s shadow, but never saw it.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
---
Carrie Morgan was too young to remember her grandfather’s funeral. In fact, if you asked her about it, she probably would shrug it off and tell you it was “Sad, I guess.” She wouldn’t’ remember holding her mother’s trembling hand as they stood outside the church, greeting the family members as they fluttered in, one after another like black rose petals picked up and scattered by the wind. She wouldn’t remember being squeezed into the front pew, snuggly pressed between her mother and aunt just a few feet from the open casket. She wasn’t yet old enough to read all the words printed on the programs, which had managed to outline a full 82 years of life in less than 300 words. She wouldn’t remember standing in the graveyard, holding a rose, watching as they lowered the casket and her father said goodbye to his father; her grandmother’s anguished cries of “Edward, oh my Edward” fell on her deaf ears.
But what she did remember was growing up without her grandfather. Years after the funeral, she could recall the void left in her family by his absence. Her grandmother seemed to move slower, as if the weight of loneliness were too much for her to bear There was no joy at her grandparents’ house. Carrie could remember staring at the pictures hung on the walls and set on the coffee tables, waiting for her grandfather to somehow spring forth and re-introduce color into what had become a very grey adolescence.
One late afternoon, hen the whole world seemed still and quiet, Carrie found her grandmother sitting by the window in her old rocking chair gazing at nothing in particular on the other side of the glass panes. There was a squirrel which immediately caught the young girl’s attention as it darted from one end of the yard to the other, pausing only cock its head up and stare sideways back at the house. Still, her grandmother’s eyes were eerily vacant, her face emotionally hollow. She looked like a doll, Carrie remarked, only the craftsman had forgotten to paint her smile on. And although she couldn’t remember her grandfather’s funeral or draw on any pleasant memories to cheer her grandmother’s mood, she felt in that instant the cold chill of longing.
Carrie walked over to the her grandmother resigned to that rocking chair, reached down deep through her soul and pulled out a pinch of courage. “What do you miss most about him?” Her voice was so thin that it crumbled on her lips and the question tumbled to the floor – a jumbled mess of emotions. She thought abut asking again, but couldn’t find another bit of courage to draw upon. Instead, she took her grandmother’s hand in her own and just held it there. At first, her grandmother was unmoved. Her hand rested on top of Carrie as easily as a dove might land on a branch. But Carrie held it there, just reminding her grandmother that she was there. There for her.
After a moment of still observance, her grandmother sighed deeply. It was the type of sigh heavy with sadness; the type of sigh that burdened the person that breathed it and anyone within distance of the breath. Carrie felt that sigh. It hung in the air until her skin had absorbed it and it weighed down her very bones.
“Shadow.”
The word was so unexpected that Carrie was sure she hadn’t heard correctly. Truly, she answered, “I don’t understand.”
“I miss his shadow most.”
“But Grandma--,”
“When I had your grandfather with me, I loved everything about him: his smile, his eyes, his touch on my hand, his voice, even his snoring. But his shadow.. That was special. You see, even when we were alone, cuddled up in front of the fire our shadows would be dancing on the walls. And when we went to bed, he held me in his arms, and I felt safe under the covers. But on the wall, our shadows molded together to form one and I never felt closer to him. His shadow followed him wherever he went, and mine followed his. We were bonded by our love and our shadows were never far apart. And now that he’s gone, I miss that shadow. I miss that silent, constant reminder of his presence.”
A week later, after years of loneliness and waiting, Carrie’s grandmother went to meet her grandfather. And though she couldn’t remember any part of her grandfather’s funeral, Carrie remembered this one. She spent every minute looking for her grandmother’s shadow, but never saw it.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
18.1.12
Try not to Drown in This Stream
ad·dic·tion
noun
the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming, as narcotics, to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma
I've said it before and I'll say it again: Sometimes, I really hate the person that I am, the desires that I have, the behavior I exhibit because of some deep-seeded need I can't explain or defend.
Lately, I've stopped trying to stop these actions and just giving in. And you know what? I find that I quite enjoy it. And then, I hate myself. It's an addiction, an obsession.. a guilty pleasure. Emphasis on the guilt. But I don't want to stop. I think about it more and more. Constantly. And then I fall slave to my horrible habit. But I find that the flames of Hell are quite warm... inviting, even.
Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment--doing these things, testing, escalating, knowing that soon it's all going to come crashing down on my head. And the pain will be so blissfully numbing that it was all worth it. Oh, that sounds lovely...
And it's no one's fault, really. A consequence of coincidence. A coincidence of consent. I can't say I was driven to this behavior by anyone or anything. I'm just.. drawn to it.
Worst of all, I can't talk to anyone about it because it's so deplorable and irrational. I can't even explain it to myself! I guess I'm just hopeless, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for it to fall...
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
noun
the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming, as narcotics, to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma
I've said it before and I'll say it again: Sometimes, I really hate the person that I am, the desires that I have, the behavior I exhibit because of some deep-seeded need I can't explain or defend.
Lately, I've stopped trying to stop these actions and just giving in. And you know what? I find that I quite enjoy it. And then, I hate myself. It's an addiction, an obsession.. a guilty pleasure. Emphasis on the guilt. But I don't want to stop. I think about it more and more. Constantly. And then I fall slave to my horrible habit. But I find that the flames of Hell are quite warm... inviting, even.
Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment--doing these things, testing, escalating, knowing that soon it's all going to come crashing down on my head. And the pain will be so blissfully numbing that it was all worth it. Oh, that sounds lovely...
And it's no one's fault, really. A consequence of coincidence. A coincidence of consent. I can't say I was driven to this behavior by anyone or anything. I'm just.. drawn to it.
Worst of all, I can't talk to anyone about it because it's so deplorable and irrational. I can't even explain it to myself! I guess I'm just hopeless, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for it to fall...
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
10.1.12
Science & Faith
Recently, very recently, like within the past hour, I read a very interesting and telling blog by a close friend. This friend has brought me through some of the craziest adventures of my teenage years and hilarious memories. And this friend has always been brutally honest.. with others and with himself.
I've always admired his bravery. So I thought "What the hell". I may as well be honest.
So I've been listening to The Script's album, Science & Faith. A-MAZING record! I try to listen to just one song and I always go through the whole cd. Start to finish. Everytime. Sometimes, I feel as if they're speaking directly to me, singing my memories.. my faults. Other times, I feel like the girl they're singing about.. the heart-breaker, the bitch.
Anyway, here's I song that really eats at my insides:
Where does that leave us?
Tried to break love to a science
In an act of pure defiance
I broke her heart.
As I pulled apart her theories
As I watched her growing weary
I pulled her apart
Having heavy conversations
About the furthest constellations of our souls. Ooh.
We're just trying to find some meaning
In the things that we believe in
But we got some ways to go.
Of all of the things that she's ever said
She goes and says something that just knocks me dead.
It leaves me in pain.. Which only you make better. And in a constant state of worry and confusion that simply go away when you're near me. It leaves me strongly desiring the joy that you bring me.
You won't find faith or hope down a telescope
You won't find heart and soul in the stars
You can break everything down to chemicals
But you can't explain a love like ours.
I need you more than anything :)
Ooohhhh
It's the way we feel, yeah this is real
Ooohhhh
It's the way we feel, yeah this is real
-------
This is song is perfect for us. Science and Faith. Two completely separate and powerful ideas. But ideas that are both necessary for living.
I don't know what it is we have. There's really no word for it. Then again, we've never been ones for labels or boxes. But whatever we have, whatever we keep fighting for, it's real. And I love it.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
I've always admired his bravery. So I thought "What the hell". I may as well be honest.
So I've been listening to The Script's album, Science & Faith. A-MAZING record! I try to listen to just one song and I always go through the whole cd. Start to finish. Everytime. Sometimes, I feel as if they're speaking directly to me, singing my memories.. my faults. Other times, I feel like the girl they're singing about.. the heart-breaker, the bitch.
Anyway, here's I song that really eats at my insides:
Where does that leave us?
Tried to break love to a science
In an act of pure defiance
I broke her heart.
As I pulled apart her theories
As I watched her growing weary
I pulled her apart
Having heavy conversations
About the furthest constellations of our souls. Ooh.
We're just trying to find some meaning
In the things that we believe in
But we got some ways to go.
Of all of the things that she's ever said
She goes and says something that just knocks me dead.
It leaves me in pain.. Which only you make better. And in a constant state of worry and confusion that simply go away when you're near me. It leaves me strongly desiring the joy that you bring me.
You won't find faith or hope down a telescope
You won't find heart and soul in the stars
You can break everything down to chemicals
But you can't explain a love like ours.
I need you more than anything :)
Ooohhhh
It's the way we feel, yeah this is real
Ooohhhh
It's the way we feel, yeah this is real
-------
This is song is perfect for us. Science and Faith. Two completely separate and powerful ideas. But ideas that are both necessary for living.
I don't know what it is we have. There's really no word for it. Then again, we've never been ones for labels or boxes. But whatever we have, whatever we keep fighting for, it's real. And I love it.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
27.12.11
My Heart and My Love
I can’t stop looking at this picture. I love it so much. I love the people in it more.
On my phone, I keep a picture of my godson, Tralynn, as the background because his smiling face always causes me to pause and smile too. Even when I’m stressed. Even when I’m frustrated. Even when I get a particularly upsetting text message. He’s always there, smiling back at me or just looking strange like “Why you so mad, Nanny?” And I smile. I just can’t help it. And I love that.
And my boyfriend, Chris Taylor. My amazing boyfriend. I’m really lucky to have him in my life. He’s so adamant about how much he’s changed because of me; how I make him want to be a better man. Don’t get me wrong, he was pretty great when I met him, but I do see how he’s changed to dedicate himself to our future. And I couldn’t ask for more.
This picture was taken Christmas day. I bought Tralynn a bike. Lightning McQueen, of course. Before that, my boyfriend put it together for me. I watched him as he laid out the parts and carefully read the instructions and worked with the tools, checking his progress to make sure the bike was safe for my godson. He caught me staring a few times and asked what I was doing. I tried to play it coy and said, “Oh, you’re just being all manly and stuff.” He smiled and grunted like a caveman before going back to work.
As I watched him, I got the strangest feeling: There he was, my boyfriend, the man I love, taking his time and energy to assemble something that would ensure my godson’s happiness. His willingness to do this task for me meant so much. More than he’ll probably ever know. I joked about how macho he seemed working with tools and stuff, but I think that’s because I was trying to keep myself from crying or showering him with appreciation.
When we delivered the bike on Christmas day, Tralynn was so excited. Chris brought it in and before we got inside, Tralynn ran to the door and screamed, “A bike! A bike! Bike!” And I told him it was his bike. He couldn’t wait to jump on his bike, so much so that he began “riding” in the kitchen. Chris and I followed him and tried to teach him how to ride a bike. Tralynn was very excited and determined to learn that day. We took it slow, Chris and I coaching him through the correct foot positions and how to propel himself forward.
Within about 20 minutes, Tralynn had learned to turn one pedal and push himself forward on his bike a few feet. He couldn’t understand the perpetual motion of cycling.. just yet. But it was fun to teach him the basics. Chris was so gentle and patient with Tralynn, holding his feet, supporting him on the bike, telling him to “Walk on it” and that he had to “Use both feet.” Tralynn even learned to turn himself around. And a new phrase: “Move Chris!” I watched the two of them, learning together and really sharing a special moment. My godson and my boyfriend. My heart and my love.
This picture says so much. I loved seeing my boyfriend being so mentoring, so caring, and so great with my godson. At first, I wanted to make sure the two of us were going to make it before introducing him to someone so important to me. Kinda like a divorcee waiting the obligatory 8 months or whatever before introducing her new boyfriend to her kid. I didn’t want to be the type of person who paraded different men around a child like Tralynn (his mother does enough of that). But I’m so glad I found someone like Chris. Someone who seems to get along with my godson, because he’s very important to me.
The experience this picture captured is best Christmas present I could have ever asked for. And I’m so happy to have it.
.:~o*’Kaylyn’*o~:.
4.12.11
Final Countdown
Da da daaa
da da da da
da da daaaa
da da da da da da
da da daaa...
Okay, that part was ridiculously hard to transcribe. But seriously, it's final's week. And for me, that means final finals. Le gasp!
So, here I am, Kaylyn.. completing college in less than a week. Kaylyn, who can't remember how to do simple high school geometry for work. Kaylyn, who still can't spell despite over 10 years of schooling and (very) soon a degree in English. Kaylyn, who watched two hours of Regular Show and laughed her ass off like it was Frasier. The girl who bought the Victorious album and blasts it in her car. The girl who kicks ass in Just Dance.. even when she's playing a 5, 7, and 10 year old (no mercy!). Sigh.. yeah, that girl. She's about to be post-grad.
I suppose I thought I'd feel different. More accomplished. More deserving. More educated. But, in truth, I still feel like the same girl I was 5 years ago. I'm just not sure how to feel about that.
All I've ever wanted to do was write. Quite honestly, I haven't been doing much of that lately either.. but that's for another post. In order to write, I was told I had to go to college, continue my education. It wasn't an option. And because of that, I guess I suppose I thought ending it would feel.. better.
I mean, yes, college had offered me opportunities I wouldn't have otherwise. But in one year, I've managed to have two of the biggest accomplishes of my life. I've been to England. I've graduated college. The only thing left is to publish a book... Although I'm not holding my breath on that one.
When my sister got married, people asked how she felt afterwards. She said, "I dunno, I just thought I'd feel different. Taller, even. Or something." I didn't understand what she meant then, but now I think I do.
I'm just not ready to graduate college. I'm not even sure what it means to be ready for something like that.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
da da da da
da da daaaa
da da da da da da
da da daaa...
Okay, that part was ridiculously hard to transcribe. But seriously, it's final's week. And for me, that means final finals. Le gasp!
So, here I am, Kaylyn.. completing college in less than a week. Kaylyn, who can't remember how to do simple high school geometry for work. Kaylyn, who still can't spell despite over 10 years of schooling and (very) soon a degree in English. Kaylyn, who watched two hours of Regular Show and laughed her ass off like it was Frasier. The girl who bought the Victorious album and blasts it in her car. The girl who kicks ass in Just Dance.. even when she's playing a 5, 7, and 10 year old (no mercy!). Sigh.. yeah, that girl. She's about to be post-grad.
I suppose I thought I'd feel different. More accomplished. More deserving. More educated. But, in truth, I still feel like the same girl I was 5 years ago. I'm just not sure how to feel about that.
All I've ever wanted to do was write. Quite honestly, I haven't been doing much of that lately either.. but that's for another post. In order to write, I was told I had to go to college, continue my education. It wasn't an option. And because of that, I guess I suppose I thought ending it would feel.. better.
I mean, yes, college had offered me opportunities I wouldn't have otherwise. But in one year, I've managed to have two of the biggest accomplishes of my life. I've been to England. I've graduated college. The only thing left is to publish a book... Although I'm not holding my breath on that one.
When my sister got married, people asked how she felt afterwards. She said, "I dunno, I just thought I'd feel different. Taller, even. Or something." I didn't understand what she meant then, but now I think I do.
I'm just not ready to graduate college. I'm not even sure what it means to be ready for something like that.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
24.11.11
You're Welcome
Here we go.
My annual Thanksgiving post.
As I sit here, in my aunt and uncle's house, watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade (yes, cliche, but that's what the holidays are all about right?), exhausted from the drive to Dallas, I'm still really happy and thankful.
I'm so lucky for the people in my life. My family. My friends. But I've realized that the reason I've got such great people in my life is because I surround myself with greatness. And that's only possible when one's pretty great themselves. So, if I'm half as awesome as my friends, I must be doing something right.
There are so many people I could put in this post. If you're reading this, then yes I am very thankful to have you in my life. Every year, I notice that some people are dropped from the list and more are added. But some people remain. I'm so happy to have such a loyal group of core friends. Y'all are amazing, really. And I know I'm a better person for knowing each and everyone of you.
So, this year, I'm saying thank you and you're welcome. Thank all of you for being in my life and if I bring just a fraction of joy to your life as y'all have brought to mine, then I must be doing something right.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone!
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
My annual Thanksgiving post.
As I sit here, in my aunt and uncle's house, watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade (yes, cliche, but that's what the holidays are all about right?), exhausted from the drive to Dallas, I'm still really happy and thankful.
I'm so lucky for the people in my life. My family. My friends. But I've realized that the reason I've got such great people in my life is because I surround myself with greatness. And that's only possible when one's pretty great themselves. So, if I'm half as awesome as my friends, I must be doing something right.
There are so many people I could put in this post. If you're reading this, then yes I am very thankful to have you in my life. Every year, I notice that some people are dropped from the list and more are added. But some people remain. I'm so happy to have such a loyal group of core friends. Y'all are amazing, really. And I know I'm a better person for knowing each and everyone of you.
So, this year, I'm saying thank you and you're welcome. Thank all of you for being in my life and if I bring just a fraction of joy to your life as y'all have brought to mine, then I must be doing something right.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone!
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
31.10.11
Been Awhile...
Oh wow. Where have I been? This semester has definitely been stressful. Trying to keep all my relationships in tact while not tanking my gpa in the process. So much of me just wants to say "Fuck it" and wait it out for another semester. Doesn't seem so bad. But so much planning and preparation had gone into a winter graduation. My mother is proud of me which I admit is pretty nice for once.
But when I'm pretty stressed, out of ice cream, liquor (note to self: remedy soon), and not enough time to watch Man in the Iron Mask, I turn to my blog. Because at least here, I know I can vent without fear of retribution or judgement.
So... here goes..
I hate who I am sometimes. I saying "This is what I want." Makes me feel like a bitch. Like, who am I to demand things from the universe? What have put into it? And everything I have put into it wasn't for my own benefit... Was it?
This guy at work is constantly doing nice things: taking shifts, staying late, volunteering his time to the rec, etc. He says he's "building up good karma" and one day, he plans to "cash out." I don't know if I agree with that thinking. But I do think every once in a while I should be able to say what I want and not feel bad about it.
But I do.
And I feel horrible about it. I want you to do things like we discussed, like we planned for. Us. Together. But at what cost? And am I willing to pay it to get what I want?
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
But when I'm pretty stressed, out of ice cream, liquor (note to self: remedy soon), and not enough time to watch Man in the Iron Mask, I turn to my blog. Because at least here, I know I can vent without fear of retribution or judgement.
So... here goes..
I hate who I am sometimes. I saying "This is what I want." Makes me feel like a bitch. Like, who am I to demand things from the universe? What have put into it? And everything I have put into it wasn't for my own benefit... Was it?
This guy at work is constantly doing nice things: taking shifts, staying late, volunteering his time to the rec, etc. He says he's "building up good karma" and one day, he plans to "cash out." I don't know if I agree with that thinking. But I do think every once in a while I should be able to say what I want and not feel bad about it.
But I do.
And I feel horrible about it. I want you to do things like we discussed, like we planned for. Us. Together. But at what cost? And am I willing to pay it to get what I want?
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
3.9.11
Kitten - Pt. 3
There was a time, she remembered, when her faith wavered. A short, fleeting moment when she forgot all that they had built together in two years. A time when she questioned and doubted herself and him. She doubted their relationship. In that dark, awful time she called for him, beckoning for him to come to her.
And he did.
And just like that, she had quelled the fires of desire which lustfully licked at her insides and burned with cooling passion for another.
But now those fires were rekindled...
And he would not--could not come to her.
----
She sat on her bed with her legs folded under her. There were was a textbook opened near her, but she cradled her cell phone in her hands.
I would do anything to make you happy, kitten. You know that. he had written.
She studied the message as if somehow, her stare would change the words, rearrange the letters in a less troubling fashion. They did not change. The words glared back at her, demanding a response. She could picture him, waiting to see her reply as her name lit up his phone and the thought of her face lit up his heart.
I know, she wrote back. She tapped the send button before she could type anything else. She fell back onto her bed pleasantly thinking of all the things that would make her happy. All the things she desired. All the things he could give her. The trips, the gifts, the dinners... All accumulated in her mind while she waited for his next text.
Just then her phone began buzzing incessantly. She looked at the lighted screen in surprise. “Hello..?”
“Hey, sweetie,” she heard from the other end. He was smiling. She knew he was smiling; he had to be. His voice was far too cheery for him not to be. Then again, he always sounded this way when talking to her, she noted. Unless she had waken him or lost track of his schedule and called while he was working, he was generally happy to talk with her.
“Hi, honey. What’s up?” she said, perhaps a bit too apprehensively, she thought. But it was too late to take it back.
He didn’t seem to notice. “Nothing much. Going to find foods now. What about you?”
She relaxed some on her bed, stacking pillows behind her head and all but kicking the textbook to the far corner. She was done studying for the night. “Oh, I’m just reading some stuff for class tomorrow.” She asked him about his day though she knew the response before he gave it: Eh, fine.
Her phone buzzed singularly. “Oh, hold on for a second,” she said quickly.
What are you doing?
Nothing, she tapped back.
With expertise, she switched the screen back to her call. “Okay.”
He said nothing, but she could hear the beep of the cashier’s scanner in the background. He mumbled a quick thank you to the cashier and then the rattling of his plastic bag. “Sorry, I was checking out.”
“So what--,” her phone began buzzing. Once, twice, and again. “Uhm.. Hold again, honey.”
She switched to the other line. He was upset and tired. He didn’t have to say a word for her to know. With one exhausted breath, she knew exactly why he had called. She sat up in bed, ready to help ease his mind if only for a few moments. “Hey,” was all she said.
“Kitten...” he said heavily, as if the agony of his thoughts were too much to bear. “I can’t sleep. And I have a headache.”
“Have you taken anything?”
There was a pause.
“Maybe you should, boy.”
“Eh, I know.”
Though it pained her to do so, she asked him to hold the line and switched over. “Honey?”
He was there, smiling again. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“Can I call you back later?”
“Yeah, sure, I’m just about to eat anyways. Wanna just call me before you go to sleep?”
She smiled, thinking of his voice being the last one she would hear before falling asleep. How she had been spoiled to that treatment years before their relationship began. How she wished he were there to whisper into her ear before bed and kiss her forehead, wrap her up in his arms and hold her until she fell asleep. “Okay,” she said, moving the phone away from her ear to switch the line back over.
“I love you.”
She stopped short. For some reason that resonated with her as she realized what she was about to do, trade one for the other. More over, how easy it would be for her. She hadn’t given it a second thought. Until now. She exhaled, “I love you too, honey.”
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
And he did.
And just like that, she had quelled the fires of desire which lustfully licked at her insides and burned with cooling passion for another.
But now those fires were rekindled...
And he would not--could not come to her.
----
She sat on her bed with her legs folded under her. There were was a textbook opened near her, but she cradled her cell phone in her hands.
I would do anything to make you happy, kitten. You know that. he had written.
She studied the message as if somehow, her stare would change the words, rearrange the letters in a less troubling fashion. They did not change. The words glared back at her, demanding a response. She could picture him, waiting to see her reply as her name lit up his phone and the thought of her face lit up his heart.
I know, she wrote back. She tapped the send button before she could type anything else. She fell back onto her bed pleasantly thinking of all the things that would make her happy. All the things she desired. All the things he could give her. The trips, the gifts, the dinners... All accumulated in her mind while she waited for his next text.
Just then her phone began buzzing incessantly. She looked at the lighted screen in surprise. “Hello..?”
“Hey, sweetie,” she heard from the other end. He was smiling. She knew he was smiling; he had to be. His voice was far too cheery for him not to be. Then again, he always sounded this way when talking to her, she noted. Unless she had waken him or lost track of his schedule and called while he was working, he was generally happy to talk with her.
“Hi, honey. What’s up?” she said, perhaps a bit too apprehensively, she thought. But it was too late to take it back.
He didn’t seem to notice. “Nothing much. Going to find foods now. What about you?”
She relaxed some on her bed, stacking pillows behind her head and all but kicking the textbook to the far corner. She was done studying for the night. “Oh, I’m just reading some stuff for class tomorrow.” She asked him about his day though she knew the response before he gave it: Eh, fine.
Her phone buzzed singularly. “Oh, hold on for a second,” she said quickly.
What are you doing?
Nothing, she tapped back.
With expertise, she switched the screen back to her call. “Okay.”
He said nothing, but she could hear the beep of the cashier’s scanner in the background. He mumbled a quick thank you to the cashier and then the rattling of his plastic bag. “Sorry, I was checking out.”
“So what--,” her phone began buzzing. Once, twice, and again. “Uhm.. Hold again, honey.”
She switched to the other line. He was upset and tired. He didn’t have to say a word for her to know. With one exhausted breath, she knew exactly why he had called. She sat up in bed, ready to help ease his mind if only for a few moments. “Hey,” was all she said.
“Kitten...” he said heavily, as if the agony of his thoughts were too much to bear. “I can’t sleep. And I have a headache.”
“Have you taken anything?”
There was a pause.
“Maybe you should, boy.”
“Eh, I know.”
Though it pained her to do so, she asked him to hold the line and switched over. “Honey?”
He was there, smiling again. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“Can I call you back later?”
“Yeah, sure, I’m just about to eat anyways. Wanna just call me before you go to sleep?”
She smiled, thinking of his voice being the last one she would hear before falling asleep. How she had been spoiled to that treatment years before their relationship began. How she wished he were there to whisper into her ear before bed and kiss her forehead, wrap her up in his arms and hold her until she fell asleep. “Okay,” she said, moving the phone away from her ear to switch the line back over.
“I love you.”
She stopped short. For some reason that resonated with her as she realized what she was about to do, trade one for the other. More over, how easy it would be for her. She hadn’t given it a second thought. Until now. She exhaled, “I love you too, honey.”
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
1.8.11
Edge of Grace
So today my former creative writing teacher, Christa Allan, released her second novel, Edge of Grace. On the heels of her debut novel, Walking on Broken Glass, this one explores another dark corner torn from Christa's own personal experiences with the blinding light of faith.
On top of my excitement for Christa, the release of this work forces me to examine my own goals and progress. Or lack thereof.
I think part of the reason I'm so happy for Christa is because she is living proof that it can happen: You can be published. Dreams can come true. However, the flipside of that coin is the fact that I haven't done it yet. Not even close. But I know I can do it.
So I guess what I'm trying to say is that I feel myself on the "edge of grace", so to speak and I'm just waiting for a push into the murky waters of authorhood. I don't know what form this push will come in (life experience, tragedy, brush with death, happiness), but I'm eager to meet it.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
On top of my excitement for Christa, the release of this work forces me to examine my own goals and progress. Or lack thereof.
I think part of the reason I'm so happy for Christa is because she is living proof that it can happen: You can be published. Dreams can come true. However, the flipside of that coin is the fact that I haven't done it yet. Not even close. But I know I can do it.
So I guess what I'm trying to say is that I feel myself on the "edge of grace", so to speak and I'm just waiting for a push into the murky waters of authorhood. I don't know what form this push will come in (life experience, tragedy, brush with death, happiness), but I'm eager to meet it.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
5.7.11
Cheers?
I can't believe I'm actually here, in London. It's been the place of my dreams for a lifetime and now I'm here, writing from a British dorm room located in a "posh" area. It's strange, exciting, and a little intimidating all at once.
Now that I've realized the dream of a lifetime, what else is there to look forward to? I've held on to this goal for so long and now that I've achieved it, I don't know what's next for me. If there is anything... Perhaps I've reached my pinnacle moment, my peak, the highlight of my life. Maybe everything after this will be drab and boring; I'll live a quiet life somewhere in Louisiana and History will forget my name as I forget this trip. Who knows?
I'm not really sure how to feel at the moment. It's such a strange mixture of emotions. What I do know is this is not how I thought I'd be feeling...
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
Now that I've realized the dream of a lifetime, what else is there to look forward to? I've held on to this goal for so long and now that I've achieved it, I don't know what's next for me. If there is anything... Perhaps I've reached my pinnacle moment, my peak, the highlight of my life. Maybe everything after this will be drab and boring; I'll live a quiet life somewhere in Louisiana and History will forget my name as I forget this trip. Who knows?
I'm not really sure how to feel at the moment. It's such a strange mixture of emotions. What I do know is this is not how I thought I'd be feeling...
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
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