Resurrection

Some things are just dormant for a season.

It’s a few days early to bring up the topic of resurrection on this Good Friday, but it’s one that can’t be avoided, considering the thoughts I’ve been having as of late.  

I was recently at a conference and heard a comment that was a little surprising, but actually made sense. The speaker mentioned that it’s important to do one creative thing each day. The size or type of activity didn’t matter. What was important was engaging in the creative process at least once a day. My mind automatically went to my writing, which I hadn’t touched in some time. 

Since completing my goal of using a daily prompt to write and post a flash fiction entry every weekday for a year, I congratulated myself for staying consistent and moved on from my blog and from that particular chapter in my life. And although I hadn’t pursued writing fiction, my mind has been inundated with storylines, climatic scenes, and dialogue. I still need to work on my world building, so that’s rarely on my mind, although it should be. It’s not that I disliked writing or ran out of steam. I’m just goal oriented and I achieved my goal. And truth be told, at that time I wasn’t feeling too confident about my writing after having my submissions soundly rejected. Anyone who knows me will be able to tell you that I have too many interests, but since hearing that comment about the “need” to be creative, I’ve been thinking about returning to one of my favorite activities and maybe one of the things I may have been created to do. 

Although I’m not quite eager to go back to the days of writing flash fiction daily as I struggled to stay awake—I really don’t miss the days of lying in bed with my laptop on abdomen as I typed with one eye open—returning to writing via this blog would allow me to have a creative outlet that I’ve been missing. Despite being on a night schedule, I was somehow able to achieve my goal of posting an entry daily, based on the prompt of the day, but I don’t think that can be my goal this time around. I’m currently working on a couple different projects that I feel passionate about and adding daily writing posts seems like it might be more than a little taxing. Instead, I’m thinking it would work better for me to write daily, but post maybe two or three times a week. And when I’m not posting, I can turn my attention to writing something a little longer and try my hand at a full length cohesive story and the world building I often avoid. And this time around, it won’t be about writing with the hopes of being published. This time I’m going to write because it’s good for me, because I like it, and because it brings me happiness. It’ll be my literary equivalent of  taking gummy vitamins, which are mainstays in my Top Ten of wonderful innovations.  

It feels like I’m starting a new chapter while returning to an old one… and maybe that makes sense. I often feel that life is so cyclical in ways that we often miss. 

I’ll ponder that more as the days pass, but for now, I’m going to set things up and see how creative I can be with my fiction writing, as well as in a few other areas *wink wink* so I can get my vitamins daily. 

If anyone happens to read this entry, I hope you’re also letting yourself be creative, finding those activities that energize, help you to reflect, find peace, enjoy moments of solace, and surprise you with joy. Here’s to getting what we need by being who we were meant to be and doing what we were meant to do. 

Wiseacre

Red balloons filled the floor of the small kitchen.

Marney’s face was bright, all smile and tiny closed eyes at the surprise flowing out of the tiny space. She reasoned that her father must’ve blown into thousands of balloons.

And there, at the center of the table was her favorite. The aroma almost lifted her petite body from the checkered floor like in the cartoons. Every day was better when steak was involved. The fact that it was her birthday only made the moment more enjoyable.

“Thank you, Dad!” She hugged her father’s waist, her head meeting his round tummy. “Dad have you been having steak without me?”

She jokingly patted his midsection.

Michael Bryant’s face lit up with the same smile at his only child’s wiseacre ways.

“No, but I did take a sample of your birthday cake,” he said with a laugh. “But there’s more.”

Her father quickly donned a pair of

Ratiocination

Ratiocination
1. the process of exact thinking: a reasoning
2. a reasoned train of thought

It was the sound of a television that signaled her transition back into consciousness. Some man was yelling at a woman, calmly threatening her…in German. The dialogue stopped. Only the sound of a leaky faucet echoed within the space.

A slight gust of air felt cold against her wet forehead, causing her to wince. Her head felt like… like someone had used her head for batting practicing; it throbbed to the point that unrelated body parts ached.

She grit her teeth, stifling a moan, resisting her instinct to escape or her need to vomit. Short, long inhalations slowed her heart rate and calmed her stomach, but did nothing for her mind. She needed to escape, but first she needed to know where she was located. The surface was soft against her skin, yielding to the shape of her body like a cold womb.

The dialogue started again.

Slight movements confirmed her suspicions. Cold metal restrained her wrists. Her head was one problem, not knowing her whereabouts was another. The handcuffs threatened her sanity, but it was the slight aroma of gasoline that was nauseating.

“Do you promise to let me go,” the woman asked.

“Of course.”

The distinct sound of handcuffs was followed by the impact of a heavy hand across a face.

The woman screamed. The man erupted with menacing laughter.

Heavy footsteps shuffled toward her.

Melanie’s pulse soared. She stiffened her body, trying to fake unconsciousness, but prepared for another painful blow.

Every breath was heavy, halted even. The pungent aroma of gasoline filled her nostrils. He was over her, chuckling quietly.

Condone

 

Condone
1. to regard or treat (something bad or blameworthy) as acceptable, forgivable, or harmless

Pat glanced at the clock on the dashboard. On any normal evening it would be 10 minutes to six. But it was Friday, which made it 10 minutes to date night.

The hazy blue sky ran into the orange of the day, cowering under the dark blue of the impending evening. Pat slowed to a stop at the intersection, noticing the red Chevy parked on the street outside of their house. True to her character, Amanda had arrived just a little early to make sure they could leave on time.

They’d hired the 17-year-old seven months ago, based on recommendations from neighbors. Her rates were high, but always seemed a bit more sensible when the laughter and conversation were flowing and there were no little frowns or complaints about spicy food. By the time they entered their quiet, and now tidy home, at the end of the evening, it seemed ridiculous to not give Amanda a tip when all they needed to do was quietly enter the darkened bedrooms to kiss foreheads before enjoying the early night together as a married couple.

Pat pulled into the driveway backwards, preparing the car for their quick getaway and placed his bag in the floor of the backseat before exiting the car. Molly’s cries were unmistakable. The frantic sound mixed with his wife’s yelling and blended with

Making Room for a Return

return (verb)
-to go or come back, as to a former place, position, or state

So… what do you call that place where you could write something, but you really don’t feel like it?

As in, there actually are things that come to mind—phrases, plots, quirky characters—it’s all right there, right there in your head, but there’s very little desire to put fingers to keys, pen to paper or even type notes into your phone.

I know it’s not a lack of ideas. I see one guy with a leather briefcase and he becomes a double agent  in my mind. So I know it’s not a lack of creativity that’s got me in this place. But I can’t say exactly what this place really is.

And yes, I have been busy—I moved back to the East Coast, went back to school full time, started working part time and freelancing, and completely changed my schedule in order to change my profession and pursue a long-held dream—but there’s more to it than that.

Maybe this place is called laziness?

Maybe apathy?

Maybe it’s just the aftermath of disappointment that I’ve mistaken as defeat?

Either way, I need to get out of this lease and move on.

Yes, I’ve been disappointed in the past, taking professional rejection personally, viewing them as the ultimate and final word regarding my writing abilities, story ideas, and my future possibilities as an author. And even if rejection is something I have to fight, it’s not the only thing I need to pay attention to and according to someone who used to work as a literary magazine editor, it’s nothing personal and I shouldn’t allow it to kill my dreams and love for writing.

Hmm… that’s what it is… I don’t feel like I love writing anymore. That’s sad… I’ve fallen out of love with the process of writing and I’m just now realizing that’s what I’ve allowed those rejections to do, which makes me feel even more sad. (sigh)

Well, it’s 2019 and even though I’ve just now realized the toll the rejections have taken on my drive, at the beginning of the year I toyed around with the idea of

Year in Review

Well, this post has been a long time coming. And now, a month after completing my goal, I’m again working to carve out time to write and update this blog with my review of the entire year of blogging and a hint to what’s next. I’ve been ridiculously busy—too busy, actually—but I’ve also hesitated to say what I plan to do because then that understandable pressure of actually doing it will start hounding me every day.

(sigh) Accountability…it’s simultaneously wonderful and uncomfortable…

Anyway, last February, when I started this blog, it was after much time, pondering, and deliberation. I’d like to say that I was planning everything out, getting organized on my goals and plans, but really I was trying to get over being fearful and let go of some perfectionist tendencies—such a bad combo.

Anyway, once I made myself just start blogging, it was less scary. There was still lots of pressure and lots of work, but less fear.

My daily goal of writing made me rework my priorities,

Month 12 in Review

This is it! Month 12!

Yes, yes. I actually made it. I completed my goal of blogging for one year. Now, to be honest, I’m a person who likes to finish what I start. But I’ll reflect more on the overall blog and this last year in a post I have planned for later this week.

This month was all about getting back into the swing of things. After focusing on Nanowrimo in November and traveling and working hard in December, January was really about regaining my focusing concerning my goal of writing daily and getting those posts up on the blog. Thankfully this resulted in

Umbra

umbra

1.  shade; shadow.
2. the invariable or characteristic accompaniment or companion of a person or thing.

It was strange to see a person who was simultaneously there, but not. Eyes open, fully awake, and yet so distant and disconnected.

His smile was virtually the same, just weaker. Even his strange way of lumbering more than walking down a hall remained untouched, but somehow just seemed a fraction slower than usual.

“Hey, Perry…”

Now it seemed to take a lifetime before he responded, slowly looking up from his book to engage in conversation.

“Yeah?”

Even his voice sounded off.

It was like those movies when

Ataraxia

ataraxia

1. a state of freedom from emotional disturbance and anxiety; tranquillity.

The wind picked up, pushing the small red Fit toward the rumble strips.

Patricia gripped the wheel tighter, glancing in the rearview mirror. Cherubic cheeks and a wide grin greeted her from the back seat.

“Are you okay,” she yelled over the wind within the car.

Peyton nodded, strands of blonde hair blowing around his head.

Patricia surged ahead on I-64 enjoying the deserted patch of highway, while reminding herself that she didn’t need a speeding ticket. She sighed happily, realizing that even if she received a ticket, this would be the first time in years she’d actually be able to

Kanone

kanone

1. a person who is an expert skier.

Kala stared at the swollen mass that no longer resembled her knee. Her skin was a mixture of browns and blues with splotches of purple. Painkillers numbed her senses, but did nothing to diminish the fury swirling inside.

The Times had dubbed her the “Kanone of Kona.” Her family had been so proud. Even her dad had showed the article to his people at his shop. That moment had been the best. But now it seemed like it all happened so long ago.

She was the phenom, the wunderkind from humble beginnings–the slice of Americana that the public drank down like marshmallows and cocoa on a cold day.

And now?

Her career was shot. The first MRI confirmed what Dr. G had suspected. Everything was

Equivoque

equivoque

1. an equivocal term; an ambiguous expression.
2. a play on words; pun.
3. double meaning; ambiguity.

Clint was two seconds too late.

He caught a glimpse of curly red hair exiting the shop just as he emerged from the back with a dozen pair of black orthopedic shoes. With all the strength he could muster, he resisted the urge to give into his disappointment and hurl the boxes of shoes to the floor. He knew this case of “terrible two’s” would pass and his sulking would pass when she returned.

“Here you go,” Clint muttered, angrily as he set the boxes down next to swollen ankles and began his quarterly 90-minute ritual of opening every box as every pair is tested and tried. He struggled to maintain his composure. This was the second time he’d missed her because of their slow-moving patrons.

“What’s wrong with you today, young man?”

Clint scoffed in disgust. He’d had it.

“I’m not that young! And the one time someone my age actually comes in here and I’m

Shivoo

shivoo

1. Australian. a boisterous party or celebration.

The knock on the door is like the crack of a whip at the circus–loud and arresting. This week it bellows a tone of timidity, nauseating me.

Landis and Minnie are incessant. I know it’s them before I even turn around.

This is their Friday night ritual.

I begin to rub my temples, ready to feign some illness worthy of