Sound it out

I started reading at age 3. My Mom would walk across the street to the laundromat, S & P's, and I tagged along. The owners gave me an old hardback about a farm. It's the first book I remember reading. Hip hop to school, and it was my favorite subject. First grade brought SRAs (Science Research Associates, Inc.) color-coded reading system, and I thought I'd reached the pinnacle.

Thumbing through those colors brought me incredible joy. Read a great story. Answer a few questions. Back to the box of color and stories. My love for that little box cannot be overstated. My predilection for this box of many colors and my speed at moving through it brought attention.

The principal and teacher gave me a fourth-grade SRA, and I missed one. Talk ensued. An offer to skip second grade and move on to third. I accepted the offer. And off I went. Reading never failed me. I tested post-high school in elementary on all those standardized test. Reading GIVES. You absorb so much around you without realizing because you're constantly seeking to add to your knowledge. 

I picked up an Eric Carle First Phonics Box to give to a granddaughter for Christmas. I have two in Kindergarten right now. One in Pre-K. One is three. My little stair-steps. 😌

I decided to keep the books here for the girls to read and practice at the house when they come over. I broke them out, for the first time, last night. 

LeeLee sat on her mother's lap, we're all piled in the big bathroom for a reason I can't remember, and read, "Cats cats cats."

It was beautiful.

The best thing? She closed the cover and immediately reached for another book. 😊 And if she heard the phrase, "sound it out" once, she heard it ninety-two times. But she kept going. Read four books in all. 💖

I let her borrow the next five to take home and practice with mom and dad because she's going to read those to Mimi when she comes back in two weeks to celebrate Christmas up here. 

I remember the absolute joy in becoming a reader. The delight in seeing stories come to life.

But watching a reader become?

My heart will never be the same. Nor will hers.

*******

I'm in love with a plastic flamingo...

...hear me out.

I am an eclectic soul. I will dive into the deepest of holes for information I find fascinating, collect factoids like others collect spoons, rocks, or stamps and horrify when appropriate or inappropriate.

I know realize, while entertaining the wonderful in-laws last night, I rattled off several facts about serial killers. 😬

I can only hope that, over the years, they've come to accept this in their eccentric, but well-meaning, daughter-in-law. 

It makes my Google searches a million times more fun, not to mention my Google history. 😶

And my Facebook feed and other social media ads? 😵

Case in point, I'm scrolling my FB feed, and I often come across different books, as I'm an author. But I'd never come across something quite like this. It was a "lawn ornament shifter" book. 

Say again?

A romance between a woman and a lawn ornament shifter, a flamingo to be exact. I'm still processing. 

I'm not even sure of the exact premise, but I want this to be a Hallmark movie, like yesterday.

I mention this only to reiterate: WRITE WHAT YOU LOVE.

I love writing romance, it's literally a part of my soul. But that's not stopping me from writing about a child serial killer. 

My whims and I. 😊

Be secure in who you are and what you want. Don't look to others to validate you. Take that first step. And if you need to shuffle for a bit, then do so. But keep moving forward. Bit by bit.

That's what I'm telling myself now as life has been crazy and chaotic. Only now finding my feet and trying to get back to whatever "normal" even is. Usually N/A. 😎

Lawn ornaments are the new Ryan Reynolds.

Crystal*

It's all coming back to me now...

...well, not all. 

But as I tried to sleep last night, it wasn't chaotic thoughts, per usual, that filled my head, but dialogue.

Blessed dialogue. More specifically, dialogue from Canary: Out of the Shadows. 🥹 

I nearly got out of bed to jot it down, but I didn't. The two scenes were dynamic enough, I knew I wouldn't forget them. 

It's like being in the silence so long and finally hearing a whisper. 

It was...everything.

I haven't touched a Word .docx in probably a month. I'm too author-fragile right now to check. It'll only reinforce the issue more, and I am merely flapping my wings a bit over here. Getting the wind under them again. Feeling how smooth it can be. Remembering.

Going to hop over to OneNote and put the dialogue and scenes in. They're Ray being...Ray. 😄 

Poor woman doesn't know what's on the horizon. None of them do. 

But dark things have waited so long for a chance to play. 

Back to writing*

Limitations

These can come in many forms.

Mine, for nearly the past four weeks, has been depression. I didn't realize, at first, that's what it was. When you're mired in it, it's the norm. But I began to realize...it's NOT the norm. I suffer from depression, anxiety, and PTSD along with chronic pain and a host of other ailments. I live and write DESPITE these assholes.

But I haven't been doing much of either. I've also been battling some type of stomach issue with nausea(???). Which could be, or could not be, related to any number of things I already have. Or hey! Could be something new and different. 😶

Interjecting a bit of humor here. Good thing about depression? You don't have much anxiety because you don't give a shit. Ba dum dum...

No energy. No appetite. Exactly no sense of humor. 

Missed a deadline (for myself) on my book. Am a month behind on all my writing things. I'm exhausted doing nothing. 

Thanks. I hate it.

That's me. Digging myself out right now. Battling daily to do the minimum. I haven't disappeared...exactly. More like my body put me in timeout. 😡

Ungrateful vessel.

Here's to a better November. 

💖

Away from desk

Rounded out the granddaughter birthdays in September. My youngest child's bday is today. She's 29. Last of my babies clinging to the twenties. My middle child turns 29, apparently AGAIN, on October 20th. 

I'm simply happy to actually be sitting at my desk. AT MY KEYBOARD.

Taking youngest granddaughter, newly 3, to shop and lunch this Saturday. I've been spending Mondays and Wednesdays with the heathens (newly 6 and 4 year-old granddaughters). 

This time of year is hectic, and I am beyond the realm of tired. 

Need to make a list for my professional items to round out the year. Need to FOCUS.  

Unfortunately, Amazon sent their toy catalog, and I'm thumbing through there like a mesmerized nine-year old related to Bill Gates. My inner child is so much my outer child.

These toys are next level, and I am HERE for it. Grandson loves Spider-Man and the yellow-haired Anime guy in the orange suit. Don't come for me. Too lazy to Google it right now. Granddaughters love race cars, TMNT, Paw Patrol, Barbies, dress up, and so much more.

In all seriousness, I need to finish "Dream Walker" in the next couple of weeks and push it out by the end of the month. Life has been SOMETHING lately, but goals are goals. Then finish "Canary: Out of the Shadows" which is burning brain cells as I type this.

Onwards and upwards.

Always writing*

...and sneaking peeks at that damn catalog...oooooooo

Dream Walker

I write what I should write. 

In essence, I write what the voices tell me. Does the absolute madness of that sentence bother me? Not in the slightest. The voices say it shouldn't. 😂

While I have over two dozen ideas for books TBW (to-be-written), I don't go willy-nilly into the fray. I have some semblance of order in the madness and gorgeous chaos.

However, sometimes a stray idea wanders in, tells every other story to fuck smooth off, and settles itself into my grey matter with a bottle of Wild Turkey. The liquor flows. The story goes.

Two completely unexpected things happened this year. 

I tried to force myself to write to market. Sweet Jesus. This was horrific. I failed miserably. Wasted my time. Regret. Flogging myself with an ampersand. Shame, etc.

The other being a character named Rissa, who wandered into my world. Okay. She kicked in the doors, scared the shit out of everyone but Ray, and settled in for the long haul.

Her story resonates. I have a thing for damaged characters. A ken for the lost souls. Being a serial killer at the grand age of seven counts.

Ever had something special about you? Something wonderful no one else could do? Then have it twisted to become the worst thing about you? Used with absolutely no regard to your mental or physical health?

Rissa has.

And the price?

The price was only her soul.

I had to tell her story before I finished Ray's in "Canary: Out of the Shadows". 

I should finish this month. I lack right around 10,000 words or so. Some stitching. Definite polish. 

But the story? The awful story? And Rissa's redemption? Oh. It's all there. 

Mother/Mimi/Writer

Yes. In that order.

I always thought once I reached a certain age, I would have less complications in my life. I now know that was bullshit to the highest power. 

There are second-generation issues from my babies.

There are third-generation issues from my gbabies.

Everything else steps aside for them.

I write every weekday morning, Saturday, and occasionally Sunday. This morning, I chose to write and work on my book cover for "Dream Walker". (I DO like my period outside the quote marks.)

I edit from the beginning of DW, do a bit of stitching (pulling scenes together, adding chapter headings), and write on a couple of scenes.

FB message from middle child. She is encountering a large amount of stress. Would like my thoughts on something. My pleasure. We chat for a few. I think she feels a bit better as we wrap up.

I go back to the written work.

Ten to fifteen minutes later, oldest child snaps me and asks if I'm busy and if he can vent. Nope. Not busy. Hit me, child.

Snappity snaps.

Writing is my passion. I often joke I would be the woman in Bellevue, back in the day with a piece of chalk in her hand, content to scribble on walls the rest of her days. I know for sure I wouldn't have been let loose on the streets. But I digress.

But those who come from me are my soul. These are the pieces of me left long after I've disappeared from this earth. They deserve my love, time, and support more than any one or thing. 

That is perspective. 

If it takes me a wee bit longer to finish DW, then I suppose it takes a bit longer. 

True dat.

Always writing*

...and searching for the purrfect gif...