Amateur Wisdom

Every day I am reminded that I am failing to live up to my potential to be the writer that I know I am destined to be. There are a million reasons why I make both conscious and subconscious reasons to continue to sabotage my progress. I won't bore you. However, all it takes it watching other people living out their dream; taking ordinary words and stringing them together in such a way that they create an intricate tale that entices the reader to say, "Just one more page," to make me quiver with fear that I will never realize that success.

Then I look in the mirror and say, "Screw that!" I am a success. Yeah, you didn't see that one coming, did you? Sure, my novel has been a perpetual rough draft for way too long. But I have penned words. I have created an imaginary place with characters the breathe deep inside the recesses of my soul and to me that is success on a personal level. Some may say psychotic, too. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion.

Therefore, this post is for all of my creative friends who have ever felt they do not measure up to their definition of success or another person's definition of achievement. Too much creative time is wasted on comparing yourself to others. Stay devoted to your passion and success will find you!

And, while you are mulling over that little bit of amateur wisdom check out this wonderful quote by Madeline L'Engle that I found over at the Write on Edge community.

Refocusing

My husband is in the beginnings of an entrepreneurial journey. After losing his job, nearly 3 weeks ago, he has decided to pursue a passion that he has never been able to fully realize. He started a blog and I have been encouraging him, gently nudging him; okay fine, I will call it what it is: I have been lecturing him on the necessity of updating his blog everyday. Then it hit me today, when I was doing laundry because there is never a better time for self-examination, that I am a hypocrite.

Ever since my husband lost his job, I have been in the trenches, buckling down and doing nothing but working hard to earn an extra dollar. Why? We are not destitute. We are the lucky ones who have some savings to help us manage as my husband begins his business. I think I decided to use this life change as a time to ignore and procrastinate. I have spent to much time ignoring this blog. I have forsaken my own creativity. It is time to refocus. Time to start taking my own advice and engaging in my blog and my life a little more.

So, today the family and I spent time wandering around a neighborhood park. I indulged in the crisp autumn air, focused my energies on creativity and family. The picture at the beginning of this post, I took this afternoon. A simple farmhouse, yet it felt so good to discover something to fuel my creativity. Take a look at this picture.

Just an outhouse, but you never know what you might find that lifts the spirits. How do you refocus when life begins to drag you down, when you get stuck in the mud of surviving?

Ode to the Purse

Wow! It has been months since I have had time to sit in front of my computer screen for a little blogging time. With all these months away you might think I have something monumental to write to you today and you would be . . . WRONG!

I am calling this post "Ode to the Purse." Why? Well, tomorrow is the official start of fall which means it is time to change out the purse.

First, I must say thank you and farewell to my trusty and reliable Kate Spade tote. You served me well this summer at dusty ballparks, picnics and amusement parks. You made me feel special and one-of-a-kind. You even made me fall in love with vinyl which is something I never thought I would be capable of. Yes, dear summer purse I will miss you, but it is time for Isabella Fiore to make her fall debut!

Here she is! My fall beauty that I proudly wear on my shoulder has been released from her protective cloth bag where she has rested since February. Her words are an inspiration to me all season long. Whenever I feel hopeless or the winter blues set in I read Faith, Love, Hope and feel all warm and snugly again. My husband doesn't get my love affair with this purse. He equally doesn't understand the cost of this bag. Some don't appreciate my bag's elegant, hippie flair. That's okay. All that matters is this purse is mine and I get to enjoy stuffing it full of nonsense for the next few months.

Am I crazy? Am I the only person who goes this crazy over a handbag?

The Journal

The Secret Sits

We dance round in a ring and suppose,

But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.

This is the prompt that I found waiting for me for my Write on Edge challenge this weekend. There were many ways I could go with this prompt, but I decided it was time to address some family secrets in Carly's Story. This is a continuation of Family Dinner, but I wrote the previous excerpt months ago. So, if you go back in time to read that excerpt pardon any confusing transitions. Still a work in progress.

I hope you enjoy my take on this haunting Robert Frost poem. If are new to my writing and leave a comment, please let me know where I can find your writing so I can get to know your story, too.

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Image Courtesy of Fuel You Writing

The journal pages, touched and seen only by its’ author, now lay exposed on the kitchen table. The secret tumbled from the page causing the three of us to sit in silence, each absorbing the truth in our own private way.

“I remember that night.” Ilsa finally spoke. Her words soft, barely escaping her throat. She coughed, forcing the words to come out louder. “I remember that night.”

Greer sneered. “Impossible. You were a child.”

Ilsa ignored Greer. She reached for the journal, held it in her lap, and stroked the words her late sister had written. “We went to bed later than usual that night. Momma had been gone working an overnight shift to have the bakery well-stocked in the morning.”

Greer added, “She pitched a fit about leaving us alone that night. Dad hadn’t come around in days.She was worried he’d come around drunk, out of control.”

“Lena wasn’t home. Where did she go?” Ilsa questioned.

“The movies with a neighbor girl, “ Greer filled in. “She always had that ability to make friends. I was never that lucky.” Greer spoke this sincerely reminding me that she had loved her sister.

Ilsa continued to recount her recollections of that night . “Daddy never did come home, but Lena did. I woke up when the moon was high. Someone was crying.”

Tears started to pool in Ilsa’s eyes. I felt tears stinging my cheeks, too. “It was Lena. Huddled in the corner crying she didn’t look like a young woman, but a child. I remember wanting to ask her what was wrong, because I had never seen her like that. She was always so happy, so strong. No matter what hell we were enduring she was our light. I felt like a coward. I never went to her. I never asked what was wrong. I burrowed down underneath the blanket and went back to bed.”

“The next morning she was her usual self. I almost forgot about what I had awoken to.” Ilsa shut the journal, but kept it in her lap.  “I never knew he raped her.”

Oddly, relief consumed me. Months of keeping my mother’s secret, months of pent up anger would now not be mine alone. Ilsa and Greer would share my sorrow. I knew it was selfish, but I needed them to share this truth with me.

A small, nondescript noise came from behind me. John’s heart had grown weaker as the weeks wore on, he managed to shuffle from his room to the kitchen. The grief exposed on his wrinkled face verified that he had heard the entire conversation. He pointed to the journal and confessed.  “ Hell will soon welcome me and my sins.”

Taboo

A long week of writing for other people. Now, I have finally found a bit of time to carve out for myself and my own tales. This piece of creative writing is inspired by the Write on Edge community and the Red Writing Hood prompt. 

This week we were encouraged to write about the forbidden, the taboo. I chose to use this prompt to continue writing about my character, Carly. This small excerpt is a continuation from a previous excerpt, Who am I? 

I don't think this piece creatively challenged the concept of taboo, but I have been mulling over this part of my story for so long that I decided I need to get it out of my head. So, I hope you enjoy my interpretation of taboo.

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Lying in the stillness that the raw hours of night often bring, I focused on keeping my breath even and soft. I was not entirely sure who I was hiding from, but I suspected that I wanted to shroud my former self from the person I had become.

I watched Yves sleep, his smooth, olive chest different from David’s pale Irish complexion. His mannerisms of sleep were different from David’s, too. David would thrash, throw about the covers. He always seemed to be fighting the relaxing calm sleep could bring. Yves lay on his back, lips closed, and his body still; content in the tranquility of sleep.

At that moment, I realized my mistakes. The multitude of mistakes that I had made up until this point did not matter. They were minor, fixable. What had happened in this apartment, this bed, would have no other option, but to change the course of my life. I loathed myself. How despicable could I really be? I lay here in this bed, comparing my husband and this new lover. Everything I had accused David of being, I had become. I was an adulterer.  Not an innocent bystander swept up in blinding love. If only that were the case, then I could plead no contest. But the facts were blatant. I made this choice to alter the course of my life. The wedge that had been building between David and me for so many years had finally become a gorge. This one senseless and selfish act had officially divided us. David didn’t know this yet, but I did. A vast space existed between us now and there was not a bridge in sight to repair the damage.

Vibrations echoed against the nightstand. Out of my left eye I saw David’s name light up the screen, out of my right eye I glanced at Yves to make sure he was still asleep. This new territory left me paralyzed. I didn’t know what to do. David had called continuously as the night wore on since he had sent that first text about John being taken to the hospital, but clearly I had been preoccupied with my sin. Now, I knew I couldn’t ignore the urgent nature that the calls indicated.

Quietly, like a bare whisper, I slid out from under the covers. I arranged my clothes on my body to resemble someone respectable, not a liar. I smoothed my hair, but without a brush I feared it told a story I would rather not elaborate on this evening.

I stood over Yves. I considered waking him. I considered leaving a note. But in the end I left without a word, without consideration. 

Fairytales

Today's blog post is about fairy tales. Although, reader beware. This is not your typical, happy ending fairy tale. This post is a creative writing piece based on the following challenge by Write on Edge and is a continuation of Carly's story. For those of you who have been following Carly's story, I have a new look this week. This blog layout works so much better for me, so I hope it doesn't confuse anyone. Promise I am here at this address permanently.

Here was the challenge:

For Today, we gave you a short challenge. Three fairly generic passive phrases. Your goal was to make them active in a short scene, either fiction or non-fiction. You could choose one, two, or all three to play with, but you only had 100 words.

[he/she/I] was devastated by [...]

[feeling] was experienced by [...]

[person/thing] was possessed by [...]

Don't worry. While this post may be a little daunting and dark, I generally do believe that a positive outlook on life can make anyone experience a happy ending. 

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Fairy Tales

Fairy tales are a waste of brain cells. They are for crack-heads possessed by a desire to believe life must, and will, always provide a happy ending. Unfortunately, crack is not my drug. Instead, I am a stoner; stoned into a numb existence devastated by circumstances that have contributed to the boiling anger that relentlessly propels me to make rash, pathetic choices. Secrets and deceit have crippled my daily life, crippled my marriage. These secrets have come to define David and me more than any of the happier moments we experienced together. Yep, fairy tales are crack and will never satisfy your cravings.   

Brain Dead

Yesterday was energetic. Tonight I feel brain dead. Does anyone else feel brain dead. I think an entire day of writing for other people has left me to exhausted to add my WOE post tonight or to even properly comment on my fellow writers' works. Added to the to-do list for tomorrow.

This also means I am not uploading wedding speeches tonight. I will begin work on that tomorrow. Some days I feel like Scarlett O'Hara -

"After all... tomorrow is another day."

In all seriousness, I wrote an article today reviewing a shoe website which pumped me up (like the shoe reference) to share my new Asics Gel 1170 with you.

I don't usually get overly enthusiastic about athletic shoes. I prefer to act giddy about a new pair Jimmy Choo's - that is if I actually had the coinage to buy a pair of Choo's. There I go getting off track again.

But for those of you who do not know, I am a runner as well as a writer. Running fuels my creativity. I have a little blog called Racing Warrior. You can visit it here.

Up-close and personal

I have been running in my Asics Gel 1160 since September and over 500 miles so it was time for a new pair. I put off buying them because I am cheap, but my aching shins and my reluctance to run forced me to make the purchase.

I am thrilled to in my new running shoes and ready to fuel my creativity.

That's all for tonight, peeps! Going to soak in a hot tub and read my newest download on the Kindle Fire, The Neighbors Are Watching. The jury is still deliberating on the potency of this book. The story has potential, but I question the writing. I will let you know the final verdict.

Creative Fuel

First, let's start with some housekeeping business. If you look to the right of your screen, you will see an enormous amount of blog entries today. I am not that incredibly awesome or inspired to write so much in one day.

I am in the process of switching blogs and I didn't want any of my devoted readers (who as of this writing have no idea I am switching - but will soon) to miss out on previous chapters. Again, not awesome, just trying to get some blog housekeeping under control.

On that note, this is my first official blog on Eloquently Spoken. Let me assure you that I will not overwhelm you with vocabulary that makes your head spin. One can write eloquently without being pretentious. Thank goodness, because I never take myself that seriously. Yes, my husband is disagreeing as he reads this, but that's his opinion.

See what I mean? Does that photo look serious? That's my daughter and I being a bit cliche standing in front of an outhouse at a local park. 

Moving on . . . I entitled this post Creative Fuel because sometimes we all need  downtime to refuel and get our brains uncluttered in order to find our creative juice.

I spent the morning dipping my toes in the cool water of a creek bed, listening to children splashing and watching my daughter try to catch fish with an orange bucket.

They were drawn to the color, but were a little too smart to get caught. A fun morning that energized me to the extent that it is now almost midnight and I am going to force myself to say goodnight.

Need my rest so I can add some wedding speech examples tomorrow. Did I mention I write wedding speeches? Hmmm. . . well, if not, I do. Every pun was intended.