Catching up: dragons, awards, magic, and incompetence

Annie Wicking gave me a writer's cave dragon for a Christmas present, which she beautifully painted herself. She only gave the writing cave dragon to a handful of writers on blogger, and my inclusion in that handful I take as a great honour. Also, having spent so much of my informative years in places like Middle Earth, Avalon, and on Pern, I've always dreamed of owning a dragon of my very own. It's very likely that the fantastical creature is the very reason I became a writer, so her gifting of her writer's cave dragon couldn't be more appropriate. Thank- you Annie. :)

A sentence I wrote about anger won the daily writing prompt on C. Beth's One Minute Writer blog. It's the very first award I've ever received for something I've written, so I will proudly display that on my blog as well. Thank-you C. :) ... Small steps, but still meaningful ones for me.

... Last night I finished reading Carol Shields' 'The Stone Diaries', which won the Governor General's Award, and was shortlisted for the Booker Prize. It wasn't an easy read; I had to concentrate or else I'd have to read parts over. But when I lost myself to it, I was rewarded with such simple everyday profundities that it left me feeling both exhilarated and unsettled at the same time.

The story is about the ordinary life of a woman from her birth to her death, told from many different perspectives, including the narrators. It's a masterpiece, poetry written in prose, and there's nothing plain and simple about it except the subject matter. As a writer I can only imagine how involving it must have been to write such a novel, and I am in awe of Shields' accomplishment.

So now that the Christmas panic is over and I've time to get back to my own writing, I'm finding it difficult to do just that. Because of the time I've been away from it, and after reading 'The Stone Diaries' with it's lyrical magic and meaning, I am filled with feelings of doubt and incompetence once more. I've been gifted with joy of the written word, to see, and moderately comprehend the complexities and magic of it, but my ability to write pales so much in comparison to my understanding of what other writers have written. How can I continue to take my little stories seriously when the pinnacle of perfection is so far out of my reach?

Yesterday was the first day of winter

My apologies to all my blogger friends. I've been very busy cleaning, making Christmas presents, cleaning, shoveling snow, cleaning, shoveling even more snow, and you guessed it, even more cleaning, that I've not been able to afford the time to keep up on your blogs, ... or even my own blog, for that matter. As soon as I have a free moment, I promise, I'll drop by and see what you all are up too. Until then, I wish each and everyone of you all the magic the season can bring, and may your hearts be filled with love, peace, and joy.

Make Believe

Nine days till Christmas

Winter is here, and there's a residual instinct in me to hybrinate, to curl up next to a fire with a hot cup of tea and a good book, but the Christmas panic begins, and to make things worse, we got snowed in yesterday when we had been planning on starting our Christmas shopping. There's cleaning to do, lots of it, shopping, shoveling snow, thawing out the Christmas tree and then decorating it, ... and the house as well, but all I want to do is read and write. Reading I can do at night, but writing, well, if I start something now I won't be able to pull myself away to do anything else, so I'm ignoring my muse for the moment, hoping she understands. Trouble is, I can't seem to get motivated to do those other things, and the crunch is on. Figures, all that time complaining about having nothing to write about, and now when I should be doing something else, it's all I want to do.

Short stories or novels?

I just read in an online article ( http://www.thisbusinessofdanceandmusic.com/Article-Shortfictionmarket.htm ) two contrary opinions. One was that writing short stories was a good way for a writer to refine their craft, that if they ultimately wanted to write novels, they should write at least one hundred shorts before they began a novel. The other opinion was that even after writing many short stories a writer will find that they still have much to learn when it comes to writing a novel, and the opinion was that "...novelists should start with novels and leave short stories to those who particularly love short stories."

I would be very interested in hearing what others have to say about this. You see, I'm at a point where I'm trying to decide if I want to write just for myself, or work towards making a career out of what I do. It's common knowledge that there isn't a market for short stories, and it was my thinking that writing short stories would be good practice, and would give me the tools I needed to either finish that novel I started way back when, or attempt another one.

Either I stick to the plan, - maybe even count down those one hundred stories, or scrap the idea of writing shorts except for my own enjoyment, and start thinking about putting my efforts into writing a novel. ... And then again, there's always children's fiction, ... that's nice and short. ... Oh maybe I'm not ready for this. Maybe I should just stick with writing whatever the muse brings to my attention and write it in whatever format best suits the story...

LOL, I would still like to hear people's opinion on this, just incase I ever reach that point where I'm ready to make a decision either way.

The Missus and the Troll

Well, I finally finished that short story I've been working for about a week and a half. What I had intended to be about a 700 word little anecdotal, turned into a 3791 word, full fledged fable. For some reason, because I had an outline for it in my head, I had thought it could be accomplished quickly and in a few words. ... Boy was I wrong.(Grin) And where did I get the information that writing within the confines of a certain genre was easy? I guess, maybe if you write in that style again and again till it becomes second nature, but the first time is definitely a challenge. It sure gave me a work out. I don't think I did too badly, considering, and I hope you enjoy reading all 3791 words! :)

The story's name is: 'The Missus and the Troll', and you can find the link to it on the right, under the heading: My Stories. ... And please, if you do take the time to read it, could you take an extra moment to answer a little survey I have about it? I'm trying to decide if it would make an appropriate Christmas gift for my nieces.

Every Homemaker should own an iPod

...I admit, it does slow you down a might when you dance around with the saucepan you're drying before you put it in the cupboard, but it's a heck of a lot more fun! :)

Listen to your muse

My muse is still having her way with me, and I can't help but submit to her attentions. For years I've been whining that I didn't have a story to write, that I didn't have enough experiences under my belt to draw from, but I kept insisting to myself that I was a writer. I'd maybe have an idea for a story, say, two or three times a year. But now I have a list of ideas, and the more time I spend writing, the longer that list gets. I keep wondering just what it is that has changed to cause my muse to want to hang out with me so much more. Maybe it's because I've finally realized that you don't have to have lived an adventurous life to write a compelling story, that the hazards and trials of everyday life can be just as much of a challenge as climbing Mt. Everest. Or maybe it's because I finally heard what my muse has been trying to communicate to me all these years: Enough with the bellyaching already. If you're a writer then just write, for crying out loud!

Pizza or panic?

So I went to the local writer's group monthly meeting again last night. This time there wasn't a guest speaker so it was open mike night. No mike though, just a homemade podium that people stood behind to read their writing. I wasn't going to go to the meeting; I had spent most of the day working on a short story, and when it came time to make supper, I hadn't taken the pizza dough out of the fridge on time for it to warm up and start to rise. It was just a question of whether I should stay home and put the time into making the pizza all from scratch and miss the meeting, or open a couple of cans of soup and make it to the community centre on time.

I hummed and hawed about it for quite awhile though, back and forth, weighing my options, until it was even too late to put anything on for supper, except for the canned soup. So I took a shower, and got changed into what I hoped was my most 'writerly' looking clothing, - corduroy trousers, a wrinkled t-shirt , topped with a tasteful herringbone knit vest - and I printed off a couple of short stories just in case.

I guess I must have really wanted to read something, because when the speaker looked at me and asked if I had something to read, I didn't say no. I didn't allow myself to fade unnoticed into the background like I expected I would do. I told him, yes I had a story, but I had never read anything for a group before, so I wasn't sure.
With an encouraging smile, he told me that he took that to mean yes.

And I so I did it. I got up there and I read my story from beginning to end, and only with a few moments of complete panic that I somehow managed to swallow well enough to continue reading. I didn't do too badly, considering it was my first time. But it took a couple of hours for my pulse to settle down to normal, and when it did, I wondered just why it had been so important for me to do such a thing.

I finally came to the conclusion that in a way, I considered it a right of passage of some sort, that it was something I had to do to take myself seriously as a writer, putting myself out there in front of other writers and saying, look this is what I do. I write, and this is what I've written.

... I don't know if after hearing what I wrote has made anyone in the audience think of me as a writer, but I do, and right now that's what counts.

A Murder of crows

Today while delivering my newspapers and just when I was thinking about whether I had been wrong to have stopped believing in God, I saw the largest murder of crows I have ever seen. There looked to be hundreds of them. They were on the sidewalk, on the powerlines, in the trees. They were on the lawns of the properties for two blocks on either side of the street, and up the street to my right. They were everywhere. As I pushed my newspaper cart along the sidewalk, some flew away from me, some flew towards me and over my head, and still others, went about doing what they had been doing before I came along, or stood where they were, watching me, watching them. I wish I had my camera with me, for I don't think anyone will believe me when I tell them just how many crows there had been, or how very strange the experience felt. ... And the thing is, I didn't even get shat on once, so maybe there is a God afterall.

Scratch that last one

I was wrong, the hardest thing that someone can do is to keep it in mind that they have the power to change that.

Reality can be brutal

I think that one of the most difficult things someone can do is to come to the realization that they are not who they thought they were.

My muse is working over time!

Today is a very good day. I've got three stories bouncing around in my head wanting to be written, but I'm not use to this; I've never had more than one idea to write about at one time. It's hard to concentrate. Just as soon as I hit a rough spot in the one that I'm writing now, one of the others gives me a nudge and asks for my attention. I'm not minding it though, and I gotta be extra nice to each one, because I don't want any of them to feel neglected and leave! ... I think I need a baby sitter though! :)

Guard dog on duty

Anger sustains you. It makes you defiant and strong. It defends your pride, gives you courage, and enforces your will. It keeps you safe behind it's abrasive shield; it conceals your vulnerabilities and weaknesses from your enemies, and it keeps your self-esteem intact. But hide behind it for too long, and it will grow, feeding off the very weakness it protects. It will disguise itself as justified indignation, and soon it will convince you that there isn't anyone you can trust, gorging itself on your resentment and self pity until it completely conceals not only your vulnerabilities, but your virtues as well.

I've done a bit of tidying up

Not in my house,(although my partner would dearly love to see that happen) but here, at blogger. I originally thought I would post each story I published in it's own separate blog, but today I got to thinking, I intend to post as many short stories as I possibly can, so that would mean, many many individual blogs to manage... well, I'm hoping it would mean that :). Anyway, today I decided to create just one blog for my stories. I posted 'Molten Lava' and 'Making it Right' in my new blog,'Out of My Head'. My apologies to anyone who wrote a comment or clicked on the little reactions thingie. Believe me, deleting those was one of the hardest things I've ever done. :(

Today I'm just a paper carrier

... hoping that my muse returns soon.

Should I stay, or should I go?

When those around you don't seem to accept you for who you are, you have two choices, either accept that and hang around, or accept that and move on. Which would you do? (Title for this blog respectfully taken from the song: 'Should I Stay or Should I Go?' by The Clash)

What is a paragraph, anyway?

Over this last little while, while editing my stories, I've noticed that I tend to write very short paragraphs, and that has given me cause to question whether or not I actually know what a paragraph is. Generally I just wing it. I have this idea in my head that a sentence is a complete thought that can exist on it's own, and a paragraph is a collection of thoughts that all work together to create a single concept, or in fiction, a separate scene, or scene element.

The thing is, paragraphs are all suppose to connect to make a story, and each paragraph is meant to be connected somehow by a thought, so it's difficult to judge sometimes where you should break your paragraph and begin the next.

I make those breaks whenever my narrative interrupts the flow of the story, or when my writing takes a time leap over a bit of uninteresting or irrelevant facts that would have no bearing on the story. And of course, I break for dialog, separating each person speaking. Often though, because of my self imposed rules, I end up with a lot of single sentence paragraphs, and I'm wondering if that is correct, and if I shouldn't try to flush out the thought more.

Can a single sentence be a paragraph? Does having too many short paragraphs in a story make that story seem choppy, and would my writing improve if I tried to flush out those short paragraphs more? I've been trying to find a more accurate description of what a paragraph is suppose to be, but so far, I haven't found anything in the books that I have or online. I remember seeing notes on stories or essays I wrote in school, where the teacher wrote something like, "this thought should be a separate paragraph", but how did the teacher know that herself? Do we all just wing it based on that simple rule that a paragraph is a self existing concept?

Making it Right

Today I decided to share a short story that I just finished writing. It is not a feel good story, but it's a true story, true because there are so many people out there who have grown up in much less than ideal circumstances, and for many, it takes a life time to put that past behind them. People need to hear these stories; for those who lived through such things, so they know they are not alone, and they are not to blame, and for the rest, so that they might come to know and understand.

The story is called 'Making it Right' and you'll find the link to it, on the right, under the heading, 'My Stories'.

While sitting near the top of a very tall tree

I think I was around ten years old when I finally understood what death meant. Someone in our family, I don't remember who, died. We all got dressed up and went to the funeral parlor, and we all lined up to look at the dead body of this relative. I remember thinking that it wasn't the person I knew anymore, but it looked like him, and that puzzled me. All the relatives were crying and consoling each other, and then we all sat down in a room that looked like a tiny church. Then a man, who didn't know the dead person, spoke wonderful things about him, even though what I had remembered overhearing about the dead man when he was alive, didn't seem like that at all.
For a long time afterward I thought about this, and then one day while I was sitting on a branch not far from the top of a very tall tree, it hit me; dead meant that you didn't exist anymore. It meant that if you had lived a bad life, you no longer had a chance to fix it, and because you couldn't, others tried very hard to remember you that way. I then looked down at the ground far below me, and I climbed down the tree with considerable more caution than I had used climbing up. Since that day I've had a fear of heights, and the older I get, the more pronounced that fear becomes.

Fizz, times two!

This is so cool, I just have to share it. We just met another dog named Fizz! My partner and I thought we were being so clever thinking up the name Fizz for our West Highland White/ Scottish Terrier pup. The name suited her well, and we thought her name would be unique. What we didn't realize was how wonderful it would be to meet another dog with the same name, and all the way from North Wales too! Thank you Ellen for dropping in and introducing yourself and your Fizz to us. Here's a link to Ellen's Fizz: http://coffeegranules.blogspot.com/2007_11_01_archive.html

Write what you know

Today I feel like a writer again. Imagine that. Last night after spending the day swirling around in the a dark hole of self pity, I remembered a story that's been niggling at me to be written. The subject of the story is something I personally relate to, and I've been apprehensive to write something that reflected so closely my own experiences. I've always believed the advice that we should write from what we know, but I've taken that to mean something more general, like drawing bits and pieces from our life experiences and using those bits to give substance to what we create.

I stayed up until two am last night writing, and today I know how the story is going to end, I just have to get it down. Maybe staring at the lint in my navel isn't such a bad thing to do occasionally; after all, it's what I know best, and if I'm not writing from within myself, who's voice would I be using anyway?

Reality check

Today I feel like a fake, that I shouldn't call myself a writer at all. I feel like I've been fooling everyone, or trying to, including myself. Sure, I can wax poetically about what it's like to have the soul of a writer, but I haven't a single story to tell. I've got nothing to say, nothing to write about but the lint in my own navel, and I'm getting tired of staring at it. If it's true that I love to write, then why can't I do it? Why aren't there stories all lining up inside of my head, pushing and shoving to be the first to get out? Why doesn't it just happen?

It's just me dreaming again, a story I've created in my head to give meaning to my life; well, at least that's one story.... Dreaming is easy, but making that dream a reality, now that's something completely different.

And sometimes we do everything we can to put it off

The other day I was telling a friend about how I was worried that my creativity might be born out of angst, and now that I wasn't feeling so depressed, I was afraid that I might no longer have the inspiration to create. In response, my friend told me that my creativity came from my soul, and then the next day she sent me a link to a book called, 'the Van Gogh Blues, The Creative Person's Path through Depression' written by Eric Maisel. As I read the excerpt I had tears streaming down my face. It hit a chord.

I started thinking about how writers, painters, and anyone else with an artistic temperament spend so much time gazing at our own navels. Daily we confront the question of whether or not what we do is valid, is it meaningful, is it worth our effort? Each of us has a general idea in our head of what is valid or meaningful work, and we hold that up as a goal we want to accomplish, a judgment stick that we use to measure ourselves by. When we happen to have a day, or two, when we are unable to accomplish something that forwards our goal, we get depressed, thinking we are unworthy of calling ourselves writers or artists. But we are our own worst critics. By putting judgment pressure on ourselves to perform at the high standards we hope to achieve, we are in effect stopping ourselves from achieving our own goals, and that creative slump that's got us feeling depressed only seems to become longer and longer, the more we criticize our inability.

If you think about it, what is it that we are creating anyway? For most writers, it's just a file on a computer. It doesn't have any consequences unless we decide that it has. We could spend the whole day writing gobbly gook and it wouldn't make any difference one way or the other. We'd just have to do some editing when we are more on top of our game. Writing gobbly gook is much more preferable to writing nothing at all, much better than staring at a blank page hoping for inspiration to strike and getting depressed if it doesn't. Who knows, there might be a few gems buried within our desperate ramblings, or we might just forget ourselves and lose ourselves to the creative process once more.

The thing is, we have to give ourselves the freedom to write badly, not take what we do so seriously that we can't afford to make mistakes. It's just words in a document after-all, and we can change them, or scrap them as we see fit, at any given time.

I know, I know, I'm putting off working on that story I talked about in the previous post. ... "it's just words in a document; ... It's just words in a document...."

Sometimes writers actually write!

I'm feeling pretty good today, I'm all hyped about the equal right action happening in the states, and I'm working on a story. :) I canned this story awhile back, not knowing where it was going to go, but it's just a story, and it doesn't have to have any consequence unless I want it to. I can just have fun with it, and last night when I opened the document and fixed a bit here, and changed that bit over there, I got that familiar rush and focus. Here's the opening paragraph:

Hanna opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. A few moments later the realization that the space in the bed next to her was empty overwhelmed her. George was gone. He had died, and she was alone. She had no reason to get out of bed, but her therapist had insisted, telling her it wasn’t good for her to just lay there all day long like that, so she got up. She went to the bathroom and sat down on the toilet, looked at the floor tiles and peed.

Trevor

I met Trevor in January. I was downtown, waiting for a bus, and I was taking a few photographs to pass the time, when I noticed that someone was watching me with as much interest as I was watching everyone else. After he asked me for some change, I asked him if I could take his picture and he was delighted. We talked while I photographed him, and I got to know him a bit. I made a tabblo from the photos I took, and I got a lot of compliments about how nice it was of me to have stopped and talked to a homeless man, and how I had made his day by performing that small act of kindness, but the thing is, I believe Trevor gave me something more valuable than I gave him. I'm nearly certain that the effect of the encounter faded for him, considering his day to day existence, but for me, it made a life long impression.

I think about Trevor often, and through that thinking I believe I have a better understanding of why people drop out of the system and can't find their way back in. Most people would be frightened of Trevor, afraid that he'd try to bum some money from them, and that he'd become angry and violent when they refused. They'd see the state of his clothing, smell the stink of booze on his breath, and they'd turn away in disgust. "Dirty drunken bum," so many of them would think, "I'm sure if he wanted to he could at least bathe.”

But can you imagine what that must be like for someone like Trevor, who must feel so completely powerless over their own life, having watched it slip out of their grasp, bit by bit? Can you imagine not knowing where you'd sleep that night, or where your next meal would be coming from? Can you imagine what it must feel like to be sneered at and ignored everyday, what that would do to your self-esteem? Bathing? Why bother?

If I were a Trevor, I'd be frustrated and angry, and I'd want to shout out as loud as I could, "Hey someone pay attention to me! Don't I deserve your help; don’t I deserve to be seen? And if I were a Trevor, I’d want to drink too, to deaden the sharpness of my pathetic life, and to blur the images in my head of all those faces turning away in disgust and fear.

Just before my bus came I gave Trevor a few bucks to get something to eat, but I doubt he went to McDonald's with the money.

If you'd like to get to know Trevor a bit better, follow the link to my tabblo: Trevor

And if you have an interest in humanity, as I do, open your eyes and acknowledge the homeless. You just might be surprised by how much it will change your life.
(edited for clarity)

Feeling a Little Flat?

Can't even come up with a title for this

So far today the most profound thought I've had is why would someone want to eat bread made without flour? I bought it just to see what it was like. ... It tastes okay, but I can't figure out what keeps it together... Oh well, I guess I can't expect to be inspired if I don't do anything but sit here waiting for inspiration to strike and eating a toasted cheese sandwich, that's just not going to happen. ...I'm thinking today is a good day to go outside and rake up some leaves; at least I'll be able to sleep better tonight knowing that I've done something constructive with my day.

How does she do it?

Everyday my dog Fizz wakes up, stretches, and wags her tail. When I take her outside for a piddle she sniffs at all the same places with the same enthusiasm as she did the very first time. We come inside and it’s up onto the back of the couch, her tail wagging with excitement as I open each of the blinds and she views the same scene that she’s seen every morning for the past four or so years. Then it’s off to the kitchen. She grabs a squeaky toy and squeaks it happily as I fill her water and food dishes, and then every morning it’s the same thing, “eat slowly” I have to say, “chew”. I feed her the same kibble everyday, but her enthusiasm for it never dwindles. As I make my coffee she sits and watches me, looking for a smile or a pat, and if I oblige her, she grabs the squeaky toy once more, and bites onto it again and again expressing her joy. Sometimes it takes me quite awhile to make my coffee, but I don’t mind. Her eagerness to greet each day as something new and special amazes me, and on those days when I do take notice, I am grateful for the gift of joy that she brings into my life, each and everyday.

Whatever road you choose

Whatever road you choose, you can be assured of one thing, and one thing only, that it will lead somewhere. That in itself, sometimes, is all that you need.

Molten Lava

I decided to share a short story that I've written, today. I hummed and hawed about doing this for quite some time, thinking that if I publish it online it might make it difficult to get it published anywhere else. But I don't think I'm ready for that yet, so feedback constructive or otherwise, would be very appreciated. Here's the link to the story: Molten Lava

On the meaning of words

This post has been inspired by my reading the post: 'Thinking carefully about the power of words' in Annie Wicking's Blog: 'Every New Writer's Journey'. I tried a couple of times to post a comment there but kept getting a a delivery status notification failure, so I decided to post my thoughts on the subject here.

As writers I can't see how we could forget how powerful words can be; that very thing is the crux of our craft. To create a scene, to convey an emotion, to communicate a thought, we manipulate and choose the words and phrases we believe can best do the job. Amazed, surprised, astonished, flabbergasted, and shocked all have similar meanings it's true, but each expands that meaning in a slightly different direction. Amazed, I think, suggests a somewhat more pleasant experience compared to flabbergasted or shocked. And in the above sentence I used 'I think', to qualify what I had just said as a personal opinion, rather than a fact. I could have used 'I believe', but somehow that seemed to carry more weight for me than I wished to imply (beliefs being something that people hold close and dear), and I rejected using 'I suspect' because it suggested that I hadn't yet given it enough thought to commit to an opinion, either way.

I come away from reading Annie's post with a question of my own, and that is, does each word actually have a specific fixed meaning, or is it left merely to individual interpretation? If the latter is so, then how can anyone possibly account for that in their writing? If you know your craft well enough to distinguish the differing nuances of amazed and shocked, I say, trust in your ability, and never let a single word flow from you without your conscious approval.

And Annie, if you are reading this, and since you offered, I'd like a cappuccino with one percent milk with a sweetener, please! :)

Is There Anybody Out There?

It's sad to think that in a world so heavily populated as ours, there are so many of us who feel isolated and alone. Many, like myself, start writing a blog because they want a voice, but more importantly I suspect, it's because we need others to want to hear that voice.

I've been told that I wear my heart on my sleeve, that my thoughts and feelings are obvious. I don't see any point to keeping myself hidden behind a facade, either face to face, or in the written word. Life is too short, and the true connections we make are too rare to waste time basing anything on something false or shallow. Sometimes though, I think I am the only one that craves those sorts of meaningful connections. Even with the few close friends that I do have, I feel like there are limitations and conditions on what is shared, and I'm always looking for something deeper, more true, and more meaningful to begin.

I read something once, I don't remember from where, but it said that we are all born feeling the close connection of our mothers, and then spend the rest of our lives trying to find that again. Another bit I once read, again, I don't remember where from, spoke of how it is only through our connections with others that we find the true potential of our individual selves and of ourselves as a species.

I truly believe we were not meant to be so alone. But so many of us keep our thoughts and feelings private. The confines of our daily lives, of commuting, working, and maintaining a home life, don't provide much opportunity to share or connect. Is it any wonder then, that by the end of the day, or a week of day in and day out, we question the meaning of our lives?

Waiting for the bus

The common thread of our existance is our solitude.

Impressions

I wrote these back in January and March, but they still have some meaning for me, so I brought them with me to Blogger.

Impressions

Why do we get offended when someone we love is hurt by what we've said or done? It only hurts them more, and we become more offended by their reaction.

It strikes me not only how powerful a simple gesture of understanding can be, but how much more meaning can be attributed to it not being given.

After we argued you stopped looking me in the eye, and I knew something had dramatically changed. Suddenly the importance of everything that I had said seemed so trivial compared to the damage it had caused.

We were never really alone. Your partner and the knowledge that the week would end hung overhead like a storm cloud and followed us wherever we went. It felt like we were cheated of the private joy we could have otherwise shared, …if only I was able to shake that cloud. But the weather worsened as the week progressed, and it rained heavily on the day we parted. Your plane was delayed, and even though it was stormy, all I can think of is how much I wish I had been there with you for just that much longer.

California is not as warm as I thought it would be in January, but there are homeless people there not wearing any shoes.

In the states I got the distinct feeling that if I smiled at anyone over the age of eight and under the age of sixteen, I was under suspicion of being a pervert. The day I came home I walked my dog around the block and felt relieved when a young woman of about fourteen years smiled at me when we past by.

In San Francisco car owners must spend a lot of money on maintaining their emergency brakes. … I saw a woman wearing high heals, taking very small and nervous steps down a steep hill, she must have been from out of town. The more you lean forward and swing your arms, the easier it is to climb a steep hill.

The bus driver stopped the bus, got out of his seat, and crouched in front of an old homeless woman who had fallen asleep in a bedraggled and urine smelling heap, her cart rolling unattended back and forth across the isle. The driver paused for a moment, either to see if the woman was alive, or for effect it had on the watching passengers, and then in a very loud voice said “Boo!”

I was only away for a week, but when I returned we both noticed that the others hair had grown in my absence.

Thinking about how I really should put an effort into the relationship I have with the woman I am living with because I suddenly remembered how much pleasure I got when I use to be able to make her laugh, … completely vanishes when after I angered her she tells me how the two of us never really ever got along, how we were never meant to be together. It’s funny how a few words can have such an impact on the course of someone’s life. Never doubt the power of your words.

Sorting my laundry I smelled your scent on my cloths and remembered everything about how it felt to be in your arms.

So, what should I write?

So, I've created this blog, thinking that I have a lot to say, but here I sit trying to think of something. Tonight I went to a local writers group for the first time; you see, I fancy myself as a writer. I think I can write. I haven't written much though, just a novel that I've half ways finished and has been kicking around with me for about ten years, a couple of short stories, and some bits and pieces here and there. But I love expressing myself with words; I love the rhythm of them, and how it feels to make them do my bidding. So, I want to be a writer, and I figure, hey, the best way to do that is start acting like one, right?