My true passion

I am in the process of writing a book.  It has been years of enthusiasm and excitement underscored with self-doubt and dread.  I've lost my way,  driving the characters rather than letting it be more organic.  The main protagonist remains pivotal to the story, but not in the way I had initially thought it would manifest.  The antagonist has now become an antihero as his character develops.  In essence, he has become more interesting, a far more layered character driven by past terrors.  He has become sympathetic, perhaps redemptive.  As I write this, I am feeling hopeful again.  I wrote some dialogue yesterday between two characters which has lit a spark.  I believe it is family as protagonist as each member has their story and role.  I am a linear writer, developing scenes in my head as I go along, making it as close to print ready as possible.  This is how I would write "fanfiction" -- a chapter a week.  The writing and plot wasn't perfect, but they were respectable for writing on the fly.  I loved by the seat-of-your-pants storytelling.  I need that drive again.

My plan of action is to rout out a space for myself to write. I need musical white noise, a good desk, comfortable seating, a good pen, notebook and a good computer/keyboard.  I learned how to type on a typewriter:  asdf (left) ;lkj (right). I can't do that on my ipad. It is all pointer finger action with the appearance of hunt and peck.  I loathe typing like this.

Although, I tried to trick myself into believing I could be one of those many women DIYers with ETSY shops and the like, I have once again circled back to what really drives me.  Writing--plain and  simple.  I wanted to be a writer similar to Lorrie Moore and I got lost on the way, delving in fanfiction and feedback.  Having an audience is a double-edged sword, but I digress.

I am on my way. . .

Listen . . .

Redemption

I struggle to forgive myself

although it was righteous

it turned on me

I am pariah

again

in my honesty

bury

it away

ordinary people

unfeeling

so be it

Her hardest hue to hold

 

 

This is the view from my front door.  It brings peace rather than fear. 

Tears

I do things like this, cause tears.  Confrontations are not easy, but sometimes necessary. You tell me, it is the thought that counts and that ironically is the crux of the matter-- there was no thought.  But I still love you.

~     ~

That is it, isn't it? The fear of causing irreparable damage, but the need to speak, to express. Today I spoke and caused tears, but the guilt did not come as it usually does because I believe it was something urgent and necessary. I tempered it with my love. I hope it was enough.

Here is to always being able to speak without fear of losing those we cherish.

Christmas Eve

I wanted to write something for you this day; something grand and special and memorable.   I thought it needed to be as such because the world has been turned on its head and I knew you and I were in search of something-- something powerful and inspiring and reassuring, something to make sense of things. Now, it is Christmas Eve and the table is set, the traditions continue and I am happy for these simple things with you.

There are times, in the day-to-day turnings of life, I sometimes feel apart,  a hug shrugged off, irritated words, misunderstandings, and I build a wall.  Though I, too, am at fault, too busy, too distracted when you call my name, snapping, the words mean-spirited and ugly.  You blame me and I you.  But, somehow we forgive, go on, continue to love in our take-for-granted way, because you and I know, in our quiet hearts, the love there in you and in me is powerful and inspiring and special and that is what makes sense, that is all that is needed.

You and I will continue to wonder about God, ask a thousand questions, but have no true answers, only faith.  Faith in you and in me and, yes, faith in God, even after the world seems so wrong, so dark, so uncertain.  This night you and I wait as the Shepherds waited, as the world waited, and you and I believe, as they believed, will always believe. . .

This night a Savior is born.

Kimberly Baker Jacovich 

(Read to my family at the Christmas Eve dinner.)

 

Hold your children close. . .

It seems too soon to talk about, a need to keep the sorrow inside, to speak of it rings false, as if mere gossip.  Our hearts are broken.  How many times have we seen tragedy unfold, cried copious tears, comforted each other, a thousand days, more, coming to grips, and then finally able to breathe, to smile, to believe, only to be pummeled again?  When overwrought the same words slip out, spoken through tears, "I am just tired, just tired."  I often wonder if I mean tired of this world, this life.  Chastisement ensues, knowing sorrow is not exclusive.  Spirits have endured far more, have not been broken. It is right to cry, to remember, to rail at God, at the world.  It is alright to be sad, to be broken.  We will breathe again, believe again . . . Today I am just tired.

Connecticut lost twenty children.