So What's the Point?

People--as in family and friends--are always shocked to learn that, yes, I've written and completed a novel. Jaws drop, eyes widen, and then lips smile. I'm never sure how to respond to the shock from my peers, but 90% of the time, that's the reaction I receive. Conversations go something like this:

"Yeah, I've written dark fantasy novel."

"Really?"

This question usually repeats despite having just admitted that I wrote a novel.

"Yes."

Despite having repeated myself, I'm always happy that someone shows an interest. I've learned that all writers love to talk about their work, regardless of why someone is showing an interest. Surely some of my friends are shocked because they didn't think I had it in me to write a whole novel, where some are genuinely fascinated that I took the time and energy to do so.

"Wow! Can I read it?"

"If it's your type of story, I wouldn't mind your feedback. I'll just e-mail you a copy and you can look it over. If you like it, keep reading. If not, at least you'll have gained a more intimate peep into my mind."

"Why can't I find it in a book store?"

There's the killer question. I always frown. I have to ask at this point:

"Do you really want to hear everything I've learned about the publishing business? Okay... maybe I'll just sum it up for you. It's hard!"

I'll sometimes go further and explain that before you have a book published (traditionally), you have to have your work edited, either by friends and family, or by a professional. Then after the novel is polished to a nicer gloss, you have to research agents to represent your work, write them a query letter, synopsis, and wait forever only to be rejected time and again. If a writer is lucky enough, someone will bite and the agent will search out publishers on your behalf, your book gets printed and people have a copy in their hands at the book store. The process can take years.

"Wow I never thought about all that. If it's so hard, why do you do it?"

"Why not?"

For me, writing and self expression are the essence of life. When human ancestors first had the capacity for complex thought, we went from tree-dwelling hairy things to bipedal hunter-gatherors. When the necessities of life were met (shelter, food, companionship, etc.) and the world continued to spin, human beings took up permanent residence in specific areas and branched out, growing into communities. Within theses communities, everyone had a role to play to continue to meet the basic necessities of life, but when they all had been met, people started doing something new. People started making art.

Art came before writing, including storytelling. Think about spending long hours indoors in the winter, with no TV or internet, with nothing to do but stare at someone else. Of course people told stories. When time and conditions allowed, people made things. Drawings, sculptures, tunes and functional things began to litter our world. They still do.

But why?

Human beings have a need to be creative. Our brains are hot-wired for it. As we've grown more intelligent over hundreds of thousands of years, we've continued to push ourselves to see where our own creativity can take us. Results, in my opinion, are astonishing. Technology has soared, medicine has evolved to where many diseases can be treated, and the world has been explored at length. Even outer space isn't impossible anymore.

Now what?

So I'm sitting at home on my butt. I'm a housewife. I have two small children. I've spent the last few hours cleaning, attacking the mountain of laundry, and preparing lunch for when the mini-mes get home from Kindergarten. I don't have the energy to do anything but sit for a while, but there's nothing on TV and I just don't feel in the mood to read something. I remember I had a funky dream the night before an I start writing it down in a word document. It takes off, spins, and turns into a full-blown story. I take breaks to meet the needs of my family and myself, but I keep going back to it when those needs are met. I don't care how hard the publishing business is because that's not why I write. I write because I can, I want to, and because it gives me a way to express myself or my ideas, and I can babble ramble away without interruption. Sure, it'd be great to be published someday and I fully intend to keep trying.

The point is you do what you love. I'm sure the first cave painting wasn't created to show off to family and friends. It was made because the person making it wanted to depict what they saw in the world around them. The artist was looking for a way to express his feelings about it.

I have stories to tell, if not for the masses, then for myself. My rational doesn't have to make sense. Maybe there really isn't a point. It doesn't matter.

Dream big. Be creative. Create. Die happy.

What is Art?

The students flood the hallways on their way to their next period. They cross the threshold to my Art Room, wondering what kind of teacher I am and what they'll be doing in my class. From the look on their faces, I can tell that some of them think that art is bullshit simply by the way they express their body language. These students swing their arms; entering obnoxiously, loudly and without respect for the bell that's already rung. Those who are happy to have a class that is some type of creative outlet are the first to take their seats, where they sit patiently with their hands folded on the tabletop. I internally embrace them all, hoping I'll be able to encourage those who don't care and foster the gifts of those who are already truly blessed.

I stand in the front of the room and wait till everyone is settled. It can take a few minutes. A new teacher and a new class is exciting. Some whisper to each other while others openly call out across the room. I stand patiently, my rear pressing against the teacher's desk. When the din dwindles I introduce myself and ask my class a very simple question: What is art?

Confused faces stare back at me. Some eyebrows are raised and a few less serious students chuckle.

"Painting," one shouts to the room at large.

I nod my head and purse my lips that the example fits my definition, but I push them further, asking what else fits the word.

"Clay stuff!" another adds.

"And drawing," a shy girl mutters.

I smile and move closer to the tables and away from the chalkboard. I slam both my hands flat against the tabletop in the front and grin as I hear the echo of the sound bounce around the room. Those in front of me jump, and others toward the back stare shocked with wide eyes.  I see I have their attention now. My gesture is abrupt and unexpected. A few students look to one another, trying to understand why I'd do something so strange.

"This is sturdy, isn't it?" I ask their curious eyes. "Someone had to design this table so it wouldn't fall down when I smacked it."

Some light bulbs flash above a handful of heads, but not everyone. I walk behind one of the obnoxious students, who is busy tapping his knee with his fingertips and bobbing his head to the music only he can hear. I drag the chair he's sitting on a few feet, causing him alarm.

"And this chair?" The kid hears my words, but he doesn't make sense of them. I look down at him. "What do you think of this chair?"

He's flustered to be singled out and glares at me. "It's just a chair, Miss."

I shrug my eyebrows at him and turn away. "It's great, isn't it? Maybe it's not a brand name you know, or the most comfortable, or even the nicest thing to look at, but it's still a chair. Someone chose the bland color. Someone decided how tall to make the legs and how your high school butt should fit in the seat."

A few female students giggle and I'm pleased that no one else is drumming their fingers or looking anywhere except at me.

"Is the whole world not made of art?" I walk toward the back of the room with a casual step. I feel multiple eyes on me, wondering what I'm going to do next. "Art is everywhere. Everywhere you see colors and shapes. Next time you're on the highway looking out over the city, let your eyes see it. Man makes rigid lines, buildings of rectangles and squares, while nature creates fluid shapes and colors we still have no names for."

"That's deep, Miss," a bold student interrupts.

"It's deeper when you stop to think about it," I tell him directly. "Every shape and color of a man made thing were chosen by a designer, engineer or architect. Someone has to make decisions. Someone has to say how big, how heavy, and what their creation does. Some art is painting, ceramics, paper crafts or drawing, but don't ever forget music, architecture, or the simple everyday objects you use, from your toilet to your pencil, were all created by someone for a purpose."

More light bulbs go on and I'm pleased. I'm forcing my students to think about the small box they live inside. They don't realize how truly ignorant they are. The world takes for granted that which they are never asked to think about.

"So what is art? What is it for?" I'm in teacher mode now, and I move back to the front of the room to explain more. "Art can be something you hang on the wall for the pleasure of decoration, or it can be your favorite coffee mug. It's the weight of the paper you write on and the sound you hear from your MP3 player. It's the wild ride that loops upside down at the theme park and the color of your artificial cotton candy. I never understood why Carnies make it pink or blue. It doesn't have a flavor represented by color. Anyway, it doesn't matter if what you call art is beautiful or ugly, functional or decoration, because art is different for each person. What I want you all to know," I say, turning to face them all again, "is that no matter where you go, or what you do in your life, you will always be surrounded by art. Art is what you make it and what you want it to be, and there is no right answer."

All the light bulbs are lit now and I smile. I'm excited. I silently prey to the art gods that I'll be able to push my students out of their boxes to a place where anything can happen. It's in that place where creativity can be explored without restraint, hesitation or prejudice. That's the way it should be.

End of the Year

The end of the year is nearly here... Gets me thinking about what I've accomplished in the course of 2013. Here are some of them:

• Completed my first novel "The Wood Keepers" which is a young adult dark fantasy novel. 93,000 words is quite a feat for me. I started writing with simple poetry and then exploded into larger things. Currently querying to agents (evil process)
• Started a sequel to my novel but put off finishing at 50,000 words until I know if the first novel is going somewhere
• Begun a third novel and quit at chapter 9 around 40,000 words, where the cliche monster came to eat me.
• Bought some land to build a house. Now I just have to argue over what the family "wants" in the house. I'm pro castle-tower and giant slide from top floor to bottom floor (Yes I'm serious).
• Improved my German language skills. DON'T ever assume that someone who lives in a foreign country from your is actually a native to the country they live in! I'm not a German native, although my ancestors are. 
• Learned how to make kick-ass Zwetchen Oil Teig Kuchen like Ur Oma. No one bakes better than Ur Oma. There's no one better to learn from.

Not everything on my list is the most positive accomplishment, but even the unfinished things I have to include. I've learned a bunch about my own writing abilities and I'm satisfied with that. We grow older, we change, and we learn constantly. Even if my life remains boring, I'm happy to know I learned something about myself.

The end of 2013 also reminds me of what I've done in the past years. I've really slowed down on the creative scale. I'm writing, but I'm not creating physical works of art so much. I enjoy sculpture, painting, ceramics and working with craft materials, but I've fallen away from it. At one point in time I was painting or busy doing something physically creative on a daily basis. Looking back at some of my favorite pieces of artwork makes me want to get into it all again. Have a look:

"Lamb" Ceramic

"Plate" Ceramic

"Phobia" Ceramic

"Wind Dancers" Intaglio Print

"In the Cupboard" Intaglio print

Wood Fire Teapot

"Moon Men" Color Study
Acrylic on tagboard

"Funny Farm"
Paper

So what to do for 2014? Here are my goals:

• Write
• Learn how to self publish an ebook
• Complete a children's book with my fab illustrating friend 
• Not suck at this blogging thing
• Create physical artwork in any medium

Wish me luck!

"Full Circle"

I have a new novel... and it's not done. I'm terribly angry at it because I feel I have a wonderful concept, but my ending is too cliche. HELP ME PLEASE. Or, just read chapter one of my draft and give constructive criticism. I suppose I can't really have help unless someone reads up to chapter nine where which is where I find myself falling into the cliche category. There's nothing wrong with cliche, but it's been done and I want to be more creative. (I'm babbling here. Moving on) Please keep in mind that this is a DRAFT and there are bound to be errors of all sorts. Therefore, don't comment on my errors unless you're going to give me a free edit. Everything else constructive goes!

One

            I love allowing the bristles of new synthetic brushes to run through my fingers like spring grass. There’s something simplistic and beautiful about new tools, and I always take a moment to savor the sensations and emotions that they trigger in me when I sit down to paint. Virgin canvas is limitless of possibilities, and creativity restricted only by the parameters of my own imagination. Painting is my focus, my stability, and the only thing that can keep me off the pills.

            I have problems. Hell, everyone does I know, but mine go a bit deeper than the typical post-high-school-coming-of-age-bullshit that lots of other people go through. I’ve never been depressed or suicidal, but the dreams have always disrupted my life. They plagued me as a child and only grew stronger as I grew up and moved into my own place. It seems that everything took off after graduation; tossed me into a whirlwind I couldn’t control, and dropped me flat on my ass, leaving me to question reality. I doubt few would believe me if I told them about what happened. I hardly believe it myself. Often I find my mind going over events, my hands shaking, trying to avoid reaching for a bottle of pills that might help calm me down. I attempt to reach for a paintbrush instead, telling myself that the pills aren’t the answer because they never have been.

            I was forced to start taking pills when I first came to be with my Great Aunt Bernadette as a child. Sometimes the pills made the dreaming worse, but at least I didn’t feel so damn much. With or without medication, the dreams deprived me of solid sleep. Sometimes they caused occasional hallucinations from severe sleep deprivation. It was scary. I couldn’t get away from the dreams. At night I would scream bloody murder, and during the day I would see fragments of what should have only been fantasy. Richard told me to throw out the pills when they didn’t help me like the therapists said they would, but I’ve never been a good listener. Expired or not, I hoarded bottles secretly in a drawer and I took them when I wanted to drown out the world. Growing up is never easy, and the pills acted as my go-to remedy. When Bernadette finally kicked the bucket, I eagerly took the meds to mellow me out and help me through the stress of settling her huge estate, putting her in the ground, and dealing with other things in life. Unfortunately, the meds only numbed me up enough to make me not care about much. Just like when I had first taken them, they couldn’t touch the dreams. Only painting what I see behind my eyes at night helps me to sort through the jumble of emotions and fragments of imagery into something that, if it didn’t completely make sense, almost did.

            I find myself painting his face again. I love his face. I wonder what he’ll look like next time I see him, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter. Surely I’ll look different too. But before, he was tall and well built without being excessively body-builder muscular, with short, soft, black hair, and green eyes to die for. A dimple appeared near the left corner of his mouth when he smiled, and clean-shaven or a few days of whiskers didn’t matter. He was beautiful. He was just right. Even his voice had the power to melt my innards into a puddle of mush, but I could never admit that to him. I only ever confessed that I loved him. I have loved him, and only him, and will continue to love him, until whatever it is that keeps the world spinning stops and the circle in finally broken. I hope it doesn’t ever happen. I need to have the chance to see him again. I have to keep looking for him and hope that I find him.

            I dream less frequently now than when I did when I was younger and before the dreaming all made sense. This change frightens me because I’m afraid that maybe I’ll somehow forget about him. I have to keep looking at my old paintings to help myself remember important details of our former life, and even the unbelievable aspects of the present one. If I’m lucky, there’ll be a week or two at a time when the dreams come, repeat, move in sequence and eventually spin to a halt at the inevitable ending. At some point they stop for long periods of time, and I wait impatiently at night for them to come back. I hope I never truly stop dreaming. I need to hold onto them. I cherish them. I’m not afraid of them anymore. They hold no more power over me, but it wasn’t always so.

            The first dream I had when I was five years old. It was a short time after I came to be with Bernadette. I didn’t even know I had a Great Aunt Bernadette. She distanced herself from the family, living in a grand mausoleum of a house in the rich section of town next to equally rich neighbors who all wished to distance themselves from those unlike themselves. I didn’t like her from the moment we met. A police officer had picked me up from kindergarten and driven me to the hospital, explaining that something unfortunate had happened, but he neglected to say what. It was only when he introduced me to Bernadette, and she shuffled me into a room where both my parents were laid out on cold metal tables with bleach white blankets tucked up to their chins, that I learned they had been in a car crash. Bernadette stood in the doorway, smelling of far too much perfume, done up like an old, retired super model in bold colors that made her look like a peacock. I might have laughed if she had put a pink feather in her short, curly brown perm and done a little dance, but her mouth remained a thin line, never smiling.

            I turned my head from looking at her and focused on my parents, asking the doctor in the room why my parents had scrapes on their faces and when they would wake up, but he only shook his head and looked down, crossing his arms over his chest and excusing himself from the room. I thought they were both sleeping until I felt their cold skin. A wave of shock shot through me. I wasn’t able to speak.

            “Say goodbye,” Bernadette said to me, only frigid emotion in her voice. If she were sad over the loss of my mother—her niece—she hid it well. I remember her tapping her tall, pointy, black pumps impatiently on the cold marble floor of the hospital room as she waited for me, but I didn’t understand. I was only a child. The word death had never been explained, and even seeing it, it still didn’t sink in.

            Bernadette ushered me out of the room after a few minutes and guided me to her black sedan with dark tinted windows. She was a stranger, but no one objected to me going with her, so I didn’t argue. I was too paralyzed with fear over the state of my parents. I was a shell inside my skin, hiding deep within my bones and clutching to my heart, squeezing it with tiny child hands to keep it beating. Something broke inside me when I got into Bernadette’s car and the driver closed the door. I sat back and watched the scenery blur, feeling that something was terrible wrong.

            We drove to her gated neighborhood in silence, and the driver took two small unfamiliar suitcases out of the truck when we arrived. Later I would discover many of my things had been packed up for me. I was given an elaborately decorated room with powder blue wallpaper and delicate antiques inside Bernadette’s huge house, and left alone where I cried myself to sleep, not understanding why my parents didn’t come to get me or bring me to school in the following days. All I really wanted a hug or for someone to acknowledge that something wasn’t right, but all I got from Bernadette was “eat your cereal” at breakfast, and “feet off the chair” when I sat with her at the oversized, polished oak table at dinner, and a more frequent “go to your room” when, past my traditional bedtime, I began to drift off sitting in my chair.

            It wasn’t until a week later that reality clicked at the funeral. The details have always remained somewhat fuzzy—my mind having blocked out the pain from that day—but Richard once told me about it. He was Bernadette’s butler, driver, and go-to man. He was everywhere my Aunt was. As we stood collectively at the graveside after the sermon with family friends and morbid gawkers, Richard said I charged the gravedigger. I screamed wildly, kicking at his legs, trying to take his shovel. Poor guy. My interruption nearly caused him to stumble into the open grave of my father. Everyone was mortified and unsure what to do. Richard mused it had never happened before, and no one expected such behavior from anyone, let alone a child.

            It wasn’t the gravedigger’s fault. He was just doing his job, but Bernadette wasn’t. Richard was disgusted because Bernadette had only walked away and gone back to her car, not intervening or even shedding a tear. He told me he was furious about how cold she was to me and he despised the way she treated everyone. He made a decision on that day to do whatever he could to help me. Holding me as the digger went back to his work, he explained that goodbyes were never easy, but we had to keep moving with the world so we too wouldn’t be left behind. That’s where my parents were, he explained to me—Behind. I remember the behind bit because he often told me I had to keep going. He was always encouraging me, telling me, behind wasn’t where I wanted to be. Now that I think about it, it was an exceptional way to explain things to a child. Behind meant you got stuck and couldn’t move forward. Now that I understand how the grand circle works, I wonder how people eventually become unstuck and begin to move again, what forces make it happen, and how it’s decided who a person will be. These are all things bigger than me. Perhaps I shouldn’t think on it so hard or question the great design. It might cause me to reach for the pills. I can only paint what I see in dreams. Questions of reality have no imagery.

            It didn’t take long for me to understand that Aunt Bernadette was a selfish, icy soul. She didn’t respect anyone except the pretentious pricks she had over to dinner parties every week, but even then, I wondered if she truly cared of is she cared only for her place on the social totem pole. She laughed freely among society, wearing the fervent smile of contentment, but inside I think she was a hollow tube. I floated invisible to her and her guests, never allowed in the same rooms when they were over, and never asked to partake in whatever activity they were doing to amuse themselves, even if other children where present. It never bothered me. I was lonely, but each time I looked at my Great Aunt, all I wanted to do was cry. There wasn’t a sensitive, compassionate bone in her entire body, and I hated that people like her could exist.

            After a few weeks of living in her house, the dreams took over me, and disrupted Bernadette’s sleep after her long days of playing the rich socialite and late nights of partying. A month of disruption made her rip at her hair and curse me, muttering things under her breath that shattered me. I understood she didn’t want me with her, but there wasn’t anything I could do about my night terrors. There was no other family to take me in. She shoved me into therapy and pushed the pills at me, but they only drugged me down at night to where I couldn’t scream myself awake. During the day I was zombie with red eyes and a poor appetite, dragging my feet and going through the motions of a living being. At that time the pills made me feel emptier, as well as trapped, unable to express my emotions and leaving me in that terrible place—Behind.

            The screaming only intensified. After six months of failure, she discussed an institution with my doctors who all agreed it was an excellent idea. It was argued that isolation and intense medication regiments with fortified routine would be to my benefit. Richard didn’t think so, nor did five-year-old me. I still remember how livid he was when Bernadette relayed the decision she had made to her staff. I had been watching from the top of the grand staircase, silently weeping in understanding I would be cast out, while Bernadette played dictator to the dozen or so people who worked for her. Some of the staff gasped, others grew pale, but Richard was scary angry. I was fascinated to see all the lines in his face scrunch together toward his nose, deepening his middle-aged creases of skin, turning a strong, beat red. When the discussion was through I went back to my room and wept in a ball, smacking myself in the face as evening came, trying to remain awake. I was afraid to go to sleep knowing I would dream and my fate would be sealed, but I eventually fell asleep anyway. I woke screaming the way I always did, with Richard next to me holding a mug of warm milk. From that night until the night I moved out, he always had one waiting for me at the right time. It was as if he knew when I would dream and when I would wake, almost like magic, and I loved him for it. I panicked and cried loudly, knowing waking my aunt again would only hasten my departure, but Richard dried my tears and smiled. Directing my gaze to the inside of his coat, I saw a plastic bottle peeking out of the inside pocket. I didn’t make the connection until he said, “Shhh, it’ll be our little secret.”  I didn’t go to an institution, and Bernadette never heard me scream again. She still had her parties, but the sleeping pills mixed with booze that Richard served her in her cocktails or evening brandy sent her into a sound sleep that hell itself couldn’t wake her from. Bernadette’s blessed staff all concurred that my night terrors had stopped, and Bernadette never thought twice about it. Deaf to my nighttime symphonies, I became invisible to her once again.

            But the dreams didn’t really stop. I was still suffering. The kind words of my butler or the mug of warm milk he had waiting for me didn’t help on a level that I needed. They were only comforts. It wasn’t until Richard realized I had been scribbling my dreams down on paper that he had an epiphany. Thinking it over now, he was smarter than all the doctors and more helpful than any pill. He brought me crayons, pastels, glue, fancy scissors and glitter, colored papers, and eventually the first paintbrush. It didn’t take the problem away, but it did get easier. Physical expression allowed me to process my parents’ deaths and deal with my new situation, as well as tackle the images I was dreaming at night.

            The first dream repeated every night for several years, never changing, and has remained the most terrifying of any dream I’ve ever had, although, it’s hard to measure terror. I was only five. Anything that happens in the dark is bound to be terrifying to a five-year-old. I had had dreams before, but after the first other dream, I never had a regular dream again.

            I remember the dark wasn’t completely black, but a dark navy dotted with countless stars in the vast heaven overhead. My breath fogged in front of me, leaving a fading mist behind me as I ran through trees, flat out, heart pounding, blood pulsating, and fear driving my momentum forward. Inside my gut I felt I needed to find help, but what way help was, I couldn’t determine. Everywhere there were trees, and I was lost in them, desperately trying to get away from what I knew was following. There was something back the way I had come that I couldn’t remember seeing, but it was something that wanted to harm me.

            I fell over debris on the forest floor, my long yellow hair falling about me and picking up leaf litter as I scrambled back to find my feet. I noticed that my best, pale lilac dress had fresh earth stains streaked over it. I felt a pang of longing that it was ruined, but I couldn’t stop to examine it. I had to keep moving and shove all my panic back down; anything to escape the laughter I was hearing behind me. If the devil could experience joy or find some reason to laugh, it could easily have been him I was hearing. Throaty, obnoxious, condescending; it reached my ears and stopped my heart inside my chest.

            Two tall black boots moved in front of me as I straightened up to move again. Startled, I shimmied away against the rough surface of a tree trunk and looked up into a handsome face. His green eyes held a look of deep concern as he looked me over, steadying me with a firm hand on my shoulder as I shook in fear.

            “There are wicked on the road!” I cried at him. My voice hadn’t been that of a five-year-old. It was years older, as were the length of my limbs and my understanding of my situation. What I spoke wasn’t English either, but something else I couldn’t identify at the time, yet I had understood. It was always like that in the dreams. I never dreamed myself as the brown-haired, brown-eyed girl I was when I was awake, but only as a slender, blond-haired, blue-eyed young woman of average height.

            The man only raised his thick eyebrows and shook his head, looking back to where I had come from. His eyes scanned the trees, and we both flinched as we heard the distinctive crack of wood splintering underfoot. He took a weapon from over his shoulder and pointed it in the direction of the sound, the long barrel of his gun reflecting his handsome image and distorting it. I began to move behind him; confident he would help me. A hunter was a good thing. Hunters knew the forest, the creatures there, and how to move through it unseen.

            “Run and hide,” he said. His voice was deep and silky, resonating within my core. “Find some space, be very quiet and stay there until sunrise.” He didn’t pause to look at me before walking into the direction of the danger, and my heart thudded to a stop realizing his intentions. He was brave, and try as I might, I wasn’t. Unable to command my feet, I only managed to move again after watching with horror as his tall silhouette and the outline of his thick, long coat, disappeared into the dark.

            I ran. Loud words and laughter, crackling of broken leaves and the snapping of twigs drew closer, around me, seemingly reaching out to snatch. Sighting a few thick bushes, I jumped into their center and pulled what debris I could around myself to hide the unnatural color of my gown. The branches were tight and thick, scratching up against my face and bare arms, drawing small points of blood. I hated the sight of it and had to stifle my fear inside my mouth, least it give me away. Every breath I took felt too loud, and although I held as still as possible, I shivered as the cold of the ground penetrated my gown under my legs and coated me with a hard chill.

            “Did you see her?” An angry voice questioned. “She had yellow hair! A spring blossom. I want her!”

            I couldn’t see his face, but his outline came into view between the branches of the bushes. He had walked there, parallel to another man, the Hunter. The angry man was jittery and wild with his movements, but everything about the Hunter spoke of only cool disinterest. He turned his head to look over both his shoulders, and then shrugged, slightly shaking his head. “I haven’t seen anyone,” he lied.

            I shivered and swallowed hard. I didn’t understand why the Hunter wasn’t afraid. The one who chased me wasn’t right. I felt it. He radiated pure, unadulterated evil. Even several paces from where they stood, he seemed to cast a darker shadow, a heavier weight, and more furry than any normal person should have had. It wasn’t my imagination. The energy around his form and the force of his words picked at something inside me, signaling to every nerve in my body that the one I was looking at was true, unearthly, horror.

            “She doesn’t smell like the others. She doesn’t have a scent at all. It’s quite strange.” The angry man turned in a circle as he scanned the area. He humphed loudly and shook his head, his long hair following the motion over his tight, square shoulders. “Olivia said she mustn’t be allowed to escape. There are things in that wagon the girl was in that interest her. She thinks she might have found a new pet.” The man spat the word pet with bitter venom. It hung in the air a short while and then fell away as the Hunter moved off, angering the other. “Where are you going?”

            “Find something better to do with immortality, Morgan,” the Hunter stated in a bored fashion. “I don’t have the patience for Olivia’s games or your failed attempts to amuse yourselves.” He walked past my hiding spot as if I was not there, but his eyes briefly caught mine. I saw something flash within them, but whatever emotion he shared disappeared too quickly to be determined. He adjusted his weapon over his shoulder and moved out of view.

            “I’m going to find you, pretty!” the angry man yelled. He turned in a circle again and then started kicking up leaves and anything else that was rotting over the ground. He beat a tree with his fists, and then hissed into the sky. “I know you’re close,” he whispered. He became very still, leaning his forehead into the tree. It was an old tree, taller than most simple houses and as wide as an arm’s length in the middle. It’s bare branches swayed gently in the light wind, adding to the chorus of night song made by the scampering of small rodents and chirping of hidden crickets. Tilting his head to the left and then to the right, he suddenly grabbed the trunk from both sides with his wide hands, and uprooted the entire thing from the earth. Huffing and snarling, he threw it bodily into the air and several yards away. It whistled as it flew, slamming forcefully and crashing loudly as the branches made contact with the ground. Startled, I squealed and squirmed in my spot as the man roared with laughter. He lunged toward the bushes and pulled me out by my hair. Kicking and shoving wildly, I pushed against his hold with everything I possessed, only to be pinned to the ground under his large, bare foot. “I’ve got you, pretty.”

            I screamed as he pushed his face into mine, his body straddled over me. He smelled of blood and earth, and I only screamed louder when I realized he was saturated with it from the top to the bottom of his coat. It hung open over my middle, revealing a bare, hairy chest within. He rubbed himself down over my midsection, smearing me crimson. I wanted to vomit, but he cupped a hand over my mouth, hooting haughtily and laughing at the sky. 

            “Just a taste,” he whispered into my terrified ear. He pressed his knees into my chest as I swallowed my screams. Pinned to the earth and unable to move, he bent over my face and uncapped my mouth, inching closer as if he would steal a kiss. Before his lips brushed mine, a strange sensation drew out from my chest, slowing my heartbeat and the hurried rhythm of my breath. Energy was flowing from me to him, and I couldn’t stop it. Wide-eyed and aware, I lay paralyzed, watching the golden light of my soul fade into the mouth of the man above me, as all went dark.

            I woke screaming to find Richard next to me for the first time, tenderly stroking my hair. He comforted me and told me he would look out for me. I threw my frightened form into his arms and listened as he promised to be my friend. He would help me find a way to sort out my nightmares and feel better; and he did. I might have lost my parents, been thrown into the house of a distant, uncaring relative, but I had my paintbrush, and I had him.

Writing Journey

The Journey

We all have a journey. We have journeys that take us to physical places, mental places or emotional places. We have family journeys, school journeys, reading, artistic or what-not journeys. I have a writing journey. I struggled to learn to read and write because I'm a bit dyslexic. I always put extra letters into words or made my letters backwards as a child. I've had to memorize every word I've ever learned to spell because it doesn't make sense to me why things are done the way they are, and language rules never seem to help! Anyway, I started with poetry. Poetry began when I was a kid, and progressed until shortly after high school. Now college is over and I write novels... maybe the occasional short story. 

The first thing I ever wrote to completion (other than my own name as a 4-year-old) was a poem. I remember it quite vividly. I was sitting on the ugly 1980's brown carpet in my bedroom and playing with a crayon and a piece of paper. I drew a little picture of a boat and thought it was a pretty nifty boat. Then my mind started wandering to what boats did and where they went and who was carried off by them. I felt a sting of inspiration and started writing about an experience I had never had. My parents found it and loved it, right down to the spelling errors. What did I write? I don't have the original anymore, but it was something like this.

The water is blue and green 

The boat is big and brown

It carries away the fisherman

to where they can't be found

The bell tolls as they leave

Their children wave goodbye

The anchor lifts from sand and

they sail past the sky.

I know, right? Does the poem really mean anything? Is it great? Is it grand? It is to a kid. I thought I was hot shit. I thought I had an original idea and that I was expressing myself in a creative way. It was just the beginning. As I grew up, I kept writing poetry to express simple emotions I couldn't verbalize in other ways, as well as to work through issues of little-growing-up-me. I lost my father at a young age, found myself thrown into the mix of a (wonderful, wonderful) blended family, and trying to figure out what direction my life would take. Poetry was an outlet and I shouted it from the mountaintops. I built my own website dedicated to poetry (Yes it still exists and NO I will not post the embarrassing URL) in High School and published in the school newspaper and magazine. 

There were a lot of unfortunate street people on a major shopping street where I grew up. Nearby to a university, the very desperate of society would panhandle for spare change. It made a profound punch at my view of the world and I was sad every time I saw someone down and out. My favorite "guy" always stood in the same place, wearing the same clothes, holding the same battered styrofoam cup. It didn't matter if it was the middle of winter or the high heat of summer, he was always dressed from head to toe in heavy clothing, complete with a ragged scarf. I always gave him my change because he was always there and I always looked for him. One day he wasn't there anymore. I wondered what had happened to him. I really hope he moved on and found something better in life, but I wrote the following, fearing the worst.

Streets

Lonely streets lead nowhere

Hollow rusty gutters and

little streams of sludge

flowing along uneven curbsides

Many Tired Souls

toe high is cigar butts

dropped a desperate thought here

looking for redemption

Missing pieces fall like

loose change and dreams

until they expire like

empty promises

Lost and cold among

the crowds that do not stop

the unseen are not there

and only imagined

Turning in circles

darkness swallows shadows

back dropping memory

dully lit in a dark sky

Never be the lonely man

the street will drink you empty

I was also a little angry from time to time. Ever date that "bad" guy? You know, the one who you KNOW is bad for you, but you just have to date anyway? Well, I did. I dated all the losers because they were "living life" and "high on life" and "wouldn't let the man keep them down." Needless to say, they were the druggies, burnouts, sons of wrecked homes or car jackers. Yes. There were at least three of those types for me in high school. Seems it took three to learn my lesson and find a normal, healthy relationship. Anyway, I wrote this after my boyfriend was sent to juvenile hall for stealing cars and joy riding for the second time.  I also discovered he had cheated on me, sleeping with some random girl from another school. His exploits were the fashionable rumors. I kept thinking he was going to end up someone's father and be terrible at it. I felt betrayed. I was more than angry. I dumped him and published poetry about him the school magazine to vent my anger. 

You'll Fail

You make me 

sick

Your smile's

too gaunt

Your dreadful

nature

nonchalant

A fool's love

for dreams

you sail

You can't

stop now

Think you

can't fail.

You failed

before

Why not

fail again

You're as

much a

fool

as you were 

then.

Die a

coward

Plant your

seed

But we know

you

can not

succeed.

Even with big family life changes and sad boyfriend choices, I did manage to keep a positive outlook from time to time. I turned to art, becoming one of those kids you found in the art room on their lunch breaks and in the library after school, or participating in poetry club with all the "emotional, depressed, eccentric or off-type people." I embraced those who didn't belong to clicks and shared the same interests as myself. Together we pumped each other up to produce art, verbal or otherwise. One really "up" day, I wrote this.

Life Eater

You're afraid of me

I'm too strange for you

You call me odd

But I am happy

You told me your name

I said I haven't one

You call me dull

maybe I am.

I eat exotic fruits

look for danger

You call me dumb

But I am happy

I haven't need for cash

I love the little things

You think I'm crazy

Maybe I am.

You hang out with me

I think I'm afraid of you

You call me weird

I'm sure I'm colorful

I dance in the rain

You danced with me

They think you're odd

Maybe you are.

We stay up all night

Dream of distant lands

They hate you now

But you are happy

Why bother with shoes?

God gave us feet

They think we're odd

Maybe we are.

You're still with me

I dyed your hair purple

You were polkadot pants

And you are happy

They think we're weird

Eating too much life

Said you'd stay with me

For we are happy.

One of my personal favorites... I get tired of people who don't believe in God feeling that they have the right to "take his name in vain" saying, "God damn" or whatever other combination of blasphemy you can imagine. I was very Catholic back in the day and even pursued the idea of becoming a nun, which didn't work out. I was dating the "bad boys," right? Now I label myself something of more "spiritual" than anything else, but still retain a lot of my Catholic upbringing. One day I became angry at a friend for cursing and I wrote a poem about it.

Atheist

You're lost and so you speak his name

as if he'd run your fears to tame

He knows you never knew the way

you disbelieve but still you pray.

You think that you are soundly sane

yet you take another's lord in vain

Why do you speak yet not conceive?

You never knew and don't believe.

Today I was listening to the radio and feeling pretty good. It's been since 1999 since I last wrote a poem (or wrote down the date of one). I pulled out my iPhone and pulled up the notepad and started typing. I felt inspired. This morning was good. I was feeling good about the world and feeling good about being me.

Untitled

I want to be free to

Be who I want to

Outside the box of

Conformity

I want to be taller

Reach for the stars there

Building on love scenes

Of possibility

It's not done. My inspirational moment was interrupted by a screaming baby. I'll come back to this next time inspiration hits me, or maybe not. 

What's the point of this blog post? I don't think there's anything on a grand scale that I'm reaching at. Does it all suck? Probably. Will someone like it? I don't care. It's not important. It's the journey that's important. This was my poetic journey, and even with a long break of not writing poetry, it seems it'll come back when I'm feeling inspired.

Inspiration

What is it about inspiration? Why does it hide from you when you're desperately trying to be creative, or hit you when you're busy and involved with something important? Is it the creative person's curse to wrestle with inspiration in order to produce art or literature? Must it be a constant battle?

Simple answer. Yes. If being creative were easy, everyone would be a successful author, rock star or artist. If we were all creative on the same level, we'd be unable to grow. In order to be creative we have to think outside the box. We have to stretch the limits of imagination and push against the confines of our own minds.

I'm appalled at the lack of creativity I see around me. Most ideas these days are simply not original anymore. Too many work off of someone else's idea(s), brainstorming only to make money, and quite often it's an epic fail. Take Hollywood for example. Why the heck would anyone choose to remake a great movie? There will only ever be one excellent version of Psycho, Evil Dead, or Godzilla. Don't mess with a good thing! And WHY must every genre be overdone? Come on people! Vampires and zombies are awesome imaginative creations, but if I read another vampire romance that glorifies the monster to be sexy, I will spit tacks. Anne Rice and Stephanie Meyer hit big. Now everyone else move on and think of something new please. 

So how do we manage an original creative idea? Many of us wait for inspiration, but as an artist and an author, I can not simply wait for inspiration to hit me or I'd never get a thing done. I have to build up my moments, capture them in whatever way I can, and save them for future use. My creative juices flow at the weirdest times, forcing me to have invested in several notebooks to scribble ideas in (one in the car, one in my purse, and one on the side table next to my bed). Inspiration hits me while driving, grocery shopping, and often right before I fall asleep. Terribly annoying. But when I have inspiration, I write it down in order to not lose it.

And when I've exhausted all my creative ideas or I can't use an idea with what I'm currently working on...What then? How do we encourage inspiration to strike us when we need an idea? How do we push past being stuck in a rut or with a bad case of writer's block? I look to encourage emotion. I believe emotion, especially a strong emotion, produces the best creativity because it is the most genuine and therefore, better received by your audience. Here are some of my strategies. 

• People Watching - People are interesting. People are all colors, shapes, ages and come from countless backgrounds. I like to sit down quietly on a bench in a crowded place and watch them all walk by. Looking for a story idea? Looking for a that next scene to your novel that just won't come? WATCH. Ask yourself questions about people. Why is that woman shouting at that other woman? Why is that child crying? Does that guy know he dropped something? What are those people talking about over there? What the hell is that lady wearing? This is my favorite strategy because it's the most entertaining. Observing others can help you understand how it is other people tick and make the decisions that they do, which is great for character development.
• Taking a Walk - Rain or shine, taking a walk can immediatly alter a person's mood depending on what stimuli we're exposed to. If it's raining, maybe we're hit by a wave of depressed feelings. If it's sunny, maybe we feel new life breathed into us. Perhaps we meet someone noteworthy on the sidewalk who offers a tidbit into their own day that gives birth to a new idea.
• Eat - I know... the last thing anyone wants to do while procrastinating is to pack on the pounds, but hear me out! Preparing a meal takes time and follows certain routine. You have to butter the bread before you fry it for a grilled cheese. You have to get the plate out of the cupboard before you can put something on it. Routine, at least for me, allows us to step back from our task of trying so damn hard. Stopping yourself from becoming frustrated before you're frustrated can be helpful to digging your way out of a rut. Food and cooking can be as just as creative as coming up with a useful idea. Colors, flavors and shapes, as well as emotion, are all tied to food. Think about how chocolate makes a chocolate lover feel, and try to use those emotions as a trigger.
• Images - All good ideas come from somewhere. Don't copy, but look for things that you feel connected to. Look through magazines, old postcards and photo albums. Take some photos yourself. Find something huge and find the smallest detail inside it, reaching into the structure that it has and determining how it affects the space around it. 
• Sleep - Now again, this must sound like I'm a lazy person, but it helps. You can't be creative when you're tired, and you can't expect inspiration to hit you when you're dragging your feet. Sometimes a nap is a great tool, not only because we feel refreshed afterward, but because we dream. I can't tell you how many countless story or visual artwork ideas have come from dreams. I once had a dream in neon color. I once had a dream in 8-bit Nintendo world style. I even once had a dream that I died. Needless to say, for someone who is a very visual person, all these dreams were extremely helpful in inspiring great scenes for my work.

So what's it come down to? Be patient, observe the world and trigger emotion to find inspiration and produce a creative idea.