New Fiction...Please comment!

Dear Reader,

Today I'm trying something new. I recently read that you must write a million words of crap before you can get to "real" writing that is worthy of being published. In order to change from writing crap to writing great material, though, the writer must accept a certain amount of real feedback. True growth as a writer can only come through listening to the honest critiques of readers. After all, the goal is to connect with as many readers as possible, right?

However, I tend to write a lot of autobiographical material, so I haven't really asked for constructive criticism up until now. After all, I write about what has happened to me and my own emotions about those events. It seems risky to ask for criticism when it comes to things of that personal nature.

So today I'm starting a series of fictional beginnings, individual chapters, short stories, and essays. If possible, please comment on the writing in the comments section below. You can point out typographical errors and grammatical errors, of course, but what I'm really searching for are thoughts about organization, style, voice, and character development. Each day I'll tell you about the assignment for that day and you can read my writing and respond.

Thank you in advance for helping me to develop my voice as a writer. My determination and hard work may just lead to a published work, and I'll be sure to autograph a copy just for you when it happens!

Today's assignment is to write about friendship featuring a high school student as the main character and having a fountain as the key object. The story is to take place in a flower shop. Without further ado...I present, The Secret In the Fountain.


The flower shop was strangely empty when Patricia entered. She looked around for her best friend, Joe. He could normally be found helping his mom run the cash register at Petals and Stems, the busy flower shop they'd opened last year. Since Joe's father had passed away two years ago, Joe and his mom had become close and he worked for her most nights after school and on Saturdays.

Patricia and Joe had made plans to go to the clearing that day, but now she wondered if he had forgotten. She heard the tinkling of the bells above the curtain leading to the back room.

"Hi, Mrs. McConnelly," she greeted Joe's mother with a small wave.

"Why hello, Patricia," answered Jeanine McConnelly with a smile. "How nice to see you. What are you up to today?"

"Thank you. I'm actually looking for Joe. Is he here?"

"Oh, I just sent him on an errand. He's on his way to Greg's sub shop to get lunch for the two of us. Here, take some money and head that way. If you hurry you'll catch up to him. Have him add your order to ours and we'll all eat lunch together."

Accepting a ten dollar bill, Patricia thought about how she could convince Mrs. McConnelly to let Joe out of work that afternoon. They had to get to the fountain in time to put the stone back into its proper place. "Thanks," she yelled behind her before running out the door.

Patricia Stark was, at first glance, an average tenth grade girl. She had long, brown hair that she wore straight down her back. She was dressed that day in her normal attire; blue jeans, layered t-shirts, and her bright green sneakers. Her jewelry consisted of a small silver key she wore on a chain around her neck and tiny silver beaded earrings. Her ever-present plaid backpack was slung over her right shoulder.

Most people in their high school thought she and Joe were together, as in dating, but the fact was they had been best friends since seventh grade. Patricia had been assigned to show Joe around school on his first day at South High, and they had discovered many mutual interests and a shared sense of humor. For a girl who had spent most of  her elementary school years engrossed in books or writing stories, it was strange and exciting to finally have a kindred spirit to share her innermost thoughts with. Around Joe she could be herself and all traces of self-consciousness vanished.

The week before, she and Joe had taken a hike down a dirt road in her rural neighborhood. Patricia had spotted an interesting stone wall in a clearing off to the right of the dead-end road. Approaching the wall for closer inspection, she saw a flat stone embedded in the middle of the wall. Kneeling down to look at it, she saw words engraved. Brushing away the moss, she read "Danger. Any stone removed must be returned by 3:00 the following day."



Okay Reader, here is the beginning....it's all I have time for today. Please respond with questions, comments, and honest feedback. Thanks again!

Thoughts in the Dark

It was so dark. And quiet. Sara couldn't remember a time in her life when their house had been this quiet. Lying alone, fully dressed but shivering on the sofa, she tried to put the pieces of the day together, tried to get her confused mind to figure out exactly what had happened that day.

The morning had been normal enough. It was Friday. She was home because her new job didn't start for another week. The kids had done their morning chores and started their schoolwork, as usual. He had seemed agitated and antsy, but that hadn't been anything out of the ordinary. He'd been that way for months.

The first sign of trouble had been his suggestion, out of the blue, that they go out on the motorcycle. She'd asked why he wanted to go out at 10:30 in the morning, but he'd seemed angered by her question, so she'd quickly agreed. As they'd put on their helmets, he'd said he wanted to return the car they'd borrowed from the pastor and his wife. "Follow me in the car," he'd ordered, "and hurry up. I have things to do today."

Sara jolted back to the dark room as she heard a noise outside. Terror washed over her. She rose nervously from the sofa and walked around, looking into each dark and empty room downstairs. The dog followed her expectantly and sat down beside her when she stopped in the front room. She checked the lock for the third time and stared out the door into the now-dark yard, feeling so alone, so scared, so uncertain about what would happen next. She pressed trembling fingers to her lips, seeing again the flashing lights from the police cars that had surrounded their property just hours before. Thank God he hadn't...but she couldn't let herself complete the thought. She forced herself to go back to the sofa and lie down, willing the clock to tick faster, willing it to be morning. It was 2:30am.

She'd climbed into the car that morning, her helmet on so she'd be ready when they reached their destination in 15 minutes. Lately he'd gotten angry whenever he'd had to wait for her and his impatience set her nerves on edge. Putting the car into reverse and looking carefully over her shoulder, she began to back out onto the road. She heard the squeal of motorcycle tires and spun her head around just in time to watch him roar off, going dangerously fast up the curvy road.

Her thoughts spinning, she'd driven quickly and carefully behind him, watching his erratic movements on the bike. She tried to think of a way to get out of riding back with him, but barring an out and out refusal, she could think of nothing. She'd thought maybe talking to the pastor would calm him down before they started back for home.

She'd watched him pull into the driveway too fast, braking hard enough to leave a skid mark in the packed dirt. She'd put the car in its normal spot, turning everything off and putting the keys above the visor. She'd gotten out and approached him on the bike. He'd revved the engine loudly and snapped his head to the side, impatiently motioning for her to get on.

"Aren't we going to go in?" she'd yelled.

"I already told you that they weren't going to be home. Now get on!" he'd shouted.

She'd swung herself up into the rear seat and turned on her helmet intercom. "Please drive carefully," she'd nearly whispered.

"I'll drive however I damn well please, bitch," he'd retorted, before reaching up to turn off his intercom. She'd held onto the seat strap as he tore out onto the road, and she'd said a quick prayer for her own safety. Sobbing quietly in fear for her life, she'd leaned left and right as he'd swerved maniacally at high speed. When the bike fishtailed, she'd subconsciously grabbed for his waist. He'd braked suddenly, skidding them to the side of the road.

"Get off," he'd bellowed from under his helmet. "I don't want any moody bitches riding with me."

"No, please" she'd whimpered. "We're still at least five miles from home. Just slow down and I'll stop crying."

"I said, get off!"

She hadn't tried to plead her case. She'd climbed off the bike as he sped away, spraying dirt and pebbles back at her. She'd stood still at first, dumbfounded, and then started walking.

As Sara had walked along the side of the road, she'd stopped trembling and felt herself get angry. How dare he! After all, it had been her paycheck that had paid for that motorcycle, those helmets and the intercom system just the month before. She'd taken off her helmet and tucked it under her arm, letting her anger gather steam. But then, she'd thought, it was her money that paid for nearly everything, while he worked a pitiful part time job a few hours a night driving bus. She was tired of his controlling ways, tired of walking on eggshells, tired of being afraid.

Her mind returned to the week before, when she had finally worked up the nerve to call the domestic abuse hotline her boss had referred her to.

"Sara, you can't keep going like this," Nancy had said to her quietly. "It's clear he's getting worse and you can't keep denying it. One of these days he's going to snap and hurt you or your children."

She'd stayed quiet and let the words sink in, wondering how much to disclose. It was her last day at the job and she was going to miss her colleagues. She wouldn't have left the position she'd loved, but he'd come into the office once again that month, cursing and shouting obscenities at her boss and anyone else within earshot. He had cost her the job, and although she'd felt the sting of unfairness, she'd understood why Nancy had faced no other choice but to terminate her employment.

"Nancy," she'd started to cry, "I have to get away from him, but I don't know how. I have six children, no where to go, no money..." she'd trailed off, sobbing. When Nancy had wrapped her arms around her, Sara had let out everything that had been building up for months. "He's been so mean to me and the kids. He's unpredictable and moody, and I don't know what to do anymore."

After she'd calmed down, Nancy had walked her to her inner office, where they'd used her phone to call the county domestic violence hotline. She'd set up an appointment with a DV counselor early the following week when she could slip away without him. She'd had to make up a story about having an exit interview for work, as the counselor suggested. She couldn't tell him about it, and the counselor said they'd make a safety plan at the appointment.

"Whatever you do," she'd been cautioned, "don't tell him you're planning to leave. Just do whatever you have to do to keep the peace and keep him placated until we can make a plan for you and the children to leave safely."

That same night, Sara had logged onto the secret e-mail account she'd created. Her husband had insisted on knowing all of her passwords and it was part of his routine to check her bank account, her credit card account, her work and personal e-mails and the internet history each night when he returned from work.  She'd quickly e-mailed the friend she'd made online three months before. She still had no idea what the man's name was, as they'd both used pseudonyms in the chat room. What had started out as mindless chitchat during an online game had turned to serious talk as he had sensed her problems. Desperate for someone to talk to, she'd poured out her story to this faceless, nameless stranger who'd claimed to be a therapist. She hadn't cared at the time if he really was a therapist or not, she'd just needed someone who could listen. He had and he, too, had urged her to get out of her living situation as soon as possible. She wanted him to know she had made the appointment.

To: justin2110
From: busybee70
Subject: I did it
Hey friend. Just wanted to let you know I made the appointment today. I'm meeting with a domestic violence counselor on Monday to make a safety plan. More later. Gotta go.

As Sara continued down the road that morning with her helmet under her arm, she'd thought how timely making that appointment had been. At that moment, she'd known she had to get away from him, and the sooner the better.

She'd heard the sound of the motorcycle approaching before she'd seen it come into view. Sure enough, it was him, coming back for round two. She'd braced herself and told herself to stay calm, no matter what.

He'd turned the bike toward the side of the road and started coming straight at her. She'd moved as far off the road as she could but the headlight got bigger and bigger as he approached her at full speed. Sara gasped, closed her eyes, and put her hands out to brace herself for the impact. She heard the squeal of brakes and opened her eyes in time to see the bike slide just to her right as she felt his sleeve brush hers.

"Get on, you little whore," he'd shouted.

"No!" she'd refused.

"I said, get on!" he'd yelled.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," Sara yelled back. She knew it wasn't what the counselor had told her to do, but she'd been afraid to get back on.

When he'd started to put the kickstand down, she'd frozen in terror. If something happened to her here, in the middle of nowhere, her kids would be alone with him, she'd thought. She had to get back on and get back to the house to protect them.

"Okay, I'll go," she'd said meekly, as she got on the bike and fastened her helmet quickly. "But can we talk when we get home? I'm sorry for whatever I did to make you angry this morning."

She'd hated herself for apologizing. She'd told herself it wasn't going to be much longer and that she only had to give these last few performances for her kids' sake.

He'd said nothing, but went slower on the remainder of the drive. When they arrived, he'd announced that he was going to bed and didn't want to be disturbed until it was time for him to go to work that evening.

"Thank God," she'd muttered under her breath.

Pulling herself back to the present, Sara sat up again on the sofa. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was almost 4:00am and she still hadn't slept. With all that had happened before noon, she should have seen this coming. She should have left while he was sleeping, she thought now in hindsight. If she had, none of this would have happened. She and her children would be together and she wouldn't be here, all alone.  With fresh tears streaming, she rocked herself back and forth and wondered if her life was ever going to be the same again.

(To be continued...)

Five Years Later...

Five years ago, I offered to help a young woman I had never met. All I knew about her is that she, her husband, and their two little boys had been evicted from their apartment and would either be sleeping in their car or staying with her mother, cramped into her small living room.

I had met the young woman's mother a couple of times, and knew she suffered from MS. It was to the mother that I made my offer of help. It sounded like this, "If you ever need a hand watching those two little ones for an afternoon so you can get a break, let me know. It's summer vacation and I'd be glad to help."

On a Sunday afternoon a couple of weeks later, the young woman and her mother came to my door with the little guys. They asked me if I could watch the boys as the mother was moving and needed to pack. I looked at these darling little babies for the first time, both with blond hair and blue eyes. The baby was 13 months old and his older brother was just two. These little boys were in t-shirts and diapers, with no pants or shoes. They had obviously been playing in the dirt and were in desperate need of haircuts. Smiling, I took the baby from the young woman, along with a plastic bag containing three diapers. She had nothing else to offer...no diaper bag, no sippy cups, no comforting toys. We talked briefly about what time she would return that night and decided on 7 or 8 o'clock.

We played outside and got to know each other for most of the afternoon. In the sunlight I could see dozens of bug bites all over their little bodies. They looked like flea bites but I couldn't be sure. I discovered that the baby was just learning to walk and loved to have hands to hold on to to get around. His brother could walk and run, but didn't have any words in his vocabulary yet other than typical baby babbling and the word "no."

At 5:00 we had dinner and I saw these little babies shoving fistfuls of food into their mouths and leaning down to eat directly from their plates. To my astonishment, they ate every single bite of food.

At 6:00 I learned that both boys were terrified of the bathtub. After much cajoling and a few toys to play with, we got through it. I dressed them in my older son's T-shirts that looked like little nighties on them.

At 7:00 I picked out two or three stories to read. With both boys on my lap, I read out loud. Two active little boys became still and silent, mesmerized by my voice and the pictures in front of them.

At 8:00 we snuggled in the rocking chair. I sang soft songs while their sweet little heads relaxed on my shoulders and they fell asleep.

At 9:00 I laid them down on the couch, one on each end, and tucked them in with soft blankets. Their soft little snores filled the room while I waited for their mother.

At 9:30 I heard a car pull into the driveway. I stepped out onto the porch where I could talk but still hear through the screen door. I told the young woman that her boys were sleeping and that we'd had a fun day. I asked if she had any plans to apply for emergency assistance to get temporary housing, since her mother was moving and she had no place to live. She laughed and joked about living in her car if she had to, so I advised her to go to social services the very next day. I offered to watch the boys again, and she asked if she could just leave them with me overnight instead of having to wake them and bring them back early the next morning. She assured me that they wouldn't wake until morning and that she'd come back as soon as she got back from her appointment the next day.

She was right on one count. Those two little boys did sleep all night. However, she didn't return the next day, or the day after that. I went on a shopping trip to buy clothing, shoes, diapers, and other basic necessities for the boys, telling myself that she'd likely need some newer things for them when she picked them up anyway. On the third day she came to say her father had died and she asked me to keep them for another week. The following week she came by to say she was busy and couldn't take them back. After many weeks of her stopping in to say hello and provide reasons that she couldn't take them back, I applied for temporary custody. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Five years later, my two little boys, Justyn and Tyler, are still with me. I have full custody and have started the paperwork to adopt them. They are well-adjusted, bright little boys who know they have a loving mommy. They love to read, play outside, and ride their bikes. They adore their two older brothers and two older sisters.

Tomorrow we are celebrating Justyn's sixth birthday, and Tyler turned seven in March. I consider myself  blessed to have these little boys in my life. It wasn't planned and it hasn't always been easy, but I know they are meant to be with me. I can't think of a better way to teach my older children what it means to love and accept others and I thank God for choosing me to be the teacher.

Here It Comes!

Pretty colors emerge in the form of flowers and dresses
Windows are opened, washed shiny and clear
Neighbors wave to each other on evening walks
Warmth spreads green from ground to sky
Songs warble and trill in the sweet morning air
Do you hear it?
Do you see it?
Do you smell it?
It's summer, and here it comes!

Stinkin' Thinkin'

Today my mind is on stinkin' thinkin'. You know...the kind of internal thinking we engage in that works against ourselves instead of for ourselves. We all engage in it at times, even if we're not aware of it.

Think about when you look at yourself in the mirror. Do you find yourself saying, "I love the way I look today!" very often? Or is it more like, "Man, I need to lose weight, and I wish I didn't have this ugly spot right here?" Exactly my point. We all do this to some extent.

There is another, more dangerous, kind of stinkin' thinkin' that emerges as the result of growing up with a set of beliefs that are not appropriate or accurate. If a child grows up constantly hearing that she can't do anything right, she will take that belief into adulthood with her. It will be nearly impossible for her to believe her actions or accomplishments are right or good.  Her internal voice will tell her, "Of course that's not right...nothing I ever do is right." If a young boy hears that it's not manly to cry or show emotions, he will most likely grow up not knowing how to express himself appropriately.

It is natural to take these beliefs from our formative and teenage years into adulthood and act upon them, whether the beliefs are skewed or not. In a perfect world, children grow up hearing only positive and healthy messages about their inner beauty, self-worth, and values. Let's face it, though, there are many things that can happen in a child's life to interrupt this, such as emotional or physical abuse, losing an important person, alcoholism, the cycle of poverty or prejudice, and the list goes on. The point is, if a child grows up with a skewed set of beliefs, the child will grow up to act on those beliefs unless something happens to challenge or interrupt their thought process. 

One of the hardest things I've had to do recently, was to admit that my own children have some skewed beliefs due to growing up in a household where there was domestic violence. I wanted their childhood to be perfect, but it didn't quite turn out that way. When I've listened to their "internal voices" coming out in conversations with their friends and each other, or watched the actions they've taken in relationships and friendships, I've had to admit that they are, at times, acting on skewed beliefs.

The reason admitting this isn't easy is that I have to take responsibility for it. I've let them grow up in less than ideal circumstances. That being said, now I have to DO SOMETHING about it (see bold print above).

I don't want my children to grow up thinking that it's okay to disrespect their mother, although I allowed them to witness this for years without telling them it was wrong. I don't want them to think it's okay for one person in a relationship to control the other. I don't want them to think you have to let someone take advantage of you in order to stay in a relationship. I never, ever, want them to think that it's okay to let someone abuse them, physically or emotionally. More than anything, I don't want them to think they have to sacrifice their own values to prove their love for someone.

I am saddened to admit to myself that these are the beliefs my children have internalized while growing up. But I can't let my sadness prevent me from working my hardest to correct them. As hard as parenting already is, it's doubly hard to correct a set of beliefs a teenager has accumulated over most of his or her lifetime. This is required work for a parent who has recently come out of a tough situation, though. It takes courage to admit that I've failed my children in this respect, and now must "cram in" extra parenting lessons to undo what has been done.

But it's worth it. It's worth it to stay up late, to put off dinner for an hour, to cancel my own plans, basically whatever it takes, to help my children overcome these skewed beliefs. I know it will be my mission for the remainder of the time I have with each of my children. I owe it to them, and I love them enough to sacrifice anything for their well-being.

And there isn't anything that's stinkin' about that thinkin'!

Bittersweet

Tonight was the band concert at our local school. First the jazz band played four tunes for us, then junior band took the stage for four, and finally senior band closed with four songs. It was a bittersweet night as my daughter, Rebekah, played in her last school concert.

Tonight I remembered her first twangs on the bass guitar as she taught herself to play using a DVD tutorial. My pre-teen tomboy did NOT follow in my footsteps and take up the piano, but followed her spunky heart instead and chose the guitar. Although I was sad she didn't take up one of "my" instruments, I was proud of her independence and desire to make her own way.

Many concerts later (with the French Horn added to her repertoire at some point along the route), I found myself near tears in the audience tonight. It is the last time I will see my child's name in a school program. It is her last time walking across the stage with her classmates. It hit me fully for the first time - it's all coming to a close, this time of being in her life every day, watching her grow, listening to her play and sing, hearing her laughing with her sister in the room across the hall from mine as they dress for a concert together.

I suddenly can't breathe, unable to imagine Rebekah being so many hours away as she takes the next steps into her new life. I think about her getting up, having breakfast in a place other than our familiar kitchen, and going to classes without her siblings. We're such a close family now, a team, and we operate like a well-oiled machine. I can't imagine her apart from us or envision our team without her.

But I know I must - it's part of the cycle and I have to wear my smile for her sake. Only now can I understand what my parents must have felt the day they left me in my dorm room at a mere 17 years of age. I wondered then why they were so somber when I was embarking on the biggest adventure of my life. Now I know.

Rebekah won't know my sadness, and I don't want her to. Just like she did with her guitar, I want her to make her own way and walk her spunky self into her new, independent life. Somehow I know she will, and I know we'll all be okay in the end.

Write Every Day??

Dear Reader, I started this blog as a way to enter a contest. It wasn't necessary to have anything particularly wonderful written in the blog, I just had to have a link to a blog of my own. I created it out of necessity and at the time it didn't really matter to me if I posted every day or not.

But I DO identify myself as a writer, and strive to become a better writer all the time. I read books for writers, I read blogs about writing, and I think about new ideas for writing all the time. In fact, that's what got me into this whole mess tonight.

Reader, I know you understand my dilemma of having dishes to do, laundry to fold, and children clamoring for advice, homework checks and food every night. What I'm trying to say is that it's easy to read about being a writer, and even easier to procrastinate when it comes to actually putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard in this case).  In the midst of that very procrastination tonight, I stumbled upon a site about writing a memoir, which is something I hope to do someday. That site linked to another writing site and another, until I landed on a site with the alarming title "How To Write Every Day."

I skimmed it, certain that the author didn't mean every single day. I mean, who could even do that? But here's what I saw, in black and white: "IF you aspire to be a writer......you should......write every day." Scary things came up after that, like "daily routine" and "target number of words" and even "responsibility to a daily deadline for your readers." Whoa.

Reader, let me just say, for the record, that even though this concept terrifies and somewhat overwhelms me, I know it's something I need to do.

I. Need. To. Write. Every. Day.

I owe it to myself. I owe it to my readers. I owe it to my one-eyed Daruma, waiting to get his other eye until the day I've finally submitted my first manuscript. I don't need to be published, but I need to send out a finished work.

That said, I'm making a commitment, right here and right now. I will write for at least 15 minutes a day, compose at least three sentences, and post my writing by 10:00pm each night. There, I said it. Now I must do it.

So...I guess I'll be seeing you around. Tomorrow night. :)