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Grief, A Few Days Ahead

Status/Tumblr short essay

The month of February will probably have a twinge of pain associated with it. Earlier this month on the third, it was the night I found I lost my grandfather and now nearly three weeks later, we have buried my grandma.

We are never tricked into believing our loved ones will be with us forever but we are tricked into believing they will be with us tomorrow.

The painful truth of aging is that loved ones aren’t as we remember, they need us to go to the store because it’s hard to get out of the house, they are nice some days and forget who you are on others. Some days they know who people are but their names can’t escape the tongue. The toughest days are the ones they forget your name.

The drives to see them become longer and the visits grow shorter. When they decide to talk just a few minutes longer, or decide today is a good day for a stroll outside, or when they stay awake to watch a TV show, Those are good days. These days are like a drop of rain on a highway in June, relief is given albeit short lived but it is enough to keep going back.

If caretaker were written as a job ad, no one would want to take it and it would be the last one on the list but it is the only one available. The commutes go late into the night, plans need to be made weeks in advance.  I am afraid of getting a condition like Alzheimer’s or Dementia because I have made thinking and creativity a part of my life. I realized in all of this my talents, mental and emotional capacity, or even Independence don’t make me who I am, being a person makes me who I am. The same is true for my grandparents and anyone else who lives with these conditions. These experiences with them helped me realize  there is a life beyond illness, not just after death.

If you have any diseases like these know that you are not a burden to those who care for you, you are loved. If you are a caregiver, take care of yourself, do whatever you can, and keep going back.

 
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Posted by on February 28, 2017 in Life, Writing

 

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Warm Strangers: The Friendship Between Writers and Readers

I think of creative people as hermits.  We go off to a room or some other remote location and  spend a few hours repeating the same repetition and hope that we can somehow achieve masterpieces or the best words we can if we are more realistic.

The first human contact we have after we click publish or send is when a reader comes along and reads our work, we jump up and down because that is one more person that didn’t read it before. Someone took some time to actually read work from an unknown writer.

A writer forms friendships with people whom they have never met by marking our stories, dreams,  and desires on paper or a computer screen and this process shows us as at our most vulnerable.  It sets up an intimacy only the Writer and Reader know.

In the old days when I started writing I hide myself as a writer.  I convinced myself that my words weren’t good or I would be embarrassed when someone would see then berate them.  These insecurities don’t disappear and sometimes I wonder if they might still happen.  The only good lesson I learned about this is the fact that I’m not alone. Like any relationship the work may be rejected and the writer may be left heartbroken from the evaluation but if the writer chose not to send the pages out in the world they would grow old and dusty on the shelf,  never to be seen by the world, never fulfilling their purpose.

The truth is not writing is a far worse fate.  The reader never sees the possibilities locked inside the human head and the heart.  The writer doesn’t learn about people whether or not they are actual or fictional characters and the reader never sees the fruits of that labor. 

People who write join a community of human beings who see reality as what it can be, might be,  or ought to be, instead of what it is. Writers are an interesting group of people. Every writer is a hiding show-off.  We love words and their magic.  Everyday we see blank pages and decide words should be on them. We hope the world will become a more fantastical place because our words exist– even if it is only for today.

 
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Posted by on May 4, 2015 in Life, Writing

 

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Link

I know I have not kept you updated like I should after writing lots of words everyday I decided a podcast would be easier than having to type an update out.  I have had podcasting in the back of my head and thought now would be a good time to try it.  Give it a listen and let me know what you think. 
https://soundcloud.com/scrawlcast/nanowrimo-update-podcast

 
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Posted by on November 24, 2014 in Podcast

 

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The November letter: an update

Hello readers,

Yes, I know it has been a while since I have posted a blog and I promised to write you letters and call once a week but I haven’t lived up to the Bargain. Fair enough.

What have I been doing all this time? I have been planning two things: 1. My Halloween cosplay and 2. My novel.  I have started a reflection piece about the cosplay that I will finish but it is November and two things I know about November are: 1. It is my birthday and 2. It’s Nanowrimo. 

This year I am a participant and all October planned and researched for my Historical fiction Vampire western novel and it took more time than I thought (you can’t rush these things). Since I have committed to writing 50,000 words in a month I may not post regularly but I will keep you updated in the process as well as share anything I have learned with you.  I hope people of all creative stripes will benefit from this experience as much as I have.

Sincerely,
A Scrawling Writer.

 
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Posted by on November 5, 2014 in Life, Writing

 

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Aside

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Hello Readers,
As you know our summer months are coming to an end. The summer memories are still on the tip of our tounges. I noticed the change of the seasons every year and love the traits and memories of fall.

Fall air is cold yet smokey and it decorates a fall night around a bonfire. Hearty sweet potatoes invade all of our dishes. Pumpkin spice should be kept in tanks on standby. The change of fall is magical and only takes one night in West Texas. I was inspired by this transformation to write the following poem–I call it The Last Day of Summer.

The Last Day of Summer

Your eyes were blue and skin was fair,
your white dress was ruffled in layers.
The flowers placed in your curly hair.

We cracked the valve to the hose and up the water went.
The water rose high like an arching tent.

We tied our hands like twine,
Yours is tied into mine.
We spun, wind and wind
and fell at the same time.

The sun set and we were out of time,
Slowly dimming on that horizon line.
We ran home with nothing to say,
Little did we know summer would stay.

The next day the icy wind blew
The smokey signal we both knew.
The warm clouds turned grey
And the crisp autumn air found its way.

The Last Day of Summer

 
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Posted by on September 19, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

 

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Weekend Calligraphy

I have a secret in addition to writing I also do calligraphy,   I had an interview this morning and needed to unwind so this is what followed.   I have a poem I’m finishing for next week and can’t wait to show you readers.   Until then,  love and many words,  a Scrawling Writer.  

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Phillipines 4:4-7

 
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Posted by on September 6, 2014 in Calligraphy, Life, Writing

 

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Tiger Chase

Tiger Chase

I decided to post a poem I have been working on the past couple of weeks.  Writing about past experiences can be painful as a writer.  I think pain is a kind of alchemy.  It can transform a dark and grey memory into a writing piece that is beautiful and shiny.  The poem below is reflective in nature and doesn’t describe any specific event.  I call this poem Tiger Chase.


Tiger Chase

She runs in the field of dandelions, tears filled her eyes.

Her shoulders were marked by red lines.

Her cotton dress is covered with grass

and her knees are scratched running through the vines.

She drinks from the streams, the water touches her bones.

She spent the afternoon running from a tiger, running to and fro’.

She hid by walking light then lighter

Holding her breath, hoping he wouldn’t find her.

The tiger slinked past it’s prey.

She was safe, for another day.

She bows her head to pray.

All she asks is for time to stay.

 
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Posted by on July 2, 2014 in Writing

 

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