Stick a fork in it and call it Done

I have started stirring the ol' Word Pot again. For a long time, other than this blog, I didn't write too much. Busy with other things, I suppose. You know, kids, job...life, whatnot.

("Life is not 'whatnot', and it's none of your business." Bonus points if you know the movie.)

If you've been following my blog, you know I've been struggling pretty badly with my depression and anxiety lately, and that I am finally - I think - medicated appropriately. I feel better.

Wait. Let me say that again.

I FEEL better.

OK - I'm done.

Anyhoo, now that my brain is beginning to function normally (or, normally for me) again, I'm writing. Because that's what I do when I feel well. I have dreams, I see images (no, not psychic images - just a blip on the radar that winds up becoming the catalyst, or the jumping-off point, for a story), I hear snippets of conversation which spark my imagination. I never know where I'm going to get inspiration. I like this. I missed this. So I'm writing again.

I've written two stories in the last month. One, which you already know about (http://www.creepypasta.com/becoming/), was based on a pretty disturbing dream. The other (http://www.creepypasta.com/the-desert-road/), was the product of seeing a very clear image of a blonde girl, lit up by car headlights, walking down a dark road. The Desert Road stemmed from there.

Admittedly, I seem to be writing creepy stories. I'm not really sure why, except to say I've always been a big fan of the creepy, the macabre, or the supernatural...and "They" say: Stick to what you know. I know I'm not done yet because there's a third story already in the works which is based on another awful dream I had a couple of weeks ago. This one is currently titled: "Alterations at The Warehouse" and I'm hopeful to have that done in another week or so. This one is slow coming together because I only remember snippets of the dream itself, but I'll get there.

There is also a fourth story - which is actually the first one I started - in the works. That one isn't short and it's also quite complicated, with a lot of characters. I've had to update my outline quite a bit because the story seems to keep changing on me. As soon as I think I know what direction I'm going with it, something happens (yes, that's exactly what I mean) and I have to change it. It's weird how that works, but you writers (Allie, I'm talking to you) will know what I mean. I've gotten all my characters developed. I know them all, who they all are, how they fit into the larger story, but there's still a lot of work to do. So that might take another year or so to complete. Who knows, maybe it will be big enough to call a novel? I'm not getting my hopes up, though. Right now, I'm just enjoying the writing phase.

So - love the stories or hate them, that's OK. We are all entitled to our own opinions. But for me, this is so cathartic. I LOVE to write, and apparently - based on some stuff other folks have said - I do have some talent for it. That's not to toot my own horn, though; I always feel like my own writing is awful. But I've decided I don't really care. When I feel like a story is finished - because there is a point where it is finished - I tell myself to stop. Stop re-reading. Stop editing. Stop worrying and second guessing. Call it done.

I've called two stories Done now.

Let's see where this goes, shall we?

TTFN
JMS

Parental Error in Judgement

I made a parental error in judgment the other night. Yes, I did. We are all fools, on occasion, are we not?  Ah...to really give you the proper insight, therefore, I must go back and explain how the error came to be. (Can you tell I've been reading Jane Austen again?)

Several weeks ago, I had a horrible nightmare. Truly, one of the worst I've had in a very long time. Without going into details about that particular dream, suffice it to say it left me feeling sick in my soul and supremely disturbed in my heart and mind. It stuck with me. I remembered every detail; every feeling. And I carried that discomfort around for a few days until I finally decided that the only way I could hope to get rid of that soul-sickness was to write about it. Put it all down on paper in a way that might take it from me and transfer all the ickiness (that's an Austen word right there) to paper.

Almost 12,000 words and 19 pages later, I succeeded. The disturbing nature of the dream was now gone from me because it became a fictional story, rather than a dream in which I felt I'd taken an intimate role.

I sat on this story for a while before I even said anything to anyone about it, but finally had one of my trusted friends read it. Her words were, "...it's creepy and chilling and awesome..." Honest and high praise from her as she reads more than I do. I was glad to know I was able to convey the feeling of it.

Fast forward to earlier this week, Boy-Child and I were discussing various things and he said something about a bad dream he'd had the night before. We talked about it, and I said, "Boy, I had a doozy of a dream a few weeks ago. It was so bad I had to write a story about it just to shake it from my system."

Well, I didn't think at the time (though I should have) that my book-loving son would want to read that story. He thought about it for a couple of days before he asked me to read it.

At first, I said no, because I knew it was creepy and I also because he has never slept really well and I didn't want to run the risk of my being the reason for his having a bad night. Which this story, I felt certain, would do.

He persisted. And I (here's my parental error) finally gave in and let him read it.

It probably took him 15 minutes to read 19 pages and 12,000 words. Far faster than I can read. When he was done, I looked at him and watched him visibly shudder. Oops, I thought.

"You OK bud?"

He couldn't look at me, but said, "Yeah, that was REALLY CREEPY, mom."

"I know."

He needed to go to bed shortly thereafter and told me he would be sleeping with his light on. I expected that, and so didn't really make a reply.

A little while later, he came in and said, "Mom, that story was really creepy!" I suggested he grab his ear buds and listen to music as he fell asleep. He thought that - along with his light - was an excellent idea, and so went back to bed.

Again, he came back to me and said, "I think I figured out why your story bothered me so much."

"Oh? Why?" I asked.

"Because the main character is you. It's creepy because it feels like it happened to you. I could see you in the character and that's what made it creepy."

I put my hands on both sides of his head, looked him directly in the eyes (knowing he was looking back; looking to make sure my irises hadn't suddenly turned black) and said to him, "Bud, I'm right here, soul and all. I'm OK, I promise. And so are you."

He said, "OK," and went back to bed.

Apparently, he was so convinced of my truly being OK, he was no longer even fearful, because when - about 30 minutes later - I went to check on him, he was fast asleep. Lights and music off. And further, he slept all night long.

The next morning, I asked if he was alright and he said, "Yeah, but I guess I probably shouldn't have asked to read it."

Probably not. But he's 13 now and is finally starting to understand actions and decisions and consequences. So, I suppose, even though I feel like I scared the crud out of my son and am a terrible parent, it is a lesson learned. For both of us.

TTFN
JMS

PS: My trusted friend, who had the distinction of being the first person - other than myself - to read the story, said that she could see me in the main character, too. Her words were something to the effect of, "...those who know you will really see you in this." Guess my son has excellent insight, too.

UPDATE 8/15/17: It's rough - I reread it after it had been posted and there are some spacing errors, as well as a few things I'd like to fix, but the story is out there now and you're welcome to go read it. http://www.creepypasta.com/becoming/ Good luck. Feel free to tell me how you really feel. My skin is thick.

Latent Creativity

Years ago, I had an Etsy site; a place to sell the silly things I made that I thought were special. I sold some things - gratefully - mostly to family, but also to a few people I didn't know. It was fun. Then the kids became needier (as they do), and my free-time became less (as it does), and so I let my "store" lapse. I didn't close it - always hopeful I'd get back to it - but it's been, for want of a better word, dormant for several years.

Kiddos are now older, though my free-time is still somewhat lacking. I prefer spending free-time with kiddos, or volunteering, or doing various things at church, like the puppet ministry or teaching Sunday school.

BUT...on occasion I still do something crafty.  And thus I have done, and wanted to share it with you! (It's a big picture; keep scrolling for more info!)

[[PICTURE REMOVED]]

This is a handmade (by me!), crocheted afghan/throw. It's 60" x 40" (approx) and I almost don't want to part with it! It started out as a practice piece (I wanted to learn how to make a chevron pattern) but the practice piece came together so nicely, I decided to keep going. The result is what you see here. 

Hubby said, "Honey, I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but...uh...it's kinda wacko. All those colors, you know?"

I said, "Yeah! I like it. It appeals to my sense of weird." (Or, something like that.)

So, it's definitely a little obnoxious and I know it won't be for everyone, but I LOVE it; I'm super pleased with how it turned out.

I decided, rather than write about my woes - of which I have many - I'd throw in something creative, fun, and positive today.

Feel free to share! :)

(Yes, I suppose that was a sales pitch. Whaddaya think?)

TTFN

JMS

PS: Woes return (with interwoven humor) next time.