Writing topics and reluctant writer’s

       Okay I keep going back to my list for A. I am having trouble writing what’s left.  Not because I am unable,  or incapable.  Because I am too close.  Everything I would write about Abuse or sexuality might end up as angry ranting instead of the general musing I try for. Asking and assuming would sound( and did, as I tried those topics)  confused and lost.  Generally not a good read. Animals, while a simple topic,  are another that would just be a general topic without an angle to make the entry worthy of the read.
              In some ways,  I see that as a general fault in most writer’s.  Writing without passion and a clear head just makes an awful read. Know your limits.  Find a topic you enjoy and aren’t too angry over. Or at least not so emotionally invested that writing becomes nothing but a rant. Emotionally invested is only really good for poetry and op ed pieces.  I save most of those topics for poetry.  Had I not been sleep deprived,  my A list may have been more carefully made. So I will sleep on it, think carefully about it…and post my topics for B on the morrow.


     How does one teach a child how to use money?  By giving them an allowance,  of course.  It has always been curious to me as to how to decide how much to pay your kids.  I chose $1 a day for my daughter.  And if she misbehaves then in can cost between a quarter to a full day worth.  Yet,  I find myself wondering if it actually prepares her for deal with money.  After all she doesn’t have bills. 
        I have seen parenting pages that speak of working it more like a job.  Assigning a cost for their chores. This is an option but I feel like that makes chores less responsibility and more a job.  So then you need another method of teaching responsibility.
         So I am always looking for the best when it comes to raising my girl.  And so far,  I haven’t found a better way of dealing with allowance.  For now,  it’s money so she can have a measure of independent thought and learn at least a little lesson on handling money. 

Experiments in social media

               I am attached to my phone.  I use it for everything,  from games to writing.  So Facebook tends to be something i look to for promotion of my publication and for social interaction.  (Not that I am a weird shut in, or something…. lol).
              So in order to spark the muse, occasionally,  I post things to Facebook.  The latest was a challenge to my friends.  I explained that I might use the answers for fodder for blogging. If cost wasn’t a factor,  what would they want to gift me for my birthday.  Would it be serious or a gag? I am not sure what i expected. 
             I got touching responses. Many were the same.  Mostly everyone would give me improved health and happiness, unlimited books and art supplies,  and peace for my daughter and I. When I made the post,  I think I had a perception of more materialistic answers.  Which would not have fit me. I don’t know why I expected it. I am surprised however that there were no gag suggestions.  Hmmm perhaps it says something about me that my friends are all wanting peace of mind and happiness for me. I am sure however that I have been blessed in the friends I have.

My thoughts

       So much a year can change . Life kicked me hard in the head exactly a year ago today. I am a survivor,  so i did what i do. I survived.  I struggled and learned.  The stability i desired so badly,  i have obtained. And what matters most is what i held onto. So for those who are struggling and feel that their world has fallen apart, i say hold on…things do get better.


           Well this is a blow up topic.  One that if handled improperly,  could cause a flame war. America has never known a lack of abundance.  We have within our grasp everything we could possibly desire.  And this rarely is appreciated.  Don’t believe me? Try being homeless here versus in other parts of the world.  I have lived out of my car. There were plenty of places I could go to get assistance.  At least one shelter I left because it felt too much like they wanted to keep me. Poverty is horrible,  but often in the USA,  it means not having enough to do things on your own.  In other places,  it may mean worse.  The things so often taken for granted are just not there.  Food,  water,  basic shelter,  a land not at war.

Authors, and artists in general

   Lately,  well for the last decade anyway,  I have been surrounding myself with other artisans. Partly because I am insecure about my art. And partly because it’s nice to be among others with similar interests.  I think creative types all do that.  So for my mind,  it seems as though there are more creative types now than at any time before.  There are more ways to be a writer, or an artist,  now than there have been.  I firmly believe this is because the human mind is constantly expanding.  At this period in time we have less to contend with for survival.  Convenient grocery stores mean that the skills needed for survival are different than even what was needed a century ago. 
                 So since we have more time that isn’t devoted to survival,  we can be creative.  There was a line in one of The Earth’s Children books (written by Jean M. Auel)… and now that I  go looking for that exact line, I can’t find it. Anyway,  the gist of the line was that the reason that beads and artistry were signs of status were because of how much time a single bead took to make.  That was time that wasn’t devoted to gathering of food and shelter resources.  In our society there is less need for hunting and gathering.  So we as a species still have that mindset.  Since there is enough time for the unnecessary making of art,  then we are doing well.  So we hold the artist and the storyteller in high regard because of this.

Elizabeth chapter one

To whoever may find this,
      I realize I was fairly naive. I believed the world would change for me. I thought I would be able to do anything. I know better now. I should have known then. I ask that you reserve your judgments until my tale is finished. It is the year of our lord fourteen ninety-eight. I had thought that in the reign of Henry the VII that England would be civilized. I was born to a noble house and having always had plenty of money. I never abused my wealth, Tis against my nature. I was simply myself, nothing more.                  
           I started healing various ailments. Having a small talent for herbal craft, but having little patience for the training the doctors went through. The idea of using leeches disgusted me. The church endorsed their use, thus it became the accepted way to deal with all illness, but I did not see where it helped some of the ill at all. I oft healed those the doctor’s thought to be hopeless . Simple herbal remedies that brought comfort to the ailing and aged. Arthritis to madness, there was no one I would not treat. And I expected naught in return. If I had paid heed to the tongues that wagged, I would have been prepared. I gave freely to the poor and to the wretched. I spent much time with the ill and insane. I spoke of acceptance to those who had sinned. For why would God not forgive, when it is what was promised?
          My father begged me to hold my tongue about such matters. He said my flaming hair would garner accusations and my shrewish tongue would prove them. I was beautiful then, of this I have no doubt. Though then it mattered so little. Vanity was not a sin I have ever committed.  Most of  the accused committed no other crime than that. A lord’s daughter should not be so reckless. I suppose now I should have heard clearer what he said. You understand, of course, I knew it all then. I had no shame, only pride.
            I ignored the witch hunters. I was no witch, so I saw no need to pay them mind. The whispers around town were of torture and of evil things being done to the accused; the whispers spoke of jealousies and false accusations as well. None of this touched me, It should have. The accusation was made a week ago. I assumed the wealth and power my father had would free me or the magistrate would dismiss on the clear fact that it was nonsense. When the hunters came, I was unafraid. I stood up against the mob and the jeers. For what could hurt me? I had the truth, and I had God. I would soon find out how little that was.
          I was stripped of all my clothes and belongings. I was allowed no modesty. Nor any comfort was I given. I was even denied all traces of humanity. The magistrate and his helpers searched for the mark of the beast that would prove me false. A mark that did not ever exist. They looked for a symbol or a brand, even a mole or blemish. I am sure any mark would have sufficed. For this would prove their accusations, at least in the eyes of the court. I did not cry then. The exam was embarrassing and long.  I was made to stand the entire time. I was pinched and poked. Then prodded with cold metal to see that I yet bled. Yet, even then I was unafraid. I was stretched on a rack and told to admit myself the witch. I was left for hours pulled taught and in pain. I would not lie. My jailers refused to believe anything I said. The days got worse as each passed. I found torture to be too kind a description for the cruelty I endured. Forced to endure thumbscrews, and hot pincers that left me weak. I have felt the health flee me as the days have gone on.  For the last two days I found myself left alone with my thoughts. That was the worst of torments, as it can easily drive one mad. I was given naught except moldy bread and dirty water every evening. After a time I ate, and was thankful for it.                                                 
     As the seventh day dawns, I find fear in my heart and prayers on my lips. I have never broken the covenant with God nor man, but find that my death approaches faster than I ever thought it would. I write this on the parchment left for my confession, one I will write naught. Although I do suppose it will be seen as such regardless. My flaming hair hangs matted now, as bathing has not been allowed me.  I fear the filth has caused fever to set in. I hear whispers at night of a young man’s voice. The voice speaks of possibilities and freedom. I am sure the voice is a sign that my mind is cracking, or my will breaking. Either way, I cannot remain here.
                 Come the dawn I will try escape, and perhaps the voices who whisper of aid they will lend me are more than just my fever speaking. Either that or the attempt will mean my life; it will be an ending to my torment. I pray god is with me.

Hope belied(not sure on the title)

                    The wind whispered through the slim gaps at the windows edge. So much of her struggle couldn’t be explained. She couldn’t put the pain and emotion into clear words. Even having survived this far, she continued to be surprised by all life threw at her. “Time to pull yourself together!” She thought.  “He’ll be here soon. Decision time!” Oh, how she hated the life changing choices.
                    Dating a truck driver meant either long periods alone or choosing to ride with. In her mind both options sounded awful. Her love for him was certain, everything else felt like a lava pit she was suspended above. So as her lover knocked on the motel door,  she knew she would go. In many ways, it felt like she had nothing to leave behind. She opened the door,  letting him in. Quick hugs made the shadow of doubt fade. No one understood what she saw in him. He was just tall enough to allow her head to rest comfortably on his shoulders.  His unruly red curls seemed to wrap around her heart.  The strength in his arms when he wrapped her in them, made her feel delicate and feminine.  Which is something she had never felt. He understood her quirks.  He made her laugh. 
                    Though she still didn’t know what he saw in her, she knew she would go. The details were quickly handled. With the dawn her new adventure would begin.  A far greater adventure than anyone could ever know. He told her the truck had been handling strangely. He really wasn’t sure why. The engine was a advanced prototype.  He was being paid more to test the engine than most truck drivers ever see. “Our first stop needs to be a special shop, so I can have it checked out.” He spoke distracted as he helped her climb into the rig for the first time.
                    Climbing into the big truck for the first time scared her. At five two she was used to being under most things,  in the truck she felt like she was flying over everything. 

*authors note:  this is only on it’s first draft. Constructive criticism is welcome,  but trolling is not.