Write or Die

Coolest site ever! You punch in a time frame and how many words you want to hammer out and just start writing. If you stop or you are going to slow, it plays an evil sound and your screen goes all red. Depending on the evil setting, you could potentially lose all your writing. I love it! I have about 3000 more words to catch up on tonight for Nanowrimo so I will be using this for sure.

Tree Farm Photos

Self Portraits

Dragonfly

Scenes From the Fair

The Mask

New Beginning

I started my new book today as an idea just popped in my head. Thing is, I started from about the second chapter because I can't think of how to start the damn thing. It's ok though, I know these things work themselves out.
I am not going to tell you what it is about yet, mostly because I myself am not entirely sure. I decided to go into this novel blind, with a few muddy ideas about characters and plot, but nothing concrete. I love writing this way because you never know where the story will take you. Sometimes my characters do things and say things that I just didn't expect. Sometimes I try to resist them, and tell them that this is my story and you are not cooperating, but they usually manage to get their way in the end.
It really makes me wonder if there is something else that controls the story and simply guides our hand as we put it to paper.
I will keep you posted, as I said to a friend today, if this one is a keeper or a throw away.

I am woman

I am a woman
I am strong
I will not be silenced
I am tough
I am gentle
I am a force to be reckoned with
I am a shoulder to cry on
I am the cool hand on a fevered head
I am the soft bosom a child sleeps on
I am the clenched fist that fights for her rights
I am the wit and the intellect
I am the emotion
I am the unfathomable enigma
I am the one you will never break
I am the one you will never understand
I will always be here
I am a woman

Slayer Poet

What an amazing girl!

The Coma

This was an exercise from "Writer's Digest". Write from the perspective of someone in a coma. It is a story about sensory deprivation, helplessness, identity and self. I loved this idea and wrote this in about 10 minutes. Enjoy!

I hear muffled sounds, like someone yelling underwater. Voices reach my ears but they sound distant and faded and it is hard to make out what they are saying. Part of me doesn't care, I just want to fall asleep again, drift off into the blackness where there is no noise and no pain.

I don't know where I am or why I can't move my arm. I want to, but it just won't move on it's own accord. There is a pinching sensation in my hand, and ice is flowing through my veins. My eyes cannot open, although the desire has long left to even try.

Once again, the voices pick up their conversation, soft and low, tempting me back into oblivion. One voice is soft and feminine, and the sound to me is the colour of soft pink clouds and velvet. I don't think in words anymore, but in colours and texture. The voices mean nothing yet mean everything.

There is an undercurrent of sadness which carries the scent of salty tears. My sense of smell is heightened although I no longer know what a smell is. The darkness that gapes behind me once more beckons to me and reaches out it's oily tendrils. If I turn around now, I will be consumed forever. I welcome it, but the sounds and smells and colours are tempting me to stay awhile yet.

Time does not exist, I have been this way forever yet not at all. My identity is in the darkness, in the smells and the sounds and the salty tears. I am the tears but I can't remember why.

Whispered words tickle my ear, velvety wind the colour of pink invades the darkness, yet it is urging me towards it. I am torn between the peaceful black and the soft safety of pink. Both will welcome me with open arms, yet I wait here in limbo.

There is a choice to be made now. The pain in my hand lessens, the ice stops flowing and my blood becomes warm again, hot even. It burns like the glowing red embers of a dying fire. Dying. Is that what the darkness is? The pink fades away, taking its tears and sadness with it and leaving me alone again. I have finally understood that it is time to decide. I turn around to face the dark and am surprised to find that it is not darkness after all. It is a brilliant light, so golden bright that it had been blinding me.

I walk into it for the final time and remember everything.

POEtic Nonsense

It was the birthday of Edgar Allen Poe yesterday. In his honour I am going to write a poem
I don't usually write poetry, I actually quite suck at it but here goes.
This fun one is about silly habits I have.

Shannanigan-isms

I knock on wood when I've said too much,
As if thinking I could erase fate with just one touch.
Several times a day with my dog I've talked,
Although she usually stares with her head half-cocked.
When it comes to pushing buttons I am the master,
Mashing them on an elevator might get me there faster.
Food mixing while eating is something I hate,
The amount of food touching depends on the size of my plate.
I'm compulsive about checking my teeth for spare food,
Letting someone talk with a mouthful of spinach is rude.
I crack my knuckles, my jaw, fingers, elbows and toes,
Steve says I will get arthritis when I'm old as far as he knows.
I have many more habits that are just as silly,
But this poem is too long and I'm not a poet...no, really.

OK atrocious poetry aside (that really was just for fun) and in honour of Poe's birthday, read this interesting story.