Too many stories in my head

Hello lovely readers,

This is a little venting... It is not a really problem but it is a problem in my writing world. I currently have two working stories. One is my major work in progress (or WIP as I have been informed) and the other is my postings of Molly's letters to her aunt in my "Yours faithfully" project which I am enjoining.

Then a couple of weeks my roommate told me about this "question of the week" her co-worker posts (sorry if I am getting the information wrong). The question was "If you could go back and live in anytime period, what would it be and what two celebrities would you take with you?" Both these questions were hard for me to answer, because of course it would be awesome to live in the Edwardian times (or at least what I imagine), but I am also drawn to living in Jane Austen's time but I think only if I knew for sure that I was going to meet Jane Austen. Though after reading after Confessions of Jane Austen Addict I am less inclined to do that. Right now my heart and mind are in Edwardian times so I think I would go back to that time.

Work in Progress: Hope Deferred

Work in Progress: Yours Faithfully

And now I have a new story in mind spurned from the question my roommate and I were discussing. I was thinking it would be about a girl who finds a journal from a hundred years ago only to discover it is was her journal and by the end of the book modern girl gets the choice to go back in time... but will she?

The cottage had clearly been abandoned with ivy entangling itself in the stone and covering the windows. It had been untouched for nearly fifty years and looked as though it came from of the Grimm's fairy tales with one expecting to see Hansel and Gretel running away from the witch at any moment. 

"Are you sure about this Caroline?" Janey questioned as she rested a box of my stuff on the roof of her car.
"Of course," faking more confidence than I actually felt.
"It looks like setting from a scary movie not where you can write your next novel." Janey Brick, my best friend from high school, really my only friend still from high school had gotten married right after college, had two kids right away, and lived a pretty cookie cutter life. For some reason she still hung out with me, who went to college on the six year plan floating between majors of Poly Sci, Psychology, took a year off to travel, and came back to major in Creative Writing with a minor in Women's Studies.
"It will be perfect, Janey. It is at the back of my Grandma's property, so I will be well fed and I will not have to work extra shifts at the Coffee Joe's or seek out employment at Charlie's-Ship-It store. I will just be able to write, work my usual shift at Coffee Joe's to pay off my student loans." I said it more to justify it in my own head. 
"Alright. You know Charlie's-Ship-It store is not all that bad."
"You're just saying that because your father-in-law owns it."
"I am and he has always treated you kindly."

I then profusely thanked Janey for how she and her family always looked out for me, but I told her I had to write. I had written one novel from my years in undergrad but it hardly sold more than a hundred copies, and my editor was going to drop me soon if I didn't have another piece. I had to write, it was the one thing I knew I was suppose to do, but it was hard to manage it between two jobs, paying rent, paying off loans, and still managing to buy groceries. So with all the certainty I could muster at the moment I reassured her I would be fine. 

I wouldn't have even thought of this cottage to hide out in, had it not been my mom's suggestions a couple of months back. Grandma Wallis' health had grown worse and worse over the last few months and mom was getting concerned about her well being. Grandma Wallis had lived on this farm since the day she was born and with no brothers or sisters to care for it, it was up to her to make sure it survived, and she would never leave it for the suburban lifestyle my mom had adapted to. I always looked up to Grandma Wallis  for how strong willed she was. A couple months back my mom and her sister were discussing bringing in a nurse to help her, but they knew she would never accept a stranger to take care of her. Everyone who worked on the farm had worked here for almost forty years and if they were no longer able to work their children would pitch in. So my mom asked me, since in her mind I was doing nothing with my life, if I would help out. I actually agreed to consider it once my lease was over on my current place. Though pitching the idea to Grandma Wallis was harder than I thought, she didn't like the idea of me thinking she was an invalid, so I rephrased the story of me being hard on my luck and just needing a place to squat for a bit as I got my life back on track. Being from the generation of the Depression Era, my grandma agreed to that easier and offered me the cottage at the back of her property. She insisted that we both keep our independence and I complied to her condition telling mom I would check up on her multiple times a day. That appeared to make both of them happy. 

"Are you sure there are no bugs or mice?" Janey asked.
"Positive, Joe came over here the other day to clean it out."
"Good an almost blind gardener was here, that makes me feel comfortable."
"I am sure he had his son with him," though I wasn't sure at all. "It can be no worse than my place I had on Kelsey St."
"You moved out of that place in a month," Janey was quick to remind me.
"I will be alright."

Now that Janey was a mom she was quick to mom me, which I never minded as I knew she was just looking out for me and as a friend wanted my best in life. But like any mother daughter relationship I had to show her I was self-sufficient.I was going to make this cottage work,  I was going to start and finish my novel here before long and then figure out the next step. That was my life always figuring out the next step. 

This is as far as I had gotten in thinking about it... I don't know where it will go from here, but I will keep you posted. I do like this of this story as I have always wanted to write a multi generational story (or a dual timeline story) so I think this would be intriguing. Right now though I think I have enough stories on my hand for my mind to work out. I have a very bad habit of writing one story and then when another idea comes I put my first story down and switch gears. So far all that has done has left me with notebooks of unfinished stories and I really do want to finish my WIP of "Hope Deferred."

I have to stay focused and continue on. That's all for now from this naive writer, will keep you posted on all my works in progress in my next "Writing Wednesday"

Story time Saturday- Letter #3

Please read previous post for Letters 1 and 2. 

Dearest Aunt, 

I have barely had a moment to call my own since father's wedding. I apologize it has taken me this long to respond to your last letter. You are so good to think of me in your weakened state. I know you will be my confidant in all matters as you only have my best interest at heart. 

I am trying to do my best to look for the best in my new mother and so far all I can say is she is very refined. She has quite a structure to her life I worry that I will not be able to fit into. Usually father is gone making calls before the rest of the house is awake and she takes breakfast in bed, she says it is the way of married ladies, and while this time should be my own she frequently calls me to sit and talk to her. She says I have a soothing voice, however she does not share any of her breakfast with me and when she is changing I find a moment to sneak a bite or two. Then she receives calls in the afternoon, she has yet to make any calls as she states, that she is a new bride and the people should call on her. I feel she does not find Hollingbrooke desirable for she frequently complains about the lack of intelligent conversation. She also laughs at how people people put on airs when discussing the family at The Towers.

She definitely feels an intimacy towards them, I guess being a governess for them all those years ago and being the Mrs. Chemsworth's  special guest makes her feel such ways. Though I hardly understand what she did except to be at Mrs. Chemworth's beck-and-call when the Lady was in the area. Although she must have a been a good companion as both Mr.and Mrs. Chemsworth were at the wedding and their daughter Miss Helene was a bride's maid with me. After the ceremony Miss Helene and I became fast friends though she five years old than me,and she is far wealthier than I could imagine. She sometimes teases about the people of Hollingbrooke, over all she is very kind. She promised as soon as my new mother was settled she would call on both of us. "Mama", as father is trying to get me to say, does not like when I talk about Lady Helene, she thinks I am presumptuous, but I can tell you about her and how I think she is going to be true to her word and call on us. 

Sorry my dearest aunt, a few days have passed, since I wrote the last part. Oh I wish I had a moment to call my own. Mama has had frequent visitors and we have been called to attend dinner at neighbors homes. Mama thinks it is due to her providence of freshness in the town, but I think it is a greater compliment to father. Everyone in Hollingbrooke knows he is best doctor in the county and he is so favored by many families. While the invitations are for mama and father, father is more frequently than not able to attend and I must serve as a substitute. I don't mind much but I do so hate to hear her criticize our always generous host and hostess on the return trip. I am going to own it to the fact she is far more refined than any of us.

Father, told me my new mama had a daughter named Cassandra, about my age, she was suppose to come to the wedding but was unable to make it. I wish she had come she might have softened her mother up. I do not remember my own mother, but I know the way you speak about Ozzie and what a joy he is to you, I feel certain it would have been the same for Mama. However, today I received a letter from her. Mama didn't think it was right that she write exclusively to me but she is so kind in her letter I think if words can prove a person's character I will love Cassandra forever. 

Have to go mama is insisting I come to the drawing room.
Yours faithfully,
Molly

I honestly don't know where this letter writing is going to go but I find it interesting in trying to reconstruct the story of Wives and Daughters by letter writing. If you know the story I have changed a few character names and the town names. Though I love Molly Gibson and the way she is portrayed in both book and film, it is not how I see my Molly, at least not in looks. I want to keep the characteristics the same but I might modify the description (if this continues on). I hope you enjoy these letters and if you have not read the original source please do. 

Free Writing Wednesday

In my last post I wrote I had the desire to retell the story of Wives and Daughters, I sat down to do a little free write and this is what came out. In Wives and Daughters, Molly is sent off to visit Mrs. Hamley as her father, Dr. Gibson, has learned one of his pupils is an admirer of his daughter. Like most dads he freaks out over his little girl, who is seventeen, having a suitor, so he sends her away. In that time she is away Dr. Gibson convinces himself he needs to get a new wife and new mother for Molly to protect her from men. This is kind of the telling of that.

Not a screen shot from Wives and Daughters

Dear Aunt Hen,

I hope you do not mind that silly nick name as you know it has quite stuck since my childhood days when I could not say Henrietta. 

I write to thank you for the wonderful time I had with you and uncle at your home. It was so generous for you to take me in for the entire summer especially since I know you were quite distracted with all the anxiety of my cousin Ozzie's time at Harvard. I am sure he will do quite well and will come home as soon as his time with his friends in New Port is over. Please keep posted on any updates. How I long to hear from you. I wish I was there for I could write your letters for you as I know you have been so very distressed in not in the mood to write.

I do so miss you and the walks in the gardens and even picking flowers for you, I know they always cheered you up. I made uncle swear he would pick flowers for you in my absence, but you know men can never be left to do a woman's work. I miss sitting by your window and letting the summer breeze brush over us.  Oh dear just thinking about it brings tears too my eyes, but I am an easier crier as you know. 

Things are just not the same at home, since I left. Father had a pupil, who was preparing to go to medical school and he is now gone. I can't say Mr. Cox was a great conversationalist but he was pleasant and his wild red hair was quite an amusement. Now without him the house seems almost empty. But I keep busy, preparing the house for my new step-mother who is to come. I know her so little and yet I feel at odds with her already. Oh please do not tell that to anyone for I would hate someone to think I was uncaring. I do so try to do as you say and look for the good in others but it is rather hard sometimes. All I feel is a great separation between father and myself growing everyday. I guess that is what happens when a man is about to get married, a new woman has replaced me in his eyes and in his love for me. 

I shall not write more I fear I have said to said too much. Forgive me Aunt Ham for my wicked thoughts. Please know I had an amazing time with you and uncle and I hope it can be repeated over and over. 

All my love, 
Molly

 

Dearest Molly,

Do not hold back any emotions on my account. Your happiness is my happiness, your sadness is my sadness. I did say to try to find the best in people but I do understand it is hard when you feel so uneasy with the situation. I am sure your father has found a good woman to be your new mother, he is such a good sound man and he would never think of a woman in such a way unless she was completely honorable. But I do know how grieved you were over the suddenness of this all and I cannot blame you for that. Do try to remember your own father's happiness though and how saddened he will be if he thinks you do not like his wife-to-be. No matter what please write to me and tell me all your heartache, sorrows, and happiness I will forever be your confidant. 

You are so kind, dear Molly, to ask after Ozzie, I do so hope his frivolity in New Port will end quickly. I do not wish to sound selfish but so much of my comfort relies on him, especially now that you are gone. Yes, while Arthur tries his hands at picking flowers, for my sake, he is not so nearly as clever at it as you were are. Oh Molly come back whenever you desire, I will keep your room just the way it was when you left. It can always be your oasis.

I am sorry I cannot write anymore I feel so weak, must rest.

Yours truly,
Aunt Hen


P.S-
 I am sure this phase will pass and you will be ever first in your father's heart. 

When you don't know what to write

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Hello lovely writers,

Yes I am writing specifically to my writing friends (but if you are not a writer you can read too)... minus this blog I am not a published author. And I actually don't care if I ever have a published book (I mean it would be great for my stories to live beyond my own little imagination) but for me writing has always been a tool for escapism. However, this doesn't mean I don't want to nurture or grow in my skills as a writer. Now that I am done with school it is one thing I want to spend more time doing. I have even thought about looking into taking creative writing classes (not for a degree) to really work on this craft.

Anyway, on Wednesday night I attended a writing workshop and it it was great... One thing we did was "the leader" put a few pictures on the table and we had to take one and start writing a story, poem, whatever based on that picture. Then 20ish minutes we had to pick a completely different picture and some how integrate it into what we were writing already. Well I was drawn to the first picture (above) instantly... it looked like a pic from a time period I love.* Then the next picture was of a person holding a cross (looked like a rosary) looking as if he was about to cry and a man shouting in the background (sorry couldn't re-find image). It was a great activity to get the creative thoughts flowing so I just wanted to share it with you all.

Here is what I wrote:

"Move it along Teddy," mama pushed the back of his head.
"But Mama look at those men." 
"Move Edward!" Teddy jumped when mama called him by his formal name.

Edward James Coolson was so stately and sometimes it felt unfitting when he looked down at his dirt covered hands and his apron that had numerous patches.

Mama didn't stop and notice the men on the bicycle, she was too busy selling her flowers. She had up on her best dress, with a lace shawl, and her pillbox hat with trimmings and feathers she had sewn on herself. Mama had wanted to look respectable, "respectability sold flowers," she had often said.

Mama didn't stop and notice the men on the bicycle. But Teddy did. Teddy got in trouble for always gawking at the people they passed on the street. To be fair though these men probably wanted to be noticed. They wore bright checkered jackets both of yellow and crimson. One was standing on the pegs of the bicycle effortlessly balancing his weight on his friend's shoulders. "Perhaps they were on stage," Teddy thought for no one dressed so brightly. Black was the mainstream for this neighborhood it blended well with the coal and soot that filled the air. 

Mama didn't stop and notice the men. She hardly noticed anyone that wasn't a customer. She had observed the finely dressed women a bit a ways and nudged Teddy to them. They were in soft linen dresses, one with purple sash, and both with boater hats. Mama always noticed women's dresses before she married Pa she had worked in a seamstress shop and was always pointing out styles to Teddy. Teddy thought it was almost magic the way she knew by how a woman dress if she would buy flowers or not. She knew these women all dressed up would mean they honorable women and honorable women always had a few pennies to spare to give a child in need. Teddy must look to be in need for mama fiercely shoved him towards the ladies. 

Teddy did as mama told him. He wanted to sale her flowers too. Actually he didn't want Pa to yell at them when they came home. Pa was always yelling. He would yell when it was February and they didn't sale anything because the streets were deserted. He yelled in June because he though they could sale more than they had. Pa hadn't worked in months, he had gotten injured in the factory. Mama said it hurt a man's soul not to work. Pa must be taking his hurt out on mama. 

Teddy did as mama told him. He didn't tell anyone about the nights Mama cried or about the bruises on his arms. Pa was always good to hit in places that could be covered up. Teddy wanted to run away but he couldn't, he couldn't leave Mama. Besides once Pa was working again everything would be fine. Pa wouldn't hit or yell anymore. Teddy reminded himself of the nights when Pa would play his violin after dinner, and how Mama would take Teddy by the hand and teach him to dance. Every night Teddy told himself it would get better, that's why he stayed. **

 I am not sure if I will continue writing this story but I did really enjoy getting some motivation for writing and meeting other writers. I know writing can be a really lonely activity so I am glad to meet people with the same hobby as me. 


*-Little did I know it was from the movie "Harry and Walter go to New York" but I knew that guy in the front looked a lot like Elliot Gould.
**- I did some retouching to writing to make it more clean. 

Inspiration Strikes

Or a phone with a "note pad"
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I follow a blog called Inkwell Inspirations that mainly has the focus for Christian writers. It is a great blog to read  in order to remember to combine my faith and my passion for writing. In a recent post they discuss the idea of being a "The Subconscious Writer." She explains this: "Because so much of my creative process takes place on a level even I do not understand. Ideas percolate under the surface, maybe for weeks, maybe for months, maybe for years. At some point they burst out like a geyser. Characters are talking to me, scenes unfolding in my head, worlds evolving, and I’m frantically trying to get them down on paper before I lose them. I’m sure if push came to shove, I could sit down and come up with an idea and craft a book like a normal person, but that’s not the way I typically do it, and it’s not the way I desire to do it."

I feel this is totally true of me. For example I was walking to my dentist I saw these houses and I thought they were beautiful and all the sudden a scene came to me... it is not a scene for the story I am currently working on... it just came out of no where. I took out my phone and pulled out my "notepad" on the phone and began to type. I love when scenes like this come to me it makes my walk abouts more interesting. She ends the post saying "In the end, being a “subconscious writer” isn’t the goal. It’s just the process. The ultimate goal, whether pantser or plotter, is to be led by the Holy Spirit and allow him to flow through every word we put on the page. This is how to write with a godly passion that will cause our readers to fall in love with our stories and transform them from the inside out." 

I agree with this... I don't always want to be a subconscious writer one day I would love my faith to be more and more about of my writing but you got to start somewhere, right?

Here is the scene...

It was a great big Victorian home with intrinsic molding, a minimum of two bay windows, and high pointed roofs. Built in the last decade of the nineteenth century in the heyday of the golden age. While it was all posh and prestige on the outside, it was Ginny Camden grandma's house. The house was filled of memories of her playing dress up and Essie (as Ginny called her Grandma) reading to her the books of Little House on the Prairie and Anne of Green Gables late into the night. She had memories of her summers spent there, she got her first kiss there from Lawrence (who she had a crush on all summer mostly because she was going through a Little Women phase and he not only had the name but had a slight resemblance of a young Christian Bale). In later years Ginny felt Essie was the only one who understood her, in years as a teenager when her parents fought non stop Essie's home was a place comfort. Today was not a day of joy.

Ginny rested her heads against her knees that she had close to her chest. She could still smell the dye in her new black dress. 

"There you are," her mom found her buried in Essie's closet. "I think you should come out and see some people, there are a lot of people who want to see you."

Ginny just shook her head. 

"Some of your friends are here. And lots of food."

Food? How was that suppose to comfort her? No one cooked as well as Essie. 

"Please Genevieve."

She didn't know how she was suppose to get up she could barely stand. Everything about this day felt wrong. This house would not feel the same without Essie sitting at the kitchen table that could look out to the street. 

Ginny just shook her head. 

"Alright Ginny, take your time."

"She's not up to coming out yet," she heard her mom say.

"God bless her soul," a woman's voice responded.

God? Where was God in this? Essie had always been a true believer attending church every Sunday morning and evening, and Bible study on Wednesday nights. If she hadn't gone out that Sunday night she would still be here. God could have protected her. Essie was always going on about how God was a great protector but He didn't protect her that night. God was obviously not there

Ginny closed her grasp around the cross necklace hanging around her neck, she wanted to yank it off, but no strength came. Essie had given her this cross on her last birthday with the inscription "Always love" on the back.

~~~~~~

Okay I didn't write all that on my walk but it just started coming to me. I really want to see where this story goes.

"I am enough"

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I saw this pin and felt the need to write... so this is sort of a free write. "I am enough." Easy words to say, harder words to believe. "I am enough." I have to say it with a long sigh. "Enough" What does that fully mean?

For me it comes with multiple meanings. In my quiet times God has constantly reminded me of his completeness. He is full of love, truth, grace, justice, hope and joy. He constantly reminds me that when I seek completeness from other things I will always be left incomplete. Things of this world our temporary. They are fleeting. They are here today and gone tomorrow. We might feel temporary full but it is gone as quickly as it came in. I constantly look for things to make me feel complete. I look to school, approval from co-worker, friends and family, even a future relationship. But I never feel complete even when I have approval because God is the only one to complete. So maybe that I in "I am enough" is God. He is enough, He is more than enough to fill me and make my life worth something. He is more than enough to save me from my doubts, insecurities, shame and pride. So maybe when I hear the voices of my doubts, insecurities, and shame I should remember God's whisper "I am enough."

"I am enough" another deep sigh. Most of my life I have dealt with questioning doubts wondering if I am good enough... sometimes it almost paralyses. I feel I haven written about this before but I keep coming back to it. My church is going through a series called "My important question" last week a girl talked about shame and this week a guy talked about deserving God's love. Shame she said is the idea that you are a bad person. As many good days as I have deep down I still know the pain of never feeling right. I have gotten so used to wearing mask, for people to see the "Blaire" I want to them to see sometimes I question who I really am. Then I feel sometimes if people saw the "real" me... they wouldn't love me. Even writing that I know that is a lie. But there is something in me that listens to the lie more than the truth. I need to hear God's whisper that "I am enough." He created me in His image, He created me to be His masterpiece, He calls me His child, and His beloved. No matter what I can do can separate me from Him. How can I write those words with out a second thought but it still takes more energy to believe those truth.

That made me think- I am currently a A Voice in the Wind the title comes from the story of Elijah in 1 Kings 19 about how God calls Elijah not in an earthquake or fire but in a gentle whisper. I think God desires us to listen closely to His whisper... it is just hard when there are so many other voices, louder voices but I know God is in the whisper. However, I know God presence is more real than the lies and that is truth I hold onto.

"I am enough" because God is more than enough and I have God to love me. I have God to give my doubts, pain, insecurities, question and shame over to and he will flood me with His hope, love, grace, mercy, wisdom and strength.

This has been a great free write, might do more of them.

Discovering my Mountain

Dear Anne, 

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I have just finished my 3 part blog posting on "Not Forsaken". If you have not read them I hope you will because otherwise this letter will not make a lot of sense. At the bottom of the 3rd post I wrote about how my friend keeps telling of me of a mountain that when God has something he wants to teach us and we ignore Him we will circle around a mountain but never actually able to climb it. As beautiful as I think mountains are I have never been an outdoorsy person. So I apologize ahead of time if I lose the analogy. 

Anyway, the idea of this mountain and circling around it comes from the Old Testament, the story of the Israelite's and their wandering through the desert as they wait to enter the promise land. (Sorry I am also not a big Old Testament scholar so forgive me if I miss quote something). But the Israelite's are lead out of Egypt (and their slavery) by Moses and Aaron and very soon after entering the desert they begin to complain and grumble about how God has abandon them. First they decide to build an altar and make an idol and say that Baal (the golden calf) brought them out of the Egypt. Then at one time they want to return back to Egypt and go back to their harsh life of slavery as they think it will be better than their lives in the desert with God. Because they are not following God they are left to wander the desert. But God has not abandoned them. It is written that a cloud of smoke by day and fire by night lead them (Deuteronomy 1:32,33). Even with having God's presence they still grumble and did not always trust in God. Before I go criticizing the Israelites I should stop, how many time have I grumbled and not trusted God? And so many times when I read the Old Testament I realize I am much like the Isrealites.  I may not have God's presence like a cloud of smoke but I definitely have God's presence in my life. So let me move on...

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As I was working on my 3 post for "Not forsaken" and reflecting on all my post I have already written I discovered something. As much as I write about hope... I still don't know what it means to hope in the Lord and in that I don't know what it means to truly trust in the Lord.  I know to trust in the Lord in the grand scheme of things. I know that the Lord has a perfect plan for me and in that I trust. I also know when I try to take control over my life it feels like it falls apart. But on a day to day basis, I don't know what it means to Trust in the Lord, so I keep circling this mountain. 

how I imagine letting go
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I will admit that I have a fear of not being "good enough." So sometimes I feel I have to watch every step to make sure I am being "perfect" (even though I know perfection cannot be reached). I fear that I am not "good enough" people will see me as the wreck (I feel I often am) and they will stop loving me. So when I think things are going bad in my life, I try to take control in the situation, and fix myself. Though when I try to take control of the situation I slip, I fall and world seems even worse off than when I started. I know it is because I have pushed God away because I want control. So I go around the mountain again. I feel this is a constant pattern in my life. But I am going to change it... so I can go up the mountain and experience all of God's goodness and grace.

As I said I am not an outdoorsy person so I don't really know how to climb a mountain. In fact the last time I climbed a mountain was almost 6 years ago and there was a marked path and I had a group of friends and leaders. While I have no marked path here, I know I have God. I have friends and I have lots of people who speak great truth in my life. 

So I hope to learn how to climb this mountain. 

-Blaire

Free write Friday

This week's feature is from a while back but I thought it was interesting plus it has a major tie into one of my new obsessions.... can you guess.... The Hunger Games.

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(Don't worry I won't give away any spoilers)

I follow this blog called Creative Writing Prompts and on April 20th it had one that used the theme of the Hunger Games... no there weren't any kids fighting to the death. I was a really interesting prompt so I thought I would do it. 

“As long as you can find yourself, you’ll never starve.” - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games

Poetry and Essay prompt: Think about things that fill your emotional hunger. What, besides food, keeps you alive? Free-write a list for one minute. After a minute is up, pick one thing from your list and start an essay or a poem.

To read more click here

I didn't need to think of list I knew what it was that kept me alive, it is writing. I know I should say my friends and my family. That is a much better answer but it is not what came to my mind first. My writing came to my mind first. When ever I need to escape into a world that is all mine, that no one can touch, screw up or destroy I have my writing. I have my own little world and that is where I can go and no one can hurt it. Maybe it is not my writing that keeps me alive maybe it is my imagination, it has been with me before I sat down and wrote a story. It was there with me through all my years of playing dress up and playing barbie. Most girls just dressed up their barbies but I acted out stories with my barbies long before I put pen to paper. I know some people as they get older they seem to lose that world of play and make believe. They slip on their grown up clothes and have more practical aspirations but I still get to lay in fields with daisies and dandelions that dance around me. I still get to wear fine ball gowns and fall in love with a prince. I could go to the moon and back if I so wanted to. I need only pull out a pen and paper and there I will be in my own little world, tucked away from it all. I guess I couldn't live with out my imagination and my writing gets me there.

Free Write Friday

Based off the [Fiction] Friday Challenge at Write Anything.

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #220 [Fiction] Friday Challenge #220 for August 12th, 2011

Include each of these items in your story. Priest, ring, magnifying glass, cat.
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Okay I am just suppose to right anything for 5 minutes....

I am not Catholic so it was strange to me that my mother said a Priest would be coming over to lunch today and I was suppose to be in my "Sunday best". I wasn't sure what my Sunday best was as a family we hadn't been to church in several years so my Sunday best was my house slippers and my baggy sweater. I tried asking my mom why a priest was coming over but she wouldn't tell me.
When I came home for lunch Father O'Leary was already sitting on mother's best sofa, the one that had the soft blush flower design. I was never allowed to sit on it, it was only for special guest Father O'Leary must have been very special that he had been allowed to sit on it. Mother rushed me into the bathroom so I could wash off my face and straighten my hair. I didn't know why mother was making such a show for this priest but she was certainly trying to present us in our best light. I even noticed she had put Hamlet, our cat, outside. He hadn't left the fire escape and I could hear him yelping all the way down the block.
After a few minutes of silent eating, minutes that felt like each one lasted a life time. Mother asked me where my father was. I told her that on the motor bus to work he said he may not be able to come to lunch as his both had him under lock and key these last few days. Father O'Leary then cleared his throat and pulled out a ring from his pocket. I could tell with out a magnifying class that it wasn't really a ring just a gold band and a piece of glass.
"This was your mothers?" he said.
My breath and appetite were gone.
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Okay that was probably more than five minutes but they said to keep writing... that was fun.

Having a bad moment at work... and to get my mind off of it I have come here and will write.

A little free write....
It is the beginning of spring everyone hoped that soon flowers would be blooming and they would be able to put away the winter coats that had burdened them for so long. But it was only the beginning of spring and everyone in New England knew that meant that they still might have one large snow storm ahead of them. The word snow had now become a curse word for Emmy Gregg and she rather live in a delusional world of daffodils and picnics in the gardens then having to deal with the still cold weather that gave her shivers when she walked home from Miss. Cole's millinery. She buttoned her last button cutting off air to her throat, wrapped her paisley scarf around her neck and wished her goodbyes to Betsy and Madeline. She was happy that she got to go home early today and still got the last few rays of sun but she dreaded what waited for her at home.

Mother was waiting for her at home with Mr. Simpson and Emmy knew tonight was the night he was going to prepose. Everyone in the neighborhood whispered as she walked by, a few young girls were brave enough to say "congradulations" as passed them but no one saw the sad heart that beat inside Emmy as she dreaded the idea of marrying Mr. Simpson, a man nearly twice her age, stout in figure and boring in looks. But she would have to say yes, mother would make sure of it. She would have to say yes and soon they would marry and she would be Mrs. Simpson of Commonwealth Avenue the young bride of Mr. Simpson. She would be expected to have three strapping boys and maybe a girl she could spoil and she would attend fine tea parties and maybe a Christmas ball but her life would be fairly routine and posivitely dreadful. But she was the only one who saw the negativity of it all, everyone else of Porter street saw this as a fine match.

Mr. Edward Simpson, born on Porter Street with eight brothers and sisters in an apartment no larger than a hat box. He was the only one to make it out of the dwellings. His parents and three sisters died of a terrible fever that had plagued the city one summer. His youngest sister, was taken away by his aunt to the country and he never saw her again. His eldest brother took off to be a ship hand with a penny to his name and died in the Boer War on the side of the British. The two others died in a drunken brawl. Though Mr. Simpson hardly acknowledged his roots he did give his money to the charitable causes that tried to help the poor of his old neighborhood and gave his membership to the Porter Street Methodist Church. He came every sunday in his fancy automobile and caught all the eyes of the mothers who wished their daughters to marry a fine off man such as Mr. Simpson.

It was on an ordinary Sunday that Emmy met Mr. Simpson. She had known who he was most of her life, he had the best pew in the church that he had paid a pretty penny for. Her father had thought it wasn't right for people to have pay for pews in church and therefore their family had sat up in the balcony. Also Mr. Simpson was the golden statue for the Porter Street neighborhood, every one hoped one day that they too would be able to make something of themselves and get out of the neighborhood and live in a house in the Back Bay. Mr. Simpson owned the most successful mercantile in the South End and soon he had a little chains of merchantiles through out Boston and one in Cambridge. Also Mr. Simpson could not be mistaken in his fine tailored suits and customed trimmed hats. So though Emmy had known Mr. Simpson most of her life it wasn't until the fateful Sunday that that the church held a little social for the newest missionary coming back from Asia and Emmy spilled punch on Mr. Simpson. At first Mr. Simpson was mad and mother apologized profusely for her daughter's horrible behavior. But then Mr. Simpson caught the glimpse of her soft blue eyes, amber golden hair, and fine looks that he calmed himself down and said to her mother's relief everything was all right.