Word Up

Confession- I have SIX posts that are in the "draft" stage.  My goal is to finish them up within the next couple of weeks.  Wish me luck!  Here's one I started a few weeks back.

Seems the thing to do these days is to choose a word to use as inspiration for the year rather than doing a whole list of specific resolutions. 

The idea was intriguing to me.  Would choosing a word help me focus on becoming better, rather than completing goals just to check them off of a list?  Would a word be specific enough, or do I need something more tangible to reach for?  Some years I've done really well with resolutions, other years I make them forget about them by January 15th.  To be honest, recently I haven't made any at all. 

Since I've been thinking about choosing a word for several years, back in December I gave it some serious thought.  What word would I choose?  I love words so narrowing it down to one was nearly impossible.  There are so many wonderful and inspiring words.  Love, Serve, Celebrate, Inspire, Create, Rejoice, Grow, Move, Connect, Nurture, Organize, Cleanse... really I could go on and on. 

As I thought one word came back to me again and again.  When I said it it rang true for me and what I need to focus on.  Balance. 

This year I will strive to:

Balance my Time.

I will allot my time with discernment

I will give my time to what is to what is best over what is good or better

Minutes may be spent on the inconsequential

But Hours will be my gift to the significant

Each Moment will be dedicated to Him. 

Balance my Energy.

My reserve of energy will be spent wisely

The energy I am blessed with will be used to bless others

I will enrich My Loved Ones, My Spirit and My Home through my actions

I will recognize the limitations placed on myself and others

I will accept them with love

Balance my Body.

I will acknowledge my body as a creation of a loving Heavenly Father

I will care for it accordingly

Now you tell me, what's your word this year?  Write it down and put it where you will see it often.  After all, "Goals in writing are dreams with deadlines."

My hope concerning my blogging hiatus...

... a real post is in the works.

 

Thanks for stopping by.  :)

My recent blogging journey...

Confession:  I've been feeling a little discouraged with blogging lately. 

I think that it's normal for those of us who have a blog to wonder; "Is this a valuable way to spend my time?" "Does anybody read what I'm writing?"  "Does it matter if nobody reads what I'm writing?"

Before I go on, let me explain that I don't worry a lot about numbers of comments or followers.  I know that my little blog is a tiny grain of sand in the endless beach of the Internet.  There are a gazillion other blogs and websites out there.  I know that I have a small circle of friends and family who regularly read what I write and I'm okay with that. So, I've never been concerned that I only have a few followers.

Having taken the time to explain that, I will now directly contradict myself.

I logged onto my "dashboard" the other day and noticed my number of followers was down.  Down!?  The number didn't bother me, I mean, there's not a big difference between 4 and 3, right? What bothered me was: Why would someone who had enjoyed reading it stop enjoying it?  Have I been offensive? (I'm sorry!)  Has the quality of my posts declined that much? (It's summertime around here, give me until the kids go back to school, things will get better!)  In short, I started feeling insecure.

Later, I was on the phone with my sister.  As I joked with her about blogging she posed this question, "What is your goal with your blog?"  She'd asked a legitimate question, and I couldn't answer it.

Is my goal fame and fortune? Doesn't interest me.

Do I want to land a book deal? Seems like a huge stretch of the imagination. 

Do I want to reach 10,000 followers?  I only have 9,996, I mean 9,997, to go!

So, recently I've been wondering "Why do I do this?"  Not in a woe is me (why-do-I-even-bother) way, but in an introspective (why-am-I-compelled-to-do-this) way.

Then I came across this post at Daily Writing Tips.  It outlines 5 reasons to keep writing, even if you are feeling discouraged.  It was great for me to remember why this tiny blog is important for me.  Maybe it will be a good reminder for you too?

Five Reasons Why Your Writing Matters
By Ali Hale

#1: It’s Not Just a Hobby

Non-writers often think that writing is some casual hobby – and not a very productive one at that. After all, you might sweat for days on a story, and it still might not get published. If you took up knitting instead, you’d at least have a lumpy scarf or a pair of socks to show for your effort.

Writing isn’t just a hobby, though. It’s a calling. Writers don’t pick up the pen (or turn to the keyboard) because they’re bored – they do it because they feel compelled to put their thoughts down on the page.

Your writing is part of who you are, and it’s not something to take lightly.

#2: Your Writing Can Outlive You

We’re all going to die one day. Of course, memories live on – but eventually, there’ll be no-one alive who ever knew you.

Your writing may well outlive you. Perhaps you’ve not got an audience for your memoir right now … but it could be an incredible treasure for your great-great-grandchildren. And if you’re a poet, playwright or novelist, you might find that your work lives on long after your death. Just think of Chaucer, Shakespeare and Dickens.

Your name could be one that every school child knows in three hundred years’ time.

#3: You Can Change Lives

Most of us have a pretty small circle of influence: family, friends, colleagues, our local community. Writing, though, lets us reach across the world. If you have a blog – even a blog with ten readers – you’re touching other people’s lives.

It always makes my day when I get an email or comment telling me how much one of my blog posts meant to someone. Often, I’ll hear “this came at just the right time for me”.

Your writing could change someone’s life, by opening up new possibilities for them, by teaching them something new, or simply by giving them an experience that they wouldn’t otherwise have had.

#4: Self-Expression is Important

If I don’t exercise, I get cranky – and if I don’t write, I get cranky too. I do some of my best thinking with a pen in my hand, or with a keyboard under my fingers – and I’d bet that you do too.

Being able to get things off your chest and onto the page can be extremely therapeutic – more so than simply talking about problems. The contents of your journal might be ephemeral but the act of writing it might be crucial for your well-being.

Fiction or poetry can also be a crucial outlet, letting you explore emotions and ideas, and bring structure to them.

#5: You’re Improving with Every Word You Write

Perhaps you’re tempted to give up writing because you’re not good enough. Perhaps you’ve had nasty comments on your blog, or you’ve sent off your short stories again and again, meeting with rejection each time. Maybe you’re worried about how to find a literary agent.

Even if you’re not quite there yet, you’re learning and improving all the time. Every single word you write helps you to hone your craft and take your skills further – especially if you’re actively seeking to learn new techniques.

If you give up now, you’ll never know what you might have been capable of.

I will continue blogging because:
- Writing is a part of me
- Maybe my own posterity will find value in my writing
- Maybe someday my writing will touch someone else
- Writing is a way I can express myself
- I have sincere desire to improve my writing

Gimme a Break

I have an affliction.  I have known for some time about this particular affliction of mine but I am still struggling to keep it under control.  It all started when I was in Mrs. Pratt's tenth grade English class.

Standing in front of the chalkboard, our bespectacled teacher instructed us on the proper usage of commas. 

"A comma marks a natural break in a sentence," she explained. "Use a comma where you would take a breath when talking."

Her instructions made sense to me and gave me confidence in using commas.  I made peace with those tiny, backward "C's."  Where once I was unsure and reluctant I became bold and would use them without restraint. "When in doubt, use a comma," became my mantra while writing.

But somewhere along the line my certainty in wielding the comma began to waiver.  "Would I really breathe there?"  "Is that a natural break in that sentence?"  "Does this comma make it sound like I am breathing or panting?"  Time after time, comma placement has lead to a litany of questions until, here I sit, mistrusting every comma that I write.  The barrage of comma questions that I have repeatedly heaped upon myself have led to my current condition- CPD (Comma Placement Disorder).

The Internet is a place where people can come to find support and strength.  Maybe, my coming forward and giving a voice to this condition will help others do the same.  If you, or somebody you love, suffer from CPD please, know that you are not alone.

Together we can conquer the comma!

Caged

Recently, I have been searching for writing blogs.  I have had an itch to read what others have written, to learn from them and then go and write myself.  Inside I have an urge to put words on paper (or in this case, type words on a computer screen) and to let my sentences unfold themselves into ideas like a majestic bird unfolds its wings preparing for flight.  First, a few tentative beats of those great, silent pinions and then the unfettered leap into the boundless sky.  Circling and soaring, I want my words to curve and spiral, soundless and powerful.

I have read beautiful accounts of grief and healing.  There are moving writings about motherhood and the pain of infertility.  The more that I read, the more motivated I become.  My restless fingers itch to feel the smooth plastic beneath them and my ears long to hear the click, click of the keyboard.  But the words are trapped.  Somewhere between my mind and my fingertips the sentences are kept caged with clipped wings.  This flightless frustration makes me anxious.

I feel stifled by insecurity.  Reading what others write is inspiring and intimidating in the same moment. The blink, blink, blink of the impatient cursor seems to urge me forward, asking for more and more words that just won't come. Each letter takes effort, each syllable is a struggle but soon the white space fills.  Without resistance flight is impossible so, taking the time to sit here and write (even about not being able to write) brings with it a sense of satisfaction. To think of words and construct them into sentences quiets my needy fingers.

Since starting this blog (a year ago now) the need to write envelops me on occasion.  There are times I have other things to do but the words must come out.  There are times that I haven't a clue what to write but that doesn't suppress the need.  This feeling is reminiscent of my middle and high school days when English was the class that I looked forward to everyday.  In class I would write and for homework I would write but soon I wrote because I needed to write.  Melodramatic stories and sappy poems would pour out of my pen and fill up my notebooks.   

The first paper that I wrote for my Sophomore English class was about my most embarrassing moment.  The day that it had to be turned in I held my lined paper in my hands anxiously waiting for Mrs. Pratt to call for them.  Instead, she asked for volunteers to read their papers at the front of the class.  I had no intention of sharing what I had written on that piece of paper with thirty of my peers but somehow my hand shot into the air. 

I found myself shaking in front of the class, reading what I had carefully written down.  The words came out of my mouth but the voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.  As I read, I heard reactions from my audience, a gasp here, a low chuckle there.  I took a tentative look around the room.  Every face was turned to me, looking expectantly.  "What happened next?" was their unspoken question.  Gaining confidence, I read on.  When I reached the end of my narration my classmates applauded enthusiastically.

That day I recognized the power within words.  The power to portray emotion, to captivate an audience, or to understand a situation that is unfamiliar.  Words in a book can pull me into their world and make me regret when the last page is turned.  Words that I write, although I feel inadequate, help me feel understood and free.  So, although my attempts are imperfect, there are times when the words need to be written, times when my clipped wings need to try again to take to their natural urges and soar.  

The Fish

(a limerick)

There was a fat dog from the hills
Who decided she needed more thrills
So she fell to the ground
And rolled round and round
In a fish rotted through to its gills

The fish recently splashed in a stream
But a coon came along, it would seem
It reached in a paw
Caught the fish by the jaw
And sat down for a meal from a dream

The coon had just started to feast
When interrupted by a great beast
A big hungry bear
Was suddenly there
And quiet quickly the coon was deceased

The bear took his meal on the run
Wrapped the coon in a frankfurter bun
The fish was forgotten
And it laid there just rottin'
'Til the fat dog went searching for fun

This is my first attempt at a limerick.  Maybe you'd like to try one of you own?  Here's a link to get you started!

The Swing

There was a tall, tall swing 

standing proudly in Grandma's yard. 

I was cradled by the black, plastic seat,

holding tightly to the cool, metal chains.

The wooden frame stretched up, up

into the inviting blue sky.   

back and forth

back and forth

My toes softly brushed the grass,

combing through each tender blade.

My hair rushed around my face,

tickling my cheeks, my nose.

Then gently it was pulled back,

a curly comet's tail trailing behind me.

back and forth

back and forth

I leaned way back,

closing my eyes.

I heard the swoosh of the wind

flooding my ears. 

I saw the hazy red-orange

dancing behind my eyelids.

I smelled the sweet, pink roses

growing under the kitchen window.

back and forth

back and forth

My mind was quieted

by the steady, soothing rhythm.

I dreamed of flight,

soaring while seated.

I embraced this freedom,

sweeping, and weightless.

"What's better: backwards or forwards?  Write a story about a swing...Can you capture the swing's rhythm in your writing?"  I found this writing prompt at this Random Prompt Generator.  Now have some fun writing your own!

Snapshot

In the photo album on my shelf is a snapshot of the childhood version of me sitting next to my Grandpa.  One of his arms is cradled around me while the other cradles a storybook.  His blue eyes are framed by his characteristic browline glasses.

This was a common scene on Sunday evenings when I was young.  Grandpa would gather us around and read unfamiliar stories from old children's books; stories about a skinny kitty and a heart-shaped house. 

Grandpa's gravelly voice would capture and keep my attention until the inevitable "The End."  His words painted colorful pictures in my mind and seemed to have a life of their own.  Sitting next to my Grandpa, wearing my pink Sunday dress with matching barrettes in my hair; this is where my appreciation for books began.

When I think of my Grandpa, the moments I remember best are the ones we spent on his velvety brown and orange couch, book in hand; moments like the one that is captured in the photo album on my shelf.


This post came from a writing prompt at creativewritingprompts.com.  "A picture is worth more than a blank page.  Take out those dusty photo albums.  Pick out photo #14.  Count however you like, but make sure you stop at photo #14...Write all of the feelings that photograph made you feel.  Don't censor yourself.  Just write."  Now pull out your photo album and start writing! 

The Beast

Laundry is a beast; a stained, stinky, sneaky monster.  It waits patiently, quietly in the darkest corners to be discovered.  Fear of its terrible tactics haunt me; unrelenting, ever-expanding, never showing mercy. 

Day after day I battle with my tireless nemesis, never gaining the winning advantage.  Victory is just out of reach and when, at last, it seems within my grasp the beast rears its ugly head again; soiled-sock-teeth bared menacingly.    

The endless, circular cycle gnaws at my resolve.  Beady-button-eyes glare at me through the sides of the laundry basket; taunting me, teasing me, daring me to start the fight afresh.        

I found this writing prompt here. "What household chore do you like the least?  Write about why it is your least favorite and how it makes you feel."  Now go put your hatred for ironing, vacuuming or whatever chore you can't stand down on paper!

I Remember...

I remember walking across the "busy road" just outside our neighborhood to get a soda in a glass bottle and thinking we were so far from home.  The end of the neighborhood felt like the end of the world.

I remember getting in a fight with Corey, my older brother, and telling him that I hated him, then feeling terrible afterward.

I remember running away from home, then coming home and realizing that nobody had noticed that I had been gone.

I remember riding bikes around the block pretending that our bikes were horses.  My horse was named Dirty Snow.

I remember my 9th grade English teacher calling me "Little Larrabee" because she had taught both of my older brothers.  I hated being called "Little Larrabee."

I remember wearing my Sunday shoes out onto the iced-over road and "ice skating" until my toes were so numb that I couldn't feel them.

I remember watching my Mom and Dad kiss every night when he would come home from work.

I remember making up songs with my sister and singing them over and over; annoying every other member of the family.  They had such original lyrics as, "Shiny dime, red elastic, yo, ho, ho" repeated three times.

I remember weeding the garden on Saturdays.

I remember crying as I watched my dad set our dog, Princess, gently into a deep hole he had dug in the garden after she died.

I remember running home from church because I had to go to the bathroom. I got there just to find all of the doors locked.  I looked in all of the window wells see if one of the basement windows was open and instead found a baby bunny.

I remember Marci straightening my hair with a clothes iron, it was a frizzy mess and Marci called me "Richard Simmons."  I cried.

I remember my Mom telling me that her dad had stars in his eyes.  I went into the bathroom and stared in the mirror for hours at my eyes; wanting to find something of him in me.

I remember falling off of the neighbors' trampoline, face first into a pile of loose dirt.  I stood up, mortified, covered with the fine powder. Trent Angel looked at me and said, "I've heard of girls powdering their faces, but that was ridiculous!"  I couldn't help laughing.

I remember when my Mom and Dad disagreed about something, my Mom would always say, "Honey, can I talk to you in our bedroom?" and all of us kids would say in a sing song voice, "Ooooh! Dad's in trouble!"

I remember stepping into the mud as I reached for cat tails that grew along the stream in the park, and learning why we called it "poo mud".

I remember re-doing my bedroom with my Dad for my Laurel project.  It was done in shades of green and white; I thought it looked so mature.

I remember Marci re-did her room a couple years later.  Hers was done in bright, primary colors; I thought it looked so immature.  She told me my room looked like a grandma's room.

I remember driving in the family van to my Grandparent's for Sunday dinner.  My youngest sibling, Tyler, said, "I can punch myself in the face and it won't even hurt."  He punched himself as hard as he could and then burst into tears.

I remember pretending to be a pioneer, walking along the dusty trails, having only "cheesies" to eat.

I remember getting a running start to brave my way through the tall sunflowers that drooped heavily over the sidewalk.  The grasshoppers hiding in the thick weeds would jump up and cling to my arms and legs, leaving their brown spittle in tiny puddles on my skin.

I remember sneaking into the storage room and eating marshmellow cream straight out of the jar.


The idea for this post came from Tiffany at The Would-be Writer's Guild.