Ten Years Ago: Reflections

Even today, everything about it is haunting—the sights, the stories and the images. There’s no way to describe it and everyone has a different memory of the day. Some were at the sites, many watched the events unfold on the TV, and others could only listen to accounts through others. The world was captivated by the unspeakable horror.

Ten years after they were taken, the pictures of 9/11 bring it back to life in an instant. Seeing the smoke billowing from the North Tower of the World Trade Center can still stun me to silence and throw me back to my desk at Circuit City headquarters where I was when news of the terror attacks first reached me. Like most of the rest of the world, we watched from afar, not knowing if the plane flying into the tower was accidental, but gravely concerned for those people who were in the building.

As the staff listened to the radio and tried to keep up with the news on the internet, the second plane flew into the South Tower. And immediately the world knew it was intentional; it was no accident.

The news continued bringing details of the attacks and my co-workers and I had congregated in one of the rooms with a TV. The room was silent, every one of us rapt to any new information we could glean from the news. We watched in disbelief as the sky surrounding the Twin Towers became darker from what was to be the beginning of the end for the people in those buildings.

As the minutes passed, we learned of the plane crashing into the Pentagon and the hijacked jet that crashed into a field in Shanksville. The destruction was unfathomable. In many ways, it didn’t seem real. Never in my life had there been an event of that magnitude. The loss of life, of security, of innocence—those are things that can never be recovered from that day.

Though I didn’t have loved ones in any of the attack sites, I ached and was heartsick for those who did. I’m sure the rest of the world felt as I did—helpless. All we could do was look on from the safety of our offices and homes and pray for all those involved.

Please, let them be rescued from the rubble, from the crashes. But, somehow, though you didn’t want to think it, you knew, after the towers collapsed that those people would not be found; there would be no rescues. The reality of it took your breath away. Tragic and unfair and unacceptable—it shook me to my core.

That day changed the world, and especially the USA, forever. Our country had been violated in a way most of us had never imagined. But from the destruction, the country, backed by nations from around the world, united in new ways. Beauty from the ashes.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but each pictures from 9/11 speak so many more than that. I will never forget the images of people standing in the middle of the street, staring at the Twin Towers, crying or the ghostly figures emerging from the clouds of dust with fear in their eyes. Nor will I forget the pictures of the many heroes who were born that day.

I wasn’t in NY or DC or PA during the attacks… but I’ve been there ever since.

Always remembered, forever grateful.

A Walkerton Writer Strikes Again

Our most recent writing assignment was to find a news story and write it from two different perspectives. We needed to use details from the story, but were allowed to take liberaties and add fictional elements as we liked.

I selected a story about a sandstorm in Germany. The storm, however bizarre, caused an 80-car pileup and many of the cars were burned as a result. Here's my take on the story:

Clare

I know I’m forgetting something! I don’t know how people can be ready at a moment’s notice to fly out of the country on business. Some of us need a little time to consider what to pack. What’s the weather? Will I need a dress? Are there any social functions? And that’s just the clothes! What about this crazy red mane? The constant rainy, damp weather in London will be a complete shock to it! It may need special attention to tame. There are just too many variables for my taste. At least I managed to throw some things into a suitcase and head to the airport in the short window I was given. I should consider that a good omen!

Now I just need the traffic to cooperate. The route to the airport is always an adventure. Faint-hearted drivers just stay off the Audubon. I still remember my first time on the famed roadway—saw my life flash before my eyes! These days it is just a way to get from Point A to Point B.

What is going on? Why are the cars ahead slowing down? I hope it’s not an accident. That’s the last thing I need!

Come on, folks! Let’s go! Move ye arses!

Shite! Oh… maybe that’s what people are slowing for! I’ve never been in one, but I’m fairly certain that’s a sandstorm heading this way. It looks just like a summer storm brewing, but it’s a strange glowing brown color.

If we all just keep at this pace, nice and slow, easy going, I might make it to the airport right before the plan takes off. I wonder if they still expect me to be there two full hours ahead for my international flight. I don’t want to have to call my boss and tell him I missed my flight. I’ve only been at my job for five months. I don’t think he’d looked highly on this. I’m supposed to be show him I can handle the responsibility. I’m actually very good at my job—not just another pretty Irish redhead named Clare.

I still can’t believe I landed this position. I moved to Germany nine months ago to live with my boyfriend and I’d nearly given up landing a job at the prestigious Fischer Marketing Firm. Irish luck must have been on my side though—several resumes, numerous inquisitive calls and even offers to work for free finally wore down the Director. Now I need to show them all I am up for the challenge! And the first challenge I have to overcome, obviously, is making my flight!

Right now, all I can do is concentrate on the road ahead, because it looks like I am going to have to drive right into that massive brown cloud. Great. I just paid this car off and now it’s going to get a sand-papering from the storm. I wonder what my insurance will cover in a situation like this. After this, my car may need a new paint job. But if I knock ‘em dead at this meeting in London, I might be able to afford something extravagant like that paint job.

Bloody hell! The wind is really picking up! I can see the cars ahead of me struggling to stay in their lane. I sure hope this storm passes quickly. I am not a fan of driving in less-than-ideal conditions—especially on this road where just keeping up with the masses seems dangerous.

Ok, wee car, just stay on the road. I’ll guide us through this mess. We’ll be on the other side in no time.

Isn’t this grand? I can’t see anything! What’s the point in headlights if they aren’t lighting the road? All I see is the wall of sand surrounding us. I guess as long as I don’t see any other cars I’m fine.

Damn! That was close!

Just a little further, I’m sure of it. How big can this sandstorm be? My palms are sweating and I’m white-knuckling the poor steering wheel. I guess I’m a little more scared than I thought. Deep breaths. I’m going to be just fine. Breathe.

OH NO! NO! NO! NO!

What happened? Never saw the cars—they came out of nowhere. I couldn’t hit the brakes fast enough. They must have piled up in the sandstorm.

Something doesn’t feel right. I can’t move my legs. And I think I’m bleeding. Yeah, that’s definitely blood on my hand. I must have knocked my head on the steering wheel when I hit that car. So much for paying off my car.

WOW. I feel sore in places I didn’t even know were there. I hope someone called an ambulance and the police, possibly a few firefighters to get me out of here.

Oh my God. What is that smell? Does a sandstorm smell like that? Like dirt and burning rubber? It must be coming from the other cloud—that thick, black one ahead. At least I can see the orange sky starting to show through the brown haze ahead of me. God, I hope they hurry up and get me out of here. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe.

Firefighter

What was that noise? How could the world be so heartless and wake me from the best dream ever—spring break in the Caribbean with a bevy of models. Who can I talk to about continuing this dream every night? Note to self—I better not mention this to my girlfriend. I’m not sure she’d have the same fun imaging it as I did.

Ok, Ok. I’m up! I know the drill—not my first fire, people! You’d think after five years on the job here and four before that in the U.S., they’d stop treating me like the new guy. I guess they’ll always see me as the newbie since I’m only 26 and youngest of the lifers on the crew.

Ha! Look who’s the first one on the engine! Take that—I showed those old guys!

Even though I wish I could have stayed in that dream a little longer, I never tire of the rush of excitement I get from jumping out of sleep into rescue mode. I think that’s what sold me on this job. I don’t have a hero complex, but I have to admit to being an adrenaline junkie. But nothing gets me going like a fire. I can’t explain it. There’s just something mystical and timeless about it. Fire has been around forever—it’s amazing!

I didn’t hear the call specifics, only the alarm, but from what I can hear the guys mumbling, it’s going to be a nasty one. A freak sandstorm or something on the Audubon caused a pile-up. I have no idea what kind of scene we will find when we get there, but with that many cars and people involved it’s going to be pretty bad.

I’ve never been one to shy away from gruesome scenes, but a few in my career have tested my strength. Those are the ones you never forget and I hope I don’t ever get used to those kinds of scenes.

Damn! How can the Captain see the road ahead of us? The sandstorm may have died down, but there is still plenty of brown dust in the air mixed with black smoke. I better put my mask on if I plan on getting my job done in this mess.

Oh my God… I’ve never seen anything like this. How many cars are involved? There must be close to 100! We’re going to need more help! We can’t possibility handle this alone!

Snap out of it, Luca. You have a job to get done. No time to waste. Do what you were trained to do and tune the rest out.

Deep breath. First, is the fire under control? I smell burning rubber and am seriously thankful I put my mask on before getting out of the truck. That smoke! It’s moving across the scene before me like a solid being. I’ve only been able to get a few glimpses of how bad things really are. I’ll have to rely on instinct.

Ok, the fire is out. It’s just smoke lingering. The cars I’ve been able to get to on the outskirts of the pile-up aren’t too bad. Of course, the drivers are really shaken up and unable to get out of their wrecked cars, but otherwise alright.

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

No answer. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised since his SUV is now the size of a Smart car. I need to say a quick prayer for him—I’ve done that for all the accident victims I’ve come across in my career. There’s always time for that.

Keep moving, Luca. Don’t linger more than you need to. There may be people still trapped who need help.

Climbing over the tangled mass of vehicles and wreckage, my attempts at finding anyone alive went unanswered. Closer into the middle of the pile-up, cars were blackened with heavy fire damage and no longer recognizable. Scenes like this you don’t know whether to hope for survivors or not. Living or dying through this is something no one should have to go through.

I’m not holding out much hope of finding anyone alive, but I know I still have to check each car.

Only one more vehicle left—another that was fully engulfed in flames. I’m not sure I will ever be able to get this day out of my mind. The number of people killed is astounding. I feel for all the families affected by this tragedy and won’t take for granted going home to my girlfriend.

The sooner I check this car, the sooner I’m home with Clare.

Link to story: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/42497862/ns/weather/t/sandstorm-causes-deadly--car-pileup-germany/

Not for Lack of Wanting

Assignment: Write and 1500 word essay based around & using the sentence "I have never wanted anything so badly in my life." Below is my essay.

I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my life. We were at the second specialist in a week and neither offered many options for the future. Though I tried to remain positive, it was becoming increasingly harder to keep hope for a treatment.

We’d been together, me and Roxy (or Miss Priss as I was prone to call her), for nine years—from the day I picked her out among the kittens available from the SPCA. A wee thing back then and only 10 weeks old, she melted my heart right off the bat when I found her curled up into a slightly older orange tabby. It was a ball of cuteness that even hardened men couldn’t ignore.

Two weeks earlier I’d asked my husband, Aaron, to take Roxy to the vet. She’d had a few questionable outcomes with trips to the litter box and I thought it should be checked out. I also instructed him to have her watery eye checked out. If she had an eye infection, she’d need antibiotic eye drops and I’d wrestle her to get them in as I always did.

The day Aaron took Roxy to her appointment I kept myself occupied with work. Though I didn’t believe there was reason to worry, I tended to find myself on edge whenever doctors were involved.

When I answered the phone expecting to hear news of what was ailing Roxy, I was greeted with a peculiar question from Aaron, “Did you notice this bump on Roxy’s head?”

“What bump? I never noticed anything.” I replied, confused by the question and searching my memory for anything I might have missed.

He went on to describe the protrusion the vet found on her forehead. It was palpable and even visible upon closer examination, but still easy to overlook due to her multi-colored tabby camouflage. The vet didn’t have a clear understanding of the bump’s origin or make-up and tossed around hypothetical diagnoses of a cyst or cancer. Before Aaron brought Roxy home, they performed a needle aspiration and sent the sample off for testing.

I spent the next few days trying to retain positive thoughts, talking myself through the options. If the bump turned out to be a cyst, the fix was easy—lance and drain. Should the test came back as cancer, we’d pick an aggressive treatment plan and take care of the situation. No problem.

Roxy’s doctor called after three days with news of what the biopsy uncovered. None of the scenarios I imagined could really prepare me for the diagnosis she delivered.

Cancer.

Cancer was in her sinus cavity, from what they could tell, but they had not yet done enough tests to determine the severity, the extent and the treatment options. Armed with the name of a veterinary surgeon, I immediately thanked the vet and called the number held in my shaking hand. After explaining the news I’d just received to the receptionist, I scheduled an appointment for the next morning.

Our time with the specialist proved to deliver even more dire news. The surgeon, a quiet man in his late 40s with balding hair, had a gentle demeanor. He spoke softly, but compassionately relayed the information we’d need in order to make our decisions.

“I’ve taken a look at the biopsy results your vet sent over and Roxy does have cancer. From what I can tell, it’s a mass in her cranial area where her sinuses are located. The mass is pressing against her left eye causing it to shift slightly from its socket. It’s also starting to crowd the area shared with the brain.” Dr. Trenton explained.

“Is there a treatment for her—surgery? Radiation or chemo?” I asked, inside praying for an easy answer from someone who had experience.

“I’m not sure which treatment would be appropriate or even useful in dealing with the cancer.” He went on to ask, “Has Roxy had any symptoms? Loss of appetite? Seizures?”

“No, she’s still eating and playing. She might be sleeping a little more, but she hasn’t had any seizures.” I answered.

“I’m very surprised to hear that. With the amount the mass is pressing upon the brain, I thought she would have had a few more symptoms. She really sounds like a miracle kitty.” The surgeon noted with surprise in his voice and further explained. “To really get a better understanding of what we are up against, we should get an MRI. I won’t know if surgery is an option until I get a clearer picture of where the mass is located.”

Agreeing with his recommendation to get further testing, I gave my consent to schedule the MRI appointment.

Aaron took Roxy to the clinic the next morning and dropped her off. She needed to stay there for a while in order for her to be put under anesthesia. It was the only way to keep her still enough for the images to come out clearly. I, again, took refuge in work and tried not to think about what she might be going through. Relief flooded me when the technician called to let me know Roxy woke up from the medication and could be picked up later. I’d happily spring her from the vet’s office as there’s a sadness only a pet owner can understand when they leave with their arms empty.

The results from Roxy’s MRI were explained to us the next day. The news left nothing to the imagination. As we were aware, the cancer had grown into her sinus cavity causing her left eye to shift. Because of the location of the cancer, surgery was not an option and the use of radiation and chemotherapy as a workable alternative had become very slim. Armed with additional information, we were referred to a veterinary oncologist in Northern Virginia. The doctor there was one of two in the state and she had become our last option for Roxy.

I scheduled a phone consultation with the oncologist to determine if the treatment she offered would be a viable choice. After Roxy’s test results and scans had been reviewed, it came down to a few simple questions.

“If Roxy was your cat, what would you do?” I posed, hoping her education and the hypothetical plight of her own pet would help me make a decision.

“I would do the radiation and chemo. Cats tolerate the treatment very well and have little to no side effects. From the results I have seen in our office with other cats, this might help her.” She responded.

“Will this cure her?”

“No, with this type of cancer, it’s very likely that it will come back in about six months. I have seen some of my patients last longer though. One even lived another year and a half before recurrence.” The specialist offered matter-of-factly.

I hung up the phone and suddenly felt the serious decisions looming heavily before me. I wished for many things: to crawl under the blankets and pretend like everything was ok, to find a miracle cure for Roxy, to let someone else make the call. Unfortunately, none of those things happened and I went about going over all the options in my mind.

Life went on as usual at home, with morning escapades and evening cuddle time where Miss Priss was showered with affectionate rubs. She still kept herself busy with her old tricks and habits—sitting on the back of the sofa to look out the window, attacking her brother, pawing us in the morning for food and partaking in meal time when she got her way.

After a very emotional conversation with Aaron, I decided to go ahead with the radiation and chemo treatments, all the while feeling in my heart that Roxy was one of those cats who would do well and survive longer than any doctor ever thought. She would be a survivor. She was a miracle kitty, after all.

Perhaps it was because I knew Roxy was sick that I began to notice her need to get away and hide in strange new places in the house. And maybe because I knew she was sick that my imagination started to drift to places I didn’t want to consider. Finally, I had to admit to myself that there was a real possibility she might not recover. The more I thought about it, the louder the voice of my heart became. If it was this hard to go through Roxy’s illness, how could I put her—or myself—through it all another time when she got sick again? I couldn’t. I called the next morning and cancelled the treatment.

As the cancer progressed, she slowed down a bit more—longer naps and fewer romps with her brother. She never lost her affectionate side or her playful nature and because she still seemed so much like herself, I struggled trying to understand how I would know when it was time to make the final decision.

Though I had spent the last few days in a constant state of sadness and reflection, I was able to clearly see when it was time to take Miss Priss on her last car ride. The cancer growth had progressed in such a way that her left eye protruded greatly, causing the eyelid to flip inside out. It was a sign I could not ignore and asked Aaron to call and make the appointment.

As we drove home after Roxy’s last trip, tears ran down my cheeks as my mind flashed through the wonderful times I shared with her. What a miracle she was to my life!

Sometimes It Just Comes to You

I had a line stick in my head enough to make me want to write about it. Tonight, with pen in hand, I sat down & put it to use.

Tribal

She counted on me
In her time of need
I was not enough
Most assuredly
She required more

A time before
On the cusp of eternity
Where life stood
Long and high before me
More than exist
Thriving and dominating
Designed to conquer
And I did

Stark shadows loomedI
n the impending darkness
The connect was lost
Electricity once flowed
Powerful and defining
From my hand, my gift
Not potent nor healing
Now twisted and fated

Crimson waves cascaded
Through secreted openings
Pounding beats echoed
Rhythmic and circadian
Of ancient lore and tribal wisdom
Passed from elder to me
And I, wiser by opportunity
Watched the last of her
The end of her line
Fade before me
With knotted hands.

In case you were wondering what "the line" was that stuck with me, it was... "She counted on me."

Example of 10 Minute Writing Exercise

In both the Creative Writing class I just finished & the Walkerton Writers Group I just started, ten minutes seems to be the magic number for the length of time we should get for a writing exercise. Depending on the topic, ten minutes can be too much time, too little time; move too quickly, move not quickly enough; and sometimes, just right. Typically, I don't get too caught up in finding the 'perfect' story to write about. It is a ten minute exercise, after all.

In my first Walkerton Writers Meeting last week, we were given the writing prompt "I've never been so scared in my life" for our exercise. In my ten minutes, I wrote the following:

I've never been so scared in my life as I was when my little dog, Orion, ran out of the house on that dark night in January.

I opened the door to step outside to retrieve the mail and before I could close it behind me, he was through my legs and down the stairs. I didn't expect him to go far since the ground was covered in days old snow and he's only 15" high to the tips of his perked ears. Unfortunately,m Orion had other plans, taking advantage of the cleared paths and shooting straight down the driveway to the street.

A million scenarios flashed through my mind as I considered how I might find him in the dark. Without a flashlight, there was not enough light to navigate my way through the banked snow. Yet, going inside to find a working flashlight sounded like a time-consuming effort in futility. Still, I opted to search for a flashlight, quickly found one and ran back into the freezing night calling the escapee's name.

I paused every once in a while to listen for the telltale jingle of his collar and continued dow the street in hopes I'd picked the same direction he'd chosen.

After what seemed like an eternity, I turned into the darkness in time to see glance my way and attempt another escape. Calmly, I knelt down, lured him closer with loving, sweet sounds. He ambled my way, crossed right outside of my reach and raced down the street in the opposite direction. The same direction from where I saw headlights approaching in my direction. I doubted the oncoming traffic would see such a small pup, so I did what any mother would do and stood in the middle of the road.

... and then she called time. Ten minutes was up.

An Anchor in the Day

Another Creative Writing assignment... the last for the class...

I scheduled Friday for an appointment away from work and used it as an excuse to stay out of the office all day. It gave me the chance to sleep in late and not rush out the door still bleary-eyed as I usually do.

The weather cooperated by summoning up a beautiful sunny, yet very blustery, day. I don’t mind the wind; I love the sound of my wind chimes clanging their unique song. And where other people look to the treetops in fear of when they might topple over, I become lost in the way their spindly arms dance and sway from side to side. As much as the ocean waves lull me to deep sleep, so does the sound of the wind rounding the corner of my house.

With time to spare before the appointment and an intense need to keep myself busy while I waited for Aaron to come home, I pulled my well-worn journal out and perched on the edge of the bed. Leaning closer to the nightstand, I reached out and snagged my favorite pen—or perhaps, pen of the moment—and let it slide into the familiar groove in my hand.

Comfortable… that’s exactly how I felt grasping a pen. Sometimes I have an overpowering urge to write, but nothing in my head to write about. So I grab a pen of assorted color and take note of the way the ink flows over the paper or the way the paper absorbs the ink. I keep going, writing nothing, scribbling anything, until my hand gets tired.

As I waited, I let my feelings about the morning and the impending appointment cascade in waves from my mind onto the paper. Soon the page was covered in neat, controlled purple strokes, reminding me of the beauty in a handwritten love note. Lost in the moment, I didn’t give consideration to words or sentence structure but realize the casual observer wouldn’t even have a passing interest in the content.

Suddenly, my concentration broke with the sound of my cell phone playing “Shameless” by Garth Brooks. Aaron was calling—perhaps he was nearby. I paused to take the call and heard Aaron’s voice on the other end, “I’m in the driveway. I’ve been down here for a few minutes.”

“Were you planning on staying down there much longer without telling me you were waiting?” I asked.

Begrudgingly, I capped the pen and put it back on the nightstand. I hated disruptions when I was trying to get my thoughts on paper, but this couldn’t be helped. I had an appointment that needed to be kept. One thing was certain however—after the meeting, I’d have more than enough to write about. I had better check my pen stock!

It's All in the Nose

This week's in-class exercise was writing about a smell or sound that evoked a memory. Specifically, this had to be a bad smell, something stinky, something gag-worthy. Yeah... something goooood.

In the ten minutes we were given, I wrote the following...

I dreaded coming home this week. I know what will be waiting for me when I get there. The dead squirrel smell.


It seems a squirrel, along with friends, chewed through the siding on our house right outside the master bath. The view from the ground was pretty remarkable - two feet wide, a half a foot tall - the hole was indeed gaping.


I don't know how many squirrels were in the posse that wrecked the siding, so I couldn't even guess the number that used the space under the tub as their own Motel 6. Seems like we did indeed leave the light on!


When we realized there was an infestation, my husband set traps - first for mice and then for rats. Both varieties walked away, leaving no victim behind. Aaron then resorted to poison, but we still didn't know if it worked.


Days later, I noted a new scent in the bathroom. Trash? I wondered. Does it need to go out? Aaron bagged it and took it to the curb. Yet, the stench remained.


The next day the odor was stronger. I knew where it was coming from, but still looked for other reasons. Unfortunately, the siding repairman also noticed the smell - a cross between something very rotten and something overly aged.


Aaron came home that same day to inform me he, too, knew it was the scent of a dead squirrel likely killed by the poison and continued to compare it to a less pungent version of a dead body in a crime scene house.

...lovely...

Busy Bee

I have been busy! Between Creative Writing & a new online class with Alisa Burke all about sketchbook art & techniques... plus there's the little book that I am thinking about/trying to write - where do I find time for that pesky little job? Or sleep? Or eating?

Sounds a little like I might need an assistant!

This past week was the first of the online class. I found it very inspiring - full of videos and photos! I am a visual person, so this is perfect for me! I even managed to get to know some of my old art materials again & come up with the following results.

I used different materials and tried out how they blended together.

I used regular ole Crayola markers and water to make these colors blend. I also used a purple gel pen for the edges.

I tested for water solubility with pens I was using. Some are just average writing pens.

Something I did to work with watercolor, design, black Sharpies and 3D paints.

I like the 3D paint effect!

Tomorrow is Week #2. I can't wait to see what inspiration comes! If I am lacking in creative avenues, there's always my Creative Writing class on Tuesday!

Now, when did I schedule that vacation???

Random Facts Writing

A recent assignment in my second session of Creative Writing was to pick a random fact from a list of 31 facts we were given. Once your fact was chosen you were to include it in your writing. For me, this exercise posed a few questions: how long should this be? What exactly am I supposed to write about - fact or fiction? In the end, the writing was short & true.

Read on...

I look out over the balcony to the clear water and can see the reef below. Before coming to Belize, I had never seen such clear water--a clarity that reigns in the Caribbean. Pristine waters, sandy beaches, hammocks in the shade of palm trees all seem to be trademarks of the Caribbean islands. Every vista is postcard perfect.

Back home, the bluish-brown expanse offered little hope for glimpses of the teeming underwater world below. During the many visits to the beach in my youth, I believed this was the way of all large bodies of water. Certainly none could be clear enough to see to the ocean floor! The massive amount of sea life, areas of pollution and typical changes in the weather patterns that affect the currents make it a logical conclusion that ocean water would be churned to a murky shade.

Then I took my first trip to the Caribbean.

Was it the color, the temperature, the vibe of the tropics or crystal blue water that struck me the most? They say the color blue has a calming effect, that it causes your brain to release calming hormones. If that's true, I can understand the laid back mentality of the islands. Blue is all around you--in the sky, the water & the colorful buildings. It's more than a fleeting feeling of relaxation; it's a blanket that envelopes you, shifting your attitude and mood.

I imagine waking every day to find the blue once again greeting me with its soothing effects. It would be a world with little stress and nothing that couldn't be fixed with a journey to look into the depths of the clear sea. Envisioning a world below the water's surface and how peaceful the creatures must live in the blue, day after day, would be enough to transport me to another mind-set.

The Great American Novel

Creative Writing class is over for this session and I feel as though I have been renewed with the desire to write more. Not only write more, but write BIG! In this case, big means that I've decided to write a novel.

Now, for those of you who know how much I like to read Nora Roberts books, don't worry -- this is not a romance novel. Actually, I'm not at all sure what kind of novel it's going to be. I know whatever it ends up being, it's going to fantastic... it's also going to be a best seller... and it's going to be turned into a movie!

That's not asking for too much. If I'm going to put all the time and effort into a novel, it needs to go the distance.

So far I'm on page three, but I have characters in my mind with a little story behind it. I'm not sure how it's all going to come together... I'm just hoping it does! I guess when we see my name on the best seller list we'll know it happened.

Well, I have to get back to writing...

Laptop vs Pen

Let's be honest... just about everyone uses a computer in this day & age. And why not? They (usually) make things go much faster and smoother. All your information, documents and photos can all be stored in one central location. I agree - very easy!

In my creative writing class we've talked about when to write, where to write, how to write, etc. It seems that most people tend to use laptops to write and keep their thoughts on. What ever happened to the good old fashioned pen and paper?

If you've been to my blog before, you've likely seen me talk about my love of pens, but it's not just pens. I love paper too! I have all kinds at my disposal and I am always on the lookout for more!

To say that putting pen to paper is a pleasure for me would be an understatement. I feel so much more connected to my writing when i take the time to sit with the paper, to get to know the pen. Nothing can take away the feeling of the ink gliding on the texture of the paper (because we know that paper is not all created equal!), catching the color. Some inks take their time to dry, risking a smear by the movement of the writer's hand; some shimmer in the light and then lay themselves down to permanent contrast on the paper.

Don't get me wrong, I love my laptop too! It's keep me in touch with friends & family I wouldn't be able to. I'm sure you all know those who would rather receive mail than to send it. Email & social networking has made allowances for those people & given them a much better way to communicate! And, along with those people, I'm happy to take advantage of it!

People often compliment my handwriting and I simply say "it's practice." And it's true, I write whenever I feel the urge and, most of the time, the urge is great. I feel the words & the pen & the paper. They all go hand-in-hand. One would not be complete without the others.

In this technology heavy world today, pen & paper is still this writer's only true option.

Creative Writing Exercise Results

One class began with the instructor asking us to make a list. Each item on the list had to begin with "I Remember...". There was no task other than the list. So I made my list. It was 2 pages full of remembering. We set that aside & went onto something else.

Later in the class she asked us to get our lists out (the lists we do are never just 'lists'). Instructions were: pick one of your memories & write about the feelings we had for 10 minutes. Below is what i wrote:

I remeber the feeling of utter belief the moment the medium started my reading. All my life I'd be entranced by the paranormal and those things that cannot be explained. So when he began to ask questions that made it sound like we were once friends, I knew my experience with him would never be forgotten.

"Was there confusion with her passing?" he asked.

"Yes," I responded, my voice reflecting my amazement.

He continued... "Are you a painter?"
"Do you try & talk to her yourself?"
"She's referring to a 'Bobby' with regard to your husband. Does he know a 'Bobby'?"

Yes! Yes! Yes! To all of it! I wanted to jump straight out of my chair & discuss one-on-one with him how he did it. He was on the money and I was ready to ask for lottery numbers.

Another class a few weeks later we were asked to pull out our "I remember" topic again & write about one specific feeling or moment we had (for 10 minutes). That writing is below:

The room was ice cold. We were advised ahead of time to dress warmly, but they neglected to mention the need for parkas & portable heaters.

Though it wasn't explained, I suspected connecting with spirits is enough to raise someone's body temperature. This meant the rest of us, the paying audience, were plunged into subzero coolness.

I wore a sweatshirt over my long-sleeves & several times wished I'd brought gloves, scarf & possibly a ski mask. I couldn't see my breath yet, but with every click of the a/c turning on, I knew it was only a matter of time.

My mom was sitting nect to me, her fleece jacket zipped to her chin. She's the type who is cold in the middle of summer, so I imagined it took a great deal of willpower not to shiver & shake right out of her metal chair.

The medium looked quite comfortable in the chill, wearing only jeans & a long-sleeved cotton shirt. He wasn't rubbing his hands together for warmth or wiping his nose - a side effect of being in the cold too long. No, it was as if he was radiating his own heat. Too bad it wasn't reaching across the room to where I sat.

Where Have I Been?

Mi madre has been making comments lately about the lack of posts on my site! I know, I know... it's true. I've been bad! But... I have reasons - lots of them! Stay tuned & I might just tell you about them!

I *might* be writing about:

~~ my 20 year high school reunion
~~ the reading I had with the medium
~~ all the birthday festivities in my family (though, not mine!)
~~ my creative writing class + possible examples
~~ Halloween with my pup

See? All good reasons to stay tuned! I'll be back!

Being Brave

In my creative writing class, the instructor touched on a topic that many of us have in common.

Fear of criticism.

After reading an excerpt, a writer's take on being critiqued & critized, she told us something that I'm going to try & remember.

Writing is a very personal thing. So personal that it takes a certain kind of person to put their ideas on paper and let others read it.

That kind of person... brave.

When the rest of the world is giving their opinions on what you write, remember that YOU have the guts to put it out there. You were brave enough to take that chance.

That's more than many people will ever do.

Gettin' Along Creatively

I've been to two Creative Writing classes now & I am definitely enjoying them. Thus far we have been given a few exercise to do in class. Once everyone has written on the 'topic' for 10 minutes you can choose to read to the class, summarize your writing or pass on it. Believe it or not, I haven't passed... I haven't summarized... I've read all the things I've written.

Our first class started with introductions and answers to the questions of "why are you here?" & "what do you want to get out of this class?". Several people wanted to learn more so they could continue or start to write novels. Someone just wanted more instruction on the 'how to's' in creative writing. I just wanted some sparks to push along the written creative word. I didn't tell everyone I also want to write the Great American Novel and become rich... getting screenplay offers & having to move to New York or California to further my career.

"Hi, my name is Amie. I'm a graphic designer. I have a blog. I need more ideas. It's hard to be creative 24/7."

This class is a great environment to be in - one where you aren't judged on content & grammar & 'the point of it all'. We all know we were only given 10 minutes to write. No masterpiece is likely to come from that little time. (Doesn't stop me from hoping though!)

We also listen to the instructor read passages from books that she feels are examples of the 'theme' for the day. Granted, I don't 'get' some of these stories, but I am eager to put these new thoughts & skills to use.

Our first class started with us making a list of things we were 'obsessed' with. (I'm sure you aren't surprised to hear the first thing on my list was 'pens'). There were other things on the list, but i won't bore you with those details.

The second class started with the class making a list of people who had made an impression on our lives. This 'impression' could have been good or bad. We're never told what we will take of these names, so we blindly make a list.

The instructor: "Now that you have your list, pick your 'character' and write about them in such a way so we will learn about him."

Ok... here goes nothing.

He knew he should have left the house hours earlier. Of course he did—everyone told him so. He thought there’d be enough time—he knew his way there and even an alternate if he needed it!
But today was not his day. They were starting the game—well, at least the pre-game rituals—players warming up, fans loading their arms with the most expensive beer & hot dogs and the Star Spangled Banner being sung—all without him.


Pounding his fist on the steering wheel & calling all slow drivers by made-up vulgar words did nothing to speed up the traffic. The Red Sox would play without him. Play they would, but not very well, not without him.


He listened to the game start over his car speakers, imagining the field as the players took their places. He’d been to so many games every nook & cranny of the area of memorized. Despite his irritation at being caught in traffic and missing the start of the game, he couldn’t help but cheer on his team. He knew they needed his support. He was, in his mind perhaps, their biggest fan.


He arrived at the stadium 30 minutes into the game and hadn’t missed a moment of the action thanks to the radio. However, faced with the long trek from the parking lot to his well-worn seat overlooking third base, he paused. What would he miss? He just knew they’d make the best play of the night in the time it took him to settle in with the rest of the fans. Perhaps he should stay in the car and listen to the rest of the game from there. No, he was their biggest fan and they needed him… he started running.

Angels Among Us

Earlier this year, I signed on to become a Chemo Angel. There are different levels of Angels and I opted to become a Card Angel. I was to be assigned someone who is fighting cancer at this very minute. What was most appealing about this organization was that, I would be 'required' to write cards & letters, uplifting messages (or, in my case, boring topics about me!) and the occasional, small gift. This option was perfect for me because I write all the time anyway (I dont know what I am writing, but there is pen in hand)!

It took a little time before I received my assignment, but I finally did this spring. That's when Moonstone (yes, this is just her name while in my blog) came into my life. Moonstone is a young woman currently battling evil breast cancer. She's married & has an adorable little girl... and she's going through chemo.

I've had great fun these few months thinking of topics to write about, finding different cards to send, looking for small gifts to send in the cards. Somehow I find words enough to fill the cards, but I'm not at all certain she's not tossing them in the circular file when she gets them!

Ok, that's not completely true... I know she looks forward to these cards. We have become Facebook friends & i get to 'see' more of her & how she's doing through that portal.

I am so proud of Moonstone to have kept such a positive outlook on things even as she's going through the treatments she is! I'm not sure I would be as strong as she's been. I can tell from the things she writes, the comments she receives & the wonderful vibe that she exudes how special she is. She has a deep & obvious love for her family & friends & it's infectious!

There are days when I can't think of anything to write - you know, I don't have a rockstar life! - but then I think of Moonstone & all she's going through & how this little thing I am doing might be making her smile on a rough day... and suddenly I have a burst of inspiration!

I have high hopes that one day I won't be writing to Moonstone... at least not as a cancer patient. I am hoping for beautiful days - cancer free days - filled with more family & friends & love than she can handle!

If you are looking for a small way to help someone dealing with cancer, think about becoming a Chemo Angel. It's one of those easy, feel-good things everyone can do!

Can you Learn to Write Creatively?

That is a question I will attempt to answer in the coming months. You see, I have enrolled in a creative writing class. It's through the county parks & recreation program, so it's not going to be too taxing. I just hope it's full of inspiration!

I'm going to write "the great American novel" after all. But, first, I need an idea!

I think what I am looking forward to the most is having time to focus on writing. It's actually something I enjoy. I know other people feel that it's more chore than pleasure, but, for me, having pen in hand is relaxing & freeing & comfortable.

I've written fairly regularly in a journal since I was a sophomore in college (& if we do the math, that is 16 years). It's changed over the years from the way I actually write -- as in, handwriting -- to the things I write about, to the people who have come in & gone out of my life, to the format of the journal (sometimes more drawing & inspiration than reflection). One thing remains the same... no matter where I am, you can pretty much guarantee that I'll have pen & paper with me! (ok, pens are a given since I am a pen freak, but paper is another story!)

Currently I am trying to keep an 'art journal' in addition the traditional type. I have been inspired by this blog (Alisa Burke). Such amazing stuff! Just goes to prove there is inspiration everywhere - you just have to look for it!

And in the coming weeks you should be on the look for creative outpourings of a struggling writer! Don't say I didn't warn you!

Perhaps a new career?

I don't know if you have noticed, but I like to write. It's not just in this blog either. I also write notes, write letters, write poems... Now, I'm writing articles.

It all began a few days ago... (well, not the writing, but the article part).

AriCaVa started writing articles about Landscape Design in the Richmond area for examiner.com. Sounded interesting... so I talked to her about it. They are always looking for writers for the area you live in and they have a variety of topics you can write on. All you have to do is select what you are interested in writing about and submit your prose samples. "The powers that be" review your submissions & let you know if you are "in."

It's a little like joining a special group - a club that not all are invited to join. Actually, it was a flashback to portfolio review in college!

My sample article was about... you'll never guess... General Hospital. Yeah, the soap opera. I must have done good because they invited me onboard to write for them!!!

Now, I'm going to be the Richmond TV Examiner. Shocked that I am going to write about TV??? I doubt it. It's something that I tend to work into my life just about every day. Thus far I have written 2 articles, one about Americal Idol/Ellen's first week; the other about The Bachelor Season Finale.

Based on several criteria, you can actually earn MONEY by writing these articles. (Don't come claiming I owe you money, it's not that much!). I haven't really figured out what i need to do to rake in the $5/week, but I'm working on it. If you see my article link - click, it. Humor me.

New Year's "Resolution"

I am, by degree and overall skillset, a designer and crafty person. Before i went to college for art, i loved drawing & creating things. But college is where i fell in love with it.

I always knew i wanted to do something in the art field, so applied to VCU. For those of you who don't know, you have to submit a portfolio to even be accepted to their art program (as is the case for most art schools). Talk about stressful! It's a lot for a teenager to handle, thinking that something they drew would be the reason they did or didn't get into college. Needless to say, i got in & the next 4 years were history.

For the first time, i found myself surrounded by like-minded, creative people who didn't think about academics, but how the figure moved on the paper, how to capture an expression on film, etc. It was the best time of my life. I would go back & do it all over again in a heartbeat (I can't say the same of high school!). I remember feeling so absorbed in my creative self - everything was art back then. I lived & breathed whatever projects and skills we were working on in class; i stayed up many long hours just to "get it right."

Outside of college, i have had fewer jobs that employ my real creative side & though it's not something i regret, it's something that i miss. I miss the critique of peers - those who knew what good design was. I miss the surge of creativity that has to be captured RIGHT THEN. I miss being able to look back & see what i created.

I haven't completely forgotten my creative roots, i've just had to harness them in & use that energy for other things. I scrapbook now, still draw on occasion, take photos, do graphic design, write stories and poetry, etc. But i long for the days when i could just sit down & let whatever was in me flow out.

Just recently i decided that i was going to make a new year's resolution and it was going to be one i stuck to. It wasn't the typical "lose weight" (which is something i need to do) or "save more money" (another something to do) or "spend more time with friends & family" (this is something we all should do)... this year, the resolution was to do something creative - write, draw, paint, take photos - once a week. The key to this success is that it had to be something tangible. At the end of 2010 i have to be able to look back and see 52 creative endeavors i have taken on AND COMPLETED this year. I have already started & i'm actually excited about holding myself to this resolution.

I'm hoping this opens up that part of me that has gone a little dormant over the seasons... i'm looking for the true creative me to emerge - like the proverbial butterfly from its cocoon - ready to see the world in a new array of colors and images.

What am I? #2

You've seen this before... guess "who" is talking.

"I remember when this place was full of life - the small families with their babies beneath us, sheltered from the storms and cooled from the sun. I am quite a bit older now, I admit, but that doesn't mean things had to change so drastically. There had to have been a way to avoid this ending.

I'm so lonely.

Once upon a time, my little sprouts were with me. They grew up like all young ones do, their faces to the sky. It didn't take long and they were as tall as I am! Oh, I was so proud then.

However, nothing compares to the pride I felt when they began their own families. Most of them ended up spreading their roots in the same area; other, taken on the wind to new & exciting parts of the world.

But now... I'm all alone. The journey ends with me. Of the family I loved & cherished I am the last. I hate it. I never expected to be the last to be standing - it's not right!

My lush homeland is now barren & silent. There are no more children playing in the grass, no families calling this home. It's only me. I fear once the seasons change and the heat of summer turns to the icy cold of winter, even I will fall to the hands of fate.

Some say I can serve a better purpose by giving up my life, but I cannot agree. Without me, the last of this place, who will hold the memories of how great it was? Who will even remember I was here? Who will remember this place was once full of life?"