Lost Words

Middle of the night thoughts,
tumbles of beautiful words,
laced together in a sleepy fog,
lost, gone by morning light.

Update

It's been almost two weeks since I've posted anything, so here's a quick update. The time change has screwed with the kids' I watch schedule, so they haven't been napping regularly and I haven't been able to write as much while they sleep. I've actually a little bit been making up for that lost writing time in the evenings and weekends, but at those times I've been writing job applications since I only have my current position through the end of the school year. I've also been thinking a lot about life and career goals and what my long term plans (or perhaps lack of plans) are, but I need to sort all of that out more before I can post anything about it. In the mean time, if you know anyone in PA looking for childcare please let me know.

Stress and Writing... Or Not

If you've ever tried to write I'm sure you've experienced writer's block at some point. It happens to all of us, and about the only way to completely avoid it is to just not write. Obviously just not writing isn't a satisfactory solution for me, so I've been thinking lately about what causes writer's block.

For about a month and a half I was spending fifteen minutes to an hour or more writing at least four days a week, then suddenly for the past week I couldn't really focus on writing any of those times. It's not that I suddenly stopped having anything important to say, or that my time available to write changed at all, I just hit a vague lack of focus and found myself unable to concentrate at any of the times I had been writing.

I'm realizing the biggest reason why – stress. The last time I stopped regularly writing for myself I was highly stressed over my school and work situation. Now I've spent the past week worrying over my finances. I realized my current income to expenses is not sustainable, so naturally I've been worrying. I've been hyper aware of how much money I'm spending, and thinking twice before putting anything I might some day want in the give away pile (I've been working on cleaning my room, but that a whole other subject) just because it might be more expensive than I can replace later, even if I don't need it now.

And my writing suffers. When I'm stressed or worried about something I can't fall into my writing like I do at other times. The stress holds me at the surface and ties me to reality when I would rather get lost in words. At best I do this, and ramble on paper about whatever is bothering me. At worst I can't focus, can't sit still, and find myself pacing the room, fidgeting anxiously, or sinking into depression. In any case I lose my creativity, and I hate that. If I don't have creative outlets I don't feel like myself.

Newness

So apparently I've been slacking on the blog front...

I spent a large chunk of this past fall stressing over work, school, relationships, and my in ability to balance everything. I decided I needed to cut stress, so I planned to make some changes for the beginning of the new year. I also found some unexpected changes happening, which led to a whole lot of newness in my life.

Newness:

Unexpected: New Boyfriend - Ironically, or perhaps by fate, I met a really great guy the day after the guy I had been dating dumped me. He's cute, he's fun, he's silly, he's mature (well, at least in the important stuff :-p), he treats me well, he's a poet, he passes friends' approval, and is all around wonderful to have in my life.

Planned: New Job - working in the daycare center was becoming to much stress, so I decided to look for a job as a nanny and leave the daycare center. The change of pace has been just what I needed, and also left me with more time and energy for thinking and writing.

Planned by Default: No Classes - When it came time to register for spring semester classes I was running short on mental energy to plan what classes I wanted to take. I also wasn't sure what my work schedule would look like, so by default my lack of energy to plan for classes led to me not taking any classes this semester. While it's slightly disappointing that I can't do everything well all at once, I feel good about taking a break from school to settle into other new things.

Added Bonus: New Writing Time and Goals - While I'm nannying I can use the time the kids are napping for writing and such. Since I'm not taking classes I can also use the time I would have set aside for homework to do creative writing. I'm hoping this post will kick my blog back into gear (I even have some other stuff written I intend to post, I just haven't gotten around to it yet). I also have some other writing goals I'm working on, but actually getting stuff posted here again is what is relevant here.

Does it count if it's late?

It's been almost exactly a month since I started working on my writing goal for the year. So far I've been pretty successful. I missed one prompt completely (January 9: Write about a ceremony.), but I had other writing I was working on that day.

Some of my writing has really sucked, but it's been SOMETHING on paper (or computer as the case maybe). I'm also pleased to say I'm really proud of some of the things I've written.

Though initially my goal included posting what I wrote I quickly realized I limited my writing when I wrote with the intention of sharing, so having nixed that part of the goal I'm finding I'm writing a surprising amount of stuff I can't even share with my writing buddies.

Earlier this week I was disappointed when there was a day I didn't find inspiration for the prompt, or any other writing, and couldn't "catch up" for the prompt I missed in the next few days either, but a conversation this afternoon inspired an answer to that prompt.


My belated response to that prompt:

Outside my window,
lightning flashes,
streaking blazes,
as thunder rolls,
gray clouds grumbling,
across purple sky,
to the pounding pulse,
of torrential rain.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: Look out your window; write what you see. (Jan. 20)

Succumbing

Old habits,
die hard.
I've tried to forget,
and never return.

Just one night,
stay away,
a wiser friend pleas.

He knows how I'm hurting,
it's for my own good.
One night and one more,
now repeat that again.

I've been a good girl,
stayed out of trouble,
but the lonely night taunts me.

Just this once...
Just so your not alone...
Just for a friend,
since no ones around.

I nearly succumb,
I think I want to,
until I find,
a better friend,
in just my pen.

Finally!

My cousin and I wrote this story about a month ago, and have been waiting for the entire thing to be published a sentence at a time by Gloaming Gap before posting it elsewhere. I hope you enjoy :-)



“Sleep Tight: A Gloaming Gap Story” by Beth Dombach and Jeannine Burkholder


Dr. Frederick von Bedstein squirmed between the storage boxes and a few stray shoes under Emmi’s bed. It was too neat, and she no longer kept fun things under her bed. The only thing the least bit amusing he found was an old bell with bits of string tied to it, and the cat had already informed him that was NOT for him to play with, nor was it Emmi’s to share.


Em’s eyes shot open and she blinked for a moment into the pitch blackness. “What time is it?” she groaned nearly inaudibly and shifted to see the LED display read 12:47 AM. “Oh my God, SERIOUSLY? That STUPID CAT!” Em froze at the sight of a long-since-forgotten tail slithering under the edge of her bed, the only thing she would possibly be able to see in this darkness. “Ugh, now I’m seeing things too!”

Frederick froze as he felt the bed shifting above him. He hadn’t meant to disturb her sleep. He didn’t even know how he would tell her. It had been years since he’d even stopped by – over ten since he officially retired from being her bed monster – and here he was trying to give her a message. He shook his head to clear it. He didn’t know how he’d make her understand, but her daughter’s safety depended on it. He stretched his hands and examined the sharp claws he’d carefully hid from her as she grew up. Reaching one clawed hand out from under her bed, he scratched noisily at the floor beside her bed.


Em could feel the goosebumps rising on her arms. Her logical grown-up mind told her that she was, of course, still imagining things. It had been a rather stressful day. Several people in her department had been laid off today, including Andrew, the guy on the other side of her cubicle wall. He had seemed nice enough, but he was, like all the other men, more interested in Rachel in marketing… Em saw the claws and her rambling mind stopped mid-thought.

Frederick slowly pulled his hand back under her bed. Even if she was all grown up, he didn’t like scaring his girl, but he had to warn her. He took the oath he’d made so many years ago seriously, but some of the younger bed monsters were less concerned with keeping promises and more concerned about getting attention. His Emmi’s little girl was unfortunate enough to be paired with a rebellious young monster that made no qualms about breaking the lesser of the rules in the oath, and now he heard rumors that her monster would even break the most sacred of laws. Frederick wasn’t one to get in the middle of things, but he knew it would hurt his girl if her daughter were injured, and even after all these year’s he couldn’t bear to see her hurt.


That claw was not the cat — real or imagined! Em had a sudden urge to walk the 20 feet down the hall and check on Cassie. She felt suddenly uneasy, with the sudden reappearance of her long-forgotten imaginary best friend, Mumble… Mubboo… what did she call him? He hadn’t had claws though… at least, not that she’d ever seen. What did this “mutant version” of her strange friend from her past mean? Cautiously, she inched her head to the edge of the bed to look down, feeling silly and a bit like her seven-year-old self. Not sure what she was doing, she whispered, “Mum… Mumbly-Boo?”

Frederick flicked his tail out from under her bed. It had been a long time since they’d played these games, but he hoped to catch a glimpse of the delight she always showed when he flicked his tail. Remembering what he came for he let out a low grumble. He hummed a few lines of her mother’s lullaby – the one he used to try to copy, and then in a low growl he changed to a tune he’d heard make her daughter cry when it came on the tv earlier that evening.


Em was filled with a mixture of pleasant nostalgia and irrational fear. She still wasn’t sure if this whole exchange was real or just a nightmare, but there was something strangely familiar in this. As terrified as her friend made her from time to time as a child, she knew he always had a reason. And she’d learned decades ago to trust him implicitly.

Frederick hooked a sharp claw on the edge of her blanket and gave a little tug. He needed her to get up, needed her to realize her daughter was in danger. If he let Cassie’s bed monster inform her of his existence it could be too late. He growled the scary tune a little louder, willing her to go check under her daughters bed, not that she would see anything there….


The blanket fell to the floor, and Em jumped out of the bed, no longer even wondering whether it was only a dream, and barreled down the hall. She flung the door open in time to see Cassie gasping for air, her face a pale bluish-white. Em reached her side as Cassie’s little eyes fluttered open and she coughed. “Mama…” she whimpered. “C-can I sleep with you? ….I don’t want it to come back….” Em brushed her hair back from Cassie’s forehead. “Of course, sweetheart,” she murmured.

Relief flooded Frederick as he watched a small set of bare feet patter into the room next to his grown-up Emmi’s feet. He heard Cassie’s small voice, so much like his little girl’s, asking if it would ever come back, and felt the bed shift above him. He stretched, readjusting himself to get comfortable under the unfamiliar bed, and quickly pulled the tip of his tail back into the dark.


Em glanced over at Cassie and pulled her closer as the little girl’s eyes widened. Cassie had obviously seen the flicking tail too. “It’s ok, sweetie, it’s just Mumbly-Boo. He’ll keep us safe tonight.”

Writer's Anonymous

Simple words,
spilt on paper,
but they're more,
addicting habit,
spreading ink,
like drops of feeling,
laughing as,
once unknown thrill,
becomes compulsory,
an insatiable need,
the inner poet,
once denied,
demands to be,
the only one,
who speaks,
the true.


Poetry Prompt - Write a poem using "Writers Anonymous" as your title. (Or, "Hi My Name Is")

IHATU

for my Pre-Ker, who's only beginning to find the power of writing

"IHATU",
carefully drawn,
in big pencil lines,
angry words,
in a lined paper book.

A cruel face bares teeth,
upon page two,
all because he couldn't place,
the carrot seeds,
that he wanted to.

Itching to Write

Itching to write,
my fingers twitch,

Eager to feel,
the pen in my grasp,

Slide over smooth paper,
spilling out words,

Unleashing a story,
capturing remnants,

Stray thoughts to challenge,
complacent minds.

Starting a New Notebook

The First Page

Guess what?
I've used up,
every page,
of my last notebook.
A new one calls,
with crisp white page,
just waiting to be filled.
The smell of paper,
fills my nose,
with pen in hand,
I try to say,
the perfect thing,
to start a new day,
in my writing way.



There's nothing quite like the feeling of filling a notebook. It just seems to complete a sense of accomplishment that I've written enough to fill a notebook. I may have written a lot of junk in my last notebook, but I'm proud of filling it and I even think some of it turned out pretty good. So today I'm starting a new notebook, and to start a new notebook I always struggle to find the right thing to say on the first page. It always feels as if the blank notebook is perfect and if I say the wrong thing I'll ruin it, yet all those blank pages call out begging to be filled with words. Good or bad I have lots of words to fill them, I just need to drag those imperfect words out of my head and onto the pages.

Exhaustion

Waiting for exhaustion,

complete and total exhaustion,

The moment I no longer,

have to think,

because the thoughts,

Clambering about my head,

are too jumbled,

to realize,

I'm ignoring them.

Yet,

in the moments before,

as exhaustion just begins,

My tired mind,

confesses the truths,

Hidden deep within,

by my,

more rational,

waking

self.

With dread,

...and longing,

I await,

the moment of truth,

Where honest thoughts,

locked up in fear,

escape,

and rush,

onto my page,

Before my saner,

wakeful mind,

Can shush their daring,

crazy cries.

Writing to God

Earlier I asked my frequently annoying cousin to guess what I wrote yesterday, and one of the things she guessed was a love letter. Somewhat take back I told her I didn't have anyone to write a love letter to. She said I should still write a love letter "just to experiment" and than she challenged me to write a love letter to God. Even as I told her I didn't think I could I knew I would try it, just because I can't resist a challenge....

So I'm not really sure if it's a love letter, perhaps psalm would be a better word for it, but here is what I wrote:

Letter to God

Dear God,
My words are too small,
for your magnificence.

I am but a child,
young,
naive,
unworthy of you,
and yet your love is greater,
than my bravest dreams.

The touch of your breath in my hair,
sends shivers down my spine,
I delight in your power.

You send the sun to shine upon me,
my whole being comes alive,
at the touch of your warmth.

You walk with me in the woods,
I inhale your scent.

I dance childishly in your presence,
yet you sing to my soul,
begging my spirit to commune,
with the world you created

You come to me in the darkness of night,
whispering to me,
awakening my inner most desires,
calming my fears,
with quiet assurances,
of your love.

You pierce my heart with desire,
to care for you in the smallest,
most broken around me,
even as I feel too small,
too broken myself,
to offer my own hand.

When my heart aches to be understood,
you are but an invitation away,
waiting for the chance to touch me again.

Be with me,
I want to feel your presence,
be wrapped in your arms,
touched with your love,
undeserving as I am,
I want to be yours,
always.

Writer's Life

Writer's Life

Is it true?
We're all the same,
just terrified of failing?

Begging someone,
tell us our worth,
to press us,
to keep going?

Does every writer,
with bold,
prophetic,
strokes of pen,
hide the fear inside?

Is it the writers destiny,
to question every word,
to judge,
and say,
it's not enough,
of everything they pen?

Pen to paper,
a magic touch,
and yet it comes with fear,
fear of failing,
fear of falling,
short of what's enough.

Excerpts from "My third Grade Journal"

While cleaning out our old school/craft/storage/everything room earlier we pulled out a box of workbooks and school notebooks my brother and sister and I used. I flipped through a few of the books looking at the work I did and thinking back to when I was in school. We were discussing getting rid of the used workbooks when my mom handed me a small notebook "You might want to keep this."

Wondering what it was, I took the notebook and opened the cover to see "My third Grade Journal" and my name written neatly in my best cursive. I couldn't have even told you that I had a journal in third grade, but it's neat to look back and remember the things I was doing.

In honor of the nostalgia I'm posting a few excerpts, complete with horrible spelling.


First entry:

Tuesday, September 3, 199*
This week I started school and ballet. Miss Becky is my ballet teacher again this year and, I remember most of the girls from last year. My school work is fun. I like science the best but phonics is to easy.


When Nana helped me make a quilt for my baby doll:

Wednesday, October 30, 199*
This week I made a quilt for Joy. I picked 7 different faberics. Next I cut the faberics into 3 1/2 inch squares. Then I sewed them together on my Nana's machine. Next I cut batting and backing. then I sewed the top, batting and backing together. Then I used heavy thread and made 9 knots.


When I was going to Nana's to make a quilt for my sister's doll:

Friday January 3, 199*
I'm going to Nana's house for the weekend. I am excited. me and Nana are going to sew a quilt for Emme. I thingk I'll have fun whith Nana.


Trying to sail (probably without wind):

Mach Friday 28, 199*
Today we trid to go sailing ,but we didn't, we just moddered around. I sawl a person capsised. I was in the lookout touer most of the time!!


Going on a field trip:

May Fryday 30, 199*
Today we when to fish lift. I thoght I knew how it worked but how it workes is totelly different from how I iccepted. My faverit thing was whaching fish zoom by! Nekst stop greek food festavil where we piked-up 3 gyros, 2 dissert sippers + 1 laghe sald. When we got home the kids chached into swim-suits to have some water fun!


* Year removed because I don't want to publish how old I am online.

Snowy Poems

Despite having been fully convinced I could never write a decent poem just a week ago, for the second time this week I've felt inspired to write poetry. Todays poems are:


A Flurry of Contradiction

With shouts of glee,

the children squeal,
It's snowing! It's snowing!

Look it's snowing!

Snow floats free,
soft as a whisper.
Gliding gently, always knowing,

pure magic touches.

Worlds Collide.
A squeal, a sigh,
both magic in their knowing,

snowing way.

Nap Time

Twitch,

fidget,

talk to a bear.

Shhh,

sleep,

Rest my dear.

Quiet music,

dim the light.

Watch the snow fall,

soft and white.

Embrace the stillness

with a sigh,

While in quiet

of sleep you lie.

Honest Nights

I haven't even tried to write poetry in years. I like poetry - when I "get" it - but I've never thought I could write poetry. I used to try, but with about one exception in my life, I never thought I was very good at it. Before I'd graduated high school I'd put poetry on my list of things not worth wasting time on, but late last night I got some inspiration for a poem, and, since I'm trying to embrace the challenge of writing, I actually put it on paper today.


Honest Nights

Shrouded in silence
I sit and listen.
Keys click softly,
breath's a whisper.
Noises unheard in the light,
echo softly in the night.

Go to bed,
my tired eyes say.
I savor the silence,
just a little more.
Wrapped in the stillness of night,
most honestly I write.

In the middle of the night,
my thoughts and feelings
spill upon the page.
I write furiously to say,
things not put to paper in the day.

If only sleep were optional,
I wouldn't have to stop my pen,
when late at night,
I find my voice with honesty to write.

Striking up a Dialogue

The past couple of months I've been working on a writing project. A few weeks ago I sent an early draft of it to a writing buddy, and when she sent it back to me nearly every place there were people she said "Again, I want to see actual dialogue here."

After the initial frustration of wondering what was wrong with my dialogue, and reading a few examples of what dialogue should look like, I set to work rewriting every snippet of conversation into "actual" dialogue. It was frustrating as hell to rewrite all my dialogue. Complaining to my writing buddy about what a pain it is to write dialogue, I stared at the same paragraphs until I couldn't see straight trying to turn them into something my writing buddy wouldn't give me grief about.

I complained a lot, and gave my writing buddy a good deal of grief for essentially telling me my dialogue wasn't real. I think I even told her I hated writing dialogue, but in the end I was glad she pushed me. Somewhere between being ready to cry in frustration over lousy dialogue, and sending my writing buddy a new draft with updated dialogue, I saw my story coming together like I've never seen my own writing coming together before.

I've never really tried to write dialogue before. I've never really tried to write anything before. I've written things, for school or just because, and been proud of some of the things I've written, but I've never had to work this hard or try so much to write something and not given up on it. In the past if something was really truly challenging to write, or if someone pointed out flaws in my writing, I was quick to decide whatever I was writing was just crap anyway.

With lots of encouragement from a few writing buddies, I challenged myself to write more than ever, and then pushed myself to make it even better. There were moments I didn't know how I could make it through the frustrations of rewriting, but the result was incredible. I still can't believe how much a little rearranging and working on the dialogue pulled my project together.

After working so hard it's amazing to see this coming together. It's wonderful to see the result of the work I put into this, and as much as I might have complained about it, I'm so grateful for friends who push me, and glad I've taken on this challenge.

Rediscovering

For years journaling has helped me to cope with challenges and emotions I didn't want to deal with. Through the most difficult parts of my life I've always kept journals, and always carefully hid them, keeping them as a secret haven for my emotions. As a teenager I realized the power of private writing, but as a young adult with with a full time job and other commitments, I haven't really kept a journal, and quite frankly haven't thought much about writing until recently.

In mid October conversations with a friend prompted me to take on a challenging "little" writing project. In working on that project the past month and a half I've rediscovered the power of writing, and come to appreciate the act of writing more than ever. I've embraced the challenge of writing again.

Being more ambitious with my writing than in the past, I'm also trying to embrace the challenge of sharing what I write. Much of my writing in the past has been closely guarded with shrouds of secrecy, and what I did let people see was often the meaningless drivel kind of writing I didn't really put myself into.

So this blog is where I'm attempting to really write - not to write to meet an agenda, not to write the meaningless drivel my attempts at writing fiction always turn into, not to write what I think people want to read, but to really write. Here is where I plan to write what I need to write, because I've realized I do have stories to tell, I can really write, and there is a point to writing.