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Archive for December, 2013

Post number 134 will be my last of 2013. This blog has blessed me with the motivation to write regularly. It has been a forgiving outlet and encouraged me to rise after each fall. It has connected me with like-minded disillusionaries dreamers and brought me out of my writer’s shell. Okay, I’m still kind of working on that part. Maybe if I ever end up being the only living member of my family left on this planet, I’ll get truly gutsy, but let’s hope I never come to find out.

I’ve come along way since March of 2011 and I, in large part, credit blogging. I’ve written so much more than I ever would have. I began building a Writer’s Platform which I never would have known about if it weren’t for blogging and I’ve been spurred on to enter several writing contests. I’m even anticipating the publication of my very first contest-placing interview, due to hit the newsstands January 7th. Yes, me! Who would’ve thought?

I gave up the resolution thing years ago. Vowing to cut out sugar, keep my room tidy and stop biting my nails started to seem like trivial declarations and evidently incredibly impossible ones to uphold.

So, although I will not be making a list and taping it to the back of my headboard this year, I do have certain aspirations in mind. I won’t bore you with the numerous subcategories, but will simply say, writing. Apparently, you don’t need resolution to hang on to resolve.

Please have a happy, safe and resolute New Year!

Please have a happy, safe and resolute New Year!

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I usually try to keep it to myself because it may be a little dark, but my favorite Christmas song is Fairytale of New York

by The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl.

 

Perhaps it’s the way the lighthearted melody contrasts with the heaviness of the lyrics. Or maybe the writer in me is embracing its brutal honesty and hidden truths. It might even be the Celticness of it all, I don’t know, but whatever it is, it has an impact on me every time I hear it.

 

It’s raw. As the Irish often are. It’s real. Emotionally based. And it’s deep.

 

There’s something to be said for someone who has the grit to celebrate an imperfect life, holidays that turn out less than wondrous and writes lines like; “I could’ve been someone.”…“Well, so could anyone.”

 

Shudder.

 

It’s alright to admit your life hasn’t been perfect. That you’re not perfect. I remember, in a writing class years ago, the instructor told me my main character was too perfect. No one wants that. Imperfection is what encourages strength and growth. It makes us legit. Interesting. Three dimensional. Tempting. Addictive.

 

We can all be someone. Just the same as anyone. But different. We all get that chance. We just have to take it. And use it well.

 

Keep living. Keep fighting. Keep dreaming.

 

And don’t let anyone take any of that from you.

Behind every song

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At least I don’t have to wear the crippling stilettos or the breathtaking (no really, I can’t breath) party frock while puzzling over extension cord hell, wading through the tangled light swamps, while fighting mean crowds for a Black Magic Box or when searching the aisles for the perfect fuzzy socks.

I didn’t mean to rhyme that last sentence, I swear. I’m pretty sure you can tell from the imbalance I created by doing so. But…’tis the season, right?

Everyone’s in a jolly, rhymy, singy type of mood. Yes, even me. Well, maybe not jolly and singy, but it seems rhymy isn’t a stretch.

If you read my post from last year I’m sure you’re worried about this one, but I’d like to ease your mind. I am in a slightly better position this time around. Our lights, although there can never be enough for the kids, are up and all are glowing. Our parlour is as finished as it’s going to get for now and looking rather festive I must say, swagged with seasonal set dec and sprouting a spriggy Spruce.

Christmas 3

I’m bought and wrapped (around each of these kid’s fingers that is) and the chimney is ready to soot that red suit.

Christmas 1

Extra! Extra! I’m shoutin’ it loud from a snow-laden rooftop near you. It’s down to the wire folks, and  I hope you’re as ready as I think I am because, as merry as it is, Christmas waits for no one. Naughty or nice.

Christmas 2

Christmas 4

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Behind the scenes. Voyeur.  Inside your head. Backstage. Rear of the lens. Peering through the looking glass. A diary writer. A journal reader…

Like whiskers on kittens and warm woolen mittens, these are a few of my favorite things.

It’s true. I mean, who reads Anne Frank’s diary in Maui? Yup, me and I won’t mention that it was my second time around. Oops.

There’s something to being let in. A privilege in being handed a key to a heart. There’s magic in maps to uncovered minds and I am so thankful that I’ve been blessed with a desire to dig.

Though, in all my wordy (not a typo) wisdom, I have somehow never read “bird by bird” by Anne Lamott, a tragedy to be sure.

Bird by Bird

The book came creeping ‘round years ago. Its praises sung in my presence more than a handful of times, its renowned reputation preceding a cozy dwelling in my sluggish brain.

“I don’t have time to read.” I’d protest. “I’m too busy writing pure crap!”

Turns out it’s the kind of book that sits particularly well with me. From the first sentence Anne is human and we, as readers, are welcomed into the life that’s led her to be the writer she is today. It’s a backstage pass to the secret place where all my favorite bands hang out.

And I’m happy to be a groupie.

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This is a post I wrote in January of last year. I’d forgotten about it until someone recently repinned it on Pinterest. I decided to give it a bit of a tweak and repost because it’s one of the few things I’ve reread of mine and actually sort of liked and I’m really, really, no stupid busy right now and this is better than not posting at all. I hope you like it too.

Once upon a time…

Today I set out to write a meaningful, poignant tale, light enough to laugh and bruised enough to ache, but I got distracted by the shiny, sparkly WorldWideWeb shouting; “Squirrel!”

With a click of its heels, I was whisked away to a world where there can be, at times, a little too much information. Perhaps you’ve been there…

It’s a land where lies hold truths and certainties can be deceptions, genuine appears false and fake sports authentic. There’s shelves lined with jars of endless hope and stacks of dusty, old boxes containing eternal damnation. And it’s right at our fingertips for mere breadcrumbs and while tasting sweet, it can be ceaselessly damaging.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t have letters following my name or awards in my bio, I don’t have any notable education in writing and I don’t work in a profession relating to my passion and what I dream will eventually become my career.

It’s dizzyingly easy to fall down the hole and find darkness in place of dreams and tempting to give up and let the bad wolf blow our houses down and yes, sometimes irresistible to believe the sky is falling, but the good new is we have a choice.

Finding the girl that fits the glass slipper or coming back from eating that poisoned apple is not easy, but no one ever said it would be. Nothing magical worthwhile ever is.

It does help though, when we know our unfolding fairy tale is being heard by whoever should nestle in to read the never-ending story.

Poisoned Apple

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