I've been such a scattterbrain lately. I really thought life would resume normality once my little kiddo goes to school, but while this week has been a success for her (she LOVES her teacher, she's gotten a NEW BESTFRIEND on the very first day, and the school lunch menu has 3 meal choices now--and "Mommy, there is cake on Thursday!"), I've been lost in the wanderings of my own mind.

So. I haven't done any real writing, haven't been reading a lot of your wonderful blogs, and I've just been in a general sort of funk. Not the sad kind, more like the "What am I going to do and Where am I going next?" kind of a thing. Sounds like a midlife crisis, but no, it's not. Besides, I'm not THAT old. :D

I guess I'm just going to ramble now. Feel free to stop reading whenever you want--I promise I won't get offended. ;) Sometimes I feel like I have to do things--for instance, I've been thinking about how I haven't even blogged about writing tips, or anything remotely helpful or thought-provoking. Then I see all the other blogs in my RSS Feed and they've pretty much covered everything else I wanted to say or write about. I stare at my WIP and the old doubts rise up to attack me: You call yourself a writer? Do you even know what you're doing? And then the ever annoying chuckle, followed by: You dish out writing advice and you can't even follow your own advice?

Sigh. Get out of my head, you miserable Mr. Doubt! And take Ms. Self-Pity with you on your way out!  

If only it were that easy, right?

To pass the time (who knew I had time to pass?), I've been doing some digital art work. It's my therapy. The interesting thing I've come to realize is that when I'm creating visual art, my writing gets stoppered with a cork, and vice versa. It's like I'm only allowed one creative outlet at one time. What's up with that? Maybe this is one of those conundrums: You draw, you can't write, OR you can't write, so you draw, OR you write, and you can't do anything else at all. HAHA!

Writing this post seems to help me rope my brain back into my noggin. Maybe, just maybe, I'll get some writing done today. Crossing my fingers now.

I wish you all a fabulous, productive weekend! May the MUSE be with you. :)

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Because I'm a scatterbrain, I forgot to give you the link for this week's Skeleton Key blogvel Chapter 12 by the ever prolific writer, Michelle Simkins. 

Also, J. Lea Lopez of Jello World hosted a sexy short story contest called Clothing NOT Optional. J. Lea writes romance and erotica, and her challenge was to come up with a sexy story where the characters steam up the page while keeping their clothes on. No nudity. I normally don't write sexy stories but peer pressure, and the challenge to write out of my comfort zone, made me cave in. There are four entries up on her blog, and the voting is now OPEN for readers to choose their favorite story. I won't tell you which one is my story so it will be a fair contest, as all entries are anonymous. So head over there to read and choose your favorite (hopefully, you'll like mine). You are allowed to blush, btw. It's ok, I won't tell anyone.

Today I'm excited to have my wonderfully talented blogger friend, Michelle Simkins of Greenwoman guest post for us (and in turn, I'm a guest poster at her blog). She's a writer, knitter, gardener, radical homemaker, and friend extraordinaire. I think we're in for a really cool treat. So sit back, relax, and enjoy. I give you, Ms. Simkins.


So I've been thinking of my dad this week. Of course I have--Sunday was Father's day.
My dad was a good guy. Kind of quiet and a little bit of a hermit, but clever and steady and responsible. He worked his whole life to support his family, and he couldn't wait to retire and live the life he wanted.

He never made it that far. He died of a heart attack in his early 60's, too young, too soon, too sad.

In the years since his death, I've often thought about how unfair it is that he gave so much of his life to take care of us, but didn't really get to do all the things he wanted to do. He didn't like his job--it sucked the life out of him. He was holding out for a some day that never came.

The tragedy of his death drove home a major lesson for me.

You should do what you love right now, because you might not be here tomorrow.

You hear it all the time. Carpe diem, etc. etc. But it's TRUE people. It is so true. Life is brief. Make sure it's full of what you love.

I'm not saying you have to quit your day job--though if you can swing it, I highly recommend it. What I'm saying is make room for your passions. How do you do that? Well, as I so often do, I have a LIST for you.

No Means No

There's this word. It has only two letters. The word is "No."

Say it with me now: "NO".

You can use "no" whenever you want to do the thing you love, and someone else wants you to do something else.

Practice in front of the mirror.

If you can't bring yourself to do it? Record someone else saying no. Carry the recording around with you. When someone tries to interrupt the thing you love, play the recording. Make yourself a sign and hold it up. I don't care how you do it. Just do it--and stick to it.

Be Selfish

You don't have to be as selfish as me. You don't have to be selfish all the time. But for the sake of that thing you love, you must be selfish. You must find your time and place to do that thing you love, and then you must guard it more jealously than any dragon ever guarded it's hoard of treasure. The strategic use of no will help you with this. Also, turning off the damn phone. You don't have to answer it just because it rings. You don't have to answer your door, either, and you don't have to go to that all afternoon Candlelight Party when you'd rather stay home and bake a souffle. Guard your love selfishly, or others will trample it into the dust.

Permission Granted

Give yourself permission--officially--to have what you love in your life. Write yourself a permission slip and hang it on the wall if you have to.

Need someone else's permission? Fine.

I, Michelle Simkins, being, according to at least one person on Twitter, the Queen of All, hereby grant (insert your name here) permission to do what (s)he loves. Furthermore, I forbid the placement of guilt upon his/her shoulders by herself or any other individual, living or dead, henceforth now and forever.

There. Feel better now?

Make a List

Make a list of reasons you should do what you love. Here, I will get you started.
If you give yourself what you need, even in small doses, you will be a nicer person.

You will enjoy greater mental health.

You will probably also enjoy greater physical health.

It's easier to get out of bed in the morning when you have a good reason--like getting to do that thing you love.

You will, very likely, love something in to being that has never been before. Something no one but you could ever create. It would be irresponsible of you to deny this needy world the fantastic fruits of your labor of love.

This list, of course, is secondary to the main thing--which is that you, by virtue of being alive, deserve to be happy. We all do.

Follow Your Bliss

So you don't think much of my authority to tell you what to do? Fine, ignore me. But you can't ignore Joseph Campbell, the amazing author of a whole mess of books on mythology. I'm going to leave you with this quote of his, from the interviews he did with Bill Moyers in the late 80's called "The Power of Myth". If you haven't seen the videos/DVD's of this series of interviews, you need to get your hot little hands on them right now and read. They are thought provoking, fascinating and inspiring.

Bill Moyers: Do you ever have this sense when you are following your bliss, as I have at moments, of being helped by hidden hands?

Joseph Campbell: All the time. It is miraculous. I even have a superstition that has grown on me as the result of invisible hands coming all the time--namely, that if you do follow your bliss, you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while, waiting for you, and the life you ought to be living is the one you are living. When you can see that, you begin to meet people who are in the field of your bliss, and they open the doors to you. I say, follow your bliss and don't be afraid, and doors will open where you didn't know they were going to be.

From Michelle's garden

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As this is the summer of bloggerly love, I am guest posting at Michelle's blog, so head on over there and check out my LOVE-ly post. ;) Have a wonderful day, everyone!

My grandparents lived on a hill in an island, and to get there we had to ride a ferry boat, drive several miles to get to the bottom of the hill, and hike up the path to their house on foot. As kids, it was quite an adventure. As adults, it was literally painful--sore legs, achy backs, and numb arms from carrying whiny kids who refused to use their own feet.

But as soon as we'd get to the top, the view of the ocean and the coconut trees waving their fronds at us was breathtaking. It was worth the climb and the sweat and tears.

By mesonprojekt

My grandpa owned several animals: dogs, roosters, chickens a-plenty and their little chicks, geese and goslings, ducks, pigs, a cow, a carabao (water buffalo in the Philippines), goats, and of course, his pet monkey. Who needs a zoo, right? We loved it there.

I could probably tell you a million-and-one stories of our adventures, but I will only tell you one today. My siblings and I witnessed the birthing of three little kids plus one--a runt. Sure we were seeing one of the miracles of life happening right before our very eyes, and yes we didn't care for the gross details of it, but we were more focused on the baby goats and the idea of "owning and naming" them. We couldn't actually take them home with us--my mother would've had a big fit. But we were ecstatic when Grandpa said we could pick our favorites. So naturally, we fought over the prettiest, or the biggest, and no one wanted the runt, which was scrawny, covered in slimy goo, and was quivering on its four thin legs. When my younger siblings started fighting, I, being older than the rest of them nitpicky lot, took the runt for myself and named it after me. Yes, I did. I was feeling sorry for myself, I believe. Poor little Cherie! (the goat, not me.)

By BryanAlexander

Our squabbles over, we ran around like wild ducklings and chased each other until it was time to go home. Down the hill, back to the dock, across the sea, and more driving--at which point, we were probably snoring in the backseat of my dad's car.

A few weeks later, we went to visit our grandparents. This time, high excitement ruled the day at the prospect of seeing our goat counterparts (yes, the siblings were copycats and also named their goats after themselves) having grown a little bit bigger. Would they remember us? Would Grandpa let us play with them?

At the top of the hill, we learned the truth. A snake had eaten the kids. Only one survived. And that was poor little Cherie, who was probably too slow to keep up with the others and thus escaped their fate.

*closes story book*

What? You're waiting for the moral of the story? Good grief people, must I do everything here?

Oh, alright. Here it comes.

We, unpublished writers, cramming in our hectic days and sleepless nights into a Word document filled with dreams and sighs and longing....

We, of the unseen, unacknowledged lot who squint at the screen with blurry eyes, with fingers cramped from typing, and not getting a darn thing for all this work we're doing....

We, who keep on writing because to stop would be to carve out our souls, like Jack o'lanterns come Hallow's Eve left hollow and empty on doorsteps, our grinning faces plastered on for the world to see while we die...slowly die and rot inside.

We are the runts who watch from the sidelines, biding our time because we know. We are survivors of countless heartaches enveloped in standard rejection forms. We are survivors because we stand on quivering legs and keep on standing.

We are artists who dare to dream. For in dreaming, we live and create life. This is who we are and we do not forget.

Our journey is our own--whether through vast waters of staggering depths, or steep hills under the scorching sun, we keep on moving. We meet kindred souls belaboring under their own struggles, and when we look at them we see mirrors. A thousand faces, beating under one heart.

Words skitter from our minds into paper, ink spills oozing black and red...our bloodline.

Soon, soon we will reach the top and the coconut fronds will meet us, greet us like old friends. We will triumph and feel, here...here is where we belong.

We are writers.   

By alancleaver_2000

To all writers, cheers! Never stop dreaming.

P.S. I just want to thank Carissa for handing me another Versatile Blogger Award. You are awesome, sistah!

Also, Scott Niven, sci-fi and fantasy author extraordinaire whose e-books are available now, awarded me both the Versatile Blogger and Blog on Fire Award. Thank you!

In Kindergarten, my first taste of reading came from tediously going through each page of the phonics textbook. Every night, my mom (who is ever patient by the way, and reads my blog so Hi Mom! *waves*) would help me sound off each syllable ba, be, bi, bo, bu. Followed by the list of sample words underneath it: bat, barometer, barrista, and er...batman? Okay, I'm sure they were simpler, more age-appropriate words but it's been years since I was five and I just woke up, alright?

Anyway, it was grueling. I'm not kidding. Each page was covered with words and more words. This was work, people. No goofing around the -ghts and the -ings. It was a memory test, a drill to get those sight words embedded into the soft, mushy part of your head that is your brain. (I told you my mom was patient.)

I'm sure I cried, protested, feigned sleep a dozen times to get out of it. The only consolation I got was from the little snippets of stories included after rows and rows of gag-inducing words. I remember vividly this one about the milk maid who was off to town to sell the bucket of milk sitting atop her head. While she's walking, she's dreaming of what she can do once she gets money for it. First, she'd buy an egg, which would turn into a hen. The hen will lay her more eggs, which she will sell so she can get a cow. The money that she gets from the eggs and the milk will be enough to buy herself a dress. She would then go to town and dance, and a handsome young man will ask her to be his partner. She would tilt her head and curtsey like so and...down went the bucket of milk she had on top of her head. No milk, no egg; no egg, no hen; no hen, no eggs, no cow; no cow, no milk, no dress.

So before I became a writer, I was a reader. Still am. Reading is easy. Reading is fun. But writing can be a grueling, tedious endeavor, and it is sometimes easier to dream like the milk maid. We sit down to write and muse on dreams of grandeur, of seeing ourselves signing books like a rockstar, maybe even throw in some fame and fortune (and a brand new car!) while we're fantasizing. Daydreams take a chunk off your time and imagination, just so you know. Before you know it, the kids are awake and demanding to be fed; the house is a pigsty; the chore list is three miles long; and hey, what is that strange-looking stain on the carpet, and down goes the bucket of milk atop your head.

Still, I write and keep on writing. 'Cause I know if I'm patient enough, if I can endure the ultimate phonics test while only five, I can turn that bucket of milk into a dress.

Tuesdays are generally considered “blah” days. Nothing ever happens on a Tuesday. People are tired and cranky, their adrenaline already spent on the grueling demands of the day before. The weekend seems so far away. No wonder restaurants have “Kids Eat Free on Tuesday” posters plastered all over their front windows. Because business is agonizingly slow on a “blah” day.