Feeling Ecstatic

I am a planner, who often plans everything that happens or need to happen. When things do not go as planned, I have to adjust, like we all do. My plans were immediately changed when I received a job offer and started working. Sometimes, I forget how unpredictable life can be.

I think about this blog and posting often, but lately, the unpredictability of life interferes with the creation of a blog post. Strangely, this blog is the first one that I have created, which makes me feel like I have a connection with the readers. I like this feeling of writing for my readers. I like checking my blog and reading comments. I cannot wait to respond to comments.  I will try to post often, even if I have to use my cell phone.  I like posting every day.  I look forward to sitting at my computer and typing up my thoughts. Don’t you?

Starting a new career this week was unpredictable, but I am ecstatic. This new career has the potential to propel me as a writer. I look forward to being able to grow continually as a writer and sharing with you.

What unpredictable event has transformed your life?



A Worn Path

When I write, I hope that people feel like that are on a journey to reach my overall point.  I enjoy reading books, which are taking me on a fictional or nonfictional journey.  I am curious about where I am going and what will happen on the way.  Perhaps, I need to master how I am taking my readers on journeys.  Should I care if my readers prefer not to take a trip while reading what  I write? Do my readers want to me to get straight to the point?

One of my favorite short stories to teach the writing process is A Worn Path by Eudora Welty. Welty’s ability to depict Phoenix’s long journey leaves much to the imagination.
Have you read it? Read it and share your thoughts.


An Unwanted Guest

Traveling to my parents’ house, I never knew that I would be an unwanted guest. Heading North on the Interstate, I was chatting with my oldest son, while his younger siblings enjoyed the movie, Antz, being played on the DVD player. Suddenly, I noticed bright blue lights flashing heading South in the opposite direction and immediately adjusted my cruise control.

Then, I received the unwanted invitation to be the guest for a police chase.We noticed that the car in front of the state trooper was not slowing down. When we passed the state trooper and the car, going in the opposite direction, we saw that a police chase was occurring. My heart skipped a beat. With everything that is happening in the news, all I could think was “That is not going to end well.” My heart started pounding. My chest ached. My children became worried. They kept saying, “He isn’t stopping.” Staying focused on the driving in my direction, I was just glad that the chase was not on our side of the busy Interstate. Thinking I had witnessed the end of the chase, I was so wrong.

All of a sudden, I heard my children say, “His signal light is on. He is turning around!” My son said, “Mama, he is coming this way.” I said, “Quit playing.” Then, I saw it. The old silver Mercedes proceeded to make a U-turn, where sheriff deputies for the next county usually sit for a speed trap. Now, the Mercedes was driving in the direction that we were headed. My heart skipped several beats. I merged from the left lane into the right lane. I kept glancing in my rearview mirror. Those shiny blue lights seemed to be in slow motion headed towards me. The other cars behind me did not want to move over. I kept thinking that I hope no one would try to play the hero and jeopardize the lives of everyone, including my children and I. When the silver Mercedes passed by, smoke hissed from the tires. The force from the state trooper and the Mercedes car pushed my car closer to the shoulder on the Interstate. My initial belief that the police chase was not going to end well was heightened when I noticed that the silver Mercedes was ancient.

Once the state trooper and the silver Mercedes zoomed past us, I felt relief. I spent several minutes trying to soothe my children. Our silent fears became loud. We hoped the state trooper was safe. We hoped the driver was safe. We sought to justify why he would run away from the state trooper. We just tried to eliminate the fear that was pressing deep on our hearts, especially mine. As we passed an exit, we saw the state trooper with standing behind the door of his car, and his gun aimed. My chest fell to my feet. I started praying, “Please do not let my children be a witness to this person’s death.”

The driver jumped out of the car. His hands raised. The state trooper’s gun aimed at his head. The driver kicked off his Nike flip flops and started walking toward the state trooper. Smoke streamed from the front of the ancient Mercedes. The other cars, heading in the direction that I was going, slowed down. I wanted to blow my horn and say, “Get the hell out of the way,” but I just drove. I refused to look in the rearview mirror. I couldn’t. As I proceeded to get as far away from the scene as possible, I exchanged looks with another driver. Our looks demonstrated that we were in disbelief about what we had just witnessed.

I did not want my invitation to be a guest to witness a police chase. I hope I never get an invitation to another one.


A Coward Writer

fear-light-1480015Buying journals as gifts is a signature action of mine.  I have bought journals for my children, but I did not show them how to use them.  They know that I write and love to write. Yet, I have not tried to inspire them to reach deep inside and share their innermost thoughts with only the paper tucked inside the journal that I bought.  Tonight, I asked them to bring their journal to me.  Inside each of their journals, I wrote a writing prompt.  Each child was given a different prompt.  The pride that my children exhibited as they wrote in their journals was so uplifting.  They were afraid to use their journals because they did not want to make a mistake.  They did not want to do it wrong.  Writing in a journal is personal and should reflect who you are inside.  I should have expressed this when I gave it to them.  Sometimes, an expectation clouds our judgment. As demonstrated, with the journals.  My expectation that they should know what to write in a journal because they see me writing in one distracted me from being the master teacher, who explains everything.

Subsequently, I thought about how I am being a coward when it comes to my writing.  Why am I afraid to just write and publish what I am thinking? Why am I afraid that my work will not be accepted by an audience? Why am I letting cowardice control who I am as a writer? Why does it matter? Shouldn’t I just write and expect that someone will appreciate the words and messages that I want to share?  I need to reach deep down inside of myself and examine why am I being a coward writer.




Why I Write

handwriting-love-1535813.jpgLately, I have been trying to figure out why I write. What makes me crave expressing myself to others? Why do I feel like my existence revolves around writing? When I am teaching my Composition 1 & 2 classes, or I am teaching a Developmental English course, I have my students read Why I Write by George Orwell.  I have my students read this excerpt at the beginning of class to set the tone for a successful semester.  Have you read this excerpt?

Let’s talk. Are you a writer? Why do you write? What inspires your pen to kiss the paper?


desert-1540727.jpgI purchased Scrivener to support my desire to be a prolific writer.  I have a degree in Psychology, so I understand how important beliefs are to the creation actions.  Therefore, I wanted to feel like I was a writer when I wrote in Scrivener.   My belief was that when I open Scrivener to compose my masterpiece, the ideas and thoughts would magically flow on the screen.  I would have everything I needed to create the ideal manuscript… All because I purchased Scrivener (at full price, I might add).

When I open Scrivener, I enter a writing desert.  I am a hunter, who is searching ravishingly for the right idea and thought in the writing desert.  I have started many manuscripts in Scrivener. However, all of these manuscripts remain unfinished.  As I write, I become frustrated because the drought in the writing desert is continuing once again.  Why?! Shouldn’t these ideas just pounce on me once I click open on my Macbook Pro.

Honestly, the writing desert is annoying me.  I am no longer interested in being a hunter for the right ideas and thoughts.  This year, I am going to finish a manuscript.  I am going to create a rainforest in the writing desert.

When you write, are you in a writing desert or rainforest?


Looking Glass

Viewing myself as a writer through the lens of a looking glass, I notice so much potential. I see doors in my mind with amazing stories locked away. Lately, I have been scrambling to find the keys to unlock at least one door. I am desperate to tell these stories. I need to inspire others. Then, I close my eyes.

As I open them, I gaze through the looking glass; I see myself as a phenomenal writer. I see my budding wings of writing have grown into these amazingly, powerful wings. I fly whenever I like because I have an astounding story, I am an extraordinary writer, and I know exactly how to tell these stories.

I relish in the second vision. This conception is my destiny, and it will soon be my reality. If I had you a looking glass, what would you see? Would you see your future or your reality?



computer-keyboard-1188763I have been writing since I was a child. In elementary school, I wrote a book in my gifted class.  Eventually, I obtained a Master’s degree in English.   I have published a poetry book, a journal, and a iBook textbook.  Can I now claim that I am a writer? I have kept blogs for years.  Comments are rare.  Now, I am constantly monitoring my stats on my main two blogs.  When I notice a decline or that no one has read a post, I feel a sting of disappointment.

Could my perception of what and who a writer is be false? Am I a writer? Can I claim that I am a writer, even though no one is walking up to me and asking for my autograph? Should I even possess a perception of what a writer is?

Am I a writer?


A Blank Page

img_0511Sometimes, I stare at blank pages and wish they could capture exactly what is on my mind. Censorship is always a worry for me. I don’t work for myself. I always wonder if my employer will approve or disapprove of my thoughts and fire me. Therefore, leaving my family to be in a dire situation. Sometimes, the blank page on my computer is a deafening silence. I want to be heard. I want to express the outrage about things. I want to share what I really think should occur. Yet, the blank page remains censored. I want to use profanity without being categorized as unintelligent. I want to express exciting things about sex and lust. Yet, when my page is finally filled, my real thoughts are smothered by what is acceptable and align with the perception people have of me. One day, I want to be at a point where my writing is accepted just the way it is. Not only accepted… But appreciated.

Writing for Perfection

writing-in-the-dark-1497115When I write, I find myself second guessing my delivery of whatever it is that I am writing. From a journal entry to an email, I rewrite and rewrite and rewrite.  I have people read it.  I question their understanding of what I wrote.  I second guess what they share with me.  I use Grammarly to catch all the grammatical errors.  I google similar examples to make sure that I am on task.  I believe at times this hinders me from being my true self as a writer.  I want just to write. I want to be free from the confines of drafting for perfection.  I want to be able to share what I want to say without being in the prison cell of perfection.  Perhaps my confidence in my writing ability needs to improve to evolve adequately beyond the realms of perfect writing. Does perfection exists in the world of writing?