It’s the first Saturday of March, 2015—

I have had poor couple weeks of WIP writing. It is primarily from the m.s.–the word, “crappy” comes to mind loudly & quite distinctly!

Tuesday, I went to the e.r., I was pretty messed up: nauseous, a couple of dry heaves. I was plain miserable! I had gotten a c.t. scan done. It shown something suspicious; the Dr. thought the 2 sections (the large & small intestines) appeared to be ‘telescoped’. The large into the small or the other way around. Well, any way, the small team of drs determined it would be  ‘best’ for me to have a nasal gastric tube inserted, to drain the upper g.i. tract.

Well, those particular things are extremely horrible to have inserted!! Plus, it didn’t accomplish anything!

My lesson in this, I believe, is assertively demand what I want done, instead of blithely agreeing what doctors’ opinions are.

I am b- a-c-k. . .

ahn for a little while. I’ve cruised about WP’s FP section–about getting “Freshly Pressed”; however, I severely doubt it will, simply because I haven’t got anything genuinely unique or controversial. I, also, don’t have lengthy posts, nor I’m very consistent in my blogging. As I commented on one other blogger’s post, I’m simply too busy dealing with what this m.s. is doing to my body or on my better days I’m struggling with my WIP.
It’s now time for this gal to go “night-night” {a mild wink to the parents ‘out there’}. ‘Till whenever. . .

Inky Breadcrumbs and the Forgotten Magic of Writing by Hand

ocjarman1:

She is so opposite of me, yet I so like what she expresses!

Originally posted on Erin J. Bernard Writing Studio:

Photo by Erin J. Bernard Photo by Erin J. Bernard

Hey, writer! When was the last time you took a good look at your own hands? I mean, a really, really good long look?

Sure, they’re fluttering in and out of the periphery of vision over the course of any average day, assisting in the picking up and setting down of life’s dull and delightful objects. But, most often, their task feels secondary – to hold up for inspection the things you’ve deemed far more fascinating: smartphones, babies, books, burritos.

There’s little incentive to notice them. And this strikes me as odd. So do it now. Have a good, long gander. What do you see? Look carefully: your hands are miraculous, surprising, ordinary, and, for my money, entirely underappreciated.

You’re in good retroactive company. I’m first writing this by hand, in fact, down here in Mexico, though by the time it reaches its final destination…

View original 1,601 more words

Weellll, as a “60’s sit-com character would say. . .

I’ve been busy with some physical difficulties AND story-writing.
I’ll get to the true “good stuff”, first–
I’m plogging along in “90 Days . . .” [by S. Domet]. I’m developing my outline, pretty decently, especially today. I’m not going to question why too much, I simply will pray it continues through tomorrow–I had an abundance of energy & clarity!! Praise God Almighty!!!

Fog

Originally posted on Wander Home:

There’s an unpredictability to the grayness of days in our cove by this water, us in this dent on the edge of the west. As if caught in an eddy, our Bay sends swirls of dark air to engulf us and wrap our landscape in mystery. It is something circadian, yet somehow always sudden.

When I was young, we would visit my grandparents in the Oakland hills, winding up and up the steep streets to the top where on a clear day you could see San Francisco glinting like a toy in a blue pool. But most visits, we’d arrive fresh out of the hot valley where we lived, full of sun and heat and sweat, and find that an eerie world of cool clouds had swallowed everything around us. In the dead of summer, when home was shining bright, we’d find ourselves in darkness.

Now this fog is a part of…

View original 586 more words

He wrote it down.

ocjarman1:

I would love to have guts to tell my story like they did.

Originally posted on In Others' Words...:

Our intention was to dance on his grave.

FullSizeRender-2

My beautiful cousin, who I’d not seen in 35 years, and I set out to dance on our grandfather’s grave. Our first dilemma was, of course, song choice. You have to have the right song. We bandied a few song titles about, Alanis Morrisette was a front runner.

Obviously.

We drove to the town where he lived, and where he is buried. We drove to the town where we were abused. Driving down the picturesque New England roads, I felt a little faint. Mary felt a little barfy. We pulled into a store parking lot, and Mary spent some quality time behind a dumpster, hurling. It happens.

We weren’t entirely sure where the cemetery was, so we pulled into a police station to ask for directions. I said, jokingly, We should go in and file a police report. Mary said, What would…

View original 666 more words

My Story. . .

I’m in the midst of assessing all the scenes of the story’s outline. I’m finding out that I need to write either dialogue or transitional scenes–ugh!! At least, I am aware of this sort of thing now! Instead of later while writing my original scenes, going down a rabbit trail!!

First day of February [Super Bowl Sunday–no interest!!]   Tomorrow, I start researching for my novel. How DO I start?