Category Archives: emotions

ALONE IN THE DARK

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I thought by now, I’d  have a few books under my belt. My dreams are still there but each day I swallow reality and it looks as if it may never turn out the way I imagined. I went through some of my short stories today. I like to do that now and then. Often they inspire me to keep writing. I have so many little pieces that I decided I will post them on my blog.

This story contains an exercise. Maybe you would like to try it.

 

“I have an assignment for you,” she said. I wanted to knock her teeth down her throat.  Every Tuesday, she sits there in one of her French suits staring at me with condescending eyes. She hates that she can’t get in my head. Sure, she smiles that fake bright red smile but I know she thinks I’m hopeless.

“Reagan, if you don’t do this assignment I will have no choice but to let your parents know you are not cooperating.”

I peered at her. I wanted to jump out of my chair and scratch my initials into her face so she would always remember that she pissed off the wrong girl. But, I knew I didn’t want to be shipped to a boarding school half way around the country. My friends wouldn’t survive without me. Lyn would get beat up the second I wasn’t around. Sam would do something stupid again like getting caught slashing the principal’s tires if I wasn’t there to keep an eye out for her. I had to agree to the assignment. My friends needed me to stick around and I had to prove to my parents that I am not influenced by my “troublesome friends,” if anything they are influenced by me.

“What do I have to do?” I mumbled.

“For one week, I want you to lie in your bed with the lights off and think.”

“Are you for real?” The sarcastic reply raced past my lips before I could stop it.

Her shoulders arched and her chest flared. “Yes, I am.” She said before forcing that annoying smile.

“You will need to set an egg timer for twenty minutes. “ She lifted one from her desk, “During the quiet time, you are to reflect on your thoughts and behaviors then record them as they come.”

She won’t give up until she has my thoughts. I should have guessed that she would have figured out a way.

“At first, you will probably feel uncomfortable, but by weeks end you should begin to feel free.”

“Free?” I laughed at the ridiculous comment.

“Yes Reagan, our minds are very complicated and keeping thoughts and feelings in will affect everything you do.”

I was surprised when she handed me a small black recorder. “I bought this for you.”

I couldn’t believe I actually felt guilty for wanting to scratch her skin off. I have never felt guilty for anything I have done. But, for the first time I think I felt remorse. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to thank her for it.

“Okay, the assignment starts tomorrow. I suggest you do it when you feel most awake. You don’t want to do it when you are sleepy because you may end up falling asleep.”

“Are you going to let my parents hear this?”

“Absolutely not. To make it a little easier, I have written topics on index cards. Each night you will pick one of the cards and record what your feelings are based on the topic.”

 

“I guess I’ll see you next week.” As I was about to slam the door she rushed up to me. “No, Reagan we will meet every day this week to discuss the topics you recorded.  I have arranged it with your parents. I will see you tomorrow at the same time.”

I couldn’t help but laugh and then I slammed the door.

Wednesday Night, I speak into the recorder.

     This is stupid. This is stupid. This is so friggen stupid but here it goes. I am alone in the dark. The only light I can see is the tiny blue light on my ipod charger. I hate the dark! I’m not afraid of it, I just hate it. I hate my voice too, so I doubt I will ever listen to these dumb recordings. Okay, the timer is set. I didn’t set no egg timer, how stupid is that. Why would I get an egg timer when every cell phone has an alarm on it, duh. Wow, twenty minutes, do I really have to talk for twenty minutes?  I wonder how many minutes have passed.

     I picked the first index card tonight and the topic is hate. I guess it could have been worse. I hate a lot of things so talking about them for twenty minutes should be fairly easy. I will start with myself. I hate that my arms don’t look good in a tank top. I hate that I can’t wear shorts. My legs are fat. I hate that my voice sounds like a transvestites. I could definitely pass for a man if someone only could hear my voice. I hate that I have things to hate about myself. I hate that right now I am talking so much. I guess I figure it will make twenty minutes go by faster.

     What else do I hate? I hate sitting in the front row of Mr. Townsends class. History sucks, if I was sitting in the back, I could at least nod off but with Hawkeyes staring at me I have to stay awake. Okay, right now I am just going to sit silent for a minute…I guess I should say what I was thinking about in that silent minute. I was listening to the sounds. I could hear my brothers rap music through his bedroom door and I thought about how much I hated rap music.

     I could hear the faucet in the bathroom dripping but I wasn’t about to get up and go turn it off. Then I heard a car drive down the street and I thought about how much I hate that my parents drive a beat up Volkswagen when they have the money to buy two brand new ones. I hate that they are stupid.

The light flicks on, my younger brother stares at me like I am a crazy person. “What are you doing?”

“None of your business shut off the light.”

I hate that my bedroom is the only bedroom without a door.  Hooray, the alarm went off. I don’t hate that I’m done.

Session with Therapist

“Okay, Reagan, I have listened to your recordings. First I’d like to say, good job with your first assignment.”

I nod. There is a smile fighting to emerge but I cover my mouth and pretend to cough. I don’t want her to think I actually care if she thought I did a good job.  She looks different today. It’s the first time I have ever seen her wear pants.  She actually looks less stuffy.

“I am sorry that you hate yourself Reagan. I’d like to help you learn to understand why you hate yourself and maybe begin to embrace who you are. Just by doing something as simple as this assignment you may find the choices you make will be different.”

     I don’t answer. I stare passed her out the bay styled window behind her desk. I can see the train bridge in the distance and I can’t help but wonder if Sam and Lyn were hanging out on it without me. I hoped Jimmy Michels wasn’t there flirting with Sam. She wouldn’t do that to me, I don’t think.

“Reagan, don’t drift off. Tonight I think you should choose Love as your subject. I’d like to know about the things you love. “She rises from the desk and hands me a leather journal with a thin leather strap that wraps around the center. “This is for you. If ever you feel uncomfortable verbalizing your feelings, please feel free to write them down.”

Another gift?  Wow this lady is either super cool or completely determined to learn every deep dark secret I have. She’d probably be disappointed to find out that I don’t have many.

     “Reagan, I also want you to know you can be creative about where you are in the dark. I know originally I said lie on your bed but please feel free to choose different locations.”

 

Thursday-Love

I took my therapists advice and decided to take a sleeping bag out in my backyard and lie underneath the stars.  Good thing my parents know I have an assignment or for sure they’d be shipping me away.

Okay here goes nothing. Love! I was told to start with talking about what I love about myself. Ugh, not much. I guess I love that I’m strong. I love that others fear me and no one would think about hurting my friends because they know I would kick the shit out of them if they did. I love the small birthmark on the underside of my wrist. It almost looks like an arrow. I think a lot of people think it’s a tattoo which I also love. I love that Jimmy Michels thinks I’m funny. I love that my little sister thinks I’m cool regardless if the rest of my family thinks I’m trouble. I love Mrs. Roman’s creative writing class. She once told me I was meant to be a writer which I think was neat. Okay recorder, I’m sitting in silence again be back soon…

     I love the sound of the crickets. I wonder if they are talking to each other in their own special language. Okay, I love some bad things which I guess might make me a bad person. I love sneaking a cigarette with Sam and Lyn on the train bridge. I love skipping school to hang out with Jimmy Michels and his friends who are much older than me. I love pool hopping in the summer and I love the taste of peach schnapps. Twenty minutes is up. Goodnight crickets.

 

Therapy

“Another great job Reagan.”

Today, I smile. I don’t know if verbalizing my thoughts is making me a little bit happier or if I’m just in a good mood. I actually washed the dishes for my mother today. Her face was priceless. I even told Sam and Lyn that I’m planning on doing one good thing a day and they laughed. They said if I did they would. Sam brought her younger brother to the park and Lyn washed her father’s car. I guess I can influence people in a good way too.

“I will not preach to you about smoking and drinking but I do hope you choose to give both of them up.” She shows me a photograph of a beautiful woman with silky brown hair. The woman is sitting under a tree and smiling up at the sky. “This is my mother. She died of lung cancer.”

I stare at the woman and for the first time feel sad for my therapist. I don’t know what she is doing to me I’m thinking differently and feeling emotions I often dismissed.

I can’t bring myself to respond. I want to say I’m sorry for her loss but I’m not there yet. Maybe I’ll write about it in that journal she gave me later.

“I want you to write down one thing every day that you love about yourself and one thing that you hate about yourself. At the end of the week, take a moment to reflect on those things and see how you feel and then write that down too.”

She lifts a black rectangular box from her laptop case. “I have another small gift for you.”

I feel giddy. I have never received so many gifts in such a small time other than on Christmas morning.

I lift the lid to the box. A shiny black pen with my name written in gold letters rests upon velvet.

“Verbalizing and Writing is very therapeutic Reagan, it’s how a person learns about themselves. I would love to read one of your creative writing pieces one day.”

“Okay, thank you.” I said thank you. It wasn’t even hard it just came out.

Friday Recording

     I’m in a closet. I know, I’m weird but I wanted to be creative and this felt right. I brought in my pillow and blanket so I would be comfortable. It’s definitely dark in here. I can feel a small vibration underneath me from the ceiling fan below. It’s a bit annoying. Tonight I picked Happiness from the index cards. Happiness. What makes me happy? The first thing that comes to mind is Jimmy Michels smile. It’s wide and beautiful and I feel happy whenever I see it. Knowing that Lyn and Sam think of me as their best friend makes me happy. I shouldn’t be happy when I get away with skipping school but I am I can’t help it. The music of the Beatles makes me happy. It reminds me of being young and dancing around the living room with my parents to the song The Octopus’s garden. It was long ago when my parents still actually loved me. I guess receiving the gifts from my therapist made me happy. I am getting used to recording and I have written a few things in my new journal with my new pen. The alarm is going off. Twenty minutes is flying by. One more thing that makes me happy is losing weight. I lost ten pounds once and I felt great. I need to try that again. Bye recorder.

 

Therapy Session

“Reagan, it sure looks like you are getting the hang of this.” Today my therapist actually has on jeans. They are a pair I might even attempt to wear if I was thirty pounds thinner. They are faded and have small rips in the knee. Each day I think she seems a little cooler.

“So, how did it feel to talk about happiness?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“You know Reagan, your parents still love you very much. If they didn’t they wouldn’t have you here. I know it’s hard for you to comprehend but one day you will understand that everything they are doing is because they love you.”

I have heard that before but I don’t see it. My mom barely speaks to me. I can feel the disappointment in my father every time he is near me. I think he thought by age fifteen I’d be a musical prodigy playing the piano in recitals all around the world. I liked playing the piano but I never loved it the way he wanted me to.

I can’t help but wonder if I get another present today. I guess I’m expecting one, but have no idea what it will be.

The therapist sits in her leather chair and swivels back and forth while jotting down something on her notepad. “Okay, Reagan, I want you to talk about disappointment tonight. We will talk about it tomorrow.”

I stand there waiting for a gift and quickly realize today I won’t be getting one. “Okay, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Saturday Recording

I am back to lying on my bed in the dark.  I didn’t feel like being creative today. I guess I was disappointed that I didn’t get a gift. I didn’t expect one, okay maybe I did. I was hoping for one. I’m sorry; I know you will be listening to this but if I am trying to be honest, I should let you know I was disappointed that I didn’t get a gift from you today. I am disappointed often. I am disappointed every time I step on the scale and see I’ve gained weight. I am disappointed every time I hear Jimmy Michels tell Sam that she is hot. I want him to think of me as hot not just the fat funny friend. I am disappointed when I walk into Mrs. Roman’s writing class and see a substitute. I am disappointed in myself for not being a better daughter but I don’t know how to become one. I can’t stop hanging around with my friends, I love them. I guess I could stop cutting classes and stealing liquor from my parents’ cabinet but then I would disappoint my friends and doing so would disappoint me. Twenty minutes feels like eternity tonight. I don’t’ feel like talking. I am going to be silent longer tonight. I’ll let you know what comes to mind…

     I didn’t pay attention to any sounds. I guess being disappointed puts me in a bad mood. I never realized that before. Hmm, I suppose that’s what the therapist meant when she said I would feel free. That bullshit she said about verbalizing and talking might be working. I think I’m beginning to understand myself a little more. I don’t know how or why.

Therapy Session

     “Reagan, I want to explain a few things to you today if you don’t mind.”

     I shrug my shoulders.

“Most people never pay attention to what’s inside their heads. If you are happy, there is a reason for it and if you want to remain happy you must know what makes you happy and seek it out.” She holds up a cd. “I know you were disappointed yesterday that I didn’t get you a gift. But, today I did. It is a Beatles cd and the song The Octopus’s Garden is on it. Anytime you find yourself going into that funk of sadness or disappointment I want you to promise you will play this song so you can get back to your happy place.”

Immediately my feeling shifts. I know trying to hide my happiness would be pointless. “Thank you,” I say again. It’s becoming easier to say thank you.

“You’re welcome Reagan. I am happy to give it to you. But, Reagan, I want you to take a moment later on and ask yourself why it took me buying you gifts before you would give me a chance.”

The recordings were complete and my therapist Miss Raven assured my parents that my behavior was nothing more than teenager antics and I was normal. She encouraged them to practice the “Alone in the Dark” exercise so they would gain a better understanding of love, hate, happiness, sadness, disappointment and a whole laundry list of other emotions.

I still record my thoughts once a week and write in my journal and whenever I need a spirit booster I visit the Octopus’s garden and dance.

I stood at the front of Mrs. Roman’s class and watched the mouths drop when I shut off the recorder. There were looks of horror, compassion, sorrow and even ridicule. I cleared my throat. Mrs. Roman nodded in encouragement and then I began…

 

Alone in the dark

As I sat alone in the dark I heard my thoughts

Happiness sang, Disappointment cried, Love hugged and Hate punched

As I sat alone in the dark, I came to understand who I was and who I no longer wanted to be

I’m a teenager doing the things we do. It doesn’t make me bad, troubled or crazy

As I sat alone in the dark I paid attention to sounds I have often ignored

The chitter chatter of crickets, the beat of a musicians song, engines from cars roared

As I sat alone in the dark things jumbled within my mind began to make sense

I can’t love others without loving myself.  I can’t ask not to be judged when I’m filled with pretense

As I sat alone in the dark something cool happened to me

I don’t know exactly when or even how, but, all of the truth I faced set me free

 

I walked back to my seat feeling proud of my poem and myself. I could tell by Mrs. Roman’s eyes that she thought I did a great job. There were some awkward stares from some of the kids but Lyn and Sam both gave me thumbs up which made me feel good.

“Class, for the first time in a long time, I have been inspired by one of my students,” Mrs. Roman said after I was seated. In her hand was a stack of index cards. She walked up each row and set one card on every student’s desk. “Reagan was very brave in sharing her recordings with us.” She looked directly at me. “She didn’t have to share something so intimate and I told her that, but, she said the poem wouldn’t be as good without them.”

I picked up the index card she placed on my desk. The word Anticipation was written on the card in bold black letters.

“I have decided to make the Alone in the Dark exercise a part of this writing class. Once a week you will be given an index card with a word. I want you to sit alone in the dark for twenty minutes, just as Reagan did and think about the word and what it means to you. You will then be required to write a short story based on the word and the emotions it evoked.”

I felt flushed.  Dozens of heads spun around. I was surprised to see most of the faces had smiles. I couldn’t be sure but I think the class actually thought it was going to be cool. I thought about my word Anticipation, I wondered what would come to mind when I shut off the lights. Then I thought about the gift I bought Miss Raven, a vintage French ormalu picture frame for the photograph of her mother.  I knew for sure I would think about her reaction when I shut off the light.

I know one thing; I don’t hate the dark anymore.

 

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Filed under BLOG, dreaming, emotions, Inspirational, short stories, story telling, Uncategorized, writers, writing, Writing, Young Adult

I FEAR SUCCESS

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I don’t fear rejection, I’m used to rejection. I’m familiar with the sensation that rejection brings. The stomach sinking, tears in your eyes, fists in the air type of feeling that I’ve experienced too many times to count. I’m an expert when it comes to rejection. I expect rejection.

I fear success.

I dream of success but the thought of it actually happening terrifies me. I have grown so accustomed to living life in a little corner of the universe that the idea of stepping out from the shadows to share with the world my imagination makes my heart pound faster than normal. What if my dream came true? Could I handle it?

I’ve never been on a plane. What if I did make it, would I be able to jet off to another state to promote my book or do author signings? Could I face that fear?

I have feared success most of my life. It’s a weird fear to have because there is no guarantee that it can be faced.

My fear of boarding a plane can be conquered. I can book a flight today to face this fear. But, there is no guarantee that one will become successful. Being successful means different things to everyone. For me, success would be becoming a well-known author with many published books. This may never happen and if it doesn’t, I can never face the fear.

Yes, I fear success. The thought of it makes my stomach turn and causes my palms to sweat, but the fear of never finding success may be worse.

Do you fear success?

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Filed under BLOG, dreaming, emotions, rejections, Uncategorized, writer's life, writers, writing, Writing

THE EMOTION THESAURUS

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EMOTION

Do you have problems conveying your characters emotions? Do you find that whenever your character is happy, you simply write that they “smiled?” Does Sally (your main character) pout when she’s sad or yell when she’s mad? There is so much more to those emotions than a smile, a pout or a burst of expletives.
When I began submitting my novel to agents for consideration, I kept getting partial and full requests but then the rejections followed. The rejections almost always included something positive like (great plot, very imaginative, good writing, etc.) but often ended with I’m not connecting with the character. I couldn’t understand the rejections. I didn’t know what I was doing wrong or how to correct it. But then one day, it hit me. My main character was flat; the emotions were not built up enough to make a reader want to follow her on her journey.
Now that I knew what was wrong, I had to learn how to fix it. So, when I was on Twitter one day and saw someone tweet about The Emotion Thesaurus, my curiosity was piqued. I told my critique partner about the book and she surprised me and purchased the book for herself and me (pretty awesome right?).
This book has helped me immensely and deserves a plug. The authors Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglisi are both writers and together host The Bookshelf Muse, an online resource for writers.
I thought this book was all I needed until I recently discovered that they have additional books such as The Negative Trait Thesaurus and The Positive Trait Thesaurus. I’m currently combing through my manuscript and beefing up my character with the help of these amazing books. I’m hoping the rejections turn into more requests that turn into offers rather than rejections.
Do you struggle with writing about emotions? What emotion do you have the most difficult time tapping into?
Do you have any books that you refer to when building up your character?

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Filed under A to Z, books, emotions, Writing

From Gold to Junk

 

My father and mother loved garage sales. Each Saturday morning they would wake up very early, outline the sales in the newspaper and drive around looking for treasures. Their idea of treasures differed. My mother loved to find costume jewelry, purses with tags still on them, kitchen supplies and sealed makeup. My father’s idea of a treasure was a first print edition, a series of books or a signed copy. He hunted for books so he could sell them on ebay. Once, he made a four hundred dollar profit and was ecstatic.

Their love of garage sales rubbed off on me. I liked finding high ticket items for pennies. If my father were alive he would be disappointed in me today. He would ask me “Why didn’t you look inside?” The same question I have been asking myself for the last week.

A year ago, I wondered into the giant flea market at our church bazaar. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. I, like my mother would go directly to the jewelry, hoping to find a unique piece. I skimmed over the bangles, earrings and plastic necklaces but found nothing. I searched the purses, glanced over home decorations but wasn’t impressed.

I ended my visit to the flea market by rummaging through a mound of books. I wasn’t looking to find a first print or a signed copy. I only wanted something to read. After tucking a few under my arm an author’s name jumped out at me. The Tenth Circle by Jodi Piccoult rested atop the literary mountain. I snatched up the book made my purchase and went on my merry way. When I arrived home, I placed the book on the lower shelf of my bookcase and thought, I will read it soon. I wasn’t expecting to receive the Kindle as a gift which meant for a while the hard covered books nestled on my shelf would take a back seat.

It’s a year later, my Kindle is broke, we got a new puppy (Edgar Allen Pug) and I feel like throwing up.

Edgar has a thing for wood, feet, blankets and books. Last week he pulled The Tenth Circle from the bottom shelf and ripped the cover off. Ugh, I thought looking at the strips of book cover lying on the floor besides my shelf. The next day I found the book lying on the floor again. This time the edges were chewed. Puppies, I thought. I might as well read it, I thought again. I curled up on the couch opened the book and wanted to cry. For a year, I had a mint condition signed book by Jodi Piccoult and I had no idea. What’s worse is I am a writer, I should have thought to look.

Do you think if I wrote to Jodi and said my dog ate your book she’d give me a new one? 🙂

Surely, my father was looking down from somewhere shaking his head saying “Didn’t I teach you anything? The first thing you do when you get a book at a yard sale or flea market is check to see if it is signed.”

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E.E. Cummings and My Father

This coming June will be four years that I have been living without my father. My father was such a wonderful man. He was everything I aspire to be. He treated all people the same. He was well respected, intelligent, wise, simple and extremely loving. During his illness, my family and I traveled to Philadelphia to support him while he underwent open heart surgery. The night before he went into surgery, I read him my favorite poem by E.E. Cummings I Carry Your Heart with Me. I will forever carry his heart. He was my biggest cheerleader when it came to writing. He was the first one to believe in me. I believe he is on the other side pulling as many strings as he can to help further my career.

I Carry Your Heart with Me by E.E. Cummings

I carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

Do you have a favorite poem? Who does it remind you of?

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Filed under emotions, life, writer's life, writers, Writing

Freeing The Funk

I have been in a funk. It started about a month ago. I don’t talk about my day job too often because the fact of the matter is, out here in cyberspace I like to be known as simply a writer. I, like many other writers have a day job (well sort of- I work from 3:00 a.m to 11:00 a.m). What do I do? I work in a casino. I am what they call a “dual”, which means I am half dealer, half supervisor. I began as a croupier (craps dealer) and learned additional games along the way (black jack, three card poker, Spanish 21 and Let it Ride). About a month ago, I was asked by my superior to train for Baccarat. I knew it was a good opportunity and I wouldn’t be able to turn it down. (Well, I could have, but not everyone is asked so I hated the thought of saying no.) Saying yes to training meant I was saying yes to fourteen hour days. I knew it was a temporary situation and in the end I would be glad I said yes. I didn’t know that it would put an end to writing for a while. You see, I am also a mother of four. My free time had to be spent mothering. I’d wake up at 1:00 a.m. and go non-stop until 8:00 p.m. After the first week, I started to feel blue. I blamed it on lack of sleep. It occurred to me that it wasn’t the lack of sleep or the overload of obligations. It was the absence of writing that was making me feel lost in my own world. For the past ten years I have written daily (occasionally I’d skip a day or two but never a week). The part of me I enjoyed so much was gone. I started to feel like I was no longer a writer. I even convinced myself that I might have to give up on my dream of becoming a published author. I’d stumble upon writing sites such as Twitter and feel like I didn’t belong. I’d attempt to write only to fall asleep in mid sentence. I had a pity party for myself and was about to make peace with the fact that my dream had to be abandoned. I simply no longer had the time (for ten years I was a stay at home mother who waitressed part time) my choice to get a full time job meant that my dreams had to be sacrificed. I spoke these words over and over trying to convince myself that I believed them to be true. Then somewhere in the distance of my mind another voice spoke back. “Don’t be silly,” it said. Being in a funk did not mean that I no longer could write. In fact if I chose to never write again, chances are I’d never come out of the funk. Writing is my first love. It is my therapy. It is my hope for a better tomorrow. It is who I am. I am a writer. I might have other things going on but a true writer always finds their way back. Today I am freeing the funk. I am continuing to do what I love. A writer may do other things but the only thing they want to do is write. Have you found yourself in a funk? What did you do to get out of it?

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Inspiration Isn’t Always Pretty

If you have been watching the news you should have seen the devastation that poured through my hometown and all surrounding towns this past weekend. Yes, Northeastern Pennsylvania watched in horror as the floods swept away homes (my sister-in-law’s was one of them), flooded streets and brought people to their knees. Our bridges were closed. We had curfews. I myself sat on the only open bridge for an hour and a half trying to make it home to my family. I felt as if I was on the set of a movie. It was surreal. It was inspiring?

As I watched the news something the reporter said initially struck me as odd. She was talking about how people just couldn’t help but go out and see what was happening. “It was like viewing a car wreck,” she said. “You know you shouldn’t look but you just can’t help it”. She then went on to say a situation like this was inspiring. Inspiring? At first I felt a little offended (I know the writer in me should have immediately knew what she meant) but because everything was so close to home (Literally. The only thing that saved my street was a makeshift dike built out of dirt by a bunch of heroes) I didn’t like that she used that word. To me, inspiring meant beauty. The word itself even sounds pretty. It couldn’t relate to something horrible, or could it? Of course it can.

As I thought about her broadcast my flooded mind receded and my thoughts became clearer. I began to understand exactly what she meant. Something horrible can be inspiring. Devastation like the one my town recently endured inspired many things. It inspired communities to rally together to help save homes. It inspired newspapers to share heartbreaking stories. It inspired photographers to snap photos so we can remember and others will be able to see history. It inspired me to write this blog.

Writers don’t only write about sunny days and perfect lives. If you want to write about the human experience you have to be able to be inspired by things not so pretty. How boring would books be if there was never sorrow or obstacles to overcome?

Because we observe unhappy situations and then later write about them does not mean that we are freaks or disaster lovers, it simply means that we are interested in writing about life experiences. I am not happy that the flood happened. It saddens me that so many people I know had to suffer. I don’t find joy in writing about their pain but in a strange way I do feel inspired.

Have you ever been inspired by an unfortunate event?

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Filed under emotions, Inspirational, life, random, story telling, writers, writing, Writing