My Daughter, The Pianist

The lilting sound of the melody drifted up to my bedroom comforting me. I found myself swaying to it; my body awakening to the dance responded to the rhythm. The tunes shifted from upbeat pop to classical compilations to the tangible pain of a ballad. This often happens when I spend time with my daughter, the self-taught pianist. In between her demands for food, complaints of boredom, or permission to go out, she regales me with continuous hours of music. It’s lovely how it fills the house; the music ringing through the paper-thin walls. Too soon the time comes when she returns to her father. And then the house will be quiet; the piano silent until she returns.

Eternal Pursuit of Love

She awakened and stretched. Once again aware of her loneliness; the despair of the miserable eternal existence she suffered. The thirst was difficult to ignore and each night she had searched for him she'd proven the curse true. "Until you can truly love and not give in to the darkness of your soul, you will be alone." She remembered the Gypsy telling her; the only human who didn't fear her. But the hunger was too strong and she left her crypt. The breeze fluttered about and tousled her hair; the cold no longer touched her. She looked up at the night sky - silvery pools of moonlight reflected in her eyes. Scouring the alleyways she lurked in the dark blending in the shadows. Driven by hunger, the tendrils of her humanity fleeting, she heard the rhythmic rush of blood nearby. Her song floated on the wind coaxing him closer. The prey, drawn to desire's lure, was frozen with fear and engorged with lust. Handsome features and strong build, yet weak and pliant in her arms. "Love me" she sang as she assailed him with soft fluttery kisses "Stay with me". His body trembled against her - uncontrolled moans escaped him. The scent of his blood was a heady cocktail and she sank her canines into his tender flesh. She drank; the hot savory fluid filling her, sating her thirst. The body crumpled to the ground empty of life - a sacrifice given under her spell. Not the true love she yearned for; his essence filled her but left her hollow inside - he wasn't the one. Despondent and forlorn she shuffled back to her crypt; the icy chill that eluded her earlier now assaulted her with a vengeance - punishment for unnatural deeds. Ever alone, ever searching, she wasn't sure she could control her thirst long enough to find him. A dark and lonely soul waits for eternity; eyes welled with bloody tears - the sadness palpable. The crypt door creaks shut.

The Wedding Anniversary

It was Valentines Day and their first wedding anniversary. Her excitement palpable she couldn’t wait until tonight’s special dinner. He was good at the little things, the things that mattered. Erin felt so lucky to be his wife. She had taken off from work today so she could pamper herself and get ready for her romantic evening with him.

Her best friend, Paige, was great. Since their college days they had been inseparable. Paige helped her cope with the stress of school and work, especially during the wedding planning; making sure Erin kept it together. Erin could always count on her; even today, Paige had taken off so that they could share a day of pampering.

They had spent hours at the spa getting full body massages and matching manicures. Erin got a new hair cut at Paige’s behest. Later, Paige helped her get the house in order and turn her bedroom into a boudoir. The bed looked inviting with its dark red satin bedspread and decorative pillows. Small votive candles were spread throughout the room that she would later light to set the mood. The sparkling wine was chilling in an ice bucket on the night stand next to two glasses and the chocolate truffles.

To read, to write or to blog – That is the question

Reading…writing…writing…reading…- blogging?

What to do?  In what order?   When?

You need to read in order to write.

You need to write, in order to write.

Can’t do both at the same time.

There isn't enough hours in the day.

There’s the short story, the flash fiction and the novel.

Is there time to blog today?

Exhausted.

Don’t know what to write or which one to write about.

Out of ideas.

Read some more.

Inspiration will come…when?

I don’t know, just read today.

Write tomorrow.

Blog the next day.

Choosing Which Character Lives

How do writers choose their characters?  Do they sit down in front of their computers and decide which traits to mesh together to bring their latest creation to life?  Or is it more Organic than that? 

I’ve read about writers whose characters are practically beating down the door demanding to be heard.  That’s a bit strange I thought - characters talking to you and controlling how the story goes.  Pulease!  I’m the writer, I’m the creator and I’m in charge!  

These other writers that say their characters talk to them are not playing with a full deck.  I’m not like that.  I’m in control of all my faculties - or so I thought.  My arrogance knew no bounds.  Well, the realization finally hit me.  In my fervent quest to free myself of writer’s block, I’ve gone off the deep end.  I find that I’m fielding off a couple of characters who want to tell a story. 

This complicates things because now I have to incorporate an added level of perplexity to my madness.  My problem is that some characters are clearer than others.  Their ‘voices’ if we can call it that, are stronger than others.  This is new to me and I’m trying to figure out how to sort all this out and not have these new characters divert me from the stories I’m currently working on, without losing them in the process. 

I’m more of a pantser than a plotter so I’m a little worried because if I don’t write things down right away the story dies.  Also, I’m faced with the dilemma of choosing which characters get to ‘live’ and which don’t. 

The best I’ve been able to do is create a spreadsheet to keep track of them but if I don’t write about them, their essence is lost – the story gone.  I feel bad like I didn’t do enough and let them die.  

Perhaps I should continue my journey knowing that not all characters make it in the end and concentrate on the one who have a chance to live.

Poor Little Goth Girl

Poor little Goth girl so pale and forlorn

Listless and frail, her happiness gone

Wrapped in a funeral shroud battered and torn

The wind blows her ebony tresses, glossy and long

A halo of darkness encircles her pallid beauty

Her solemn countenance dreadful and gloomy

The earth at her feet newly disturbed

Evidence of a fresh grave recently escaped

Restless spirit condemned endless wandering

Her lover’s deadly gift her young life ended

His heart beats near, its rhythm frantic with fear

Attempts to flee an act of futility

Resigned to fate he falls to his knees

Pale hands take hold to seal with a kiss

Uniting in sepulchral nuptials for eternity

Stephen King – On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

A friend of mine gave me this book for Christmas.  I had made a mental note to get it for myself after the holidays and was very ecstatic to have gotten it as a gift.  So of course, I began to read it immediately. 

The book is part memoir and part writing book.  In the first part of the book, the memoir, Stephen King talks about his childhood, his relationship with his brother and his hardworking single mom. He describes his very first attempts at writing when he was very young and how supportive his mother had been. 

When he received his first rejection letter he pounded a nail on his bedroom wall and impaled the letter there.  He continued writing and submitting his stories and by the time he was fourteen the nail would no longer support the weight of the rejection letters impaled on it.

He continues to tell his story in that conversational manner of his - like when he was six; he suffered from excruciatingly painful ear infections which caused him to miss a lot of school.  And how during his school years he continued to write as well as loyally follow in his brother’s exploits.  Followed by his college years; how he met his wife Tabitha, the struggles they endured during their first years of marriage and raising kids while he worked on his writing.  And before I knew it, I had finished reading the memoir part of the book.

I eagerly moved on the next section – writing.

The Internet Blues

The Internet was down for a few days - didn’t know what was wrong with it since my laptop indicated that I was connected.  I tried resetting the modem, the router, repairing the connection through Windows and restarting the laptop.  Nothing worked.  It wasn’t a billing issue so I didn’t know what the problem was.  

Finally, I called for technical support.  They tried to signal the modem remotely but it didn’t go through so they scheduled a technician to come to my home for service.  This is what I dreaded, because when that happens you become a prisoner in your home.  They give you a window of time for the technician to visit; therefore you can’t leave your house.  Any plans you made for that day will now have to be cancelled and to complicate matters; they call at the last minute to say there are no available technicians at this time, please accept their apologies and provide you with another date for service. Not happy – but I had no choice.

Eventually, the technician arrived and it turned out that the problem originated from the pole down the street where the cabling connects to my house.  He explained that the laptop indicated that I was connected because it recognized the connection to the modem, but the modem wasn’t getting the signal from the outside.  

In this era of uber technology immersion, I try not to be too dependent on electronic gadgetry.  Keeping it simple still works and most importantly it reduces your exposure to all kinds of radiation and magnetic fields.  Except for my cell phone, I don’t own an Ipad, a Kindle or Nook, a GPS, Wii consoles or watch TV {I have a HULU Plus subscription, yay!} but I do need my Internet!

Now that the Internet is up and running, the 'end-of-the-world' drama has ended and everything is back to normal.

And I learned that the Internet has become a part of my daily life and I can't do without it.  Can you?