I have been bitten

Some people go their whole lives not knowing what they are supposed to be doing. They try different things waiting for something to click. Not me. I have been writing almost literally since I was old enough to hold a pencil. I wrote short stories when I was a kid, mostly rip offs of stories that I had already heard, but for some reason nothing appealed to me more than putting pen to paper and creating something. I collected little shaped erasers and wrote stories about them, complete with illustrations.
It is the closest thing I can compare to an addiction. Every once in awhile I feel it hit me, an urge like nothing else to sit and write. I just have to stop what I am doing and write, even if it is just a paragraph. I can literally feel a tingle in my arm and hand and it won't go away until I write something.
I have countless notebooks in my basement full of short stories and poems that I have formulated over the years. Countless pieces that no one has ever read. There is the story about the girl whose subconcious is so desperate to talk to her she has dreams about watching herself sleeping. Then there is the one about the family who thinks their house is haunted because they keep seeing things, then they learn that the house is not haunted, but a rare chemical in the house has made them crazy . . . many, may others that are collecting dust and webs and God only knows what else in the dungeon below.
I have these dreams that are so real . . . they play out in my head like movies. It's like I am there. I can smell the air and feel the weather. Then I wake up with an incredible story that I feel just has to be told.
Stephen King's stories come from dreams. The Twilight series was spawned from a dream. I am inspired by King, Edgar Alan Poe, Anne Rice, epic poetry like Dante's Inferno and others.
So what makes me think I can't do it? Why am I so scared? King's first book, "Carrie" was rejected something like 20 times before it was published. I know, I know . . .
During my second year of college I was going through a nasty divorce (who knew that, huh, huh?) I had a night class about the cultures and people of South America (fascinating class, by the way.) And I was super depressed and did not care about much of anything. Pardon my French, but I really just did not give a shit.
We had to read these books and write reports on them. I read half of one book the night before a report was due, then half-assed the report at like 2 in the morning. I turned it in . . . .
A few days later the professor asked to see me after class. I thought, great, he is pissed. I had come to class late, sat in the back of the room, etc. After class he handed me my paper and his exact words to me were, "Good God, girl, you can write!" He said it was some of the best writing he had ever seen. And this is coming from a highly educated and intelligent college professor. Believe me, not all college professors are educated or intelligent!
It woke me up a little bit. Maybe I should do something with this. Maybe I should actually try. He encouraged me to write for the college paper, and I did. And now I write for the local paper. BUT, the stuff I write for the paper is MUCH different than the stuff I write on the side. I have no time at work, sadly, to actually write something that is really good. And since I cover art and entertainment I am usually writing a fluffy preview of a local event. It is sad, really.
The few people I have let read my stuff tell me to try to publish it. Maybe they are just being nice. Could be. I don't know.
Red ink is my worst enemy. I am terrified of rejection, not just with writing but in all aspects of my life. It is like a curse, I am given this gift and then given a fear that does not allow me to use it.
I make up excuses . . . . I am too tired. After all I have two kids and work full time. I pass out at nine o'clock. I can't sit and focus when their are two kids who need fed, bathed, etc. They are my first priority. And I really enjoy spending time with my hubby. I am so grateful for him because he encourages me so much! We are supposed to be grocery shopping right now, but I told him I had to sit and write for a minute, and he is totally cool with it and taking care of baby Devin while I feverishly strike keys on my new keyboard.

Maybe today is the day. Maybe my inspiration will stick this time.

This is too funny to keep to myself

So I have heard this story from two people now, and I just have to share it. It is much too bizzare and funny to keep to myself. I am not gonna use names though . . .

I am hearing this third person, so I will do my best to get this right.

So somewhere in the thriving metropolis of American Falls, Idaho, there lives a family who has a son who is a little slow. I am not being rude... he is literally mentally disables. No disrespect! He is in his 20s but has the mental capacity of about a six-year-old child.

So the mom needs to run to the store really quick to get one or two items. She figures she will be right back so she can leave the son home by himself for just a few minutes. While she is out, she gets a call from her son who tells her, "Mom! I found a troll!" And of course, she thinks he is just playing and imagining things and assures him she will be home in a few minutes.

A few minutes go by and he calls again. This time he says, "Mom! I put the troll in my closet and he is really mad!" Hmmmmm. . . . ok, what is going on?

So, she gets home and discovers that there is indeed something barricaded in a closet in her home. But it is not a troll . . . . it is a little person. What is the correct term? Not midget . . . dwarf? You know what I mean. He was a Jehovah's witness who just happened to come to the door while the mom was out for a few minutes. The son thought he was a troll and not only put him in a closet, but barricaded it with furniture.

I guess the little man was really pissed! They talked him out of pressing charges.

But can you imagine? On both sides! What would you say if you came home and there was someone locked in a closet in your house? And what was the Jehovah's witness thinking? Wow.

I could not make this up. As they say, at least no one was hurt and all that good stuff. . . sigh. Truth is stranger than fiction.