E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 82
December 17, 2012
Get Published--an opportunity--in the Myths & Legends Anthology
Ever
wished to be like Zeus so you could live forever, lounge around all
day, send your demigod kids to vanquish monsters, live through a boat
ride down the river Styx? Isn't it a bit annoying how flawlessly
good-looking the gods are? How Aphrodite just happens to have everything: beauty, love, A JOB? Poseidon always get the
girl. Ares still wants war—after
centuries of it. Hestia would never dream of burning a homemade meal
or eating fast food! Pandora is as nosy as an aspiring reporter and
Hades continues to be 'the next best thing.'
Well, that's all about to change. . . .
In November 2013, Wayman Publishing will release Open Doors: Monstrous Myths and Legends in which authors write their own
hilarious, unique, or even tragic versions of myths and other well-known
legends.
If
you'd like to submit a 2,000 word (or less) story or poem for this
YA/Adult project, please go HERE .
wished to be like Zeus so you could live forever, lounge around all
day, send your demigod kids to vanquish monsters, live through a boat
ride down the river Styx? Isn't it a bit annoying how flawlessly
good-looking the gods are? How Aphrodite just happens to have everything: beauty, love, A JOB? Poseidon always get the
girl. Ares still wants war—after
centuries of it. Hestia would never dream of burning a homemade meal
or eating fast food! Pandora is as nosy as an aspiring reporter and
Hades continues to be 'the next best thing.'
Well, that's all about to change. . . .
In November 2013, Wayman Publishing will release Open Doors: Monstrous Myths and Legends in which authors write their own
hilarious, unique, or even tragic versions of myths and other well-known
legends.
If
you'd like to submit a 2,000 word (or less) story or poem for this
YA/Adult project, please go HERE .
December 15, 2012
Feedback on the symbolism of a dream.
This is a continuation from yesterday's post:
Do you ever feel worthless?
After a long day of once again searching for a sense of worth, I had a dream. . . .
Doctor Jones (my two-year-old baby girl) called to me from the front room. "Mama. Mama. Look!"
I ran into the glowing room. A window rested open and the wind danced through, making my baby's curly brown hair sway. The maroon and golden curtain swept the floor next to her tip-toed, chubby feet. The hardwood floors seemed a bit misty from the dust particles the sunrays illuminated.
"What are you doing, baby?" I asked, because she held an arrangement of sorts up to the light streaming through the window.
This is the exact arrangement she held in my dream (without the vase):
"What are you doing?" I asked again.
"I'm making art," she squealed, so very proud of herself. The arrangement looked ordinary until it hit the light, then it glistened so only the best parts gleamed.
But as I looked at her, the arrangements she thought was so beautiful was not the art. It was her. She looked like an angelic figurine, tiptoed and straining toward the sun.
I watched her for a long time, wondering over the deeper meaning, then I woke up.
I know this dream could mean so many things. My daughter could represent the person I want to be inside, striving for the sun, thinking I'm making something that will transform my worth--when (like everyone) worth is already inside. Or it could show how the arrangement was always exceptional, it just needed to be near the window. We can take the good instead of focusing on the bad.
It also made me reflect on how special each of us are. God has given us gifts and talents, sometimes it's just hard to realize that no matter what we do, we are God's art--and that's one of the greatest things I can imagine. Remember Pandora, created by Hephaestus? That tale always made me wonder, how would it feel to have been created for a purpose? But we all are--entertwining, fitting into a puzzle we often don't understand until much later. Even my son Zeke, who lived a few short months. We all have a purpose. Without Zeke, I would have never pursued my dream of writing. I would be a completely different person. His life had meaning.
What do you take from this dream? Do you see any deeper symbolism here?
I look forward to your feedback.
After a long day of once again searching for a sense of worth, I had a dream. . . .
Doctor Jones (my two-year-old baby girl) called to me from the front room. "Mama. Mama. Look!"
I ran into the glowing room. A window rested open and the wind danced through, making my baby's curly brown hair sway. The maroon and golden curtain swept the floor next to her tip-toed, chubby feet. The hardwood floors seemed a bit misty from the dust particles the sunrays illuminated.
"What are you doing, baby?" I asked, because she held an arrangement of sorts up to the light streaming through the window.
This is the exact arrangement she held in my dream (without the vase):
"What are you doing?" I asked again.
"I'm making art," she squealed, so very proud of herself. The arrangement looked ordinary until it hit the light, then it glistened so only the best parts gleamed.
But as I looked at her, the arrangements she thought was so beautiful was not the art. It was her. She looked like an angelic figurine, tiptoed and straining toward the sun.
I watched her for a long time, wondering over the deeper meaning, then I woke up.
I know this dream could mean so many things. My daughter could represent the person I want to be inside, striving for the sun, thinking I'm making something that will transform my worth--when (like everyone) worth is already inside. Or it could show how the arrangement was always exceptional, it just needed to be near the window. We can take the good instead of focusing on the bad.
It also made me reflect on how special each of us are. God has given us gifts and talents, sometimes it's just hard to realize that no matter what we do, we are God's art--and that's one of the greatest things I can imagine. Remember Pandora, created by Hephaestus? That tale always made me wonder, how would it feel to have been created for a purpose? But we all are--entertwining, fitting into a puzzle we often don't understand until much later. Even my son Zeke, who lived a few short months. We all have a purpose. Without Zeke, I would have never pursued my dream of writing. I would be a completely different person. His life had meaning.
What do you take from this dream? Do you see any deeper symbolism here?
I look forward to your feedback.
December 14, 2012
A Connecticut Shooting Shocks a Nation to its Core
Earlier today 27 people were killed at an elementary school northeast of New York City. At least 20 of them were children. The shooter killed his own mother--a kindergarten teacher at the school. I've heard several reports say that his father was also found dead at a home in another city. And that the shooter killed his mother as well as the 18 students in her classroom.
Reports are still coming in, and although the reports are changing slightly, it's obvious that this is a tragic day no one will forget.
You can read one of the many articles on this HERE .
This news is so devastating . . . so deeply sad that it brings to mind Columbine. I was sixteen years old at the time, a happy-go-lucky kid. The news came in slowly. We turned on the TVs at my own high school in Salt Lake City, and I cried. I knew kids who went to Columbine. They were Christians, good people. None of them died that day, though I worried, wringing my hands in front of the TV at the corner of the classroom, for once not caring what anyone thought of my hair or teenage-like clothes.
A woman from church called me that night. At the time I was a devout Christian. I'd been sitting in a car with my boyfriend, both of us greiving over the kids who'd died just one state away. I guess it hit us extra hard since we'd gone to camp with kids in that town. "I've got to take this call," I told him. "It's a lady from church and she never calls. Something must be wrong--maybe to do with Columbine."
"I'm proud to know you," she said after I answered the phone. "When I heard about the shooting, the reporter said how the gunman asked the students to stand up if they believed in Jesus. You would have stood up and died," she said. "And that makes me proud."
I sat dumbfounded. I still don't know what I would have done. I told my boyfriend what the woman had said. He dropped out of school a week later, convinced our school would be next and he'd be forced to stand or go to Hell.
There were many days throughout the following year that our school received bomb threats. Brighton High was evacuated various times and the students were told to wait in the parking lot while police inspected classrooms, lockers, the works. Many kids didn't react as my THEN ex-boyfriend had. His reaction embarrassed me so much that I couldn't stand dating someone spineless enough to drop out of school. He asked me later why I broke up with him and I said, "I won't date someone who's afraid to live."
But the truth remains, this IS a scary world. I don't think we should walk around with bulletproof vests on or carry machine guns, but we should mourn and reflect.
I just got back from the grocery store. I'm always smiley and congenial with the cashiers and staff there. But today I wasn't. A manager walked from across the store just to ask what was wrong. He doesn't know me. He had no idea how sad I've been, broken-hearted for the families who have lost loved ones and children today--just before Christmas.
I started crying right next to the medicine aisle, like I'm the damn person who needs some happy pills.
He looked at me--that manager who doesn't get paid to ask how customers are doing--and he just nodded like he knew why I was sad. Tears filled his eyes and he simply asked again, "How are you today?"
"I'm fine," I sobbed.
"Me too," he replied, in a strained voice. Then I left the grocery store knowing this is a day America will never forget. It's a tragic moment when two strangers can cry in a grocery store and know exactly what's wrong without spelling things out.
My condolences to those who have lost loved ones today.
I'll continue my post from earlier tomorrow.
Reports are still coming in, and although the reports are changing slightly, it's obvious that this is a tragic day no one will forget.
You can read one of the many articles on this HERE .
This news is so devastating . . . so deeply sad that it brings to mind Columbine. I was sixteen years old at the time, a happy-go-lucky kid. The news came in slowly. We turned on the TVs at my own high school in Salt Lake City, and I cried. I knew kids who went to Columbine. They were Christians, good people. None of them died that day, though I worried, wringing my hands in front of the TV at the corner of the classroom, for once not caring what anyone thought of my hair or teenage-like clothes.
A woman from church called me that night. At the time I was a devout Christian. I'd been sitting in a car with my boyfriend, both of us greiving over the kids who'd died just one state away. I guess it hit us extra hard since we'd gone to camp with kids in that town. "I've got to take this call," I told him. "It's a lady from church and she never calls. Something must be wrong--maybe to do with Columbine."
"I'm proud to know you," she said after I answered the phone. "When I heard about the shooting, the reporter said how the gunman asked the students to stand up if they believed in Jesus. You would have stood up and died," she said. "And that makes me proud."
I sat dumbfounded. I still don't know what I would have done. I told my boyfriend what the woman had said. He dropped out of school a week later, convinced our school would be next and he'd be forced to stand or go to Hell.
There were many days throughout the following year that our school received bomb threats. Brighton High was evacuated various times and the students were told to wait in the parking lot while police inspected classrooms, lockers, the works. Many kids didn't react as my THEN ex-boyfriend had. His reaction embarrassed me so much that I couldn't stand dating someone spineless enough to drop out of school. He asked me later why I broke up with him and I said, "I won't date someone who's afraid to live."
But the truth remains, this IS a scary world. I don't think we should walk around with bulletproof vests on or carry machine guns, but we should mourn and reflect.
I just got back from the grocery store. I'm always smiley and congenial with the cashiers and staff there. But today I wasn't. A manager walked from across the store just to ask what was wrong. He doesn't know me. He had no idea how sad I've been, broken-hearted for the families who have lost loved ones and children today--just before Christmas.
I started crying right next to the medicine aisle, like I'm the damn person who needs some happy pills.
He looked at me--that manager who doesn't get paid to ask how customers are doing--and he just nodded like he knew why I was sad. Tears filled his eyes and he simply asked again, "How are you today?"
"I'm fine," I sobbed.
"Me too," he replied, in a strained voice. Then I left the grocery store knowing this is a day America will never forget. It's a tragic moment when two strangers can cry in a grocery store and know exactly what's wrong without spelling things out.
My condolences to those who have lost loved ones today.
I'll continue my post from earlier tomorrow.
Do you ever feel worthless?
For years I've dealt with something I hate talking about: never being good enough. I'd fly to the moon if I could, just to gain some self-worth. I'd become a politician, if I felt it would earn me some award in Heaven. I'd do nearly anything just to feel worth something.
I've shown this tendency in the past, playing the violin until people actually paid me to play, becoming a female mechanic (in training) despite the odds, having a clothing business that turned into a booming success. Or now . . . writing books until my fingers have nearly fallen off.
At moments through all of these accomplishments, I've felt worth something--honestly. But then things always make me depressed afterward. Maybe none of it was worth anything? I'm a jack of all trades, master of none, just trying my hand at everything until I feel satisfied. That reflects on me. How insecure and vunerable I can be. At least through my books, I've realized more about myself--especially while rereading my own journal, The Golden Sky , after my son died.
I realized all of this again yesterday as I gave a friend a copy of H omeless in Hawaii . "I hope you'll love it," I said. "And now a trilogy--after all the sweat and tears, I'm finally done!"
She clutched the book and didn't even smile. "What a nice thing to add! You could have just given me the book and not said a word." She stared at me. "When will you realize that I'm just as great and accomplished as you are? Just cause I can't give you something I've been working on, that doesn't make you better than me."
I stayed gape-jawed, then I drove home and cried. I've always thought she was wonderful. But after her cruel words, she didn't seem quite so fantastic anymore. I'd just wanted her to have my book because she's my friend.
My thoughts came back to my boomeranging problem-- since it always comes back to haunt me--that issue of self-worth.
Every time I've felt good about myself or something I've done, certain people in my life have hurt me. This has only happened because I've put my self-worth in them instead of where it should be, in myself.
I talked with another friend about this several years ago. "But you're so talented," she'd said.
"Anyone can be talented if they work at it," I said. "It doesn't make me valuable to anyone, especially God. It just makes me a hard worker."
"Well, if you feel like this, imagine how others feel, the people who haven't worked to be good at anything. The people like me."
I grabbed her hand and told her about the many gifts and talents she obviously possessed. It shocked me, but she had no idea what an amazing person she was! And after that day, I saw a change in her, as if I'd shone a flashlight on something that had always been there--her significance.
Last night, after crying about my friend's words--and to be completely honest--my lack of self-esteem, I had a symbolic dream that still has me a bit confused.
I'll tell you about it tomorrow. Maybe you'll be able to help me see its deeper meaning?
P.S. Have you ever felt like this--struggling to find self-worth? If you haven't, please don't say 'no.' That'll just make me feel like a turd on the ground, really.
Thanks for all of your kind comments on my last post. Your friendships have bolstered me and encouraged me to keep writing this blog.
I've shown this tendency in the past, playing the violin until people actually paid me to play, becoming a female mechanic (in training) despite the odds, having a clothing business that turned into a booming success. Or now . . . writing books until my fingers have nearly fallen off.
At moments through all of these accomplishments, I've felt worth something--honestly. But then things always make me depressed afterward. Maybe none of it was worth anything? I'm a jack of all trades, master of none, just trying my hand at everything until I feel satisfied. That reflects on me. How insecure and vunerable I can be. At least through my books, I've realized more about myself--especially while rereading my own journal, The Golden Sky , after my son died.
I realized all of this again yesterday as I gave a friend a copy of H omeless in Hawaii . "I hope you'll love it," I said. "And now a trilogy--after all the sweat and tears, I'm finally done!"
She clutched the book and didn't even smile. "What a nice thing to add! You could have just given me the book and not said a word." She stared at me. "When will you realize that I'm just as great and accomplished as you are? Just cause I can't give you something I've been working on, that doesn't make you better than me."
I stayed gape-jawed, then I drove home and cried. I've always thought she was wonderful. But after her cruel words, she didn't seem quite so fantastic anymore. I'd just wanted her to have my book because she's my friend.
My thoughts came back to my boomeranging problem-- since it always comes back to haunt me--that issue of self-worth.
Every time I've felt good about myself or something I've done, certain people in my life have hurt me. This has only happened because I've put my self-worth in them instead of where it should be, in myself.
I talked with another friend about this several years ago. "But you're so talented," she'd said.
"Anyone can be talented if they work at it," I said. "It doesn't make me valuable to anyone, especially God. It just makes me a hard worker."
"Well, if you feel like this, imagine how others feel, the people who haven't worked to be good at anything. The people like me."
I grabbed her hand and told her about the many gifts and talents she obviously possessed. It shocked me, but she had no idea what an amazing person she was! And after that day, I saw a change in her, as if I'd shone a flashlight on something that had always been there--her significance.
Last night, after crying about my friend's words--and to be completely honest--my lack of self-esteem, I had a symbolic dream that still has me a bit confused.
I'll tell you about it tomorrow. Maybe you'll be able to help me see its deeper meaning?
P.S. Have you ever felt like this--struggling to find self-worth? If you haven't, please don't say 'no.' That'll just make me feel like a turd on the ground, really.
Thanks for all of your kind comments on my last post. Your friendships have bolstered me and encouraged me to keep writing this blog.
December 10, 2012
Homeless in Hawaii has been Officially Released!
I still can't believe this day is finally here. The Golden Sky Trilogy is complete. These have been some very emotional books to write, but very rewarding as well.
Here's where the story starts.
Quote from the book:
“Have
you ever felt like your world’s falling apart just because you put
yourself together with the wrong pieces?” I asked. “And that maybe, if
you looked hard enough, you could find the right parts to put yourself
together again?”
It explains what led a "good girl" to run away (with a bad boy) to be:
(Click the picture to see it LIVE on Amazon!)
The Trilogy ends with The Golden Sky .
[image error]
My journal, about my son who passed away and helped me see everything differently.
All of these books came from my heart, but Homeless in Hawaii has a special place because it's a coming of age story about love and a struggle to survive--maybe that's why I wrote it last.
Here's an excerpt toward the end of the book. This is after I came back from being a homeless.
The strangest thing about going back home was realizing life
had gone on without me. It had been less than six months, yet no one remembered
the rumors or the Bible girl who ran away from high school. People waved when I
ran into them. They didn’t talk much about my senior year and most of them were
incredibly nice.
I tried getting a few musical gigs
and several people said they would have hired me if I just had a guitarist to
play with. I tried jamming with a few guys, but none of them even compared to
Cade. We didn’t have the same spontaneous transitions or the synchronization so
important with Celtic and acoustic music.
I finally broke down and decided
that without Cade in my life, playing music had become depressing. I got the first job I
applied for and started working at a disco themed bowling alley where everyone
knew one another. The people who worked there treated me kindly, and the
elderly customers who came in the early morning and night always told the best
stories.
One day, as I worked at the
register, I saw a girl I’d known from church. “You were always such a fake,”
she said and her words took me off guard because everyone else from my past had
forgotten about my teen dramas.
“Don’t you know?” I replied,
slapping her size of bowling shoes on the counter. “I’m old news. People like
you are gossiping about other things now.” She gasped. “You really have no idea who I am or what I’ve been through.
Next!” I yelled to the people standing in line behind her.
She didn’t even touch the shoes.
Instead she moved aside and, without another word, left the building.
“When you stood up to that girl, I
was impressed,” a fellow cashier said later. “I could never do something like
that.”
“Yes, you could. You’re stronger
than you think—and that means something coming from me because people have told
me I can see things about people.” I winked at her and she smiled. As we
talked, I sprayed bowling shoes with Lysol, tucked in laces and arranged
everything nicely in cubbyholes. “Can you believe I couldn’t stand up for
myself in high school? I had to become a homeless street musician just to find
out I’d always had strength inside of me.”
“Oh, Elisa! You’re a hoot. You
really weren’t homeless? Were you?”
“Yeah. I was.”
For another excerpt from Homeless in Hawaii, please go here: Coming Home to Myself
Homeless in Hawaii
Barnes and Noble Paperback on sale for $7.46
Amazon Paperback on sale for $7.64
eBook
Here's where the story starts.
Quote from the book:
“Have
you ever felt like your world’s falling apart just because you put
yourself together with the wrong pieces?” I asked. “And that maybe, if
you looked hard enough, you could find the right parts to put yourself
together again?”
It explains what led a "good girl" to run away (with a bad boy) to be:
(Click the picture to see it LIVE on Amazon!)
The Trilogy ends with The Golden Sky .
[image error]
My journal, about my son who passed away and helped me see everything differently.
All of these books came from my heart, but Homeless in Hawaii has a special place because it's a coming of age story about love and a struggle to survive--maybe that's why I wrote it last.
Here's an excerpt toward the end of the book. This is after I came back from being a homeless.
The strangest thing about going back home was realizing life
had gone on without me. It had been less than six months, yet no one remembered
the rumors or the Bible girl who ran away from high school. People waved when I
ran into them. They didn’t talk much about my senior year and most of them were
incredibly nice.
I tried getting a few musical gigs
and several people said they would have hired me if I just had a guitarist to
play with. I tried jamming with a few guys, but none of them even compared to
Cade. We didn’t have the same spontaneous transitions or the synchronization so
important with Celtic and acoustic music.
I finally broke down and decided
that without Cade in my life, playing music had become depressing. I got the first job I
applied for and started working at a disco themed bowling alley where everyone
knew one another. The people who worked there treated me kindly, and the
elderly customers who came in the early morning and night always told the best
stories.
One day, as I worked at the
register, I saw a girl I’d known from church. “You were always such a fake,”
she said and her words took me off guard because everyone else from my past had
forgotten about my teen dramas.
“Don’t you know?” I replied,
slapping her size of bowling shoes on the counter. “I’m old news. People like
you are gossiping about other things now.” She gasped. “You really have no idea who I am or what I’ve been through.
Next!” I yelled to the people standing in line behind her.
She didn’t even touch the shoes.
Instead she moved aside and, without another word, left the building.
“When you stood up to that girl, I
was impressed,” a fellow cashier said later. “I could never do something like
that.”
“Yes, you could. You’re stronger
than you think—and that means something coming from me because people have told
me I can see things about people.” I winked at her and she smiled. As we
talked, I sprayed bowling shoes with Lysol, tucked in laces and arranged
everything nicely in cubbyholes. “Can you believe I couldn’t stand up for
myself in high school? I had to become a homeless street musician just to find
out I’d always had strength inside of me.”
“Oh, Elisa! You’re a hoot. You
really weren’t homeless? Were you?”
“Yeah. I was.”
For another excerpt from Homeless in Hawaii, please go here: Coming Home to Myself
Homeless in Hawaii
Barnes and Noble Paperback on sale for $7.46
Amazon Paperback on sale for $7.64
eBook
Happy Birthday, Scribe!
The Scribe is eleven years old today! I can hardly believe it.
So today I thought I'd repost the most popular story I ever wrote about her--back when she was nine.
The Scribe's Blog Backfired!
If you've been reading my blog, then you know my oldest daughter, The Scribe, has a "blog" too. Well, not really, but that's what she calls it. For weeks she's been writing one note a day and then putting them into the same locker at school--too bad she doesn't know who the locker belongs to. It's actually been a good thing though because every time she writes a "blog," she writes two copies, one to drop in the locker and one to keep so she'll remember what she wrote.
I've been quite impressed by this whole thing. It shows a lot of determination for a little nine-year-old. Plus, it's been fun reading things she wouldn't tell me and doesn't know I'm reading.
Anyway, here are the back stories if you're interested:
"The Scribe" Started A Blog!
The Scribe Wasn't Kidding
So, here's the story of how The Scribe's Blog Backfired!
I picked these two pictures because The Scribe reminds me of a cross between this:
And This:
This is really the Scribe.
Yesterday, after I brought the girls to school, I sneaked into The Scribe's bedroom and read the new blog entry.
Name: #9
I am going to talk more about my life. Yesterday, a guy was mowing the lawn. I like that guy. He's cute and nice. Someday, I will marry that guy. When he mows the lawn it is a good day.
I gasped as I read it. Could she be in love? She's nine!
I turned the page and read on.
Dear Mom,
I paused. It was addressed to me? Really?
You've been looking at my blogs!
That last blog wasn't true. It was a joke. A very funny joke. It was fals fals I tell you. I know what you've been doing.
And that's exactly how she spelled "false" as "fals, fals." So, she wasn't in love with the lawn mower boy. That made me stop. If I didn't have the correct blog, then what had she brought to school?
My phone rang just after noon. I'll give you one guess who it was . . . Every time my phone rings, EVERY TIME The Scribe is at school--and my phone rings--it's always her or her teacher!
"Mama?" The Scribe whispered urgently. I knew it was bad because she usually only calls me "Mom."
"What, honey? What's wrong?"
"Can you come to the school for a minute. I . . ." she broke into a sob. "I'm having a bad day. I don't want to go home though, I don't want you or my class thinking I'm a pansy . . . I just need to talk to you about my blog. I'll meet you by the front doors."
I rushed over to the school. The Scribe waited, squatting by the front bushes which was odd in itself, but especially strange since they usually make the kids wait in the office.
She ran out after seeing me. She looked from side to side as she ran, like she'd been hired as a secret spy or something. "I'm supposed to be in lunch," she whispered. "But I snuck a call on the phone and met you here instead."
"Won't they wonder where you are?" I asked, whispering too for some dumb reason.
"Well, I checked in with the lunch people and then left when the ladies weren't looking. Anyway we don't have much time. I just had to tell you, 'I'm sorry.' You were right. I never want to tell a boy that I like him again. I didn't listen to you, Mom," she went on. "I put a note in that locker . . ." She suddenly looked toward the door and pulled me behind a tree. "Have you ever had a weird feeling?" she asked. "Have you ever just known something?"
I nodded. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."
"Well, yesterday when I was writing my blog, I got this strange feeling that I knew who my blogs were going to . . . I just knew they were going to Kobe."
"But how did you know? Have you seen him by that locker."
"No," she looked sad, "I just had this feeling. So, last night, I wrote a blog and I told him that I love him."
"You did what!" I nearly screamed.
"Shhhh." She put her pointer finger to her mouth. "Do you want to hear this story or not?"
"Fine," I whispered, playing along even though I knew we wouldn't get in trouble since I was there with her.
"I wrote the love blog and put it in his locker. I wrote my name at the bottom and everything. I just didn't put his name on it, in case it wasn't his locker and it was Dylan's or something."
I could have laughed, but I tried keeping a straight face.
"Anyway, after the bell rang, I walked into the classroom and guess who had my blog."
"Who?" I asked breathlessly.
"Ryan--the kid who always pretends he's a baby."
"The same kid who walks around calling you Mama?"
She nodded and tears filled her cherub-like eyes. "He thinks I love him, Mom. He's so stink'n happy. It was harder to sneak away from him than it was to get away from the lunch lady! But that isn't the worst part." She really cried then and actually threw her arms around my waist. "The school bully saw Ryan reading the note," The Scribe said. "She saw him reading that note . . . and she took it from him . . . and read it to the whole class. Everyone thinks I like that baby!"
I hugged her as deep cries racked her dramatic little soul. I patted her on the back and I know it's horrible, but as I patted her I thought, I can blog this . . . this will make for a great follow-up blog.
Needless to say, The Scribe doesn't want to go to school for "forever" as she put it. She did finish the day out yesterday and I nearly busted with amusement when Ryan walked her to our van, opened the door and as he shut it he said, "I'll see you on Monday . . . Mama."
So, The Scribe won't be writing any more love letters for a long time. Last night I asked her how she was doing.
"I'm not good," she replied. "Now I can see why some of your friends hate blogging. It can make things go all wrong."
Or all right, I thought. I know she'll laugh about this when she's older. She's always getting herself into these crazy situations where she meets the strangest children and then has amazing stories to tell me about them. She's a hoot and I love every minute!
Have a great day! And remember when you blog, sometimes public love letters aren't the best way to go.
Sincerely,
E
So today I thought I'd repost the most popular story I ever wrote about her--back when she was nine.
The Scribe's Blog Backfired!
If you've been reading my blog, then you know my oldest daughter, The Scribe, has a "blog" too. Well, not really, but that's what she calls it. For weeks she's been writing one note a day and then putting them into the same locker at school--too bad she doesn't know who the locker belongs to. It's actually been a good thing though because every time she writes a "blog," she writes two copies, one to drop in the locker and one to keep so she'll remember what she wrote.
I've been quite impressed by this whole thing. It shows a lot of determination for a little nine-year-old. Plus, it's been fun reading things she wouldn't tell me and doesn't know I'm reading.
Anyway, here are the back stories if you're interested:
"The Scribe" Started A Blog!
The Scribe Wasn't Kidding
So, here's the story of how The Scribe's Blog Backfired!
I picked these two pictures because The Scribe reminds me of a cross between this:
And This:
This is really the Scribe.
Yesterday, after I brought the girls to school, I sneaked into The Scribe's bedroom and read the new blog entry.
Name: #9
I am going to talk more about my life. Yesterday, a guy was mowing the lawn. I like that guy. He's cute and nice. Someday, I will marry that guy. When he mows the lawn it is a good day.
I gasped as I read it. Could she be in love? She's nine!
I turned the page and read on.
Dear Mom,
I paused. It was addressed to me? Really?
You've been looking at my blogs!
That last blog wasn't true. It was a joke. A very funny joke. It was fals fals I tell you. I know what you've been doing.
And that's exactly how she spelled "false" as "fals, fals." So, she wasn't in love with the lawn mower boy. That made me stop. If I didn't have the correct blog, then what had she brought to school?
My phone rang just after noon. I'll give you one guess who it was . . . Every time my phone rings, EVERY TIME The Scribe is at school--and my phone rings--it's always her or her teacher!
"Mama?" The Scribe whispered urgently. I knew it was bad because she usually only calls me "Mom."
"What, honey? What's wrong?"
"Can you come to the school for a minute. I . . ." she broke into a sob. "I'm having a bad day. I don't want to go home though, I don't want you or my class thinking I'm a pansy . . . I just need to talk to you about my blog. I'll meet you by the front doors."
I rushed over to the school. The Scribe waited, squatting by the front bushes which was odd in itself, but especially strange since they usually make the kids wait in the office.
She ran out after seeing me. She looked from side to side as she ran, like she'd been hired as a secret spy or something. "I'm supposed to be in lunch," she whispered. "But I snuck a call on the phone and met you here instead."
"Won't they wonder where you are?" I asked, whispering too for some dumb reason.
"Well, I checked in with the lunch people and then left when the ladies weren't looking. Anyway we don't have much time. I just had to tell you, 'I'm sorry.' You were right. I never want to tell a boy that I like him again. I didn't listen to you, Mom," she went on. "I put a note in that locker . . ." She suddenly looked toward the door and pulled me behind a tree. "Have you ever had a weird feeling?" she asked. "Have you ever just known something?"
I nodded. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."
"Well, yesterday when I was writing my blog, I got this strange feeling that I knew who my blogs were going to . . . I just knew they were going to Kobe."
"But how did you know? Have you seen him by that locker."
"No," she looked sad, "I just had this feeling. So, last night, I wrote a blog and I told him that I love him."
"You did what!" I nearly screamed.
"Shhhh." She put her pointer finger to her mouth. "Do you want to hear this story or not?"
"Fine," I whispered, playing along even though I knew we wouldn't get in trouble since I was there with her.
"I wrote the love blog and put it in his locker. I wrote my name at the bottom and everything. I just didn't put his name on it, in case it wasn't his locker and it was Dylan's or something."
I could have laughed, but I tried keeping a straight face.
"Anyway, after the bell rang, I walked into the classroom and guess who had my blog."
"Who?" I asked breathlessly.
"Ryan--the kid who always pretends he's a baby."
"The same kid who walks around calling you Mama?"
She nodded and tears filled her cherub-like eyes. "He thinks I love him, Mom. He's so stink'n happy. It was harder to sneak away from him than it was to get away from the lunch lady! But that isn't the worst part." She really cried then and actually threw her arms around my waist. "The school bully saw Ryan reading the note," The Scribe said. "She saw him reading that note . . . and she took it from him . . . and read it to the whole class. Everyone thinks I like that baby!"
I hugged her as deep cries racked her dramatic little soul. I patted her on the back and I know it's horrible, but as I patted her I thought, I can blog this . . . this will make for a great follow-up blog.
Needless to say, The Scribe doesn't want to go to school for "forever" as she put it. She did finish the day out yesterday and I nearly busted with amusement when Ryan walked her to our van, opened the door and as he shut it he said, "I'll see you on Monday . . . Mama."
So, The Scribe won't be writing any more love letters for a long time. Last night I asked her how she was doing.
"I'm not good," she replied. "Now I can see why some of your friends hate blogging. It can make things go all wrong."
Or all right, I thought. I know she'll laugh about this when she's older. She's always getting herself into these crazy situations where she meets the strangest children and then has amazing stories to tell me about them. She's a hoot and I love every minute!
Have a great day! And remember when you blog, sometimes public love letters aren't the best way to go.
Sincerely,
E
December 9, 2012
That's bullsh*t: But the Truth Will Set You Free.
For a chance to WIN Homeless in Hawaii, go
HERE
.
Now, for today's post!
The Zombie Elf recently got several toys from Melynda at Crazy World . She gave him rescue heroes: firefighters, space rangers, policemen, construction workers, all the characters from YMCA and much more!
Well, my four-year-old zombie played with those toys for hours. I thought it was cute how the Zombie dubbed the construction worker as the leader, probably since Cade--his daddy--works construction.
I peeked around the corner when the toys got into a big fight with each other.
The Zombie held them up, saying different things like, "No. No! The bad guy's over there." "I know, he's hurting the Barbies." Or. "You're wrong, he's after the My Little Ponies!"
"No . . . it's you," the Zombie finally said for a low-voiced toy--the menacing blue ninja. "You've been after the My Little Ponies this whole time, Construction Guy. You already smacked all the Barbies and stole their dream car!"
The Zombie grabbed the construction guy and made him lumber forward. "Stop it, Blue Ninja," the construction guy said. "That's BULLSHIT!"
I paused. Did the Zombie really swear? And why had he used MY line? Don't answer that. So yesterday I told Cade that he swears too much because now the kids are grabbing construction toys and saying a bunch of B.S.
"I don't swear too much. DAMN it!" Cade said, thoughtfully.
"And that just proves it." I giggled. (Please remember this is my honest point of view, completely unbiased, sweet, kind and wonderful like all good mothers POV's are!)
"But I'm not the one who says, 'That's bullshit'. Elisa, that's something you say."
He'd put me in a tough spot. I thought of my potty mouth. I don't swear a lot, just when I'm really mad, tired, or awake. I yawned widely, exaggerating to buy time, then turned to Cade, batted my lashes and said, "Dear, swearing Cade. The Zombie picked up a CONSTRUCTION WORKER and said the swear word! YOU'RE a construction worker. The Zombie didn't pick up House Wife Barbie and say, 'Damn it all!' He picked up a construction worker like you!"
"And you're comparing yourself to House Wife Barbie?"
"If the shoe fits. Why what toy would you compare me to?"
He shook his head because apparently he couldn't think of something that wouldn't be misconstrued. "Well, da--ng it," Cade said. "I'll try better."
"I hope so." I kissed him on the cheek. "That bullshit needs to stop."
Today is day 9 of remembering being homeless in Hawaii. My memory for today is that the Truth will always set you free.
In closing: If you could be any toy, what would you want to be?
I'd want to be Rainbow Brite.
Now, for today's post!
The Zombie Elf recently got several toys from Melynda at Crazy World . She gave him rescue heroes: firefighters, space rangers, policemen, construction workers, all the characters from YMCA and much more!
Well, my four-year-old zombie played with those toys for hours. I thought it was cute how the Zombie dubbed the construction worker as the leader, probably since Cade--his daddy--works construction.
I peeked around the corner when the toys got into a big fight with each other.
The Zombie held them up, saying different things like, "No. No! The bad guy's over there." "I know, he's hurting the Barbies." Or. "You're wrong, he's after the My Little Ponies!"
"No . . . it's you," the Zombie finally said for a low-voiced toy--the menacing blue ninja. "You've been after the My Little Ponies this whole time, Construction Guy. You already smacked all the Barbies and stole their dream car!"
The Zombie grabbed the construction guy and made him lumber forward. "Stop it, Blue Ninja," the construction guy said. "That's BULLSHIT!"
I paused. Did the Zombie really swear? And why had he used MY line? Don't answer that. So yesterday I told Cade that he swears too much because now the kids are grabbing construction toys and saying a bunch of B.S.
"I don't swear too much. DAMN it!" Cade said, thoughtfully.
"And that just proves it." I giggled. (Please remember this is my honest point of view, completely unbiased, sweet, kind and wonderful like all good mothers POV's are!)
"But I'm not the one who says, 'That's bullshit'. Elisa, that's something you say."
He'd put me in a tough spot. I thought of my potty mouth. I don't swear a lot, just when I'm really mad, tired, or awake. I yawned widely, exaggerating to buy time, then turned to Cade, batted my lashes and said, "Dear, swearing Cade. The Zombie picked up a CONSTRUCTION WORKER and said the swear word! YOU'RE a construction worker. The Zombie didn't pick up House Wife Barbie and say, 'Damn it all!' He picked up a construction worker like you!"
"And you're comparing yourself to House Wife Barbie?"
"If the shoe fits. Why what toy would you compare me to?"
He shook his head because apparently he couldn't think of something that wouldn't be misconstrued. "Well, da--ng it," Cade said. "I'll try better."
"I hope so." I kissed him on the cheek. "That bullshit needs to stop."
Today is day 9 of remembering being homeless in Hawaii. My memory for today is that the Truth will always set you free.
In closing: If you could be any toy, what would you want to be?
I'd want to be Rainbow Brite.
December 8, 2012
YES, I'm an Idiot!
Remember my post from yesterday? Here it is:
Not the Rock I was Expecting
.
Well, look what Cade bought while he was out of town on Wednesday--before I even wrote the post.
He gave it to me last night. Yeah, I feel like an idiot.
BUT, I still LOVE the jewelry!
So my memory for day 8 of remembering being homeless in Hawaii is:
Sometimes people understand what you're going through, even when you don't think they get it.
Click the picture to see it LIVE on Amazon!
To read a review of Homeless in Hawaii, please go HERE .
For a chance to WIN Homeless in Hawaii, go HERE .
Well, look what Cade bought while he was out of town on Wednesday--before I even wrote the post.
He gave it to me last night. Yeah, I feel like an idiot.
BUT, I still LOVE the jewelry!
So my memory for day 8 of remembering being homeless in Hawaii is:
Sometimes people understand what you're going through, even when you don't think they get it.
Click the picture to see it LIVE on Amazon!
To read a review of Homeless in Hawaii, please go HERE .
For a chance to WIN Homeless in Hawaii, go HERE .
December 7, 2012
Not the Rock I was Expecting
Day 7 of Remembering Hawaii
Have you ever left with a total stranger, ran far from everything just to find yourself? Well, that's what I did.
I left with Cade in the beginning of December. I'd met him a week before Halloween that same year.
Fast forward twelve years . . . Here we are in the present day.
Cade works all of the time. I think he has a pretty glamorous job.
Don't believe me? Look at these pictures:
The only catch is that he's usually just home on the weekends.
Well, last week Cade came home on Friday night. As he stepped from his big construction truck, dust swirled around him. His skin appeared dark and tanned. He tore off his work sunglasses and I ran into his arms. I'm sure we were both covered in dirt after that.
"I brought you something," Cade said, taking off his hat and putting it on my head.
"Really? Something for me?" I got excited. I've always wanted jewelry and I could just see it in his eyes. He'd brought home a necklace, a huge gem, a sparkling rock to be proud of!
At that point our four children ran outside and hugged Cade's legs. "Daddy! Daddy."
"He brought me something!" I told our oldest daughters, giggling.
"I'll give it to you after these guys go to bed," Cade said, hugging all of the kids.
I put the children to bed early that night. I could hardly wait. What in the world had Cade brought home for me? We've been through so much, being homeless, losing a child. I mean hell, the man has seen me through the worst and still stuck with me!
"Everyone's asleep," I scampered down the stairs and squeezed Cade's hand.
"It's six o'clock."
"I know. Isn't it wonderful! I wore them out."
So we went outside. It was already dark, and Cade had to find a flashlight. It shone on the snowy ground and my heart beat faster and faster. "Well, it's just inside of the truck." Cade grabbed the handle. But before he opened the door, I gave him a huge kiss.
"Whatever you brought home,"--even if it was a small diamond--"I just want you to know how much this means to me."
He chuckled. "You're gonna love it."
The door creaked open.
The flashlight shone on the back seat's floor.
And THIS. IS. WHAT. I. SAW.
"What do you think?" he asked breathlessly, trying to lug the thing into MY FRONT YARD!
"Ummm . . . it wasn't the rock I was expecting."
"You knew it was a rock?"
"In a sense," I said very slowly, as he actually carried the rock-core like Hercules!
"But you like it? I knew you would because you love rocks."
"Yeah." I looked into his moonlit eyes and he seemed utterly happy, completely proud of his gift.
"I love you, Cade." I threw my arms around his neck after he set the rock down. "It's so heavy. I bet it was hard getting into the truck?"
"Yep. But you're worth it, Elisa."
So I got a new rock. It's sitting at the bottom of our front stairs now. It wasn't the rock I was expecting, but I guess it'll have to do.
For more pictures from Cade's work, please go HERE: Most Wanted Drilling .
Have you ever left with a total stranger, ran far from everything just to find yourself? Well, that's what I did.
I left with Cade in the beginning of December. I'd met him a week before Halloween that same year.
Fast forward twelve years . . . Here we are in the present day.
Cade works all of the time. I think he has a pretty glamorous job.
Don't believe me? Look at these pictures:
The only catch is that he's usually just home on the weekends.
Well, last week Cade came home on Friday night. As he stepped from his big construction truck, dust swirled around him. His skin appeared dark and tanned. He tore off his work sunglasses and I ran into his arms. I'm sure we were both covered in dirt after that.
"I brought you something," Cade said, taking off his hat and putting it on my head.
"Really? Something for me?" I got excited. I've always wanted jewelry and I could just see it in his eyes. He'd brought home a necklace, a huge gem, a sparkling rock to be proud of!
At that point our four children ran outside and hugged Cade's legs. "Daddy! Daddy."
"He brought me something!" I told our oldest daughters, giggling.
"I'll give it to you after these guys go to bed," Cade said, hugging all of the kids.
I put the children to bed early that night. I could hardly wait. What in the world had Cade brought home for me? We've been through so much, being homeless, losing a child. I mean hell, the man has seen me through the worst and still stuck with me!
"Everyone's asleep," I scampered down the stairs and squeezed Cade's hand.
"It's six o'clock."
"I know. Isn't it wonderful! I wore them out."
So we went outside. It was already dark, and Cade had to find a flashlight. It shone on the snowy ground and my heart beat faster and faster. "Well, it's just inside of the truck." Cade grabbed the handle. But before he opened the door, I gave him a huge kiss.
"Whatever you brought home,"--even if it was a small diamond--"I just want you to know how much this means to me."
He chuckled. "You're gonna love it."
The door creaked open.
The flashlight shone on the back seat's floor.
And THIS. IS. WHAT. I. SAW.
"What do you think?" he asked breathlessly, trying to lug the thing into MY FRONT YARD!
"Ummm . . . it wasn't the rock I was expecting."
"You knew it was a rock?"
"In a sense," I said very slowly, as he actually carried the rock-core like Hercules!
"But you like it? I knew you would because you love rocks."
"Yeah." I looked into his moonlit eyes and he seemed utterly happy, completely proud of his gift.
"I love you, Cade." I threw my arms around his neck after he set the rock down. "It's so heavy. I bet it was hard getting into the truck?"
"Yep. But you're worth it, Elisa."
So I got a new rock. It's sitting at the bottom of our front stairs now. It wasn't the rock I was expecting, but I guess it'll have to do.
For more pictures from Cade's work, please go HERE: Most Wanted Drilling .
December 6, 2012
I Met Santa AND He Endorsed My Book!
I went to the signing at the University of Utah last night. It was amazing. I even saw Santa!
As I gazed at him, across the way, I remembered what a religious girl once told me. "You know how 'live' spells 'evil' backwards? And lived spells devil?" she asked.
I thought about it. "Yeah."
"Well," she whispered. "Santa is taking all of the glory from Jesus on Christmas. That's why you can rearrange the letters in Santa . . . to spell SATAN!" She nodded seriously. "Anagrams tell all."
I nearly choked, laughing so hard. "You're kidding, right?"
"Absolutely not. Haven't you realized WORDS have power? The word is living and active--like a two-edged sword. Hebrews 4:12! Think about the Bible Code AND the hidden meanings of anagrams! Think about it--you can also spell 'cult' from Santa Claus."
That conversation happened in high school. I've thought it was hilarious--for years. I have to admit though, while watching children cry as Santa held them, I remembered the power of anagrams.
But the Santa at the U of U signing seemed nice enough--smiling and ho hoing at strangers.
When the crowds at the signing died down, I redid my hair, told myself to be brave, and went to meet Santa.
"Hello, Santa," I said meekly.
"Hello? Ummm . . ." He looked at me like I was nine thousand years old. "What would you like for Christmas?"
"A book endorsement--from Santa," I said, holding up The Sword of Senack . "Everyone knows you. If I got a picture with you holding my book, well that would make my night."
I handed him the book, but that wasn't good enough. "Come and sit on my lap," he said and I blushed.
Have you heard that song "Santa Baby?" THAT man gets around. Plus, isn't it sinful to sit on Santa's lap when you're over the age of twelve?
But I did it anyway. And as I sat there, he asked about my book.
"This looks interesting. What age range is it for?" he asked. Apparently Santa is really into consumerism--and after years of gift-giving, it makes sense.
I smiled at him, trying not to kill his leg with my bony butt. "It's a middle grade fantasy."
"Perfect! I have grandkids."
STOP Right there!
Santa has grandkids? Isn't that comparable to Hell freezing over? Maybe the Mayans had it right. The world is ending right before Christmas. This year suddenly feels like Narnia--always winter and never Christmas.
Anyway, Santa endorsed my book. See.
He was super nice. AND I got to feel like a kid again.
Since today is day 6 of remembering Hawaii, here's my memory for today:
I met a homeless man named Skipper. He was amazing and life-changing. At first, I'm ashamed to say, all I noticed was his appearance. But as time passed, I realized how wonderful he was. His kindness changed my point of view forever.
A word from his name is Piper--which fits since he whistled tunes for tips on the street. Huh--maybe there is something to this anagram stuff!
As I gazed at him, across the way, I remembered what a religious girl once told me. "You know how 'live' spells 'evil' backwards? And lived spells devil?" she asked.
I thought about it. "Yeah."
"Well," she whispered. "Santa is taking all of the glory from Jesus on Christmas. That's why you can rearrange the letters in Santa . . . to spell SATAN!" She nodded seriously. "Anagrams tell all."
I nearly choked, laughing so hard. "You're kidding, right?"
"Absolutely not. Haven't you realized WORDS have power? The word is living and active--like a two-edged sword. Hebrews 4:12! Think about the Bible Code AND the hidden meanings of anagrams! Think about it--you can also spell 'cult' from Santa Claus."
That conversation happened in high school. I've thought it was hilarious--for years. I have to admit though, while watching children cry as Santa held them, I remembered the power of anagrams.
But the Santa at the U of U signing seemed nice enough--smiling and ho hoing at strangers.
When the crowds at the signing died down, I redid my hair, told myself to be brave, and went to meet Santa.
"Hello, Santa," I said meekly.
"Hello? Ummm . . ." He looked at me like I was nine thousand years old. "What would you like for Christmas?"
"A book endorsement--from Santa," I said, holding up The Sword of Senack . "Everyone knows you. If I got a picture with you holding my book, well that would make my night."
I handed him the book, but that wasn't good enough. "Come and sit on my lap," he said and I blushed.
Have you heard that song "Santa Baby?" THAT man gets around. Plus, isn't it sinful to sit on Santa's lap when you're over the age of twelve?
But I did it anyway. And as I sat there, he asked about my book.
"This looks interesting. What age range is it for?" he asked. Apparently Santa is really into consumerism--and after years of gift-giving, it makes sense.
I smiled at him, trying not to kill his leg with my bony butt. "It's a middle grade fantasy."
"Perfect! I have grandkids."
STOP Right there!
Santa has grandkids? Isn't that comparable to Hell freezing over? Maybe the Mayans had it right. The world is ending right before Christmas. This year suddenly feels like Narnia--always winter and never Christmas.
Anyway, Santa endorsed my book. See.
He was super nice. AND I got to feel like a kid again.
Since today is day 6 of remembering Hawaii, here's my memory for today:
I met a homeless man named Skipper. He was amazing and life-changing. At first, I'm ashamed to say, all I noticed was his appearance. But as time passed, I realized how wonderful he was. His kindness changed my point of view forever.
A word from his name is Piper--which fits since he whistled tunes for tips on the street. Huh--maybe there is something to this anagram stuff!
