H.K. Rowe's Blog, page 11

#MondayBlogs – High Expectations of Self

To everyone that writes out there I want you to know that I have faith in you.

I may not know you, I may have never read your work, but if you love to write like I do, I feel a kinship with you, so therefore I have faith with you.

I understand some days really suck for writing. Some days you can’t look at a white screen without getting nauseous or anxious. You post a poem or a flash fiction on your blog or journal and you don’t get any likes or comments. The world seems quiet and you feel like no one is paying attention to you, no one gets you, and it’s the loneliest most awful feeling ever.

Some days you may even want to give up writing altogether.

I’m telling you now - don’t do this to yourself.

Keep writing, even if one person in the whole world reads it and appreciates it – keep writing. Keep writing so much that people can’t help but stumble upon your work. TALK about your writing to others. Talk about them to your loved ones, your friends, and strangers on the bus or train.

If you’re an introvert – well, try to have bursts of extraversion and TALK about your writing. SHARE it. Don’t give up.

But remember this – don’t have high expectations of others when it comes to your writing. Don’t expect everyone to love it, rave about it, and tell you that you’re the best writer they’ve ever encountered.

The only one you should have high expectations of is yourself. The writer in you needs to write like you need to breathe. The writer in you needs practice, as well as gain exposure to other groups of writers to learn basic writing formulas and structure, grammar, and critiques. You need to expose yourself to how others write and what they think of your writing in order to develop a sharp mind and a thick skin.

You need to have a high expectation of yourself because you believe in your writing,  you know you can work through the pain, grief, anxiety and self-loathing and someday become confident and strong so that criticism HELPS you, and flames and nastiness bounce off you like nothing.

If your feelings get hurt, learn to be the bigger person and move on. Learn to accept that not everyone is going to like your work. It isn’t personal. If it IS personal, then maybe it’s that person who has issues – not you, because you’re strong, you’re a rock star, and you write 1000 words every day, and read other books, and go to the local writing group on Wednesdays.

Do what you need to do to be the best writer you believe you are.

When you share your work with others, and you engage with other writers and readers, you form relationships. You need to be genuine and sane, and for gods’ sakes, open your mind to their writing and opinions. Writing is never a one-way street. You don’t fling your work out there like pasta on the wall and expect it to stick to everyone’s favor. Engage with your followers, writers, and readers and become a real person to them. Don’t expect too much out of them, but try to be receptive to what they like and do. Share and have opinions. Encourage others and engage with them at a real, personal level.

I say this because forming a one-sided relationship in life never works. It can’t all be about you and not anyone else. You have that thick skin now, so you can talk to others and not let small things bother you that you’ll turn into a drama llama and then block and flame them on your posts. Remember when I told you to be sane?

The only person you can disappoint is yourself, and that’s how it should be. If you disappoint others and it cripples your writing ability so much that you want to quit writing forever, I wonder if it’s really important to you.

How important is writing to you exactly? And how important are you to yourself?

Cheers,

H.K. Rowe

Excerpt Sunday – Autumn Fire

From my Work in Progress Romance novel, Autumn Fire.

The dream shifted, and Sam was staring at Jon and Dori again in their kitchen, laughing and teasing each other. The sunlight seemed to drown them all in ethereal light, so bright that Sam could barely see Jon’s face. He saw Dori’s clearly, but not Jon’s.

He was heading out, beckoning Sam to come with him. When they’d gotten in the car, Sam could feel them driving – rolling through an endless tunnel of white light, cocooned in an unknown void. When the impact hit them, shattered glass littered around him, cutting through flesh and singing through the air. When he looked up, darkness killed the heavenly light, and Jon was slumped over in the driver’s seat, the metal fragment piercing his brain, spilling out his blood into the car and onto Sam. Sam could feel his own pain dulling when he’d seen his lifeless friend.

Over and over again he saw Jon die. The dreams, the memories, the fear played on an endless loop, trapping him in an amber web of his own terror, his own guilt that his young friend had died that day and some higher power had spared him.

Suddenly, he felt very wet, and he wondered if he was covered in blood, but instead, Sam was weeping, almost endlessly, the cries of horror and agony coming out in small whimpers, echoing through the black corridor as his friend laid lifeless beside him.

He couldn’t save him. Sam had saved him once from alcohol addiction. He’d saved him and helped him, and Jon had finally become a wonderful man – a soldier, a caretaker, and a loyal friend. Sam couldn’t save him from this. No matter how much the dream looped, Sam couldn’t save Jon from a fate like this.

He was gone. Jon was gone and Sam still couldn’t breathe or think the moment he realized his friend was gone, that he’d seen his death wedged in his mind like a cancer, haunting him and making him weep.

“Sam!”

He’d inhaled a sharp breath and his eyes opened in surprise. His cheeks were wet, and he turned to Dori, whose hands were on his shoulders, bringing him awake.

“You were crying,” Dori said. “I’m sorry; I didn’t realize you were sleeping.”

“No, it’s okay,” Sam said in a small, crackled voice.

“No, it’s not. Jesus Christ, Sam. Is this every night for you? These dreams about my brother?” she asked, and she slid next to him on the couch. Her thighs lightly grazed against his, and he felt stilled from the touch.

“Yes,” he answered her, unsure of how to feel about her closeness and worry. He’d always dealt with his demons alone, and he couldn’t burden her with knowing that her brother’s death had literally changed his life. And not for the better. He’d struggled every day with it, the memories, the trauma – and he couldn’t tell this sweet woman that her brother’s death had brought him so much struggle and pain.

© H.K. Rowe

Flash Fiction Friday – Detached

*Warning: This story contains adult sexual situations and bad language. Read at your own risk.

Detached

I cupped his shaggy face and scrunched my brow. “You don’t look like him at all,” I said.

I was submissive and moist underneath his body, and he was too heady to care for my usual musings about the man I truly loved.

He knew it wasn’t him, nor did he care. He saw that I did care but tried to hide it. I tried to erase everything with bodies of motion, slapping together to stomp out the truth.

He didn’t really know me, and I could barely recall him.  We had mutual ties in the distant past, meeting and occupying the same spaces of no real relevance.

The only thing that mattered now was our union on his black bed.

Black was a value that could either hide or accent anything.

I laid on the rickety futon covered in cigarette burns, yearning to be vacuumed. As lukewarm sweat clung to my skin, I felt pieces of dirt and debris sticking to me. His stash was lying visibly on the floor next to stacks of CDs and piles of clothes.

I would have been more disgusted if I wasn’t so lonely.

~*~

The first time I said my beloved’s name as the other one pounded into me, he didn’t react at all. I was more surprised that I even said it, rather than feel guilty of his hurt feelings.

I was trying to forget, and even if his ramming became painful, I couldn’t subdue anything.

The one I truly wanted had always tried to be rough, but was always gentle despite his efforts.

He flipped me onto my stomach so he could come from behind. I knew that he was feeling insulted at this point despite his efforts, and he probably rather not look at my face while I envisioned another man.

~*~

“Tie me up,” I ordered, and he looked into my steadfast face with his own mischief and wonder. I raised my arms above my head and flushed my wrists together awaiting his trial. He grabbed the hair piece out of my own hair and tied me to the right post.

He pushed me down with this weight, tearing at me in a suffocating kiss and burning me with a consistency of internal strokes.

I struggled, thrashing wildly. Only I wasn’t scared, but smiling and uttering sounds of wanton joy.

I didn’t want reminders of gentleness. I just wanted everything scorching and raw.

~*~

“I’m in a bad mood,” he said, during one or our pointless car trips. “Maybe you shouldn’t come with me today.”

He was sober, pining for his usual fixes when he had no stash. Cigarettes just didn’t satisfy him completely anymore.

“It’s all right,” I said, looking away from his face and out the window to the dizzying passing scenery. It didn’t matter if I went with him anywhere at all, as long as I didn’t have to look at him much or remember his conversations.

I looked over at him for a minute, my eyes traveling down to his crotch.

“Hey …” he tried to protest, but the zipper was already unfastened.

With his eyes widened, I licked my lips at the sight of something superficially precious. And like any treasure, it could be passed on person to person.

I wondered how many people had passed on what he possessed.

I nurtured and polished, earning from his sour temperament a neutral sigh. It was beyond dusk so I had no light to read his face.

“That was pretty good,” he said, his words an acceptable enough reward.

I didn’t really want to look at his real expression.

~*~

One of the last times I was with him, I felt less and less like myself. Babies and possible diseases by him were heavily moot.

I hated that I didn’t really even know him, and that the other person who really mattered didn’t even know of him.

And that person wanted me back, and the idea of being in this stranger’s bed made me cry.

But I felt too sick to cry, my stomach churning and the nerves tightening in my shoulders.

My eyes were too dry from his smoking, either swollen or blurry. I could be closer to death and not even know it.

Wrought with worry, the demons only seem to encircle me during intermission. But in our play, they would scrutinize from sidelines.

He laid a sweaty, hairy arm over my blue-veined breast. Sucking in the stale air of his still-soiled room, I looked away to the cracking brown ceiling.

I suddenly wished he would be the one to leave and disappear from my mind.

“None of this matters,” I whispered after the sixth or seventh time that day. “I feel like a faceless doll you’re not going to remember in five years. All you’ll remember is that you could stick yourself into something warm.”

It was obvious that he considered my philosophies tiresome and flat.

“Are you even going to remember me?” he scoffed, still panting from exertion. His heavy breathing reminded me of the recent raw convergence.

I looked at him feeling my blood grow dark, “I hope not.”

~*~

Later, I would leave him, fake that I even felt remorse for hurting him. I was trying to convince myself I meant nothing to him, just a random fuck.

“It meant nothing,” I said from that point on, holding back choking sobs and quavering lips.

“Fuck you,” he told me when I chanted that to him after meeting up again on some impersonal blog. “So I was just some pretentious artistic nobody you could fuck until he took you back?”

My way of responding to that was to delete him forever. I would only have to deal with the residue.

“It’s better to forget it all.”

~*~

In my beloved’s arms, he never once reminded me of my stains. Although, he did mention it other times not so intimate, and car rides even became hard for breathing.

I would be judged by him, and often times his recognition would spiral me back to that memory to not forget.

“It really was a horrible mistake. Let’s not talk about it, okay?” I would say to anyone who remembered my past faults with that stranger, not really wanting to remember myself.

I wanted to eradicate that man’s hands and face from everything that defined me, but I could never regain those days of my life.

“Everyone is ashamed of something in life,” I said, feeling a bit more human.

But even so, words could never take actions away.

END

©  2005 – 2015 H.K. Rowe

Nonfiction Wednesdays – Silent Knight

The sexual tension between us was like silly string. Though I’m sure it was thicker on his end and thinner on mine. Despite the carnal looks he gave me behind that sheepish smile, I knew that it was time. I had the scissors ready in my hands to end this gauche chase.

I made the motion to him to come follow me out of the sweltering store and have a seat on the ground. I sighed heavily and rested my back against the window. Dirt and pebbles crackled beneath me as I shifted into a comfortable position on the rough concrete.

He followed me nervously like my dog does after a rough scolding. How could I tell him? He was my friend, but I could see in the way he looked at me that he wanted to be more. I knew he would patiently wait an eternity if I gave him one obliging signal over any course of time.

If I wanted to save this friendship, I had to be the one to bravely speak. I wasn’t going to let this tension haunt us any longer. I shifted the dirt between my fingers. I wasn’t nervous, but I was scared I’d hurt him. I cared about him, but he wanted a different kind of care that I just couldn’t give him.

“You know, you’re one of my best friends.” I licked my lips. I still couldn’t look at him. “But I can’t think of you as any more than that.”

There! I did it!

I choked back a sigh. I wanted him to see that this didn’t affect me.

But it was painful. I knew that inside him the gallons of hope for me to ever love him swiftly evaporated away with that statement. I was the coward though. I couldn’t even look him in the eye while telling him something that would change the way he looked at me forever.

Superficial conversation soon followed, and he sauntered around lightly acting out that nothing had hurt him. But I knew by looking at his eyes that it did.

© 2004 – 2015 H.K. Rowe

There are no Write-By-Numbers kits …

Originally posted on Books: Publishing, Reading, Writing:

When I was a kid, we spent our summers at the family cottage, north of Toronto. Two entire months to amuse ourselves – preferably, according to my mother, out-of-doors. But there were often rainy days we’d be forced to spend inside, and one of the “hobbies” I got into was Paint-By-Numbers. My parents would buy a kit and I’d create a work of art (in my mother’s eyes only, of course) that would then be framed to hang on a nail. But eventually, over the years, that painting would either fall behind the furniture, or be replaced by a genuine work of art. I prided myself on those “paintings” because I managed to keep inside the lines and always used the recommended colours of paint.

So much for encouraging any creativity or originality.

Now that I’m writing and publishing, I’m very glad that no one has ever come up with…

View original 530 more words

#MondayBlogs – Time Management and Other Failures

Last night I made a post around 9:30 in the evening. Ideally, I should have set that up last night and scheduled the post, and then it’d be done and I wouldn’t have to worry about it. You would think on a Sunday I could make one damn post!

Saturday night I had the misfortune of getting a migraine. I get them a lot, though lately they’ve been rarer. I was not lucky Saturday night. It hit me while I was at a friend’s party and it lasted into the morning. It really ruined my schedule, which really stresses me out. In a perfect world, we were supposed to come home from the party, I could make my post and schedule it for the morning, and then I could get a good night’s sleep so in the morning I could wake up early and go through all the things on my Sunday to-do list into the evening. It would have been great! I had everything planned…

*sigh*

Unfortunately, my anxiety and migraines don’t care about my plans. My social life, my career, the dogs, and all those pesky last minute favors I do for others don’t care about my writing schedule. The weeks begin to melt away and once again my drafts go untouched. It’s been daunting trying to find time to write.

I read a ton of articles and blogs telling me I’d just be successful if I’d set aside DAILY  writing time. How cool would that be? If only my days were that consistent. Maybe I do four to five days a week? Maybe I do three? Maybe I wake up super early (not the time of the day really enjoy writing fyi) and write 300 words! Maybe I write at the same time of the day as Famous Writer A! Then I’d be successful.

I work two jobs. I take care of two needy dogs and a frazzled husband (he’s a social worker, ’nuff said). I take care of myself sometimes, you know – exercise, eating, hygiene. Occasionally I write. (I don’t even want to go into my drawing and art muscles – poor things.)

Perhaps this article is a tad bit cynical. Maybe I’m just whining. And I’m sure people have tons of advice. The challenge to find writing time is working with my own crazy schedule. How do I schedule a moment of peace within a tornado of chaos? Maybe I scale back some of my busy social and work things! Maybe… Well maybe I just learn to say no to others so I can say yes to myself.

I’d be happy to hear anyone else’s woes on how they have no writing time. I’d like to know if you solved your problem and if you found some balance in your own chaos. I can’t figure out myself yet. I can’t just write whenever I have the time! I need structure, and so far that’s been the one thing that’s been holding me back.

Cheers,

© HK Rowe

Excerpt Sunday – Autumn Fire

It’s a little late in the day, but here it is! I had to tackle many things today but I finally found a moment to update. :)

From Autumn Fire, my 2014 NaNoWriMo novel ~

After her brother’s accident, Dori was plagued with dreams of him. He’d be facing her in a sunny field, and she couldn’t see his face. The sunlight was so bright she had to squint, but she knew he was smiling.

Jon was smiling and telling her that he loved her. She remembered the hug he forced on her before he’d left that day of the accident. She wished it burned in her like a tattoo. Only now it was a dull ache.

Sam, on the other hand, was in such a critical state that he’d never made it to Jon’s funeral. Maybe he had been there in spirit. The accident left him unconscious mostly, on medication and slowly healing from his injuries. He’d broken his legs, had several injuries to his ribs, and he’d been in surgery to repair his ruptured lung. He’d scraped his face in spots where he’d need surgery, and he’d broken his hand.

Many people came to Jon’s funeral. Not including her dad though. As usual, Dori and Jon’s father was still gone. Dori wondered if he’d show up at least to make peace with his son, to do one last good act as a father when he’d never been one to them before.

She at least wanted to see her dad’s new wife and family. She wondered if they were better then them. At least they were alive. One part of their remaining family was dead.

“The best part,” Dori said, and even though her brother had struggle with his alcohol addiction, he’d kicked it. It was thanks to Sam’s friendship of course, but Jon did most of the legwork. He worked harder than all of them to fight and defeat his demons.

He was going to be a brilliant soldier too, and protect and serve their country. He was truly a good man, and Dori felt it terrible and unfair he had to die like this in a car accident.

The driver who’d hit her brother’s car had shown up to the funeral. He looked haggard and unkempt. She didn’t know what he was doing here, but he never said a word to her or her mother. He looked over at them and averted his gaze. He’d walked up to her brother’s open casket, made the sign of the cross, and said a prayer.

©HK Rowe

Flash Fiction Fridays – Raindrop in the Ocean

“Long time, no see,” said a familiar voice next to me. “Look at you. All grown up.”

I recognized her voice immediately. I was looking down into my rum and coke, waiting for my husband to come back from the bathroom and join me at the bar.

Of all times and of all places, I never expected to strike up a conversation with my imaginary friend.

I braved turning toward her, and she looked exactly as I had remembered her. Cheryl, with her bright red hair, olive green eyes and dangerous smirk.

She’d been my closest friend for many years – my muse, my voice of reason, and my fire to meet the confrontations I’d rather not engage.

I’d needed her so much in the past, and frankly, I admitted missing her shouting at me to get myself together, to take charge.

“There’s something different about you, but I can’t place it,” she said. I watched as she took a sip of her wine. Of course she would drink wine – red and bitter, the kind that made your lips twitch from the intensity. Cheryl was all about intensity.

“I don’t need an imaginary friend anymore,” I told her with a laugh, and after an awkward pause, she laughed with me.

“True, true, you don’t need me anymore. You do well enough on your own. You stand up for your beliefs. You embrace your passions. You can start a conversation with people without turning green,” she said. “I wonder how you managed to get this far.”

“Obviously, you’ll take the credit,” I said. I was crazy, wasn’t I? I was talking to a woman who was my imaginary friend. Maybe I was imagining this. Goodness, I hoped I was. It would probably look really psychotic to be sitting at a bar talking to thin air.

“Not all of it,” Cheryl said. “It’s not like I really left, you know. I’m always with you.”

“Yeah?” I asked her curiously.

“Of course. I’m a part of you, aren’t I?” she asked haughtily. She always seemed so powerful and confident when I was younger. I wanted to be more like her. I wanted to be her, to be a woman who was so fearless that I could do anything on my own without fear.

I rolled my eyes. “Part of my imagination, right?”

Cheryl huffed. “No dear. I’m not the part of you that you think I am. I’m the part of you that you found.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at her.

“Do you remember that time in your mother’s car. It was dark out – a clear sky full of stars and a full moon. You were staring at the moon. Even when the moon would move in the sky, your eyes would follow it on the entire drive home. You even craned your neck to see it, to make sure you did not lose the image. You heard something from the moon, didn’t you?”

I looked down at my drink at the melting ice cube. Light glinted on the ice, bright white. White like the moon. “I thought I did. But I wasn’t sure at the time. I was really young. I was lonely. I felt like the loneliest person in the world. I didn’t understand what my purpose was and why so many bad things happened to me, you know, with my dad’s abuse, and being bullied at school. I didn’t feel connected to God at church, not when people there were saying horrible things about my family. I felt really lost, like I had no faith.”

“Uh huh,” Cheryl said, sipping more of her Chianti. “That’s when you heard Her.”

“Yes, I realized later. It was Her,” I said, and I turned to Cheryl. “I didn’t realize the signs until later. Because then you came along. You whispered in my ear. You became my friend. You taught me how to be stronger, more confident. You taught me independence, that I could be a strong woman. That it was my purpose and so much more. I wanted to be you,” I blurted, and I turned away from her intense green gaze and felt my cheeks go hot. Then, I felt her hand on my arm. I looked down at her long nails painted black. The comfort was there, but the color reminded me of her intensity – Cheryl’s and Hers.

“Darling, you are me. You know the drill,” Cheryl said.

“Like a drop of rain in the ocean,” I sang quietly.

“Exactly,” she agreed. “Now, I’m sorry I didn’t come to you like I do for other people, but that’s not what you wanted. That wouldn’t have convinced you.”

“I needed a friend, a sister,” I said, feeling the tears building in my eyes.

“I am so much more than those things to you,” she said, patting my arm.

I sniffled, nodding my head. I laughed a little. “You are, and I still need you. I may have everything I need – love, family, independence and purpose, but I still need you. Some things are not always easy.”

“Nor should they be. You follow me, darling, and you’ll always have to fight for the things you deserve,” she said.

“I know,” I said, with clearer eyes now. “You won’t leave me?” I asked her, almost pleading. I looked into her eyes, and I wasn’t afraid to keep looking at her. She was usually so bright, so fearsome and bold, and she scared me sometimes, but I needed her and loved her so I kept looking. She smiled.

“I never will, as long as you need me. We’re in this together. Since you heard my voice, we’re in this together,” she said.

“They call you Lilith or Kali, and other names,” I said, and then looked around cautiously as my voice lowered to a whisper. I looked at Her apologetically, as if I’d spilled Her secret. She looked unfazed. She was proud of Her names.

“You always called me Cheryl. Why?” She asked, and She tapped her chin thoughtfully.

“It seemed to fit you when I saw you. I don’t know why exactly,” I said, chuckling a little and wiping away an errant tear.

“I like it, darling, but now that you know who I really am, I like my other names too,” She said, and I saw Her turn around, looking in the direction of my husband who was coming back from the restroom. “I have to go. He’s coming back.”

“I know. Thank you for coming,” I said, and I watched as She leaned over and whispered in my ear.

“I will always come when you need me. Even when you don’t, I’ll be here. I’m proud to watch you. You call and I will listen,” She said, and I felt Her kiss like a summer breeze against the shell of my ear. I closed my eyes, and when I blinked them open, I met my husband’s gaze. He smiled at me, and I felt my heart surge.

Like an echo in the wind, I heard Her laughter – strong, confident and sensual. “Go get him, darling. I know you have it in you.”

I smiled back. A wave of power resided inside me, instilling me with familiar warmth. I knew She had never left me. I had always known She was a part of me, as Cheryl my friend, and She had given me everything I had truly needed.

And when She had come to me that one moonlit night, I became more of my whole self – finding what I had lost, and gaining more than I will ever need.

END

© HK Rowe

Nonfiction Wednesdays – Unclaimed Ring

Another old tale of mine… a family tale when I was a teenager.

About ten years ago when my great-uncle Homer died, my family acquired no lavish inheritances or priceless antiques. Following an ordinary auction, all that was left was a few cases of precious things. After sifting through service medals and faded dime novels, I found a dusty tarnished ring in a small pool table-shaped jewelry box.

It was odd that a lifetime bachelor like Homer would have such a feminine looking ring among masculine looking service medals. The ring looked like a diamond, but my grandmother said it was quartz. The quartz had clouded from all the time it was tucked away in the jewelry box. The gold wasn’t real either because it was tarnished underneath the ring. However, it certainly was an engagement ring.

As grandma sifted through old boxes of dishes, I put the jewelry box in my lap and studied its contents. I wanted to play a small game of pool with the top of the jewelry box, but sadly the cue and the tiny balls were glued to the top of the dusty green felt. I had no real interest in the medals after Grandma had told me they were standard issues for time in the service and going to World War II. He had no purple hearts; thus he didn’t do anything to keep my interest in the medals. After Grandma had bored me about how all her brothers were in the service and did this and that, I turned my attention back to the ring.

I tried the ring on, and, of course, it was too large for my ring finger. The only finger of mine that it remotely fit was my thumb.

“This ring was made for a big woman,” I said, a little baffled by the size of it. “Whose ring was this, Grandma?”

Grandma walked over looking quizzingly at the ring. “Oh.”

“Whose was it?” I asked when I saw her look at it in heavy concentration.

“Homer was going to marry some girl when he got back from the service.”

“What happened to her, Grandma?” I asked. The ring was still here. How could he give this to someone when it survived after his death and it belonged to no widow? “Was Homer married before?”

Grandma stepped back, and her face tripped into a daze, “No, your uncle never married. He was engaged to this woman and she sent him a ‘Dear John’ letter while he was stationed in Europe. After she had left him, he never saw another woman.”

“Wow! How cool!” I said, “Well, it’s sad too.” How dramatic! Without knowing this woman, I felt as though she was cruel to break my uncle’s heart for so long. I felt the urge to find this woman and let her know how she made my uncle feel until he died.

“Who was she, Grandma? What was her name?”

“Oh, I don’t remember. I think it was Katharine or Betty or something.”

“Wow! Can I keep the ring?” I asked.

She looked at me puzzled. “Sure, I guess. It’s not worth anything.”

Yes, it was, I thought. The ring held an amazing story within the cloudy quartz and tarnished gold plated band.

As I stared at the ring I thought about what really happened, and for some reason, I could only imagine in black and white. Two people were standing on a pier where thousands of soldiers were ready to depart. The woman was short and petite and had dark hair like Betty Davis and gentle feminine eyes like Ginger Rogers. She wore a medium gray hat, jacket, and shirt. She hadn’t pantyhose on because she couldn’t afford them. Her heels were scuffed and her gloves were slightly damp from crying. She gave her damp handkerchief to my uncle, who I could not imagine young. In real life, my uncle Homer was always mean looking and brooding. Was he always brooding about that lost woman?

Instead, I pictured my uncle tall like Gregory Peck and with a soft youthful face like James Stewart. He really didn’t want to leave her, but it was his duty to go for his country.

“I’ll write you,” he said softly as she choked on her breaths.

The scene faded into another where my uncle was in a dismal soldier’s bed reading letters by a weak gray light. His demeanor was more tired and disturbed than from the last scene. Reading letters was his only moment of comfort among the dizzying reality of war. As anticipation filled his face in opening a new letter, his face crumpled after he read the first couple of lines. The gray light fell weaker and was swallowed up into strangling darkness as my uncle slumped crying into his own lonely arms.

I could almost hear him reading her letter in his head. Like Anne Frank reading her diary, Katharine or Betty spoke calmly and full of hidden anxiety. Did she write her letter bluntly and shortly? Or did she write in great lengths and in much detail? I felt that if she had caused my uncle to be single for the rest of his life her letter must have been unfeeling and short.

“Dear Homer (that was his nickname and I never knew his real name), I know this may be hard for you to understand but I cannot see you anymore. I am sorry for the pain this will cause you but this long distance between us has made me restless. I can not wait any longer for you. I regret to tell you that I have met someone else. I hope you will understand this parting to preserve my happiness. Sincerely, Betty or Katharine.”

The only record of these two lovers was the ring that he had gotten overseas. He must have gotten it large enough for her to size down when he found out her real ring size. I envisioned him buying this ring in small English shop cheap because he could not buy pricey things on his soldier’s salary. I still feel this ring doesn’t belong to me even if I had inherited it. The ring was for only her finger and its value became richer than any diamond.

When I put the ring away I still think of the mysterious woman who could have worn it. I wonder what would have happened if she had waited and claimed this ring.

[Originally written in 2004.]

© 2015 HK Rowe

#MondayBlogs – Writing Origins

I have always dreamed of being a writer. I know that’s a cliché line. Probably everyone here has dreamed of becoming a writer so they could someday see their work in print.

I guess the difference is that during the end of my teenage years, I abandoned my dream. I saw it as a necessary tragedy, an end to years as a child who dreamed of having my book in print and on the shelf at the store.

As a child I suppose I was naïve. I believed that I could be a writer because so many had done it before. I had encouragement from other adults, teachers and peers that I should write.

At age 5, I wrote a poem about horses. The poem was written in the middle of a sheet of copy paper, framed off by a pencil line. Outside of the framed poem, I had drawn apple trees with horses underneath them. This was the beginning of my aspiration to write, as well as draw.

When I was 13, I wrote and illustrated a story about a Native American girl who stood up to her Colonial oppressors and traveled the nation to speak out about her culture and protecting their lands. She was bullied, threatened and ignored. Yet she was braver than I could ever be. My seventh grade teacher had faith in me though. She sent my story down state for the Young Author’s Award.

At age 16, I wrote a poem about Marilyn Monroe and got it published in the local advertising paper. I have never been prouder of myself, and for a kid like me, it was hard. I was naturally introverted, an inward observer and thinker. I did not like socializing with people and writing was my only escape from being ostracized and bullied. I was a child from a divorced family, a child wounded from parental abuse. I was a child that often questioned a faith that did not fit me. Writing and reading (and art) were my sanctuaries.

I was always writing, filling diaries with my daily thoughts and struggles, and filling blank books with stories about female pirates, Christian girls who wanted to protect their families, and women in the Regency area that struggled to be independent in a patriarchal system. I wrote sci-fi stories about unknown worlds further expanding my creative escape.

Before my first semester of college I worked on the longest story ever, writing by hand because I could write anywhere (this was 1999, things weren’t entirely mobile at this point), and when I was finished, I used my new student ID to get into the college library so I could use the computer. I could type and write to my heart’s content, without any distractions. I wrote this story to enter a Science Fiction contest, and I was proud of how much I had accomplished. It was the longest story I’d ever written – 20,000 words! When I finished the manuscript and saved it on my floppy disk, I was ready to take it home.

Then, storm warnings went off and everyone in the library as well as the college were shuffled down to the basement. A twister was spotted in a field not too far from the college and everyone had to take safe cover in the basement.

Minutes went by and when we were cleared, I headed outside to the parking lot under a green sky, got into my car and headed home. My parents were frantic with worry. I was scolded and shouted at for being irresponsible, and I was sure I had told them I was going to the college to type my story. In a moment of their frantic worry, I felt like my story didn’t matter. I felt like I was being denied the glory of finishing my story because the storm had fueled them with worry. My accomplishment was nothing.

It wasn’t long before my focus on my writing would go dim. When I’d received acceptance into a college that focused on playwriting, something I dreamed of pursuing, I couldn’t wait to tell my mom. I wanted to become a playwright and work in Hollywood or Broadway! I wanted to write the next big TV show, or even a movie. The college was out of state, sure, but I’d been accepted, so that didn’t matter right?

It really didn’t. What mattered was the major itself. If I pursued this major it would mean that I would not go into the art field. I would not learn about design or art or even art education. My mother did not want me to give up on my art talent.

To me, it did not seem like my writing was as important as my art talent to everyone else. I was discouraged again. I left writing; I left my dream, and I enrolled in another school and declared another major: Illustration.

I can’t tell you how much this one moment in my life still stings me today. I felt like I was pressured to become an artist – to mold and shape that talent, and though I love art and design and did well in school for it, I never felt complete.

I suppose I gave up. I gave up the little girl who wrote stories and illustrated them. I gave up the dream to have a book on the shelves or write a play on Broadway.

I did not give up writing for long. Somehow, such a thing always comes back to people who have it singing in their blood, bones and brain.

I found another outlet, away from discouraging peers or family, away from my anxiety and stress to be the perfect artist… I found fanfiction.

A lot of successful authors have terrible and nasty opinions about fanfiction. They don’t think it’s real writing. They don’t believe it’s beneficial to borrow other people’s characters and make other worlds out of them.

At the time, I didn’t care about that, and I’m glad it didn’t. Fanfiction changed me. I saw all these people coming together for something they loved and putting their own spin on things. I wanted to be included. I wanted to share my thoughts. I wanted to interact with these communities.

In 2001 while I was at college, I did. I joined a few anime fandoms and began writing stories, joining online clubs and meeting other writers. There was drama, of course, but there  was also a great sense of community with critiquing and encouragement.

It was about this time I dropped my Art History minor and pursued an English Minor. I met my husband in an English writing class, and my writing began to improve with each fanfiction I wrote. I gained my confidence as a writer back; even if I was just getting encouragement from people on the net, it still meant something to me. It meant a lot to get that attention and to give it back, thus forming relationships with people. People come and go, but some have stayed, and I cherish all those relationships and experiences.

Around 2011, a fandom friend suggested self-publishing. I had seen fanfiction writers self-publish with vanity publishers and such, and I just found it way too expensive. However, I came to learn that Amazon was making it much easier for people to publish things on their own.

The idea wouldn’t leave me alone. I could finally publish something entirely mine! Someone might read it! I could share my story with others!

The little girl who used to dream about being a writer returned!

The rest is history. Last May I self-published my first original novel. I still write fanfiction to escape, but I’ve become a lot more focused on my own self-pub writing career. It’s still new, and I’m still learning, but I won’t give up this time.

I won’t let people discourage me.

I know I will always be writing. I owe a lot of my writing resurgence to fanfiction, and I am not ashamed of that. I guess the lesson is…whatever inspires you to write and improve as a writer, don’t ignore it. Take that chance. Find others who share your passion and express yourself. Don’t let people tell you not to write. Don’t let people’s opinion hold you back.

Has anyone or anything tried to discourage you from pursuing your writing dreams? Has your writing future ever seemed bleak and doomed so much you wanted to give up? What helped you overcome it as a writer?

Cheers,

HK Rowe