Charlene Carr's Blog, page 15

Once Upon A Time … We Believed In Happy Endings

I’ve been watching the series Once Upon A Time —obsessively, actually. For those who don’t know, it’s all about fairy tales—the heroes, the villains, and everyone in between, often modernizing and complicating the simplicity that Disney gave to many of these stories and blurring the lines between good and evil.

In the past three weeks I’ve completed all of Season Three and caught up with the first three episodes of Season 4. For me, that represents a massive amount of time in front of the TV—thank you Netflix for sucking away my life!

As I watched the most recent episode, realizing it’d be days before I could find out what happens next and almost itching with the desire to know, I wondered what it is that draws me so intensely to this show. The writers have mastered the art of the cliff-hanger, that’s for sure. But there’s more than that.

Part of the draw is that the heroine goes through the same experience so many of us go through: believing in magic, in princes and princesses, in good conquering over evil and love conquering over all, and then learning through the trials of life when good doesn’t conquer, when love fails, and how, often, there is no prince charming coming to save the day. Only this heroine goes through that experience in reverse. She starts out thinking fairytales are just that, tales. But her belief grows.

Her story wouldn’t be enough to keep me though. It’s the people supporting her that bring me back episode after episode.

They just keep fighting. They don’t give up.

They have no happy endings because evil keeps following them, but they live their happy moments in between the trials and tribulations. As a community of people, a family, they have unwavering faith that together anything is possible and no foe can overcome the power of love. People may die, pain may come near to breaking them, but only near.

In life we don’t always have happy endings—in fact, there’s a good chance we won’t. But, as the characters continually try to impress upon the heroine, we can have happy in-betweens … and isn’t that far better? Because we never know when the end will find us but we can always hope for the next happy moment and enjoy it when it comes rather than living in fear of the next bad thing.

I think I find in these episodes the thing I search for in my own writing. Hope. Belief. The courage to be better and do better and never give up.

Now, I’m not writing fairytales—yet. And so far, the demons my heroines have to slay are generally their own. But, like Once Upon A Time, underneath my stories is an enduring belief that hope and love, when coupled, have an incredible power and new beginnings are always possible.

That’s basically the underlying theme of my A New Start series

So, dear reader. I won’t promise that my books will always end happy … but they’ll always end with hope. And if you haven’t learned it yet I sincerely hope you do—sometimes hope is enough to get us through the day.

For your watching enjoyment … I will not accept blame if your life suddenly gets sucked up in the vortex that is Once Upon A Time!

Inviting Calm

I found myself sitting in my office this week, papers strewn across the floor, tears running down my face. I felt like a failure. You ever been there?

Deep down I know, I mean I REALLY know I’m not a failure. It doesn’t even make sense to think I am one. I’ve done so many things that should prove this to me. And, when it comes down to it, as long as we’re still breathing how could we possibly be a ‘failure’ anyway, because we’re not done yet, and each ‘fail’ is also just another opportunity to learn and come closer to success.

I know all these truths, as I’m sure you do, but there are still moments in life when it’s pretty hard to believe them. If you’re a follower of my Facebook page you may have seen me post that it’s been one of those weeks where many things that are out of my control just kept going wrong. I reached my tipping point that night in my office and my inability to handle those circumstances without turning into a worn out, frustrated piece of mush was the source of my tears.

But isn’t it amazing how resilient we are when we just set our minds to BE resilient?

Within about fifteen minutes (thanks in part to some words of support from my husband) I was feeling like my regular self again, remembering that everything that’s crappy is actually nothing more than a circumstance, separate from me, and I don’t have to let any of that garbage rule me or steal my ability to still enjoy life, relax, and express my creativity. It’s beautiful—the fact that no matter what is going on around us we can just breathe, learn what we can from the situation and—to be cliche—keep on keeping on.

This idea is one that often pops up in my writing, probably because it’s a lesson I keep having to come back to. In the novel I hope to release in a few weeks the main character, Autumn, has things go wrong in her life in massively bigger ways than things just went wrong in mine. This tragedy shakes her. It threatens to destroy her. Her world seems dark. But, it also forces her to reassess her life, her beliefs, and to become stronger than she ever was before. With the struggles I went through this week, my hope is even stronger that the lessons Autumn learned will inspire my readers as they make it through their next struggle, whether they’re experiencing it now, or years from now.

Life doesn’t always seem that great. And that’s okay. I could quote numerous sayings from brilliant people that wax poetic about just that, and I’m sure you could too, and that’s because it’s a universal truth.

Instead, I’ll leave you a quote that’s on the cover of a journal above my computer screen. I have no idea who said it or where it comes from, and I’m not going to bother searching to find out. Let’s just imagine it’s a message from that place deep inside us that speaks the truths we need to hear.

Peace. It does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble, or hard work. It means to be in the midst of those things and still be calm in your heart.

It’s the start of Thanksgiving weekend for all my Canadian readers. As you go through the next few days, whether you’re sharing a meal with friends and family, spending time in nature, or just enjoying an extra day off, I hope you take some time to be calm in your heart—no matter your outside circumstances. And be thankful.

And when you think of that thing (or things!) you’re thankful for, please share it below. You never know, it just may remind another reader of a gift he or she also can be thankful for.

 

Fiction Friday – One Good Thing

Welcome to another edition of Fiction Friday! 

Craig Penser held the weight of his screw ups on his shoulders the way a firefighter carries a limp woman down a flight of smoke-filled stairs—with focus, determination, and the underlying desire to let go of his burden. He didn’t droop though. Never knowing when he could put down his load, he just kept on walking. That’s what my father said the day he walked right into our restaurant. The day everything changed.

“Put her down, Daniel.” Craig’s voice boomed in the room. Silencing us all.

“Back off, Penser.”

“Daniel. Let it go. Put her down.”

“Mind your own damn business.”

The men stared at each other—Daniel holding my sister up against the side of the restaurant, two hands on her shoulders, pushing her up into the siding so hard her feet barely touched the ground, venom in his eyes. Craig’s eyes were cool, even. The sun glinted off his aviators as he removed them from his face. He wasn’t scared of Daniel. Not a bit. He was probably the only person in the whole town that wasn’t afraid of Daniel. Why would he be? Craig was bad. Everyone knew he was bad. He didn’t try to be, maybe he didn’t even want to be. He just was. My mother used to say it was like a curse with some people—trouble followed them, and they didn’t know how to tell trouble to just pack on up and head the other way.

Craig was a different kind of bad then Daniel though. Daniel was a loose cannon, said Dad, he drank too much and he didn’t know how to let the VLTs just sit idle. The days he got piss drunk and piss poor there was no telling what he’d do. Dad said Lenora was stupid for ever hooking up with Daniel. ‘And stupid is what stupid does,’ Lenora would shout back, causing Dad to just shake his head and say, ‘exactly.’

Everyone in the restaurant was on edge, waiting, but not in an obvious way. No one wanted to look directly at the scene even before Craig walked into the building. Now that he was there, his presence taking up the room, people kept their eyes averted. “Daniel.” Craig’s voice was strong, even, just like his eyes. “Let Lenora down.”

“She’s my woman and I’ll-”

“Daniel.”

Everyone knew Daniel carried a knife on him. He loved the way it bulged in his pants pocket, a constant reminder he wasn’t one to be messed with. He took it out and polished it sometimes, or used it to pick food out of his teeth. I hated the way he did it—so greasy, so … I couldn’t put a word on it at the time, but it was low, dirty and low. We weren’t uppity people or anything. We ran a dingy restaurant with a dingy gas bar attached, in a dingy town, but I still knew we were better than him. Too bad Lenora didn’t. Daniel used to sit in our living room with his cigarette and his dirty jeans and his long greasy hair and flip the knife back and forth, letting the metal glisten in the firelight. That was a long time ago of course. Before my nephew and before my parents even knew about Daniel and Lenora. My father said if he’d known about those days Danny Jr. would have never existed—not that Dad didn’t love him, but he thought you couldn’t miss what you’d never known.

Craig took two steps closer to Daniel. Seeing the two so close like that was striking—Where Daniel was thin and lanky, Craig was wide and solid. Not fat. Just solid. His hair barely shot up an inch above his scalp and his face was always clean shaven. My guess was Daniel hadn’t shaved in a week, not that he really needed too. Just like so much else in his life, puberty hadn’t seemed to bother with Daniel.

There were similarities between the men though, the propensity for violence. Or so I’d heard. I’d never actually seen anything to justify Craig’s notorious reputation. Craig carried a gun that was always in its holster. He didn’t flash it around. It wasn’t a hunting gun like most of the men. It was what my friends called a street gun, like the cops carried, but Craig was no officer. I tried to make out if he had his gun on him now, but it was impossible to tell underneath that thick leather jacket.

I didn’t actually know why Craig was bad. It was easy to tell with Daniel, anyone could see it with one look at him, and he was always doing something like this to remind you. With Craig it was just this general knowledge. He’d been locked up. Twice. As a youth for something involving a dog. Then as an adult for five years. Something involving a baby and drugs, which I could never quite figure out. What could a baby possible have to do with drugs? The uncertainty of it all made him even more terrifying. It could have been anything. Anything. The particulars didn’t matter though, not really. What mattered was he was bad, someone to stay away from. And I wasn’t stupid. Not like Lenora. He’d smiled at me a few times over the years, tried to say hello. I crossed the street whenever Craig Penser was walking down the road. I wasn’t stupid.

“This doesn’t involve you.” Daniel’s voice was creaky, desperate, the bravado I was used to hearing in his words seemed thinner.

“Who says it does? Maybe I just want to eat my dinner in peace.”

Daniel laughed at this.

“That’s a great idea,” said my mother, surfacing from the kitchen where she spent ten hours a day slaving in the heat. Her hair was mussed and sweaty underneath her cap, her face was gaunt and tired. She seemed almost more exhausted than frightened. It wasn’t likely Daniel would hurt Lenora in any serious way. He’d cracked her rib once, but usually he gave nothing more than bruises. Nothing she couldn’t recover from. Probably Lenora didn’t want to let Danny Jr. go with Daniel or was raging at him for not paying child support. The mysteries of long division had been demanding my attention when Lenora’s scream broke my concentration so I had no idea what prompted today’s episode. She wasn’t even supposed to be in the restaurant. It was her afternoon to man the full service pumps.

Small towns are full of mysteries and how Daniel hadn’t ended up killing Lenora in one of his drunken rages was one of them. The bigger mystery though, the one that had everyone in the building pretending not to pay attention, was why Craig cared.

“Back off Penser, this isn’t your business.” Daniel whipped his knife out, the light glinting off of it onto her bare throat.

“Hold on now,” my mother’s voice broke through the warm hazy air. “Calm, son. Calm.”

“I’m not your son,” Daniel leered at Mom, his voice squeaky and almost comical. “You’ve made that clear enough.” A little bubble of spit foamed at his mouth.

“There’s nothing a little conversation can’t fix,” said Mom, walking toward her daughter, her arms in the air as if at gun point. I stood then sat then stood again. I’d seen Daniel jokingly hold his knife on some of his buddies, once on this jerk from a neighbouring town, but never on Lenora.

“Yeah, well,” Daniel’s hand shook, “maybe I’m tired of talkin.” His eyes darted back and forth between Mom and Craig. Lenora’s eyes stared at the ceiling. She didn’t blink. She didn’t say a word or move a muscle and I thought—He could kill her. He really could, and she knows it. The world seemed paused. No one said a word. It felt as if the whole restaurant full of people was holding it’s breath, like the restaurant itself was. Not even the curtains fluttered. And then everything came to life again with the dingle of chimes above the door, the squeal of Danny Jr. squirming out of his sitter’s arms, running toward his parents, and Daniel releasing his hold on Lenora to lunge for Danny Jr. Daniel’s eyes darted with an insane frenzy as he reached out, screaming, “If I can’t have him, neither can you!” In the same moment Craig’s gun flew out of its hidden holster and into his outstretched hand, Mom’s body flung toward Craig, sending his arm and the shot into the air. There was a bang louder than seemed possible and then the following ricochet that ended in an explosion of flames from the kitchen as Danny Jr. shot from his father’s grasp and into his favourite hiding spot behind the counter. I froze as the room erupted with people battling to get out of the building. “Danny!” I shouted, seeing Lenora and Mom run in the opposite direction. They hadn’t sen him. “Danny!” I shouted again, but they couldn’t hear me. He couldn’t hear me, or was too frightened to follow my voice. My mother’s arms wrapped around mine, drawing me out as Lenora continued to look under tables. “The kitchen!” My voice felt hoarse and desperate in my throat as the flames chased toward us. Daniel was long gone and some other man grabbed a screaming and kicking Lenora out of the building. I was only eleven then, not strong enough to escape my my mother’s arms. “It’s gone, honey,” Mom yelled over the roar. “There’s nothing we can do.”

“No the—” through the open door I saw him then, Craig Penser holding a broken chair-back in front of his face as he made his way into the source of the flames. He disappeared in the smoke as I watched paralysed, drawn further and further away from the flames that chased us out. I was pulled across the gas station lot, across the highway, across the huge parking lot and into the shade of towns only big box store. When the flames escaped the building …

The explosion was monumental. The kitchen’s blow up rendered minuscule in its wake. It lit the sky with a boom that deafened my ears. The smoke shot up for what seemed like miles. The crowd stood amazed. Mom, Lenora, and I stood as if we were being blown up into the sky with it—our life was anyway. And Danny’s too, I thought … but I was the only one who knew that—looking at her red rimmed eyes I couldn’t tell Lenora. Once the initial blast subsided she continued combing the crowds, running back at forth as the too slow firetrucks announced their presence.

We sunk to the dirt as their hoses tried to calm the flames. It seemed a show though. The only hope was to douse the neighbouring area to keep the fire from spreading. Everything we had was already gone. Lenora hiccoughed and choked. At last she looked at me. “His cubby? Did he go … that’s why you were fighting to—”

I nodded and her mouth shut. She stared at me, her haze travelling to the ruin that hid her son. I knew I’d never be a child again.

My mother pushed me then, as a woman standing behind us screamed. From around the building next to ours a figure pushed it’s way through the smoke—a bundle in his arms. Craig Penser walked in a way I’d never seen him walk before, hunched and anything but confident. The leather of his coat merged with what I could only imagine was burnt flesh. One side of his previously smooth face was darkened and blistered. His steps led to Lenora, her arms outspread to receive the bundle that, when dropped in her arms, smiled into her face and breathed the word, “Mommy.”

Craig fell to the ground then. A team of paramedics already on site rushed to his side while another started to assess Danny Jr. I kept my eyes on Craig though, heard his groan as they lifted him to the stretcher, saw his smile when the woman assessing Danny Jr. told Lenora her boy was going to be okay, watched his eyes close for the last time.

My mother stood beside me, her hand on my shoulder. “I guess bad isn’t all bad,” she whispered. “I guess maybe I didn’t know …” Her voice trailed off and I looked up at her for a moment, crushed by the way she said the words so simply after warning me for years about the mysterious evils of Craig Penser. The ambulance doors closed and the vehicle pulled away. Lenora stepped into the second vehicle, her hand held tightly to Danny’s. I brought my eyes back to the vehicle carrying Craig away though, glued them there until all I could see was empty road. I knew I’d just lost my childhood. I knew we’d lost the restaurant, the gas station—that those could be rebuilt. Only years later did I realize I’d lost something else that day too. Blind trust in other’s words. It was the one good thing.

Did you enjoy the story? Go ahead then, share  it with a friend – or all your friends through Social Media!

Want to see a Fiction Friday based on your idea, word, quote, or image? Comment below!  

The Journey Never Ends

Almost a decade ago now I was packing up my bags and preparing for what I imagined would be the adventure of a lifetime.

There were two things that gave me the drive, the excitement, and the courage to travel to the other side of the world. One was the words of my youngest brother—who always seems to know the words to say when I need to hear them—the other was the words of a literary genius. The very words you read above. I wasn’t going to be sailing, but I was off to explore, dream, and discover. I saw my trip to Chilgok, South Korea as a journey that would change who I was, fire up the nomadic yearnings that were smoldering within me, and ensure I was living a life I would never be disappointed with.

The trip did all those things, in incredibly different ways than I expected it too. I learned a lot about Korean culture, a lot about people in general, and most importantly, a lot about myself. One of the key things that journey taught me was that life is life wherever you are and you don’t need to sail away in order to have your adventure. Every day of our lives can, and should, be viewed as an integral part of our life’s journey. Tweet It!

Sometimes I forget that and, thankfully, there are things to remind me. An article I read today was one of those things, reminding me again to see my life, even when I’m not feeding the nomad inside of me, as an enriching journey.

The past months I’ve been having quite the journey right from my own little home office. I’ve published my first novel—taking a route to do it that I hadn’t even considered a year ago—and I have two more in the works. The process has brought many qualities and lessons to the surface:

INSPIRATION – I can write, even when the muse doesn’t seem to inspire me.

DETERMINATION – It is possible to just stick my butt in the chair and write even when it seems hard, and pointless, and it’s difficult to believe that I’m not following a misguided dream. AND the raw material I produce in these times is often very good work.

TRUST IN MY POTENTIAL – The editing process was long and overwhelming and challenging. I know I’m a better writer because of it and am excited to see how much better I’ll become with each subsequent book!

STRENGTH – There were several times when I needed to stand up for myself in this process, and at first these moments terrified me. Standing up for others I can do easily, standing up for others is harder. But I did it, and the results were beautiful.

HUMILITY – Some things I just cannot do, or at least cannot do well enough to make the effort worth while. Recognizing these lacks is awesome, because it frees me up to focus on and further develop the skills I excel at.

The list could go on and I could write a similar list of the experiences I had all those years ago when I ventured away from my safe harbour. Two entirely different experiences that equally contribute to the person I continue to become.

For all those would be travellers out there—whether you’re on your journey in new lands, or sitting in your home, with familiarity around you, take a moment and contemplate the most recent phase in your journey. I bet you’ll be encouraged to see what you’ve been discovering along the way.

Is there something you’ve recently learned or discovered on your life’s journey? Share below!

Skinny Me Cover Reveal

Skinny Me – Print Edition
Cover Reveal!

A novel moment.

As I write this, I’ve just finished editing my first novel for self-publication. And when I say finished I mean really finished – after the months and months of writing, revising, rewriting, getting feedback from others, and editing, editing, editing – I’m done!

Of course, there are always things I could change. Novels can be edited endlessly because they’re never perfect. Perfection isn’t attainable – since not only does my opinion of what’s perfect change every day, but all readers will have a different definition of perfect.

But, at this point I think more editing is going to be mostly just second guessing. So it is done. I could literally publish it right now, except for the fact that I’m waiting on the cover from the designer I hired. But once I have that cover, it’s a go!

This is a terrifying and exciting place to be. It’s the first step in what I hope is a long and rewarding career, but it could also be … well, why dwell on the other side of things!

Here’s to new endeavours! Here’s to taking chances!

If you’d like to get a sample of the work before it’s available for purchase, I give you:Chapter 1

Are you a writer who remembers what it was like to put that first book out there for the world to see? Share below know what it felt like for you!

Or, is this a future dream for you? – What’s the most exciting and most terrifying thing about the prospect?

 

Skinny Me – COMING SOON!

Skinny Me – COMING SOON!

Sometimes our biggest critic, the person laying down the most judgement, is actually ourselves.

Jennifer Carpenter dreams of being a different person – A person with confidence, a person with beauty, a person who weighs a heck of a lot less.

At twenty seven, her world falls apart. She’s out of work, her mother has died, her estranged brother is in a coma and, despite good qualifications, each and every job interview ends in another rejection. Marked by the teasing, taunts, and fat jokes that defined her childhood, Jennifer blames her current lack of success on her ever growing waist band.

In need of a change, Jennifer puts her dream of ‘skinny’ above all else. Obsessed with this mission, she devotes her life to becoming the ideal version of herself even if it means becoming alienated from the only people who love her. Determined to lose the weight she believes is ruining her life, Jennifer finds herself in danger of losing so much more.

Genre: Women’s Fiction

About Skinny Me

Skinny Me is a fast paced, in depth look at the complicated scenarios and emotional highs and lows we, as humans, find ourselves in. Jennifer deals with the loss of her mother, the pain of coming from a broken family, and, most pressing, the difficulty of existing in a society that so often judges people by their outward appearance.

Skinny Me challenges the reader to focus on the aspects of herself that are beautiful and worthy and to question the way she may treat and view women who either do, or do not, fit society’s ideal.

* This cover is just a quick mock-up I whipped together. I’m still waiting to see what concept my cover designer came up with – Exciting!

Fiction Friday: Before the Pocket Watch

Today’s Fiction Friday post comes from a Google search for “Story Inspiration.” I saw this picture and the story snippet that follows is the result!
Before the Pocket Watch

The pocket watch. She didn’t know she still had it. It made sense though. How could you throw something like that away? She picked it up, wiping dust from the glass face. Her finger smudged across the surface. She pulled up the underside of her shirt and wiped it clean. Her hand closed around the cool metal, the chain dangling across her palm. He’d given it to her on her seventh birthday, just weeks before he’d moved in next door. It was dirty – caked with mud – when he scooped it out of his pocket, passed it to her with grimy fingers.

‘I found this,’ he had said, ‘for you.’

‘What is it?’ Kristen had asked, scrunching up her face at the blades of grass stuck in the damp dirt that coated the object.

‘It’s a clock,’ he’d said. ‘From a time machine. It was buried by the old mental institution. I saw the chain and well – don’t you want it?’ He rubbed it off then, scraping away the mud, polishing the face on his t-shirt.

Kristen had taken the clock. It was twenty three years ago but she could still remember the way his face had lit up. How proud and happy he seemed to be giving her this treasure. It hung off the mirror on her dresser for years. Sometime, she wasn’t quite sure when, it ended up in the bottom of a drawer. And now here it was again in her hands. A time machine, she thought. If only she could turn back time. Go back to that moment, relive their whole lives. Kristen tossed the watch into the box with all her winter sweaters. She hugged her middle. She couldn’t change a thing. She let her arms fall and turned around, surveying the almost barren room. She hated moving. Hated the boxes, the organizing, the empty walls with holes and naked nails where once her paintings had hung, where framed photos of the people she loved were on display. This room she’d shared with him looked cheap now. Sad.

“Kris?”

Kristen turned at the voice and smiled at Susan. “Hey.”

“How’s it coming?”

Kristen laughed and motioned around the room. “My life is almost gone.”

“Come on, Kris, this is the start of something new, it’s not-”

“Stop, okay. Don’t.”

“Maybe you’ll meet someone new. Maybe-”

“I said stop.” Kristen hung her head. There was no reason to snap at Susan. She was just trying to help. “I’m sorry, okay. I don’t want to talk about anything anymore. Life is what it is.”

“Yeah, sure.” Susan took several steps into the room, tape-gun in hand. “Is this box ready?”

“Yeah.” Kristen watched her friend tape it off. Susan didn’t ask about the pocket watch. She knew the significance.

“So that’s the last of it? Your dad’s going to come by for the furniture?”

“Yep.” Kristen forced a smile. “Thanks so much!”

Kristen tried not to look at the barren hall and empty rooms as she carried the box of sweaters to the waiting truck. She tried, instead, to believe Susan’s words were true. Maybe this was the start of something new, something better. All she’d known was Daryl. His was the first hand she’d held – when he was ten and she was seven. His were the first lips she’d kissed. He was the first man to run his fingers along her naked spine – the only man.

“Your new place is really sweet,” said Susan. “The garden? The trellis?”

“I’d hardly call four by four feet a garden.” Kristen stared ahead, trying, yet again, to figure out when she should have known. They hadn’t always been happy … or as happy as she’d imagined they would be. It was rough when he went off to University three years before her. He’d admitted to some flings. It had hurt. She’d spent the years pining for him, jumping every time the phone rang, checking her email twenty times a day. But they were just flings. He assured her she was the one he loved: the only one he ever would love. What a load of crap. “But you’re right,” she smiled at Susan, “it is nice.”

When Susan pulled the moving truck up in front of the little red house, Kristen tried to see the beauty in it. It was bright and cheery, though squashed between two large, more imposing buildings. She knew what that was like – she’d often felt pinned between the wills of her father and Daryl. Her father never really liked him. Kristen could never understand why. Now she thought maybe it was because he could see himself in Daryl. Kristen focused on the house. The paint was fresh. The door was new. The steps made of large rocks were charming. It would do.

Once all the boxes were unpacked, Kristen hugged Susan and declined her offer of dinner. She walked toward the back of the house. The setting sun cast rays of light into the little room that would be her studio. When they were younger, Daryl had always loved Kristen’s paintings. He bragged to his friends. He praised her talent. When they married he said he wanted her to keep painting, that his salary was enough for both of them. ‘Focus on your art and raise our babies,’ he’d said more than once. Despite her local success, the gallery exhibits, the couple thousand she brought in most months, after seven barren years he became resentful of her passion, chastised her to get a real job, mocked her when a painting stood in the gallery without an interested buyer. And that’s when the late nights started. But it wasn’t her fault she didn’t get pregnant. They’d both been tested. Everything seemed fine. It just hadn’t happened. It was true, her cycles were irregular and she wasn’t very good at remembering to take her temperature or check for fluids – the things that were supposed to indicate it was the right time to try – but lots of people didn’t do that.

Kristen set up her easel and pulled the box containing her art supplies to the centre of the room. She faced away from the view so the rays of coloured light would shine against the fresh white canvas. She’d spent weeks capturing the visions, the emotions that haunted her ever since that moment – walking into her living room to see Daryl’s bare ass bouncing atop of the cashier from the local health food store. She’d spent even more time painting visions and revisions of her own body, the intricacies of it, in an effort to figure out where the fault lay. It had to be her. Just a couple of days after they legally separated she heard the cashier was expecting. It was pointless to obsess over it all. She needed to try something new. Kristen closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She tried to return to a time before Daryl had entered her life. There weren’t many memories, but she found a few. She let them roll around in her mind, merging and growing. She opened her eyes and stared at the canvas, trying to see the images there. She dipped her brush in a swab of bright and glistening paint. Before the Pocket Watch – that’s what she would title this. From it, she would create her new life.

Do you have an idea for a Fiction Friday post? Leave me a comment below to let me know what you think I should write about next!

What shall I be feeling?

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I woke up on Canada Day in a slump. And I mean a big slump. An – I don’t want to do anything, I feel horribly listless about life in general type of slump. It was bad. I knew I had two options. I could stay in that slump and continue on with my plans for the day like a sad and angry ‘you know what’ or I could do something that’s entirely doable no matter my mood. So that’s what I did. I gardened, or more accurately, I tackled the wilderness of two foot high weeds that was supposed to be our yard.

I spent five hours battling with the monster. Five hours. And I would have spent more but eventually hunger got the better of me. As I came in to eat I realized – my slump is gone. I had focused on something other than my sour mood, my feelings of listlessness, and I became the me I like once again. I didn’t specifically choose to feel better but I pursued an action that would get me there.

Today was another one of those slump days. After three weeks of a wonderful vacation – with hikes, and swims, two family weddings, lots of love, and lots of laughter – I would officially get back to work. And what were my thoughts? I don’t know where to start. Do I edit, do I write, do I read, and which of the many projects I’m working on is most important? I didn’t work at all on my blog or social media. I spent less than 10 hours on my novel – how can I accomplish anything if I’m not consistent!

I let these thoughts hold me down for a while.

After about a half hour of indulgence I decided enough is enough. I let resolve flow through me. I walked up the stairs. I realized the files I needed were on my netbook downstairs – the netbook that had been collecting dust for over a year but that I finally put out the money to get repaired – I walked back down the stairs. I picked up the netbook. I walked up the stairs yet again. I flipped the netbook open, watching as it slid out of my hand, catching it just as it bumped against the bookshelf, a sigh of relief running through me.
And then I looked into a broken screen.

It was an accident, one anyone could have made but all the emotions of my previous slump fell upon me as if dumped from one of those big buckets in a waterpark – the ones that rock there for awhile before they pour down, soaking you completely.

This was more than a slump. At that moment it felt like something akin to misery. I started crying – you know, that ugly, pathetic type of cry that you know deep down isn’t justified. How could I be so clumsy? Why aren’t I more careful? I just spent over a $100 on this thing – how much more will this fix be and if I don’t fix it then I’ve basically thrown the first $100 in the toilet. Stupid, careless klutz. Now how am I supposed to get my files? How am I supposed to work? How am I supposed to do anything?

I had a dark hour, culminating in the conclusion that my working day was ruined, a waste, and doesn’t that mean, at least a little, that I’m a waste too?

But it doesn’t. Not at all. And really, that’s a ridiculous conclusion to come to.

A few weeks ago I set a reminder on my phone to go off every three hours during the day – “What shall I be focusing on right now? What shall I be feeling?”

A lot of the time I ignore the little ping. I know what it says. I don’t need it when things are going well, when I’m where I want to be. Today though, it was a sharp and needed question – especially the latter part. What shall I be feeling?

 

I can control my feelings. I can turn a hard day into whatever I want it to be.

A pretty empowering ability. One I don’t always manage to cultivate but one that exists nonetheless, in all of us.

 

Two of the videos that helped rejuvenate me!

What makes you feel most empowered? Most able to conquer your slumps?

Fiction Fridays’ First Post: The Gift

Welcome to FICTION FRIDAYS!

In my last post I introduced this new series and, as promised, let me tell you exactly what it is. On Friday’s – not necessarily every Friday but at least once a month – I’ll be posting some fiction for your reading enjoyment.

What type of fiction do you ask?

Well, it could be anything. Pieces I wrote ages ago and am having some fun polishing up, new ideas I feel like using to flex my writing muscles or, best of all, suggestions from you, my readers. So, do you want to see me try to write a short story on what happens when a piano playing astronaut tries to beat a tap dancing neurosurgeon in a beauty contest … well, post below and I’ll give it a try. But maybe hit me with something a little more doable – like 900 hundred words inspired by the word “eternity” or a short story based on your favourite movie quote.

As my novels near completion, I may also whet your taste buds with excerpts from the books. We’ll see.

Today’s Fiction Friday piece was written for an online contest. The mission? – Write the intro to a novel using 500 words on the theme “The Gift.”

But wait – there’s more!
To launch Fiction Fridays, I’m giving away a short story, ‘Dick and Jane.’ It’s based on a writing exercise from Stephen King’s book On Writing. He provided the back story, I did the rest. All you have to do is sign up for my newsletter below (I send out mailings every two to four weeks) and I’ll send you a copy. It’s got a couple racy lines though – so if you’re under 18 or offended by that kind of thing I have something else ready for you. And if you just want the story, not the newsletter, simply unsubscribe after you get it. No problem. (Though I recommend you stay!)

 

And now -

The Gift

She looked at the hip-swinging Elvis clock – behind as always. Two hours and twenty two minutes. Then she’d be free. “Amelia! Table 5, now!” Amelia squeezed by Reg, just missing his greasy beer belly. If she were in charge he’d be forced to wear a shirt two sizes bigger. One that fit. She smiled the smile she reserved for him … and auditors, lawyers – the scum of society.

“I’m on it Reg. I’m on it.” She didn’t need to rush. The diner couldn’t fit more than 30 patrons. She could walk from one end to the other in 22 seconds. If someone needed their food in 17 they could just wait, but Reg always demanded speed. Amelia quickened her step. Anything to make him happy. She glanced at Shirley, moving with slow, haggard movements. It took her 38 seconds to get from one end to the other and Reg never said a word. That’s nepotism for you. Amelia pulled down the tight little skirt he made her wear. Shirley got to wear slacks. Because of her varicose veins, Reg had said with a laugh. Can’t have her scaring off customers.

Amelia stepped by Timothy. She didn’t have time for green-eyed smiles right now. Timothy had first come in three weeks ago. He’d talked to her like he knew her, said he’d missed his train to work, might as well get some breakfast. Amelia had seen him every day since. At first she didn’t get it. The food was mediocre, the coffee inevitably too weak or too strong and Timothy didn’t have much interest in the smoothies, baked goods, or jukebox melodies that kept people coming back. When he started smiling at her like that, asking her questions, then she understood. She didn’t have time for that either.

Amelia set the platter she was carrying down in front of two women with curly blonde hair – sisters. Amelia’s shoulders slumped. She looked at the clock again. She was tired. She just wanted to go home. Cody was away on an overnight class trip, which meant she might actually be able to relax tonight. She picked up a coffee pot, let a brief smile cross her lips. Maybe she could take a bath. “Amelia! You think I’m paying you to look pretty?”

“No, Reg.” The dark liquid splashed into the cup, sloshing at just the right level to not let even a drop spill, to allow room for just the amount of milk and sugar Timothy preferred.

Timothy slid a book toward her. Its cover was practically hanging off. She couldn’t read the worn title. “For you,” he said.

Amelia looked at the book, then him. “What?”

“I thought you could use it.”

“I don’t need a-”

“Just take it. I promise you won’t regret it.” He smiled. “It’s a gift.”

Amelia picked it up, flipping it warily in her hand. “Is this a diary?”

“Just look inside.”  Timothy stood and placed a ten on the table. “Then we’ll talk.”

<<<>>>

P.S. I got the idea of Fiction Fridays from the … Better with a Pen blog. I looked the term up and dozens of other sites have done it too so I don’t feel it’s encroaching on her territory but I still figured I’d give a shout out.