I Am...Becoming

 I am becoming what i want to be. The author of the book on developing good habits spends a chapter on positive self talk, and how important it is to convince your brain that you ARE what you're trying to become. He even says you should say it out loud to yourself on a daily basis, like in front of the mirror, because your brain will start to believe what your ears hear.

Now here's the deal. Not only is this another habit i have to try to add to my morning stack, so I'll have to literally put it on a to-do list...that just feels silly, but I understand the reasoning behind it. Not only do I have to try to develop this habit, but I am a very honest person and telling myself that I AM FIT and I AM HEALTHY is just pushing it too far for me. It feels like a lie. Maybe some day, but not yet.

So I've decided that I can come up with a statement that feels true, but still bolsters my belief in myself and my confidence in what I'm accomplishing. I can tell myself that my habits ARE becoming more consistent, that I AM trying hard, and adding more time and more effort. I AM feeling healthier, more fit, stronger, more flexible. Those things are true and help me stay positive. Yeah, I can do that.

And yes, telling myself that I'm an artist and a writer is true, and it really helps to remind myself of those things. I'll keep working on it.

Writing Prompt #2

This prompt is "Point of View, Setting," and I'm supposed to describe my bedroom through the eyes of an FBI agent who believes I have committed a crime.

FBI agent Agatha Christie (no relation) stopped in the doorway of the master bedroom to take in the full effect of the room before entering, as she was trained to do. There were agents swarming the small house, tossing the place, but Agent Christie was the first to assess the bedroom and she didn't want to miss anything. Even the smallest details could be important.

Looking around, she noticed that there was a heavy four-poster bed, probably a queen, that dominated the not-large room, matching dressers on either side with mismatched lamps on them, a bookcase, rolltop desk, with a flatscreen TV on the wall above it, and what looked like an office two-drawer filing cabinet in the corner with a printer on top. 

There were several "clutter catchers" in the room that would have to be gone over carefully, and a free-standing jewelry armoire that might have something interesting tucked inside, but at first glance nothing obvious stood out. Of course not, Mrs. Sexton wouldn't be so careless as to leave anything lying out, especially since it seemed, from the interrogation, her husband knew nothing about her dealings. This place was probably clean as a whistle, but they had to search every nook and cranny carefully, just in case.

As she entered the room and looked at things closer, the most interesting item to the agent was a small knick-knack shelf above the filing cabinet, filled with tiny tins, the kind that come with gum, candy, or mints in them. The woman had collected all shapes and sizes. The perfect place to hide small items vital to national security, and only a few were not totally covered in dust. "Sloppy, Mrs. Sexton," Agatha thought to herself. She must have been in a great hurry to overlook this "tiny" mistake.

Welcome New Readers!

 Well, here we are, just one little happy group! I'm so used to having just one (extremely supportive) reader, that it makes me a little nervous to have invited several more into my head. Don't worry though, my posts are usually short-ish, and I'm trying hard not to be sooooooo personal or negative. More positive, more creative...that's the goal. More writing practice, less therapy, lol. And if you think of someone else that you think will be willing to read it, please text me that information.

If you want, you can go back and read older stuff. I started this blog over ten years ago, but I have been sporadic over the years, to say the least. I write it more for myself than an audience, so no biggie. If you read it, great! If not, it won't hurt my feelings...I've gotten past taking it personally (mostly). Thanks so much for being my guinea pigs...uh, audience. :) My one request is that if you do read it, please leave a little comment. It really boosts my spirits!

Some of the posts will be writing exercises from a book Bailey gave me, "5-Minute Daily Writing Prompts" by Tarn Wilson. It's an easy way to combine this blog with some creative exercises. And occasionally you will get a look into my head...scary place! :o I have a tendency to go on a rant once in a while.

So there you have it. Most of the time I don't think about it too much before posting. I just sit down and start writing. Who knows where it will take us? Maybe someday it will actually have a theme!

Oh, Let's Try Another One - Prompt #5

This time, although I have trouble sticking with only 5 minutes, I will definitely keep it under 30. The prompt says to write a list of words that include the "oo" sound: like blue, tooth, smooth, etc. Then write a story using as many of the words as I can (the category is "poetry", but it says to write a story... not sure if I'm supposed to rhyme or not!

List of words: blue, tooth, smooth, tune, shoot, boot, toot, couth, youth, roof, tube, boob, lube, poop, loop, scoop, noose, moose, loose, tool, pool, rule, school, fool, noon, spoon, loon, moon

There once was a loon who was cool

He was the coolest loon in the school

He was such a cool youth

But he lost a front tooth

Now everyone says he's a fool. 

Hey, they didn't say it had to be good or anything!

Extending Prompt #391

 The rest of the story of the little orange Vega happened a whole year later, when I was 15. The summer my daddy died. The first two weeks of the usual month I would spend in Newport and Tuckerman, Arkansas, were spent there that summer with my best friend, Elizabeth (Lissa). Daddy took us camping with some other close friends of his, and I remember learning to ride a motorbike on that trip and fishing in the river, and hanging out with some other teenagers. We had a really nice time together, and it was Lissa's first (and last) time to be with my daddy. Later, I was so glad she got to go on that trip with me, because she was one of the few people I could share my grief with.

I'm pretty sure Daddy had been in the hospital that spring at least once with severe chest pains, maybe twice, and I remember while I was there he was popping nitroglycerin tablets like candy (pain relievers for the heart). I think it was the only thing that gave him relief from the incessant chest pains he was having. He didn't have much time left, but I didn't know that. That's not something they would share with a 15-year-old. I don't think he shared that with his two older daughters either, probably because if he did they would have insisted on coming to see him and there was nothing they could do. But they were denied the comfort of seeing him one more time, and I know they resented that later. I think because he was a man, he didn't want his little girls to see him like that, weak and dying.

To back up just a little, Daddy had a massive heart attack about 5 years before, that had done a lot of damage to the heart muscle, and he almost didn't make it then (he was a two-pack-a-day smoker who quit cold turkey after that attack). The doctor at the time wanted to do open-heart surgery, but Daddy was afraid...his medical insurance was through the Veterans Administration, and the VA wasn't known for its high level of care. Plus, open-heart surgery wasn't as prevalent as it is today, bypass was relatively new in 1974, and he was terrified he wouldn't make it through the surgery. So he turned it down.

Five years later, after another significant heart attack, he was suffering enough that he was ready to do whatever it would take to get relief, but after doing tests, the doctor told him it was too late. There was too much damage, and there was nothing more they could do for him. He (and his immediate family) knew what that meant, but they kept it to themselves, probably at his insistence.

Here's where my traumatic memory comes in. During that last two weeks I was with him, Daddy woke up one morning with severe chest pains (actually, I think he was up most of the night). He was in too much pain to drive himself to the hospital (I'm a little surprised he was able to walk to the car). My grandfather had Alzheimer's and couldn't drive anymore. My grandmother, as far as I knew, didn't have a drivers license, and I had never seen her drive a car. I can't remember for sure if my aunt, Nell, was living at the farm yet. She moved back home at some point to help out, but if she had, then she was at work in Newport that day, and that only left one car to use...the Vega...and only one person who could possibly do it, and that was me. I did have a permit by this time but that's it. If it had been a regular automatic transmission, no problem. I drove my mom's car all the time. But a stick shift? Into town? And driving home alone??? I didn't think I could do it.

I remember protesting at first, because I was terrified that either he would die on the way to the hospital or I would kill us with my driving. I've wracked my brain and can't remember how much driving I did in that car before this event, but it must have been at least a little because I hadn't forgotten how to do it, although I was still very nervous starting up, shifting, and especially stopping on a hill of any size. Popping that clutch and gunning it was jerky but at least it didn't die on me. But my terror couldn't change the fact that Daddy was suffering, and I had to take him to the hospital. So I did. And I think I only stalled at a stop sign once...maybe twice.

The most terror I felt was driving back to the farm alone. On the way into town, Daddy was able to direct me on the several roads to get to the hospital. I knew the road between the farm and my grandfather's house in Tuckerman very well, and could drive that practically blindfolded, but this was in the opposite direction, on roads that I had been on my whole life, but had never driven, so I hadn't paid much attention. Getting lost heading back to the farm after leaving Daddy at the hospital was a real possibility, and I was so scared. I did make a couple of wrong turns on the way back, but could tell when it didn't look familiar, so I was very glad when I finally recognized the last couple of back roads and was able to turn into the little lane at the farm. I'll never forget the relief and huge sense of accomplishment I felt that I was able to do that for Daddy and make it back home on my own...alive...in the Vega.

Less than 2 months later, in August, 1974, Daddy was gone. But I had the comfort of knowing I had been with him during his last months, and I had been able to help him, even if it was a small help. I never forgot.