contact info and social media

Here's my webpages and links to my social media. Feel free to add and/or contact me to let me know what you think about my work, and feel free to subscribe if you like!

Twitter: www.twitter.com/avsongbird

Wordpress Blog: https://avsongbird.wordpress.com/

Short Story Blog: http://avsongbirdshortstories.blogspot.com/

Instagram: https://instagram.com/avsongbird

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/avsongbird

Tumblr: http://avsongbird.tumblr.com/

Official Email: avsongbird@gmail.com

Link to "Run Jesse" - Part 4

http://avsongbirdshortstories.blogspot.com/2015/05/run-jesse-part-4.html

AVSongbird blog vid #2 5 31 2015

link to "Run Jesse"- Part 3

http://avsongbirdshortstories.blogspot.com/2015/05/run-jesse-part-3.html

Why songbird?

               My husband asked me about my blogger name the other day.

               Why, he asked. Why songbird? He said people will think I'm a musician of some kind.

               Music has always been a big part of my life.

               When I was growing up, every morning when I'd wake up, I would find my mom had already been up for hours, and the radio would already be on.

               And it would stay on all day long.

               Big band, jazz, swing, blues, oldies, 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s-- she listened to pretty much everything.

               My dad had so many records I couldn't count them all. Some of it my mom liked, some she didn't.

               Suffice it to say, I had a lot of music constantly moving through my head back then.

               I was an impressionable, curious little sponge with a pulse. And my mom was always singing under her breath with the radio-- Jim Croce, Tom T. Hall, Gordon Lightfoot (God I love his voice). Singing came as natural as breathing then. Out of everything it could've been-- my induction into the wide world of music-- it was "you are my sunshine" that ended up being the first thing I sang, and of course others naturally followed.

               Nerd that I am, growing up with two brothers-- one younger, one older-- I'm pretty sure there's a copy of a home movie out there somewhere with little impressionable sponge-like me doing the typical little-kid "look at me" stomp dance, singing the Thundercats theme song at the top of my lungs.

               Yeah, you heard me. And I knew every word by heart.

               The older I got, the more I started branching out and getting into music on my own. Of course, growing up with the music I did, I still find myself coming back to it, listening to the songs I grew up with the same way I still like to go back to old movies and old books I read when I was younger, to remember what I was going through when I first read it, and to feel what I felt back then, when I first picked them up.

               I love anything with a good rhythm, anything with a good beat you can dance to. My mom and I used to dance in the aisles in stores, and when people laughed or shook their heads, we'd just laugh and shrug them off.

               Who am I kidding? I went to visit her up north a few years back, and when one of "our songs" came on the radio, we danced like we did all those years ago. Take that, Big Lots.

               I dance in my car. Sometimes I sing backup, and funnily enough? Now that they're getting older and discovering music, my stepsons join in. It's great.

               When I was in elementary school, my class took a field trip to see some random symphony play, and I remember that being the first time I ever actually saw people play on real instruments in person.

               I decided sometime after that, that I wanted to learn how to play piano. But not wanting to bug my parents with the idea of lessons, I signed up for choir in school, figuring it would be a good way to learn how to read music.

               From that first year, I was hooked on it. I learned how to read music, how to recognize the rhythm and how to feel it more definitively. And I loved it.

               And when my parents bought me a keyboard, I labeled my keys with masking tape and a sharpie, and I taught myself a few simple songs. Nothing incredible, but enough to make me smile. Every now and again, I still find myself going back to those songs. A few years ago, I taught our youngest how to play a couple. Now he's talking about wanting to play piano, though his love is the drums.

               It might've kind of been my fault, or his dad's. My husband was a drummer in high school, in band. He still has an old snare in the garage, but he swears he's "moved past it" and that he "Doesn't miss it."

               And yet, last October, when we were at Six Flags Fright Fest, watching the live band, I could see his foot tapping to the rhythm, the way his eyes were glued to the drummer, and to the drums themselves.

               As a writer I've always found inspiration everywhere, and music was always one of my constants.

               To this day, I'll come across random songs and find myself running for a notebook, driven by the picture or the story or the scene the music put into my head.

               I've been known to listen to the same song on repeat over and over ad nauseum (On my headphones to protect my family's sanity), just to keep the idea fresh in my mind.

               Why songbird, he asked me. I was in seventh grade when I first took the name, the first email address I ever had, and my mom still gets a kick out of the fact that I came home from school telling her about the "cool new band Fleetwood Mac", at which point she proceeded to cross to the record cabinet and pull out all her old Fleetwood Mac records and lay them out on the kitchen table.

               In my defense, I thought their music kicked ass, and looking over her records, I realized I'd heard them all a hundred times before, if not more. But with all the music and all the albums and all the bands I'd grown up listening to, I couldn't remember all the names of each and every one of them.

               Growing up with a name like Jennifer, knowing as many of them as I did growing up, I remember 7th grade being the first time I had a name that was just mine, something that was just mine, the way my writing always has been.

               So when I sat down this month to start my blog, to try and get my writing out there and to give it an honest shot, and I found myself trying to figure out what name I'd use, it seemed only fitting to use songbird. Why not? I'm still the same curious, impressionable and open-minded sponge, a little older now, but still here. I still love music now as I always have. My collection is still just as eclectic, and just as rhythm and inspiration driven.

               I don't follow any specific bands, necessarily, but I do tend to revisit specific ones from time to time. At the end of the day, I go where the inspiration is, same as I always have.

               Why songbird, he asked me. I had to smile at the question.

               "Because it's who I am," I told him.

link to the second part of my first scary short story on blogspot- Run Jesse pt. 2

http://avsongbirdshortstories.blogspot.com/2015/05/run-jesse-part-2.html

link to the first part of my first scary short story on blogspot- Run Jesse pt. 1

http://avsongbirdshortstories.blogspot.com/2015/05/run-jesse-part-1.html

And Now for my Next Trick....

I've started writing little short stories, hoping to stretch my muscles and show you what I can do as a writer. It may look like inactivity here, but it isn't. I'm promised myself to post once a day no matter what, and I have every intention of continuing to do that. My thoughts, poetry, and other posts will continue to be posted here.

If you wish to see my short stories, here's the link to my new short-stories blog:

avsongbirdshortstories.blogspot.com

Fair warning, I did put an adult warning on it as some of the stories I post will be scary stories and could get quite dark, and I want to be sure no one too young is reading anything inappropriate for their age level.

Happy Reading!

Jen

Words Left Unsaid

the things i most regret...

We never know what life will bring,

Or where it will lead us,

Or if tomorrow will ever come.

But wherever your path may lead,

Whatever life throws at you,

I want you to think about one thing....

I've come to learn that the

words I've most regretted in my life,

Were the ones I never said. 

Drabble on Love

My love is fiercely complete and loyal.

It is always and forever.

It is unwavering, unconditional, and unquestioning.

It bends its knee to no one

and never apologizes.

It is friend, lover, mother, wife

and child.

It is the crying shoulder, the patient ear,

The guiding light, the rock of ages,

it never abandons.

It is the sea-beaten shore,

Weathered, tested, and undefeated.

It is ever vigilant, ever present,

ever pure, ever true.

It never dies.

Have you ever pt. 2

Have you ever had a time in your life where you felt lost

And the one thing you really found yourself longing for, was someone you could talk to, someone you could bare your soul to, without the fear that that person would bare your soul to others, when your words were meant to be shared with them alone?

I have always loved when my friends felt they could turn to me. To know that that trust, that bond, was attainable. That I could be the confidante they needed to help them in any way I could. But there have been times, honestly, when I envied them; that they had someone that they could bare their soul to. I've always been a secretive person when it came to the things that hurt me, the things that scared me. When I'm lost, or scared, I wear a smile. As such, a precious few know of things in my past that made me the way that I am. The part that hurts is knowing that I have so few people that I can honestly talk to.

Right now, my life is in transition, and as always, I wear a smile, I make a list of things that need to be done, and check them off as I do them, always reminding myself of how much easier things will be on the other side of the current situation. 

Untitled Poem

You know that I am not perfect

and that I never pretended to be.

You stopped in your stride

and you looked in my eyes;

You saw the me that I

wanted to be.

I never expected your glances,

I never expected to feel.

Long have I hid in the shadows,

How long have I wished to be real?

Have you Ever

Have you ever had a memory..
that wasn't real?
Have you ever had a touch,
that made you long to feel?
Have you ever known a love,
that brought a cry from your deepest soul,
have you ever had another half,
that made you whole?

Finally finished the latest blanket!

Finally finished hubby's queen-sized blanket, now that it's way too hot to have it on the bed. Each stripe is 22 rows.

on taking a long needed break, a step back, and a breath

It's so easy to forget yourself when the world rushes in.
I found myself swept up in all of it,
losing myself in it, forgetting myself in it.
And now I've taken the step back,
to take the time I need to find myself again

I know what it is I want out of life.

I always have, I just have the tendency to become wrapped up

and losing sight of what it is I want, what it is I need. 

Of losing myself in others when they become important to me.

Don't get me wrong, this is not a selfish moment, but a necessary one. 

I've no intentions of abandoning the people I love most. There's nothing in the world that could force me to do that.

This is merely a recharging of my batteries, to keep me moving forward, instead of remaining stagnant.

This blog is my way of taking that long-needed step back, 

My way of trying to find myself again in the midst of all the chaos. 

I sit here now, at my keyboard, with the keys clacking out the audible sounds 

of my thoughts. Such a comforting sound, a familiar sound, the all too familiar clacking of those keys as my fingers fly over them. After so many years, it feels like home, to sit here, watching the words appear on the screen. 

I can feel myself shedding the layers of this world that have so clouded my mind, all of the stress and the worry and the self consciousness and doubt. 

There goes the fear again, my cursor hovering over the post button, then the sweet release of relief that rushes in when I finally click it, sending my thoughts off to whomever wishes to read it, in the hope that perhaps they know how I feel, and that maybe my push to find myself will remind them to take their own step back. 

Crisis and Fear

In my life, I've found that, when faced with a real crisis, the easiest way to deal with stress and/or fear is to stop where you are and let it have an unimpeded moment to rule you, to take over.
Let it in, familiarize yourself with the feeling, saturate yourself in it, and give it time to pass. 5 minutes, 10.
Then cast it aside and continue on.
If you don't, it will lurk at the back of your mind through everything-- clouding your thoughts and subconsciously influencing your decisions, your every step.
If you give the fear and stress the time and attention they deserve, you'll be done with them and move on, the whole situation easier to deal with as you come at it with new eyes, a clear mind and a cool head.
With that taken care of, I've always sat down by myself late at night and made a list of what I had to do for each situation, numbering each item by level of importance, then looking at each item as a separate event, following through with each, then striking it out with a single line once each step was complete.
I'm not saying it works for everyone-- I'm not that pompous or egomaniacal. I'm just saying it works for me.

Tired

God, I'm Tired.
It's an ironic feeling to be young and Tired.
To know that Time does not affect you as it does others.

To be conscious of this fact is paradoxically even more surreal.
Feeling quite tangibly the distance between myself and those I surround myself with.

I submerge myself within them,
drifting in their easy conversations and letting it come over me,
like lowering myself into a warm bath after a long, hard day.

I find inexplicable release in these moments,
and utter peace in the chaos.
Forgetting the ghosts that come in the dark stillness of the night,
when I lie on my back, eyes on the ceiling,
With my mind a million miles away.

Know Thyself

know thyself

Know thyself.
You can't get anywhere in this world without it.

Who are you?
What drives you?
What fuels you?
What do you fear?
What do you desire--
What do you NEED?

What do YOU have to bring to the table?

If you don't know yourself, how can anyone else ever hope to know you?

Surrender

I surrender to his will at night,
He consoles me as he holds me.
He says it'll be alright,
That I'm dreaming, just dreaming.

Slender fingers in my hair,
Pressing, caressing.
Words like satin in my ear,
Unstressing, suppressing.

I'm grateful he understands me,
When no one else does
as he does.
I say this, and he kisses me,
Says he needs me,
he loves me.

Can't Sleep

A lonely heart burns in the dark of the night,
the warmth of a single body twisting restlessly beneath the covers
as she seeks the solace that should come
inside of the darkness within her eyelids.
A secret place, a secret peace.
In a space where no one can know,
the emptiness she feels,
To face the world alone.
Always with a smile to hide the pain,
As she finds herself always alone again.

Outside the window, the sounds of night,
The moonlit sky goes swimming by,
But in her room, in her bed, she sees none of it,
her eyes closed against the black of night,
As she prays inside her very soul,
For mercy, for sleep...
For her secret place....
For her secret peace.

Into The Sea

She sat on the bank of the river,
watched her dreams roll away downstream.
She felt their loss more than the heat of her tears
Because she isn't as strong as she seems.

She was expected to smile
So she smiled.
Always expected to bend but not
break.
Giving all of herself that she could give,
Wondering how much she could take.

And so often lately
She finds herself visiting the river,
Late at night, when she's left alone.
One by one, dropping her dreams
Into the water,
Watching them fade into the sea.
One by one
into the sea.

Driving at Night

I love to drive at night.... radio low...window down... the wind playing through my hair, twisting it and blowing it caressingly across my face, my hand gripping the wheel gently, but with an underlying firmness as my eyes are ever-scanning the dark for any impending possibility of calamity in my moonswept surroundings.

I love it. It gives me a chance to clear my head.

Sometimes I upturn my hand and let it slip out through the open window, turning it palm downwards, then up again fluidly, enjoying the feel of the cool night air slipping like water across my fingers as my car sails on down the darkened street, caught only occasionally in a sudden burst of streetlamp in the otherwise ebony-tinted, slumbering desert landscape I've known most of my life.

Sometimes I sing with the radio, sometimes not. Sometimes I listen to the cacophony of ideas and emotions whirling and raging around in my head, sometimes not.

Sometimes... you just need to let go, and drive.

Lost... and Found

I lost myself today, in the swirling tides of silence,
Closed my eyes against the pain, and closed the shutters to hold it in.
I lost myself in the feeling, letting it crash over me, surrounding and overtaking me.
Consuming me,
Letting it move through me and touch me in all the ways I never knew it could.

I found myself today, on the floor as I thought that I lay dying.
My heart in a thousand pieces, splintered, shattered, bleeding.
Tears falling as I gathered the shards of my heart in my hands, and
held them to myself, comforting that heart with just myself.

I picked myself up today, dusted off and rose from where I knelt,
Surrendered in what I felt.
I steeled my spine, so used to bending, and held my head up high,
A new determination in my eyes.

I stood and watched through the window, as the dawn broke through the night,
scattered rays giving over to day, to drive the night away.
Taking with it the monsters, and the fears I felt before,
When I lay upon that floor, not feeling anymore.

I found myself today.

Awakening

In the wake of a broken heart....
I hid myself, inside of myself,
It was the fear of trusting again that did it.
I locked the door, I drew the blinds,
rebuilt the walls I hid behind.
Swore that I would never feel that way again.
Swore that there wasn't any way that a man
could be worth such pain.

Isn't it funny, how the human heart,
can so override your brain?
Tell you truly, that the plans you've made,
were just copouts to conceal the pain?

The time has passed, as it always does,
And someone has found me, inside of myself,
Reached in... and drew me out of myself,
And helped me see past the pain.

To the promises I'd heard before,
Only THIS time,
Without the echoes that come in empty words.
To the realization that perhaps, I wasn't the broken one,
Restoring the freedom... to this bird.

*************

Love Poem from one of my short stories

I could lie awake all night,
Counting the little freckles that grace your flesh,
Whispering tender kisses along your spine
And feeling my heart skip a beat each time I feel you shiver
Beneath my touch.
I would walk beyond the ends of all the ages and expanses
of this good earth
To feel the gentle press of your full lips against my own.
To look into your cornflower eyes and see them
Sparkling and laughing and dancing and full of life and love and laughter.
I would suffer a thousand torments without thought or regret
for the pleasure of being cradled against you,
with your arms around me, my head rested against your chest,
The sound of your heartbeat loud, and strong, and steady in my ears.

To Be Understood

               Sometimes, you just want to be understood. You don't want to explain... you don't want to pretend... or lie... You don't want to have to make excuses.

               You just want to be. And you want that to be enough.

               That's all I've ever wanted in my life. It's a human thought, isn't it? To want to know that just being you, with your faults, your shortcomings, with your joys, your passions...

               To want to know, for one brief moment in time that you... are enough.

                I've always taken people as they were. I love watching the masks fall away, watching the lies fall by the wayside, and watching people become who they are.

               I love them for their scars, and the tales they can tell. For the battles they've won, the hardships they've faced, and survived. The people and the past-times they've fallen in love with.

               I love them as they come. And I've always hoped they realized that I always did what I could to love them as they were-- that I truly wanted to understand them as they were.

               I always wished I knew what it felt like to be understood. To be loved and understood and accepted for who and what I was.

               But then how can I hope to find such things, when at times I find I don't even know myself?

               But how many of us can claim to truly know who we are, or why we do the things we do?

               I've always thought it was my job to dig deeper into human nature. To understand what drives us to do the things we do. Why we love the things we love, why we hate the things we hate, why we fear the things we fear. What kind of a writer could I be without knowing the nature of those I create my stories for? How can I hope to reach up through those pages and touch the hearts and souls of others if I cannot begin to know what they care about?

               I want to pen the words that reach into your heart. I want to find the words to tear you open and make you look deep inside yourself. I want to open your eyes and your heart to the things that drive you, to the passion that burns deep within you.

               I want to force you to face your deepest fears.

               I want to move you, to awaken you unto this world, and unto yourself. Then I want you to do the same to others, who in turn, can do the same.

               I want to brighten your day. I want to make you smile. I want to bring tears to your eyes and make your heart ache in your chest.

               I want to remind you what it is to truly feel, as you were always meant to feel. Love, hate, horror, passion, strife, heartache.

               I want to make you realize what it is to be understood as you are, what drives you, what scares you, what touches you, what stirs your passions.

               I want to awaken you unto yourself. To show you what it is, to truly understand this world, this life such as it is.

               I hope to awaken you to yourself, if I can. And as I find bits and pieces of my soul buried within those pages, in my quest to share the worlds inside my head with all of you, as I read back over them and find myself hidden within them, perhaps one day I will find myself made whole by my efforts, and at last, I will find the understanding I've always hoped for.

Keeping Busy

               Most people I meet on a daily basis hear that I'm a housewife and automatically assume that means I have a lot of spare time to waste. And that's not necessarily true. But I'm guessing it's the same for a lot of people. It's just that a lot of the work I do is behind the scenes.

               During the week, I share my home with my husband, his 21 year old son, four small dogs, and his oldest son's German shepherd. Every weekend, we're joined by his two youngest sons, who are 12 and 10. And during the summer, his two youngest are with us even more often than they are the rest of the year.

               If not for our smallest and youngest dog, Gwen, I'd be the only female in my household, people and dogs included.

               That many people and dogs in one house makes for a busy household on its own. Some days it feels like Grand Central Station-- everyone always in the midst of either coming or going, with dogs running every which way.

               Beds to be made, meals to be cooked, laundry to be done. It keeps me busy. And I've always loved being busy.  

               I grew up in a house where my mother always kept a garden-- fruit trees, grapevines, veggies-- she made her own jellies.

               I used to dream of one day having a garden of my own. So when we bought our first house, I spent the first year settling in, getting used to being a new housewife, and learning what that meant.

               When the end of that first winter in the house was drawing to a close and the following spring was on its way, I started prepping for my first garden.

               My husband bought me miniature greenhouses, and I started my garden from seed in early February, planning on getting everything ready to go into the garden beds themselves the third week of March. (When you live in the same town for over 20 years, you learn a few things. And if there's one thing I've come to know about this town, it's that you never plant when the air first starts to feel warm that first week of March, because that second week is a mean one. No... the third week. That's when you take your plants outside, and you put them into the beds. And not a day before, otherwise you risk losing everything to the sudden cold front that always hits the second week of March.)

               That first one wasn't much to write home about, and it wouldn't have won any prizes, but I was just tickled to death to find I grew enough zucchini to make bread. It was the first time I'd ever actually planted something on my own, and sitting there, cutting those zucchini off of the vine with the boys, I remembered all those summers I spent with my mother in her garden, picking the weeds, watering the plants, harvesting the fruits and the veggies. It felt good.

               The garden is evolving year by year as I learn from my mistakes, and I learn how to change and adapt with the sometimes-unpredictable weather. The fruit trees are getting older now, and within a few years I'm hoping to get into jelly-making. Remembering the Santa Rosa plum jelly my mother used to make, and her homemade apricot jelly makes my mouth water at the thought. I want to share those memories with our boys.

               There's something about something homemade, isn't there? Homemade jellies, homemade bread (my husband makes incredible bread, but shh! Don't tell him I told you.). I've always loved homemade things. It takes thought, and time.

               My mother has always crocheted blankets of all shapes and sizes. I've seen her create amazing patterns that she just pulled out of her head, or where she'd see a picture, and she could recreate it. To this day, if you went over to her house you'd catch her curled up in her chair, working on one. Sometimes she'd work on two at a time, and she'd switch off between them whenever the store wasn't carrying the yarn she needed.

               I still to this day have blankets she made me back when I was in grade school, and I love that-- knowing they're the same blankets I had on my bed the whole time I was growing up, and that when I'm homesick or missing my parents, I can curl up in them again.

               Now I'm the one you'll catch curled up in a chair or in front of my computer, music or movie going and me working on a blanket. Mine are nowhere near as intricate or gorgeous as my mother's are, but hey, I'm learning, and I figure that's something.

               After we first moved into the house, that first winter I saw the boys huddled up on the couch in their comforters, so on a whim I sat down and made throw blankets to keep on the arm of the couch for them to use. It felt good to see them reaching instinctively for the blankets I'd made a month or so later, when I finished them, as though they'd always done it.

               My mother made them each a blanket in their favorite colors, and, remembering how I felt about the blankets she'd once made for me, I asked them if they'd like me to make them each one, and they said they would.

               His middle son picked camouflage yarn, so we brought it home and I got to work. Over the next month, I worked on it every night, sat down with my music or my movies after the house was clean and the laundry and dishes were done, waiting until my husband would come home from work. Some nights I worked all night, trying to get it done for him.

               And then, finally, the last stitch was done, and I threw it in the washer. By the time he showed up that next weekend and came walking into his room, it was on his bed.

               He's slept with it every night since. And when we curl up in the living room to watch our movies, he drags it out with him, and he curls up in it. My gaze slips over to him from time to time, and I can't help but smile to know that something I made means so much to him. It's an indescribable feeling, knowing he loves something I made just for him.

               The youngest is next-- his favorite Avenger is Captain America, so he declared his blanket HAS to be red, white, and blue. He would've liked if I could've made the blanket look like Cap's shield, but hey, I'm only human, and he understands that.

               He's my little gardener, my little chef. Every time he catches me in the kitchen or the garden, he follows me, and he helps me, determined to learn any and everything he can get his hands on.

               Our middle son loves the kitchen, and he loves learning to cook, but he's more our thinker, our dreamer, so he leaves all the dirtiest garden work to me and the youngest.

               All things considered, with everything else I have going on and getting back into my runner's training, I can't really think of any point in the day where I stop to catch my breath, aside from when I'm here, at my laptop, writing, blogging, listening to music or watching movies and working on my blanket.

               But I like it that way. Moving into our house that first day, bringing the boxes inside, it was just a house-- just four walls and a roof with a door. But after we brought our things inside, after we painted the walls and I planted my garden, my roses-- those four walls began to feel more like a home.

               Growing up, I guess I never realized how much my mom did for us, as a mom, or for my dad, as a wife.

               Now, being a wife and a stepmom myself, I think I'm beginning to understand what it means to really be those things, to have a home and a family of my own to care for.

               And every year, the garden's getting better. Every year, the trees are growing taller, and the grapes are getting bigger.

               Every year, with each and every project undertaken, this house is becoming more a home. And I love knowing that, and that I can be a part of it. That the things I make and the things I do make a difference, even if it is just inside these walls, with my family.

               And with each and every project I finish within these walls, I find myself looking forward to my next big project. 

Another Whovian is born

               I've always been a completionist. It drives my husband crazy because he can start a new show halfway through the first season, or during a later season, and for the life of me, I just can't do it. I'm the same way with book series, movie series, and comic books. Believe me, I've tried.

               Most recently, my completionist tendencies and the obsession that many of my friends have for Dr. Who led me to seek it out on Netflix. I'll admit it, I was excited. Well, partly excited, and incredibly intimidated by the thought of the incredibly daunting task I faced-- 50 years of episodes to catch up on (Which is the main reason I put off watching it for so long). But I'd watched every available season of Sherlock (damn the hiatus), BBC Merlin, Blacklist, Walking Dead.... I was pretty much caught up on everything else, and I'd watched pretty much every scary movie Netflix had to offer aside from the really, really bad ones (And I'd even managed to muscle my way through some of those, and if you know Netflix's horror selection the way I do? You know it can get pretty bad).

               So there I was, remote in hand, bathtub-sized cup of coffee at hand, lights out, ready to go, trying really hard not to hear the echoing words of "50 years" echoing in my ears.

              And then it happened. In black and white. "Selected episodes. Not all available at this time." Gasp! No problem, right? I've always loved a good scavenger hunt. Off the couch, down the hall to my room, to the wide wonderful world of the internet, to see why there were holes in the available episode list.

               Come to find out that over the years, many of the old episodes in the first several seasons were lost to the ages, and that though a few turn up here and there, found by die-hard fans, many have been deemed to be lost forever.

               Disheartened by such thoughts that I may never come across the old episodes, and knowing full-well that one of my Aunts is a die-hard Whovian who would never take me seriously if I didn't at least attempt to watch the series from the very beginning, I crossed my fingers and toes and headed over to Hulu, to see if I'd have better luck there.

               There they were, all the (available) episodes all the way back to the very beginning of the Doctor's travels, and down I sat.

               As someone who's always loved the Twilight Zone original series, and who counts many black and white films among my all-time favorite movies, I wasn't bothered by the black and white. From the very beginning, the story was there, and as someone who's always had an overactive and fertile imagination, I'll admit I was curious from the very start. After a while, I didn't even notice that it was in black and white.

               Some of the plot lines made my eyes nearly glaze over in those first few seasons, but by the time Tom Baker took over as the fourth doctor, I'd decided that I was in for the long haul.

               It was so creative, so imaginative, so full of possibility that I couldn't help loving it. The mere idea of it.

               It took some hunting around to find out what those missing episodes were about enough to fill in all the gaps in the story, and moving back and forth from Netflix to Hulu to watch the available episodes in order, but over the course of the last few months, I made my way through the first fourteen seasons of Classic Dr. Who, and with the episodes now in full color, and the story lines becoming steadily more involved, I find myself looking forward to many, many more seasons to come.

               I was somewhere in the middle of a marathon late one Saturday night when our youngest came wandering in, unable to sleep, and, out of curiosity, he plopped down, dug into my popcorn, and asked me what I was watching.

               I rattled off a summary as we ate popcorn and got settled back in, and got him up to speed with what was happening.

               Four hours later, there he was, curled up next to me, crashed out hard on the couch, snoring away, and I had to get up to take his glasses off before they suffered an early demise if he were to roll over in his sleep.

               I just figured he was bored, couldn't sleep and heard the TV still on, wanted to know what I was up to. He does that. Over the years he's fallen in love with more than a few of the movies I've loved since I was a kid. And most of the time, his older brother wanders right in with him.

               We have Friday movie marathons every week, the three of us curled up in front of the television with a gargantuan sized bowl of popcorn. Indiana Jones, Star Wars, Back to the Future, Lord of the Rings, the Hobbit, bring it on!

               The youngest wandered in a few days after he first watched the Doctor with me, asking if it was okay if he watched it on his own, and I couldn't help it, I smiled as he wandered off to seek it out, knowing it had caught his attention and his imagination just as it caught me in the weeks before.

               And so it was that two generations of Whovians were born in my house.

*****************

drop me a line if you'd like, let me know what you think!

I've had a couple of friends tell me the commenting on this page isn't the easiest thing in the world to navigate. They kept saying they had to sign in to google, and give all kinds of info. If you'd like to drop me a line or a comment, and you don't want to log in-- if you have any ideas for things you'd like me to post about or ideas for story topics or genres you'd like to hear-- please feel free to drop me an email at avsongbird@gmail.com I would really love to get some feedback on my work. The page views are amazing in the way they're rising so fast, but I'd really like to get the interaction going between me and those of you who are actually reading my work. Thank you so much for your time, I really appreciate it very much.

-Jen

This bugs the hell out of me, so I'm getting it off my chest. Please bear with me.

             Who the hell was it who woke up one day and decided that when someone gets married, they cannot look at or talk to members of the opposite sex outside of their family members without everyone else chipping in their two cents and labeling them a cheater or a whore or a player or automatically assuming that they're "playing the field"? I'm a married woman, and I love my husband. There's honestly nothing in this world I wouldn't do or give for him. And when we exchanged our vows back in 2009, I meant every word.

             I've never cheated on my husband. I've never even been tempted. Is our married life perfect? No. We're human, we're not perfect, and it's ludicrous to believe anyone could be. Every relationship you'll ever be in, romantic or otherwise in your life, is going to have its ups and downs, and that's part of what makes it worth it. You remember the highs to get you through the lows. You look back at the rough patches and remember having each other to get you through it. To show you the silver lining through the clouds.

               What the hell kind of a life do you have without people you love to share it with? People you can laugh and cry and be yourself with and not have to worry about pretending to be anything but who and what you are with?

               I've never had my own massive entourage of friends, in fact I've always been pretty introverted by nature, but I was never without a handful of really close, really incredible friends. Friends who could call me at three in the morning and cry if they needed, or come over and eat ice cream and tell me about their problems. I once had a friend actually call me at 3 in the morning and we spent the remainder of the night driving around in her car so she could tell me about her problems and I could help her out in any way I could.

               Another time a friend of mine called me up, having relationship problems, so we swung by a drive thru, picked up dinner, and drove out and sat by the freeway and ate and watched the cars pass us by till the sun went down, and we talked him through it.

               Yeah, I said him.

               And yeah, some of my closest friends have been guys throughout the course of my life. My best friend from the beginning of seventh grade all the way through high school was a guy.  To this day he knows if there was ever anything he needed, he could pick up the phone and I'd be there.

               Why should I stop being there for people just because I fell in love and got married? So some of my friends are still guys? So I enjoy their company. So what? Yes, my husband knows about it, yes my husband knows my friends personally. No, that doesn't mean I've ever cheated on my husband or considered it or that I'm looking to cheat down the road, and to be honest, the only man who should be concerned about it is my husband. I don't understand people, where they find out that I like talking to people, meeting new people, and they feel they suddenly need to hop up on that soapbox and read me the riot act about how I should shut myself in and cease to talk to everyone of the opposite sex because *gasp* I'm the reason they send me dirty messages, and I should go offline so that they're not tempted to send them to me.

               That their behavior and their way of treating women is my fault.

               And no, I'm not trolling dating sites, I'm not all over hookup sites. That would be one thing. I'm talking social sites here people. Facebook, or myspace style sites. Risque, I know. I should be ashamed of myself, apparently.

               But you know what? Even if I caved, and I did go offline and become a hermit, some other woman would be the one they sent such messages to. And it wouldn't be her fault either. It shouldn't be about whether we're married, whether we're not. That's between us and our spouses. It should be about respecting the person. (And yes, I'm talking about respect for the guys too!) If you don't agree with what they're doing, that's fine; you're more than entitled to your opinion. Move on. What's the point in reading them the riot act? What do you really accomplish other than making yourself sound like an ass in front of everyone else who reads what you have to say, and getting backed up by other likeminded, close minded, judgmental people? Why all the negativity?  Life is already too damned short as it is!

               I've always been an open-minded person. I've always loved meeting new people from all walks of life and hearing them talk about themselves at length-- their different backgrounds, their different religions, their passions, their hopes, their dreams. I love nothing more than watching them light up when they talk about something they love, something they're passionate about.

               I love people on a person by person basis. I've been that way all my life. I don't understand why I should have to give that up now, and honestly, I have no intentions of it. I shouldn't have to change who I am to become this little cookie cutter image of what people think I should be. I'm a good person, I'm a caring, honest, passionate, friendly and loyal sort of person with a good heart. And I have no intentions on ever changing that.

                Thank you so much for letting me vent about it, whoever's still reading my rant, if anyone. I know I should just continue to ignore and to block the negative people, as I've always done, but I guess I just don't understand why people treat other people with so little respect. It's always bugged the ever-living hell out of me.

On Being Lonely

               Do you know what it's like to be lonely? Not every day run of the mill lonely. Everyone knows that.

               I'm talking about deeply, desperately, achingly, "staring out the window wondering if there's a single person alive who is at that moment missing your company or thinking of you at all and knowing that there isn't and hasn't been for a long time" kind of lonely.

               The kind with no end in sight.

               What you wouldn't do-- what you wouldn't give-- to not be lonely, even for a moment. Sometimes it scares you to think about it.

               I've been lonely most of my life. Don't get me wrong. I've had friends, I've had family. I still have family, and friends, both of which show up on occasion. I've got people in my life.

               But you can be in a room full of people, with crowds of people in your life, and be lonely.

               Lonely people know what I mean.

               In a world full of acquaintances and faked smiles and meaningless conversations, with television and high speed travel and the internet making the world a smaller place all the time, you'd think it'd be harder to be alone, let alone to be lonely.

               But if you know what it's like to fake that smile and to get up, get dressed, and go about your day like everything's fine, knowing you're fooling everyone because none of them really care enough or know you well enough to recognize the difference, then you know what I mean.

               At the end of the day, your clothes aren't the only thing you shed when you get home. When the doors are closed and your work is done and there's no one else to smile and act brave and pretend for.

               When the mask is shed, and you climb into the shower and turn the water on so no one will see you or hear you when you cry, because the last thing you need right then is to have to muster up the strength to put together one more lie, because if you tell them the truth, either they'll never believe you, or try to tell you all the reasons you have to be thankful.

               Of course you're thankful for the good things in your life. You're just tired of being alone.

               You're tired of having to fake that smile and put on that mask for everyone else, and knowing it's painted on.

               You're tired of always being okay, whether you're okay or not, because you have no other choice.

               Just for once, what you wouldn't give not to feel lonely. Not to feel alone for just one second of your life. Not to be brave or pretend. Not to have to lie just once to the people who profess to know you, who profess to care. Not to know that if you did try to explain how you really felt, they'd try to prescribe you a cure for your emotions, or to tell you to suck it up, that it's normal, and how everyone knows how you feel. That they know how you feel when you know better.

               Some days are more exhausting than others, smiling, faking, pretending. You come away feeling drained after the simplest of conversations, because your mouth is moving, the words come out, and all the while you wonder what the hell your small talk is worth as the seconds of your life are ticked away, knowing you can never get those precious seconds back. And yet you just let them go, figuring that some form of interaction, even a fake one, is better than none at all. 

Avsongbird vlog #1 (5/19/2015)

I will not beg

I will not beg for your attention,

I will not beg you for your time.

I will not twist and contort my spirit,

Just to give you piece of mind.

You need to take me as you find me,

Or don't even waste my time.

I don't give a damn what you think is "wrong with me",

Because this isn't your life-- it's mine.

If you're good to me, I'll be likewise,

If you respect me you'll get in kind.

If you love me, you'll be loved deeper than you've ever known,

by this wild and passionate heart of mine.

My heart is fiercely loyal,

It's honest, selfless, and kind.

I'd give beyond everything I've ever had,

and all I ask you for is your love, your time.

But don't ask me to wear a fake smile.

Don't expect me to live a lie.

Because the "me" I am is the "me" that I always was,

The "me" I was born, the same "me" I'll be till I die.

Unleashed

When was the last time you unleashed your passion,

Unbound the corset and let it fall?

When you ran full speed to the edge and dove headfirst

Into the power of the fall?

Tell me, when last did your heartbeat,

Make you deaf to all other sound?

When did you last take a chance and move forward,

Excited when your heart started to pound?

When did you feel the last surrender?

When was the last time you tested your drive?

Or are you doomed to wander the earth without,

Always living, but never alive?

The Sea Within Me

I can feel the sea within me,

Hear the rain, and smell the trees.

I can feel the heat of the midday sun,

As my spirit runs wild, unfettered, and free.

I feel the fire in my chest, beat by beat,

As my spirit spreads its wings.

I feel my restless heart yearn to take flight,
And my wild heart, as it sings.  

Memories of the meadow

              I can still remember the warm, rich smell of the tall grass in the late spring, and feeling the heat in the air hinting at the fact that summer was right around the corner. I can still remember the feeling of the late afternoon sun shining down on my upturned face, and the warm presence of the blanket against the backs of my knees, and the lengths of my calves.

               I can still remember turning my head to watch his chest rising and falling in that peaceful rhythm as he slept on beside me, and the way his full lashes curled over his closed eyes.

               I could have lain there forever, just watching him dream, feeling peaceful and content and safe and loved as I'd never before felt in all my years on this good earth.

               I never knew what love was before our paths crossed in the woods that day. Was it only a few months ago? It seems a lifetime ago now since then. Days of laughter, days of tears.

               It was another life, for both of us. And knowing now that such peace, such love, such joy could exist, I wouldn't trade a single hardship or sacrifice that I faced in my previous life-- in any of the previous lives I'd led-- knowing that they led me to that meadow, and to the one who shared in such sacred and precious days with me. 

               In times of darkness, in times of fear, and doubt, and dread, I remember the days we spent together in the tall grass, laughing and talking, with no thought but to love one another, to enjoy the time we'd been granted to be together for however long it would last. I always feel myself renewed by such memories of the love and life I found in those precious days, of innocence and happiness and tenderness, and I carry on with my soul strengthened, renewed by such tender memories of young love.

*********

 I you liked this excerpt, and would like to hear more of the story, and learn more about the characters, and the sort of lives they led, and the roads that led them here, please, feel free to comment or share this with others, and drop me a line to let me know. 

I look forward to sharing stories with you in the future-- stories of romance, adventure, mystery, humor, and horror. 

playing in the dirt

I wait all winter long for the chance to play in the dirt. There's just something about digging your hands into the soil, planting seeds and watching them grow.

I've always loved gardening. Flowers, fruit, veggies, herbs. It was one of the habits I picked up from my mother when I was small, and I find myself passing it on to my young stepsons.

Our youngest came walking into the kitchen today and found me setting up seed trays, and he asked me if he could help. So there we were, as was our now yearly habit of me setting up the soil in the trays, opening the seed packs and organizing them, and poking the holes to ready them for him, and his planting the seeds and covering them carefully over with the soil.

It always makes me smile at the way he loves to run outside to check on the seeds, to see if anything new has sprouted in his absence, or to see if the seeds need any water. He always comes running in full-speed to tell me if they're dry or if "Jen! Jen! The zucchini's sprouting!"

If there's one thing he and his brother both love more than homemade banana bread fresh out of the oven, it's fresh zucchini bread straight out of the oven. And every year, when they see those seed packets on the counter, they always look to make sure that I remembered to buy the zucchini. Forget the tomatoes, forget the cilantro, the watermelon, the green beans. It's all about the zucchini for those two.

Then again, their dad's not much different. Second week of March, when the air first starts to hold onto its warmth, my husband starts talking about bell peppers-- orange ones, green ones, red ones, yellow. He eats them like they're candy, cuts them up and dips them into dressing and suddenly it's "who needs candy?".

Not that I'm much different. I go outside every day to check on my baby apricot tree. Have you ever had an apricot right off the tree in the summer, when it's still warm from the sun? You bite into it, and the juice runs down your chin, and it tastes so good and rich you don't even care if it's making a mess.

              

Every afternoon I'm out there, checking on my tree like clockwork, checking for weeds, pests, making sure she's got enough water. Every day watching, waiting for the chance to enjoy such a simple pleasure.

And until then? I've got my roses and my veggies to keep me busy. 

Why would anyone read this? No really. lol.

I sat down to write my blog for today and (not for the first time since I considered starting a blog) I found myself asking myself why. Why would I do this? Why did I feel the need to publish my thoughts online for strangers to read? And more than that, why would they read them?

You want to know the truth? It's because it scares me to death. 

All my life I've loved words and what they could do, and I've loved seeing what I could do with them. I've loved sharing them with people and seeing how people reacted to what came out of my head. It was so surreal, to see people laughing or crying or otherwise reacting to what I wrote, on a person to person basis. 

I've written stories for people, I've written poetry and songs for people, and it felt natural at the time, it felt right. I've written stories and poetry and songs WITH other people, and I've laughed more than I thought possible collaborating with others who know what it is to feel driven to write (You know who you are, and you're amazing!). It's amazing, the energy, the vibe you get when you're working with people who share your passion like that. It's incredible. I hope to do much more of it in the future. 

But the thought of sharing such a personal part of me, something that's just me, no censors, no filters, no editors beyond myself, no collaborators, no smoke, no mirrors-- just me and my words left to stand on their own-- with people on a large scale across the digital world is a very scary thought. So the idea of having people beyond my small circle of family and friends read my words scares me half to death. 

But I feel like I have to do this. Because over the years, as I've met more writers, more artists, more people in general throughout the course of my life, I've come to realize something--

I'm not the only one who's afraid of putting myself out there. 

I've met artists with incredible talent and potential-- writers, singers, painters, carpenters among them-- who never felt they were "good enough" or "talented enough" to put themselves out there. That were scared to death of the failure they convinced themselves was inevitable. 

And the thought that maybe if I take that risk, maybe someone, somewhere out there might stumble across my words and think "hey, if she's scared to death, and she's doing it anyway, maybe I can, too."  

Because you can only learn so much from books, from school, from training, and teachers. Eventually, you have to let go of those guard-rails, and you have to step out on your own, with your head held high, and you have to think, "You know what? I've got this." And maybe your risk will pay off, and maybe it won't. But even if you fail, at the end of the day, you can look back and remember the fact that you had the guts to step out in the first place, and realize that even that is more than the people who never took that risk. 

That in taking that risk-- even if you don't get the trophy, even if you fall on your face, or you're laughed and mocked-- was a success that no one can take away from you. 

I know I'm not the best writer on the planet, not by a long shot, and I'd never claim to be. All I can do is put out the best work I can, and hope it finds the people it was meant to find, and that it entertains them as it's always entertained me. 

That's why the blog. That's why I'm facing my fear. Because my desire to share my passion with others and to entertain them and maybe help them to face their fears or even to just enjoy my work and forget their problems for awhile far outweighs my fear of failure, of mockery. 

Because even making one person smile or laugh or to not feel down or alone with my work, is enough to make it worth it for me to do this. 

Insomnia

I think the worst part about having insomnia is knowing the fact that you have only a few options left to you in the dead of night.... okay... a few that you won't REALLY regret when you wake up the next day *smirk*


You can sit up and watch television, going from infomercial to infomercial until you want to shove the t.v. out the window. (Actually, you WOULD regret that the next day)


You can read a book until you pass out over it, and wake up with your face mashed into a book the next day.


You can sit at your computer and play games until you can't keep your eyes open, then suffer the next day at work because "I just wanna get ten more points in majong, I swear"


You can lay on your back and stare up at the ceiling in the dark, watching the ceiling fan spin into oblivion and count the number of times car lights come in through your window as they pass, until you pass out from sheer BOREDOM.


Me? I've done all of em lol. Can't help it. I could get up early, work all day, then come home that night, hop on my treadmill and run forty miles, I'll still be up late, lying in bed counting car lights until I feel like I'm losing my mind and heading back to my computer to type out another twenty or thirty or forty more pages with bleary eyes.





What about everyone else? What do you do when sleep takes its sweet time in coming? Are you a counter? A reader? A gamer? Channel Surfer? Marathon show-watcher?


I'll admit it, I've tried them all.

now that I think about it... where IS my pen?

I've loved and cherished and hated and been enthralled and disgusted by people who never even existed.


Such is the life of a writer. To come stumbling across people that no one else can see or hear but you, and to do everything your imagination and your brain and your heart can do to introduce them and their worlds and their happiness, trials, and tribulations with the world.


To use whatever skills and talents you may possess, to show people out there in the big green and blue marble that they are not alone. That there's more to this life than they could ever even begin to imagine if only you believe there is.


It's having your heart swell in your chest with love for the lives you're telling tales of, then having your heart ache and feeling it shatter into a million pieces and scatter into the winds when your characters' hearts are broken.


It's the tears that fall as you find yourself overcome with the grief that your character is suffering with each and every loss that they face, as though the grief were your own.


It's feeling your blood boil in your veins with rage at the antagonist and having your brain churn with ideas for all the ways you could get back at them for whatever dastardly thing they'd done to your poor protagonist this time around.


It's not being good, it's not being evil. It's being everything all at once all the time. It's living a thousand lives in one body; it's a thousand brains inside your own brain; it's a thousand hearts and a thousand lifetimes and all of it forcibly crammed into the space of one lifetime lived on this planet.


It's exhausting and exhilarating and exciting and incredible. It's a rush unlike any other that will drive you from your bed at 3 in the morning (if you haven't spent the entire night at the keyboard to begin with) and drive you from the shower with a towel hastily thrown around your body and soap in your hair, muttering desperately under your breath as you search your house like a madman "Where's a pen? Where's a pen? Where's the penpenpenpenpen..." And all the while your dog is staring at you with his head cocked like he thinks you're crazy.


And maybe you are.


It's not a hobby. It's an obsession. It's a lifestyle. And there are no vacations. You could be lying out on the beach, drink in hand, sunglasses on, hearing the sound of the waves lapping lazily at the shore, and suddenly, out of nowhere, it'll hit you. And suddenly you find yourself scrambling through your beach bag, praying you remembered to pack along your notebook for the ride, or typing away madly on your cell phone because you knew they'd only laugh at you if they caught you trying to bring your laptop along to the beach.


"Take a day off," they'd laugh, and shake their heads.


If only they knew.

who are you?

How much...do you really know... about the ones you love?


How much can we REALLY claim to know...about anyone?


For that matter, while we're on the subject, look in the mirror.


No, really look. Deeper. Rest your palms flat on the countertop, take a deep breath, hold it, and lean in.


Nearly touch your nose to the glass, but not quite.


Gaze into your reflected eyes, and REALLY take a good, long, hard look at the person staring back at you.


Drink in the one before you and look again to your eyes.


What things do you find yourself realizing about the thoughts and emotions swimming just inside those eyes?


Who is the person looking back at you? Is it the person you are all day, everyday as you wander this world, or is it the person you hide away in privacy-- unwilling to bring them into the sunlight?


Perhaps you fear that no one will accept this thing you hide-- this person that you are.


But why are you afraid? Why indeed. And why should you feel the need to be so? What would happen, if you shed your skin, stepped out of your facade like a tattered terrycloth robe, and let it all fall away, leaving you naked and terrified and new before this world, your eyes shut tight as you wait for what could perhaps be horror, or worse-- laughter and mockery.


Now, in this-- the moment of your realization of self-- think on what you have done to get here. Do you admit that you have lost yourself in the past, falling in with the crowd when you could have dared to be different, because you weren't sure that different had much of a good ring to it?


When you risk nothing, what can you ever hope to really gain?


What indeed.


Who are you? Ask yourself this question, and mean it as you gaze into your own reflected eyes. Say it aloud, feel the power of those three small words.


Who.. are.. you?


What words come to your mind at that moment, what feelings bubble up from the darkest depths of your deepest soul?


Are you what you have allowed yourself to be all your life? Or have you denied yourself things that you feel you didn't deserve, because someone said you weren't ever really good enough or weren't pretty enough or young or old or smart enough?


Forget them in this, your rebirth. Forget them, and shut them all out.


Your life is not theirs. Your life, your heart, your soul-- these things are all in your keeping alone.


And you-- in all your glory, in all your splendor-- YOU.... are... beautiful. Not perfect-- oh no, no never that, thank heavens. Who wants perfect, when flaws can make you so much more YOU?


But nonetheless, you ... are beautiful. You are unique. In all the ages of the world, in all the years and all the movement of all the planets in the universe.... for all time: there will NEVER be another you.


No one will ever see the world as you see it; no one will ever feel anything the way that you feel it.


That's quite an amazing thought, isn't it-- for you to gaze into the mirror at such a rare thing, such a uniquely beautiful and fragile thing... as you are, and to see yourself gazing out.


So, who are you? Who are you, to dare to be yourself in this world, where fitting in is such an acceptable thing?


The question should never be this.


The question SHOULD be,


who are you, who dare NOT to be?

ah the joys of laughing at yourself

So, I'm sitting at home, watching "the Woman in Black", with all the lights out, as per usual when I find myself subjecting myself to late-night horror movie marathons (Which is quite often, actually), and it gets to a scene where the main character is waiting for the scary ghost woman to come to him down the hallway. Very dark scene, lit only by cande light, the tension is very high, my house is dead quiet except for the light sounds of my hubby snoring from across the room. I'm on the edge of my seat biting my nails, eyes glued to the screen.... then suddenly the candles start going out on the screen, throwing the hallway little by little into darkness. Steadily, the darkness comes closer.. closer.. until it's close enough it can almost reach out and grab onto the main character with claw-like fingers. And then? My hubby's alarm clock starts screaming from down the hall. Yes, I admit it. I almost went through the ceiling. I swear I can hear the alarm clock laughing hysterically at me from down the hall.

I love passionate people

Passionate people are the most addictive people on the planet, aren't they? The ones who love the smell of fresh cut grass or the way the sun feels on their upturned face. Or the way it feels when water laps around their bare ankles, and curling their naked toes into the sand.


They're the ones who stay up for days on end just to see their work finished, whatever it is. The ones who have inspiration hit at 2 in the morning and welcome it regardless.


I've always been addicted to passionate people. To the way their faces light up like a five year old at Christmas when inspiration strikes them, and they take off running headlong into pursuing whatever it was that inspiration was.


They're like a breath of fresh air, aren't they? Just being around them feels like electricity. It's exciting. That kind of passion, that kind of energy, that kind of drive and will and focus-- it's intoxicating.


They're like muses with pulses. Just being around them makes you feel more awake and more alive than you ever feel otherwise. They make you feel like anything is possible. And maybe it is.
It's incredible.


I thrive on being around people like that, feeling their energy, their genius. It inspires me to feed my passions, to wonder "what if" and "why not". "Why nots" and "what ifs" can change the world.
Passion like that fuels things, it drives things, creates and awakens things that never would have existed without it.


It throbs the heart and quickens the blood. It shivers down nerve endings you never even knew you had.


Passion like that can change your life. Passion like that can change the world.

I've been writing for a long time. I read somewhere that being a writer is like giving yourself homework every day for the rest of your life. And it is. Not that I'm complaining. There's days that my fingers practically itch to sit down to that keyboard and let them fly over those familiar keys.
I read somewhere that a writer is always either writing or thinking about writing-- that we don't get vacations-- and it's true. Even before I first put pencil to paper all those years ago, I was aware of everything. I found inspiration everywhere. I found it in the pictures that music always put into my head, I found it in the way the rain ran down windowpanes. I found it in the laughter and tears and the anger and joy of everyone I've ever met in my life.


All these years later, I still remember the way it felt the first time I put pencil to paper. The first time I penned out a title, and directly beneath it, I wrote the words "Written by" and my name. All these years later, I remember how good it felt to sit back and to just stare at those words.
The first time I wrote the words "the end" and sat back to stare at them, I remember the feeling of accomplishment way back when. And no, that story was never in any book, no it was never an article or seen by anyone aside from my friends and family, but it was the first thing I'd ever written on my own. It was something that wouldn't have existed if I hadn't taken the time and had the thought to put pencil to paper.


Looking back now, the grammar was probably horrendous. Back then I knew nothing of when to separate paragraphs, or the "rules" of writing. Then again, to this day, I still don't know the rules of writing. Rules... it seems strange to me, always did. Hemingway once said that writing was easy, that all you had to do was sit down at a typewriter and bleed. How can you do that-- how can you be that honest, that open-- and still always follow the rules?


My grammar isn't always perfect. Sometimes my spelling can be suspect. But I write now as I've always written-- from my heart, my gut, my soul. I write as I feel it, as I see it. When I'm angry I write it as I feel it. When I'm elated or heartbroken I write it as it feels. If you're looking for perfect grammar, if you're looking for someone who's taken the classes or who watches for that evil little green line (yeah, that little line and I have an understanding. He tells me what to do, and I ignore the hell out of him.)


I'm a young woman who fell in love with the written word when I was four, when my mother first sat down and taught me how to read, how to write my own name. From then on, I was hooked on words, and the incredible worlds that books could show you in your head. The incredible things they could show you. It was like magic to me, even then. There's no other way to put it. I became addicted to words. I read any and everything I could get my hands on. I lost count of how many times my mom would take me to the library and I'd check out stack upon stacks of books, swearing up and down that "these books will last the week, mom, I promise", only to have them read within a couple days.


She used to laugh and swear up and down that I didn't read books, that I devoured them. And I loved every minute of it. To this day, I'm known to pick up a book and to read it through without stopping.
But I'm off topic. I do that. Apologies. Merely trying to give you an idea of what to expect if you choose to read my blog. You're falling headfirst into the mind of someone who's been in love with words her whole life, who loves books and the writers of them, who loves movies and all the people behind them. As someone who's been told I have "the imagination from hell" I love nothing more than to be around people of a similar nature. They fascinate me. They inspire me.


I love to sit down with people and talk about books, about movies and music. I love to sit down and brainstorm with friends about writing they're working on, to share mine with them and to hear theirs, and to help them with theirs, if I can. I love to see inspiration light them up and see them take off running with it. It's magic. There's no other way I can think of putting it. Pure magic.


If you're still here, and I haven't scared you off just yet, I thank you so much for your time, knowing just how precious and fleeting a thing it can be. If indeed you choose to read my blog, please know that I only wish to share my thoughts and my passions, my dreams and hopes with you, in the hope that perhaps one day something you come across will inspire someone somewhere somehow in their lives. That perhaps it will spark something that sends them running full speed from their computer, driven to work on something that stirs their passions, and sets their soul on fire.


If I can do that, then I consider it time well spent.