Epiphanies

No, I'm not reading the Apocrypha. Not that reading the Apocrypha is a bad idea. I've read some of it. It's interesting.

And I want you to know I spelled it right on the first try.

My epiphany is a little more personal in nature. I've made a discovery about myself in relationship to this blog.

I am not a blogger.

So why, you might ask, am I blogging? Well, I am a writer. There's not any doubt in my mind that I was born to be a wife and mommy, and to write. But my true and everlasting love is fiction, and I only feel natural when I am writing fiction.

The bad thing about fiction is that it has fallen out of favor with the general public. Who wants to go to all the trouble to read a novel when you can go into a trance in front of the 57 inch flat screen?

Uh... me.

But I concede I am not among the majority. And for a writer who has not sold any fiction yet... in today's market, I'm a long shot.

So my job is to figure out what in the world I am going to do with my dream. I have an idea, but it's scary. I've created a website called "The Writer's Block" where writers and readers can come together. I'm hoping there will be some interest and other aspiring authors will submit their work and we will get readers that are interested in free fiction and nonfiction.

It's a long shot.

But you can check it out. So far it's me and my sis. I can always count on her to jump on board any idea I have. We look a little lonely on the members page. Part of the problem is that I can't figure out how to create a "join here" button where folks can easily become members. If anyone has any ideas I'd really appreciate the input. You can find the site here .

And I will get up and do a happy dance if that link worked on the first try.

OFF #6 - The Fun House Mirror

Tall. Short. Wide. Thin.

She turned, her mind’s eye critically sweeping over the reflection. A wall of mirrors, and none to tell her what the true representation might be.

“That one looks most like you.” Someone pointed at a peculiar looking mirror of waves. She saw her distorted face peer skeptically at the glass.

“No, it’s this one. Come here!” The scoff came from the other side of the odd, dark room. A room of wrong dimensions, of optical illusions. Nothing was real.

And everything was real.

She closed her eyes, unwilling to stare another moment at the images that mocked her from every angle. She didn’t want to know she was that ugly. She didn’t want to see the plain features ridiculed by the proportions of this nether world.

“If only there were a truth.” She closed her eyes tightly, swallowing back the lump of hopeless grief in her throat.

“There is.”

She didn’t dare open her eyes, because the masculine voice was beauty in audible form. The tone he carried was perfection, and now the hand on her shoulder was love defined by touch.

“Open your eyes.”

She shook her head stubbornly, capturing her torso with her arms in a gesture of refusal. Even as she did, she mourned the loss she would experience when she could no longer feel his essence close to her.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He answered her silent lament. “And I want you to open your eyes and look at the truth.”

She felt hot tears. “No! I’ve seen it! It’s ugly! It’s not worth looking at! Why should I trust you when I’ve seen the truth for myself?”

“You haven’t.” There was a smile in his words. She wanted to see that smile. More than anything she’d ever wanted. But she couldn’t.

“You haven’t seen the truth. And you should trust me because I love you. As you are. As you look in the mirror I will show you.”

It took several moments for his words to reach her heart and melt her unwillingness. But eventually she allowed her eyes to open slightly. She could see a mirror. And a woman in a beautiful white dress. A beautiful woman.

But it wasn’t the woman that made her open her eyes wide in wonder. Not even when she became orientated enough to realize that the woman was none but herself.

She couldn’t take her eyes off of him. She never wanted to, ever again.

Here was truth.

OFF #4 Flash Nonfiction from the Mind of a Writer

She set her fingers to the keyboard. From the back of her brain only recently freed from the confines of pregnancy hormones came scenes of highest adventure, deepest mystery, purest romance…

Screaming baby.

She ran up the stairs, suddenly reminded of the fact that it had been exactly 10 days since she had last exercised. Formally.

Back to the table. Deep breath. Fingers poised on the keyboard. She checked. Left on ASDF. Right on JKL:. Thumbs ready for action on the space bar.

This took her back to high school typing class. Fun times. And for once a subject had really come in handy on a regular basis for her entire adult life. Go figure.

Toddler crying.

Pause. Will she cry again? Will Husband tend to her? She hears his footsteps. He goes into the kitchen instead.

She checks the clock. 10:32 p.m. There’s still time. She can write her fiction and still have it posted by midnight.

Husband goes silent. What is he doing in the kitchen? He better not be making a mess. I just got it cleaned up.

FOCUS!

Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat… the dog on the chair next to her shakes and barks in his sleep as he chases some imaginary cat.

Time for the story. Where shall I go? Ancient Greece? The Byzantine Empire? Victorian England? Or perhaps deep into the heart of mid-to-late nineteenth century Texas?

What was it about Westerns? It seemed like no matter who you were and no matter what skill level you possessed as a writer, if you wrote a book that was either a Western or an Amish tale, there was some rule that meant you were to be automatically published.

So why had she been told time and time again in her studies as a writer and at various workshops and conferences that you shouldn’t write westerns or Amish books because they’d never get published?

It was a conspiracy.

Enough! Time to write!

Rats. Twenty words over. Twenty-four words over. Time to quit.

OFF with you.

I know, I know, I know, I know, I know.

I know.

I said I would write every day. It's been a few more than that.

I'M SORRY.

I had a daughter who was sick. I was sick. Laundry and dishes and housework piled up. My son decided that since he is now cutting teeth he is excused from being a happy, content baby who sleeps all night.

Life got hard. But I've been thinking about all the blog posts I didn't write. I suppose that's something.

I have a really good post about essential oil uses that will be forthcoming. It's my new favorite hobby. But before that I've decided to join the movement called "October Flash Fiction," orchestrated by fellow blogger Jared in order to get us all writing and reading. I know this is a little unbelievable, but this idea was pretty much exactly what I was thinking about a few posts ago when I said I had a dare for you, then I decided not to try it. Well, with the strength of my fellow bloggers, I invite you to join the craze, a little late like me.

I had strep.

So, if you have a blog and would like to try your hand at flash fiction, here are the details. Add your address as a comment on Jared's blog and finish out the week with us. If you don't have a blog or flash fiction (simply just fiction that is under 300 words) isn't appropriate for your blog, you can add it to mine. Just let me know and I'll post it as long as it is reasonably non-evil.

Here's the info: http://thefallingaction.blogspot.com/

Again I apologize that I have not figured out how to make my links clickable. Someday I will figure that out.

So I look forward to hearing from you. Don't be afraid. Just write. With 300 words, you don't have to have a plot or a setting or even much of a character. Just write something down.

Only five days to go.