Wednesday, June 26, 2013

Wordless Wednesday - Lily

Lily - A bird's eye view from above

Stop crying, Roger!

Darn, just missed the prompt deadline. Oh well. I did it anyhow. I had fun with it.

Here’s how it works:
Use the photograph below as your prompt.
Write your thoughts, a story, a poem on your blog.
Try to restrict the word count to about 500 words.
Use the linky below to add the link to your post (exact URL, please).
The prompt is open until next Tuesday night, i.e. 25 June 2013.
Thanks to MorgueFile for the photo ( 

Stop Crying, Roger 
427 words
“Oh Roger! Stop that crying and act like a man. You’re such a big baby."

“But Mom. I always cry when Bambi’s mother gets shot. You know it’s my favourite movie.”

“Honestly. Get over it already. What are you watching that for? You’re fifty-five years old, for goodness sake.”

“I can’t help it, Mom. I like that movie. Besides, I’m a sensitive guy. All the girls say that just before they dump me.”

“Dump you? Don’t tell me Dolores dumped you? Did she? And after all that work I did matching you two up. She’s a real nice girl even if she could use some orthodontic work for those buck teeth. You’re hopeless, Roger. You really are.”

“I know. You’re right, Mom.”

“I want you to stop crying right now. Get a Kleenex and blow your nose. I bet your face is all red and swollen the way it always gets when you cry. Am I right? What if someone sees you like that? There goes your reputation! No woman is going to be attracted to you. Not that you’re much to look at even on a good day. You sure didn’t inherit my looks and unfortunately you have your father’s big nose and beady eyes, rest his soul.”

“No one can see me, Mom. I’m all alone here watching my Bambi VHS movie. Just me and my goldfish Sam.”

“So what is your problem? Tell me right now!”

“I’m too scared to stand up to someone. They’re really getting to me lately.”

“What? Is that all?”

“They make me feel so small and insignificant."

“Nonsense, you nincompoop. How do you allow someone to make you feel that way?”

“They just do and they don’t even have to work at it.”

“Well, here’s what you’ve got to do.”

“I gotta go, Mom. I smell something burning on the stove.”

“Wow, you’re actually cooking something and not having a microwave frozen dinner like you usually do. Will wonders never cease? Now listen to me. I’m about to impart my wisdom on you. Are you listening? Stop blubbering and listen to me for a minute.”

“What is it Mom?”

“Whoever this bully is in your life, get rid of them. You don’t need them making you so miserable.”

“Seriously? I’ve never heard you say that before.”

“I mean it, Roger. Life is too short for putting up with people who drive you nuts. Drop them right now and get rid of them. You’ll feel so much better.”

“Thanks, Mom. I’ll do that.”

Click....Dial tone

“Roger, are you still there?”

Friday, June 21, 2013

When did you know you were a writer?

“I am participating in the ‘Writing Contest: You Are A Writer’ held by Positive Writer.” -

For years I used to think of writers as larger-than-life human beings, apart from us ordinary mortals. I pictured them sitting down at their computers or typewriters in the olden days, at any time of day, tapping out words of great brilliance without any effort. Of course their first drafts would be totally perfect and their phones would ring constantly with agents and editors clamouring for their work. They’d even have to turn some away, they’d be so busy. I certainly wasn’t a writer by those definitions.

I’ve always loved writing ever since I was a little girl living in a world of make believe. Nothing thrilled me more than spending endless hours writing stories and drawing pictures. A new notebook and a pack of crayons could keep me happy for hours while other kids were outside playing games in the sunshine. I didn’t mind being alone as I always had my zany imagination for company. I loved the power to create something new out of my imagination. I still love that magical feeling.

Often teachers would give me encouragement and good marks on a story, poem or essay I’d written but I never really thought of myself as a writer. Pursuing it as a career was not something I even considered. It was just something I enjoyed doing.

I have always loved letter writing and have had many snail mail penpals over the years. When the Internet came along, I took to it easily, connecting with writers and other friends. I even started my own blog. But I still didn’t think of myself as a writer. It was just a fun thing I did.

In 1992, we lost our baby daughter unexpectedly and tragically to forceps injuries when she was only six days old. Writing helped me cope with those dark days, both with journaling about my feelings and connecting with bereaved parents who fully understood the depth of my grief.

In the early 2000’s, I took a self-development course called “Landmark.” They asked us if we were living each day actively with joy and purpose or just enduring life passively like a hamster on a wheel. Were we living our passions right now or waiting for that magic “some day” when we’d have enough time or enough money to do the things we loved to do?

What a wake-up call to realize that we must pursue our dreams right now as there might not be a “some day.” There are no guarantees for anyone in this life and now is all we have.

At the Landmark course, I made a commitment to pursue writing more seriously and I began to take writing courses and get my writing out there more.

I always knew that writing brought me great joy, helped me know myself and connect with others. Still, I’m a bit of a late bloomer since it’s taken me until my fifties to realize that being a writer is part of who I am, just like my red hair and big feet.

I don’t write to be admired or for fame and fortune. If those were my motivations, I would have given up long ago.

I have discovered that when I don’t get to express myself creatively, life takes on a dull, grey palour and I become a robotic drudge, enduring life instead of living it with passion and purpose.

It has been a long journey of self-discovery and revelation, but I can now truly say to the world that yes, I am a writer!

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

7x7x7x7 writing prompt for Write Tribe

This is my silly poem based on the 7x7x7x7 writing prompt from the Write Tribe.

Here is the first line which is the seventh sentence from the seventh page of a children’s book called “100 Classic Stories.” It was a porridge pot but I can’t help picturing some nondescript hairy beast with hooves and a mind of its own.

Then, one day, it trotted straight out the door
It left muddy hoofprints all over the floor,
I chased it but never did catch the beast
Last I heard it had headed East,
Once again it had broken free,
I decided I would just let it be
And wait for it to return to me.

Wednesday, June 12, 2013


Umwelt (367 words)

“Umwelt,” Kira’s forehead wrinkled as she read the term in her psychology textbook. ”What a peculiar word. Have you heard of it, Ron?”

“Um...what?” Ron said, looking up from the couch where he was falling asleep in front of the TV.

“Wouldn’t you be much more comfortable in your bed?” Kira said with a sigh. Ron constantly fell asleep in front of the television. Talk about a creature of habit after thirty-five years of marriage.

Kira adjusted the reading glasses on her nose and read further, accompanied by Ron’s snoring. “Umwelten are the "biological foundations that lie at the very epicenter of the study of both communication and signification in the human [and non-human] animal. The term is usually translated as "self-centered world". Uexküll theorised that organisms can have different umwelten, even though they share the same environment.

An organism creates and reshapes its own Umwelt when it interacts with the world. This is termed a 'functional circle'. The Umwelt theory states that the mind and the world are inseparable, because it is the mind that interprets the world for the organism. Consequently, the Umwelten of different organisms differ, which follows from the individuality and uniqueness of the history of every single organism.”

Kira looked over at her husband and shook her head in dismay. They had lived in the same house together for thirty-five years but lived in completely different umwelten. Now that the kids had grown, she barely knew Ron and he barely knew her. Had they ever known each other? Was this all there was?

After staying home with the kids all those years, going back to university for her BA had opened up a whole new umwelt to her and Kira realized that her old life didn’t fit anymore.

Now that Ron was fast asleep, Kira made her move. She put her university textbooks and notebooks into her knapsack. Out came the hidden suitcase from the closet. She put on her coat, grabbed her car keys and edged towards the front door, opening it to the dark night.
Kira turned and paused as she looked at the snoring lump that was her husband.

“Bye, Ron,” Kira whispered and shut the door behind her.

Why I write

Sometimes I wonder why I write
I even wonder in the dark of night,
Racing thoughts keep me awake
Why can’t they give me a break?
Too many thoughts with nowhere to go
Some are disjointed and others flow,
Thoughts of hate, thoughts of sadness,
Thoughts of love and thoughts of gladness,
Poems, stories, and even my blog
Float around in my mind’s soupy bog,
I ladle them out to make sense of the mess
What I will create is anyone’s guess,
That is why I have to write
Can you identify with my plight?