Outside

Along with the love of photography, there is the love of writing.  

My first love.  My dream.  My career path. 

It's been good to get outside this week, parking myself at a cafe to write.  

With that, there's been lots of progress - pages of a screenplay written.  With the pages, that falling in love feeling again -- with my story, with my characters.  Though I skipped this morning's writing time, I am planning on tomorrow night's writing time outside -- possibly at the Barnes & Nobles, a mile away from home.  The goal as always is to be consistent.  Doing something for 21 days creates a habit.  That's what I'm hoping for.

Yes and sometimes the writing seems endless -- the end goal, far, but having these writing times makes me see that I can reach that end goal.  That I will finish a draft.  It is possible.

Of course, my life hovers around me -- there are only three weeks of school left -- and several school activities and events that will take up the days.  Book reviews to write, a personal business to build but I will not despair.  Despite the busyness, stress and anxiety, I will keep the faith.

I believe these voyages outside the home to write will help me with that. 

So I look forward to them in the weeks to come. 

NaNoWriMo 2012

National Novel Writing Month aka NaNoWriMo or NaNo for short.


I didn't win it this year - didn't finish, again.

It's my third NaNo straight without completing the 50,000 words in a month goal.  So I am not left with that victory and that can be pretty discouraging.

I even tried to set myself up to win over this past year by trying to condition myself to write 2,000 words a day so that by the time November came around again, I'd be set to do the 1,667 words per day goal automatically.

I still haven't mastered that goal.  Yet.



However, I am left with another kind of victory.

What NaNo leaves me with is momentum - strong momentum.

It happened last year and it's happening again this year.  I can feel it.

Having to push myself every day to put down words helps me get into the project.  It causes me to form a love for the story project.  By the end of the 30 days, a deep love.


A strong momentum and a deep love.  


Both will carry me to continue putting down words on this story project in the following months to come.  

It happened with last year's NaNo story project.  I am well beyond 50,000 words on that one - to this date so I'm sure it will happen again.

So as much as I would have liked to finish at 50,000 strong this time around for NaNo,  I'll just try again next year.

In the meantime, I go into next month with a zealous momentum and desire to complete the story project I just started.

And that's a good thing.

A very good thing.

Found - A Handkerchief

I walked into a huge room - the master bedroom. More browns and beiges, dark woods made up the dresser and tall wardrobe standing across from the bed.

I made every effort to be quiet as I walked past the king size bed towards the closet. Though I knew there was no one else in the house, I still didn't want to take the chance of being caught. The closet stretched the length of half the room. It had two dark mahagony wood panelled doors, each with a square shaped knob on it. I opened both doors to the elaborate closet. Beautiful, expensive suits in browns and blacks hung neatly, one behind the other. Above on the shelf, boxes were arranged in a row. I figured they held ties, tie pins, cuff links and the such. I grabbed the first box and began my search. I was right. The tie pins, the cuff links were arranged neatly in this box - ornate items, all in metallic shades of bronze and gold. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I put the first box back and grabbed the second. In it were more ties, neatly folded of various striped, paisley and criss-cross patterns. Digging through, once again, nothing out of the ordinary. I went through two more boxes with the same result.

I put the last box back on the shelf and found it wouldn't go all the way in. It was hitting against something. I pulled it off and reached my hand up, putting it on the shelf, feeling around. I felt another box - a little smaller than the others and pulled it down.

I put the larger box I had in my hand back and focused in on this one. I pulled off the lid and noticed the usual that I had been finding. I rifled through, my mind half on the task at hand and half on what I should concentrate on next in this investigation when I touched on a white handkerchief with gold trim. There were initials embroidered on one corner: SK. SK?

Things suddenly became crystal clear. I pored eagerly through the rest of the contents of the box - two gold cuff links with the same initials of SK engraved on them, a silk tie, and lastly a gold watch. I looked it over on the outside, then on the inside. Engraved on the inside were the words: "To my youngest son, Solomon Keith...". A shot of adrenaline went through me. I was still clutching the handkerchief.

Solomon Keith Guthrie. The latest victim of the Crescent City serial killer.

I had finally hit the jackpot. My hunch had been right and the house I now stood in belonged to a killer. I shook my head, a huge grin spreading across my face.

I had the proof I needed. Now to cinch this case.

This post is in response to a prompt at Red Writing Hood that asks to write about finding a lost article of clothing in the back of a drawer or closet including information on how the item was found, what it is, and why it's so meaningful to you or your character.

I Could Never Have Imagined...

I could never have imagined that I would be driving in a car with the son of the man I loved. That I would be dating a man with a child. Children were a deal breaker for me but then love does things to your mind, to your resolve.

"My father loves you, you know," Cameron says. Cameron is the thirteen year old son of my current boyfriend, Alex. We are driving home from a movie. It was good bonding time for Cameron and me. At Cameron's words, I grip the steering wheel as my heart does a little flip. I focus on the road in front of me.

"He loved Amber, too," I say. Amber was Alex's ex-girlfriend of 5 years.

"True."

"Your father loves easily."

"Is that so bad?"

I shrug. "I guess not, if you look at it in a certain light." It is what makes Alex such a natural romantic - I think.

"Love is good," Cameron says.

"It is. You're lucky to have a Dad who adores you."

"I know. Though he can get a little crazy sometimes. All nervous and sensitive over nothing, you know?"

"Well, you know those actor types," I joke. Alex is an actor.

Cameron laughs. We often joke about his Dad's profession.

"Or should I say those Dad types," I added.

Cameron chuckles and I smile. Suddenly the image of my father - tall, brown-skinned in his long, black wool coat appears before me. Sadness pools in my chest. Suddenly I am seeing my mother with her long, straight hair with the golden brown highlights standing next to him. They are dressed in their Sunday finest. Tears threaten to spill from my eyes. Funny, how clearly I remember them, fifteen years after they died.

They had loved me just as much as Cameron's dad loved him - with that fierce, fierce love. And I loved them back just as fiercely. I was their only child.


Suddenly, I realize in the moment that I love Alex just that strongly and that I am truly beginning to love Cameron in that way, too. I haven't felt a love like that for anyone since my parents. I smile at my Mom's gentle face as she smiles back at me. I could hear a voice.

"Kayla! Kayla!" It is Cameron.

"Kayla, watch out! That guy's driving right towards us!"

The vision of my parents clears and I see a white Ferrari speeding towards us in our lane. He is going the wrong way.

What? I turn the steering wheel, causing the car to swerve to the right, off the road and onto hard dirt. The car jumps a little, then hits something hard. I feel a vibration through the steering wheel and the car begins to flip over. I think of Alex.

Then the whole world shifted.

This is in response to a writing prompt at Red Writing Hood : to write a piece using no more than 600 words, beginning with the words, "I could never have imagined" and end it with the words "Then the whole world shifted."

Constructive criticism welcomed.

What Kind Of Plane Does A Rabbit Fly?

“Mommy, what kind of plane does a rabbit fly?” 5 year old Nate asks. He wiggles excitedly.


Dana smiles wearily as she watches him. He couldn’t wait to tell her. It was obvious. She looks over at 3 year old, Reese, sitting across from Nate, rolling his tanker truck around in a circle. The very opposite of his brother, Reese is quietly engrossed in his own game.


Dana sighs and shifts ten-month old, Ian, from her left hip to her right. She dips her head out of the way of her baby’s chubby, wet-from-drool fingers as he tries to reach for her long braid.


“What?” she asks as she reaches up into the kitchen cabinet and pulls out the blue box of pasta off the shelf.


“A hare plane!” Nate shouts, cracking himself up. His laughter echoes throughout the room as he spins in a circle. “A hare plane!” He then starts jumping up and down.


“Ahhh…” Dana says, sighs again and turns back to the stove.


Of course - she thinks. She smiles as she moves the pot of water she filled five minutes ago onto the stove. She then turns around again and faces her excited son.


“Very funny joke,” she says, trying to be encouraging as she dips her head, yet again away from her baby’s fingers. If only she could put him down for a few minutes without him fussing – she thinks.


She watches as Nate continues jumping up and down all over the family room like a deranged monkey. He begins traveling the length of the small family room. He stops abruptly and screams “Whoa!” as he steps on a small red fire truck toy. The truck pops up from under his foot, sails across the space and hits Reese in the forehead, bouncing off and finally landing on the floor next to him.


Reese freezes, then grabs his forehead with both hands. His eyes scrunch close as his mouth goes wide.


Dana sighs inwardly. No.


“Aaaah….” Reese begins to wail. “Aaah!”


“Ugh,” Dana groans.


She walks away from the stove and out of the kitchen as Ian yanks her braid.


“Ow!” she shouts.


“Get it, Mommy, get it? A hare plane.” Nate starts spinning around in a circle again.


Dana places the baby in his playpen, delicately untangling his fingers from her hair.


She walks over to the wailing Reese and pulls him into her arms. She starts rocking him gently.

“It’s okay, sweetie. It’s okay.” She gently moves his hands away and rubs the injured spot. She then leans forward and kisses it.


“Mommy? A hare plane! Isn’t that funny?” Nate asks. “Isn’t it?”


“Yes!” Dana says, impatiently. “I get it. I get it. Nate, you just hit Reese in the forehead with the fire truck. Can you say ‘sorry’?”


“Sorry, Reese! A hare plane, Mommy. A hare plane!” He cracks up again, his laughter filling the room as Reese’s wails grow louder, competing with the laughter as if in a dueling sound war.


The wall of sound surrounding her, Dana sighs again and shakes her head, as she continues to rock the wailing Reese. She looks towards the clock on the microwave oven.

Only two hours to bedtime – she thinks. Two hours – please come quick!

This post is in response to a writing prompt over at Red Writing Hood.



So What's the News?

“So what’s the news?” he asked.

“The news?” I asked.

“Now don’t tell me you didn’t see the news last night? Or the night before last? It was all over the weekend edition.”

“You know, I hadn’t. Don’t watch it. But yeah, the Rev. Dr. Bridges."

“They thought it was a heart attack. But it came back to be murder."

“Now who would want to do a thing like that?”

“Huh, ho, the real question is ‘who wouldn’t want to do a thing like that?’”


“Really?”


“Yes, indeed. He had built up a bunch of little nay-sayers around here. Though eloquent in his preaching, he was militant in his actions.”


“Wow."


“Lauren’s been questioned.”


“Yeah, so have I.”


“Oh yeah? That’s right! You were here Friday night. I thought you leave at 6?”


“I do, but I was working on a report that night that kept me later.”


“Yeah. Well, you know Ed Lorton is a suspect.”


“Coach Lorton? Why?”


“Why not? After his scandal.”


“Well, after his scandal, you figure he’d want to lay low. I mean, like he needs more attention,”


“Yeah, but a desperate man will do a desperate thing. His entire 14 year career here as basketball coach of one of the most well known teams in New York City snuffed away in a matter of days.”


“Well, he did that to himself.”


“Well, not entirely. The Rev. Dr. Bridges hammered the nails into Lorch’s coffin to make it secure. Coach Lorton will never work with this team or in this city again, even after the investigation is over. Bridges made sure of that.”



This post is in response to a writing prompt over at Red Writing Hood.