#MarchWritingChallenge – Day 4 – Are you living your life purpose โ€” or still searching?

 

This March Writing Challenge of thirty-one questions is hosted by Marquessa, with questions from Alexandra Franzenโ€˜s โ€œ100 questions to spark conversation and connect.

All are welcome to join in and a list of the questions can be found here.

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I believe my life’s purpose is service to others and I’ve spent most of my life fulfilling it by organizing food drives, teaching adults to reading, visiting seniors in nursing homes, and even volunteering as a hugger for mentally challenged children and adults during public sporting events. I’ve gone from Trick or Treat for UNICEF (anyone remember that?) as a kid to writing and applying for grants as a parent to expand and promote art programs in schools, and buy technology for learning disabled students. I didn’t do these things for praise or profit, but to fill gaps created by budget cuts and short-sighted administrators/officials. My parents taught us that if one person suffers or goes without, it doesn’t matter how well you’re doing personally. We all suffer. We learned to pay it forward decades before the movie and movement, and hopefully inspired others to serve in similar ways.

I was sidelined by grief a couple years ago, and as I looked for ways to get out of my own head and help others, the pandemic and self-isolation arrived. I have a sis who also lives here in the same apartment complex. We learned early in the lockdown days there were disabled and senior residents who had no idea how to get groceries and medications delivered. We created lists of delivery services and their fees and added them to ziplock bags of fruit we put together and left them at apartment doors. The response was crazy! We not only helped people navigate quarantine life, but they shared the info with family and friends outside the complex, and we made a few new friends. ๐Ÿ™‚

I believe all too often one’s life purpose is confused with one’s dreams.

It’s just my opinion, but I believe dreams fulfill the individual while purpose fulfills others. Sometimes, they can be one and the same and that’s the perfect win-win situation.

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#MarchWritingChallenge – Day 3 – Do you believe in magic? When have you felt it?

magic book

This March Writing Challenge of thirty-one questions is hosted by Marquessa, with questions from Alexandra Franzenโ€˜s โ€œ100 questions to spark conversation and connect.

All are welcome to join in and a list of the questions can be found here.

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Magic as in abracadabra? No.ย  While I do love a great illusion and took several trips in the 80s to see the shows of David Copperfield, for me it’s simply entertainment.

However, that doesn’t mean I don’t believe there are things science cannot explain.

Early in the summer I was fifteen, I dreamed of my maternal grandfather’s death and funeral service. It struck me as weird since he and I weren’t close. There were no ill feelings or anything like that. I thought my grandmother hung the moon and the stars, but could take or leave Granddaddy.

I didn’t tell anyone and forgot about it until six weeks later when the call came about Granddaddy dying from major heart attack at home.

From that point on, everything unfolded exactly as I’d dreamed. The trip from Michigan to Mississippi. The things which were said by some family members at the viewing and service. Even the dress I wore to the funeral which was not the dress I’d packed, but a dress Mom bought in Mississippi to go with the family theme and color scheme. (They do stuff like that for EVERY family gathering.)

But still, I kept my mouth shut.

It was weeks later in the fall when I finally told my best friend, Barbara, who to this day, forty-six years later, still calls me “Witchy” or “Witchetta.” Almost thirty years would pass before I told Mom… after my grandmother’s funeral.

It also took me weeks to sleep normally again, because while I never believed I was responsible for Granddaddy’s death, I didn’t want to dream of losing another family member… perhaps someone closer to me.

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Image by Yuri_B from Pixabay

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#MarchWritingChallenge – Day 2 – Do you have any irrational fears?

golden gate bridge

This March Writing Challenge of thirty-one questions is hosted by Marquessa, with questions from Alexandra Franzenโ€˜s โ€œ100 questions to spark conversation and connect.

All are welcome to join in and a list of the questions can be found here.

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Where do I start? ๐Ÿ˜€

Suspension bridges.

I can barely ride over them without throwing up. Driving over them is out of the question!

As a passenger, my anxiety kicks in the second I see the bridge. All sound dissolves into white noise and I’m frozen in place. My sister swears I passed out crossing the Mississippi River on the way to a family reunion, but I’m not sure if that’s true. I have no memory of it. ๐Ÿ˜€

Fun fact – I may have nearly killed my family during a trip to my older brother’s in Delaware.

Okay, it’s not a fun fact, it’s true.

It was my turn to drive, giving my parents a break. Mom and I were laughing at the crazy songs my five younger siblings were singing, and Daddy was just irritated. LOL!

I saw the bridge spires in the distance to my right, but no big deal, right. The bridge was next to me, not in front of me. I didn’t have to drive over it, right? Because roads never curve, right?

Fifteen minutes later. I realized the highway was curving toward the bridge.

I was seventeen, but had been driving a couple years, and was a good driver. (I had the Drivers’ Ed trophy to prove it!)

I quickly assessed the situation. Clicking my turn indicator, I glanced over my right shoulder… and yelled, “MOVE!” as I veered across four lanes of traffic.

It was only Grace that saved me from causing a major accident. My next memory though is still Mom prying my fingers from the steering wheel, and my sibs doing what sibs do… laughing at me!

And Daddy? Oh man! I think he created new swear words that day! ๐Ÿ˜€ ๐Ÿ˜€ ๐Ÿ˜€

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san francisco

I also fear hilly streets. A fear I didn’t know I had until my late husband and I road-tripped from Pasadena to San Francisco while still newlyweds. He was born in Frisco and raised in Berkeley and was excited to show me his city.

Though I had limited knowledge of the area, I’d read enough books based in Frisco and seen enough TV shows and movies to know the area was hilly. Not to mention Steve McQueen’s Bullitt was a huge favorite of the mister’s.

Experiencing it was a different story.

The streets felt like one long roller-coaster ride… which I also fear!

I thought I’d braved the worst after crossing the Golden Gate Bridgeโ€”no, I wasn’t drivingโ€”but after turning onto dozens of streets that declined in near ninety-degree angles, I’d had enough and refused to leave the hotel. My poor husband took pity on me and found shows and sites within walking distance of the hotel (no hills).

Don’t give him too much credit, though. Over the years, when we’d fuss and squabble, he’d always through out a, “Watch yourself. Don’t make me take you back to Frisco!” ๐Ÿ˜€ ๐Ÿ˜€ ๐Ÿ˜€

I really miss that man! โค ๐Ÿ™‚

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Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Image by Erik Larson from Pixabay

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#MarchWritingChallenge – Day 1 – Whatโ€™s the best compliment youโ€™ve ever received?

orchid in vase

This March Writing Challenge of thirty-one questions is hosted by Marquessa, with questions from Alexandra Franzenโ€˜s โ€œ100 questions to spark conversation and connect.

All are welcome to join in and a list of the questions can be found here.

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Days before her death, my fellow church member and neighbor, Sister Prather, squeezed my hand and said, “God doesn’t make mistakes, and I’m grateful for my sons, but Felicia, I dearly wish I’d had a daughter like you.”

Her words can still bring tears to my eyes. Sister Prather was one of the two people I’d known in my life I’d considered perfect.

Of course, no one is, but Thelma Prather (and my maternal grandmother) were as close as one can get in my mind.

I’d never heard her gossip or say a mean word about anyone. I’d never seen her in a bad mood or even cranky. She not only always had a shy smile on her face, but she also appeared to always be filled with joy.

And I couldn’t understand it.

Married to a man of considerable means, Sister Prather lived as a pauper. Her husband could afford to buy her almost any house in the city and furnish it well. However, entering their home, it was like time stopped in the 1940s. Always neat and tidy, the dated threadbare rugs and furniture were impossible to miss.

A hard, verbally abusive man who was wheelchair-bound, the veteran and former local businessman refused to do anything to make his wife’s life easier. Not even buy her a washer and dryer. It wasn’t until a few weeks before her last hospitalization and the pain from bone cancer became too great, that she’d even allow my children to sneak to her back door for her laundry and return it after I’d completed it.

Two days after our last conversation, Sister Prather’s conditioned worsened. She could no longer sit up or respond verbally, but she was quite aware. When staff would try to spoon-feed her, she’d press her lips together and no amount of pleading or cajoling could get her to eat. My mom was present and witnessed the single shake of her head when her doctor said they’d have to tube-feed her.

She died quietly in her sleep two days later, on her own terms.

Weeks later, still prone to tears over the loss of my dear friend, it was Mom who gave me clarity.

“Thelma Prather was one of those rare people who didn’t judge others by their words or actions because she could see through to their heart. She knew her husband loved her, but losing the use of his legs made him bitter and he took it out on the world. He wanted everyone to suffer as he felt he was. She also didn’t fault her family for losing touch because they all feared him. But she didn’t.”

That made me grin, thinking of the woman who didn’t reach five feet in height and weighed one hundred pounds on a good day not fearing her six-foot-five husband, wheelchair or not.

“She knew you didn’t fear him either and she loved it. She told me you were always respectful, but you were going to do what you wanted for her, whether he liked it or not. That tickled her to no end.”

In the twenty years since her passing, I’ve learned the wisdom in Sister Prather’s example of living. A woman of faith, she refused to allow hate to take up any space in her heart… to steal her joy. She “did unto to others as she would have them do unto her” and was unbothered if they didn’t reciprocate.

I’m no Thelma Prather and will always fall short of her example, but I’m forever humbled by this amazing woman who saw something in me I don’t see in myself.

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Image by Maja Cvetojeviฤ‡ from Pixabay

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Camp NaNo Update #2

NaNo Update2

Who knew anger was inspiring?

After a hectic morning or errands and busy work, it was after one in the afternoon before I sat down at my desk.

I figured I’d have to work well into the evening… and possibly night to make decent progress on my WIP so I decided to make the social network rounds while checking my email.

Everything was fine until I opened that email.

I saw red. I saw stars, and I’m sure my blood pressure spiked.

What someone saw as a simple request to me was nerve, gall…the audacity of the millennium! Excuse me, I wasn’t aware you are the center of the universe!

Before I could respond with an epic verbal smack-down, I said goodbye to a couple of friends I’d been chatting with, turned on my Internet blocker and pulled up my WIP.

I pulled out an existing 2-scene one-thousand word section with the intention of rewriting it as one scene.

That’s not what happened.

But the time I looked up five hours later, I had re-written the scenes…but I’d added four more scenes and nearly five-thousand words.

I was also almost at the midpoint of the story.

On day two.

Because I got mad.

Now I’m laughing at myself.

Anger is not healthy and I try to avoid it whenever possible. But, it happens to us all. At least now I know instead of fuming and ranting and raving, I can benefit from it by channeling it into something which results in a positive outcome.

Like writing.

 

ยฉ2018 Felicia Denise, All Rights Reserved

Minus One… finally

Marriage Cert

There’s always that one piece of unfinished writing which haunts a writer.

This is mine.

My 2014 NaNoWriMo project, Plus One.

It was my first time taking the NaNoWriMo challenge, and I got off to an amazing start. But as an uninformed pantser, I had no idea what I’d set myself up for.

Words flowed as my word count surpassed two-thousand daily. However, as I neared the 40K mark, I ran out of words. And ideas. And energy. All I had was the sound of crickets buzzing in my head. My total word count for the next eleven days was 547 words! I was so disgusted, after November ended, I couldn’t finish or revise it.

The experience taught me even a pantser can benefit from a bit of prep work, and I’ve had no problem finishing NaNoWriMo and Camp NaNoWriMo ever since.

But there’s still this one. Sitting on my hard drive… mocking me.

I try to pull it out once a week and work on it. I went back to the beginning and created an outline, character sketches, and plot points. I will complete and publish it sooner than later. I have to. It’s a moral imperative. ๐Ÿ˜€

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Perri Norton was exhausted.

Her joints throbbed with each step. Beads of sweat ran down her back as she approached the parking garage. She should never have come alone. She should have told someone, and asked them to come with her. Three blocks were a breeze for a healthy person, but for someone dealing with multiple chronic illnesses like her, they may as well have been a marathon.

It had been much easier making the short walk when sheโ€™d arrived three hours earlier. Now, not only was the sun high in the sky, Perri was certain Los Angeles would record a new high temperature for this mid-August day. Combined with the slight incline back to the parking garage, Perri knew she could trigger a flare-up which would leave her immobile for days. She said a silent prayer as she reached her Lexus LX SUV.

Giving her car remote a click, she opened the rear driver-side door. A blast of heat hit her in the face, taking her breath away. The carโ€™s interior was stifling. Another quick click started the car, and Perri was grateful she remembered to leave the air conditioning settings on high.

Setting her bag on the back seat, Perri removed her linen blazer, grabbed her cell phone from the pocket and the manila folder from the side of the bag. She laid the blazer over the bag and closed the door to give the car time to cool off.

She turned and looked out at the Los Angeles skyline. Thick, brown smog hung over the city like a blanket. Perri could not wait to get back to the less oppressive environs of Brentwood. She loved the frenzied, cacophonous atmosphere of the shopping district, but it was humid, smoggy days like this that reminded her why she moved away.

Her lips curved into a faint smile as she glanced at the Los Angeles Court House. The few hours she had spent there, and the exhausting walk back to her car was a small price to pay for what the folder held inside. She opened the car door and stuck her head inside. Satisfied with the cooler temperature, Perri slid into the driverโ€™s seat and closed the door. A sense of euphoria washed over her as she stared at the folder. She opened it, removed the formal document and read the bold heading.

โ€œFINAL JUDGEMENT FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE,โ€

It was over. Leaning back against the seat, Perri ran her fingers over the paper. No more pretending.

No more phony smiles or empty promises.

No more sad, pitiful looks from family and friends.

No more dreaming of the day when her farce of a marriage would end. Today was that day.

She knew she should feel remorse or regret, but Perri had to stop herself from laughing out loud. She was giddyโ€ฆ happy, and she wanted to celebrate.

Sobering, Perri realized again no one knew where she was. It was no secret she had filed for divorce. The week after Marlenaโ€™s eighteenth birthday party, Perri hosted another small dinner party and made her announcement during the first course. No one was surprised. Most were relieved and applauded her decision to dump Parker. Her children were ecstatic. There was no love lost between them and their father.

But no one knew today was the official end to the Norton marriage.

However, they all knew Parker well enough to know he would never just agree to a divorce, and he had not made it easy for her. But as Perri prevailed and walked away, she still had the hope of a reconciliation between Parker and their childrenโ€ฆ children who had long ago reconciled their feelings for the father who all but ignored them.

Had the twins, Daniel and Ethan, had their way, she would have sought a divorce seven years ago. The young men had the misfortune to witness firsthand their fatherโ€™s adulterous ways and wanted their mother as far away from him as possible. Having grown up in a household ripped apart by the ugliness of divorce, Perri assured her two oldest children that evening she knew of their fatherโ€™s after work โ€œactivitiesโ€, and she could handle it for the time being.

A few short months away from their twenty-first birthday, and less than a year away from their college graduation, Perriโ€™s boys argued that she should at least start the proceedings and they would return after finishing school to help with their two younger siblings. She remembered the pride sheโ€™d felt seeing the seriousness in their faces. Perri wasnโ€™t in the habit of explaining herself to anyone, but her children were the lifeโ€™s blood that kept her going. It had taken most of the evening, but her boys understood and had promised not to confront their father. Ethan was even complimentary on her way of thinking, saying he almost felt sorry for anyone who was silly enough to underestimate her.

Underestimate.

The word brought Margaret Gower Bradford front and center to Perriโ€™s mind. The unsympathetic family matriarch was adamant Perri caused all her own problems. From her straying husband to her chronic health issues. If Perri had done enough, given enough, been enough… none of her problems would exist. Margaret didnโ€™t even see them as problems, but more like Perriโ€™s issues. She had cautioned Perri to not even consider divorce. Marriage was forever in the eyes of God. This sentiment from a woman who had been divorced for forty years, refused to remarry, and still found a reason to fight with Maynard Bradford anytime they were in the same zip code.

No, Perri would not be calling her mother anytime soon.

She thought about her small, close group of friendsโ€Šโ€”โ€Šor the โ€œold broadsโ€ as she liked to refer to them. They hated that label. Tory, Sara, Connie and Valerie were always the cause of Perriโ€™s fits of hysterical laughter. None of the women had an OFF button. No subject was sacred and anyone with a pulse was fair game for their biting, caustic remarks. She picked up her phone and dialed Toryโ€™s number, but hit End instead of Call. A celebration with the girls would involve a long evening with way too much alcohol. Better to save that party for the weekend. Sheโ€™d call them all later and set it up.

Glancing down at the court documents again, Perri knew there was only one person she wanted to call. The only person who knew all she had gone through and understood. The only person who was always there giving her unconditional friendship and emotional support. Her fingers hovered over his name on her contact list. She hadnโ€™t told him about this morningโ€™s court date. He would be upset. He would have offered to come with her.

Perri dropped the phone on the seat. She would not tell him over the phone, but he would be the first one she told. After all the years heโ€™d held her together when she thought she was at the end of her rope, she owed Grayson that much.

Easing the car into the flow of mid-day L.A. traffic, Perri focused on the task at handโ€ฆ surviving the drive home. No one could maneuver the crush of downtown traffic or its many surrounding freeways unless they were a bit unbalanced, and she fit right in for sure today. Perri couldnโ€™t name the light, bouncy, but apprehensive feelings that buzzed just under her skin. It didnโ€™t matter. She liked it. She liked it a lot.

She felt reborn.

ยฉ2014 Copyright Felicia Denise, All Rights Reserved

Understanding (and Conquering!) the 4 Parts of Writer’s Block

Jed Herne's avatarJed Herne: Writer

โ€˜Writerโ€™s Blockโ€™ is basically writing-related procrastination. This means that overcoming procrastination = overcoming writerโ€™s block.

In โ€˜How to be a Knowledge Ninja,โ€™ productivity expert Graham Allcott claims procrastination occurs when we find something:

  1. Difficult
  2. Undefined
  3. Scary
  4. Tedious

Fighting writerโ€™s block comes down to fighting these 4 concepts, which have the handy acronym of DUST. If you can deal with DUST, you can beat writerโ€™s block. So, letโ€™s work out how to tackle each word:

Difficult:

โ€œHow do I create a lifelike, interesting character?โ€

The reality is that it takes a long time to become a good writer โ€“ I know Iโ€™m certainly not there yet!

However, even if you lack the skills to do what you want, give it a shot. Through trying, experimenting, developing and most of all putting word after word on paper or screen, your writing will improve. You donโ€™t have to focus just onโ€ฆ

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