Little Bobby's Flarin' Fiddle

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Bobby. Bobby lived in a small house on the outskirts of a large city. His family had little money, and what they had was all used up to pay for singing lessons for Susie, karate for Kendra, and dance for Dayton. And though few people knew about it, Bobby had a secret desire to learn to play the fiddle.

When Bobby finally summed up the courage to ask his parents for lessons, he was shocked to find that they laughed at him. Why would such a silly boy want to do such a foolish thing?

"Why, your name doesn't even start with an F. How do you plan on learning to play the fiddle when your name starts with a B?" Bobby's mother said. "Perhaps we should try you out on a nice bass."

But Bobby was not going to give up that easily. He dreamed of playing the fiddle, and play the fiddle he would. Quietly one morning, Bobby went into the big city and bought an old violin. He took in home in a grocery bag, so the neighbors wouldn't ask. This would be an embarrassment to the community! So, everyday after school, Bobby ran to a large meadow by his house. There, for hours and hours on end, he would play the fiddle... over and over... again and again... until one day, he was quite good. The music was soft and sweet, lilting to the ear.

Now that Bobby had mastered his great skill, he made a declaration to the neighborhood. Surely, since he was now quite good on his fiddle, the people of the community would not mind. But, just as he announced his astonishing news, the people began to throw tomatoes. One old, grouchy man in particular turned around and refused to even notice Bobby existed ever again. Everyday Bobby would beg someone to listen to his fiddle, but they all refused. His parents barred his windows so that he could no longer continue in such shenanigans.

So here we leave Bobby. I'll admit, it's not a good ending, but sometimes the story ends badly. Sometimes there is simply nothing more to say. Should Bobby be content with the knowledge that he can play the fiddle, despite the ignorance of his town? Should he be content to never share his passion with anyone ever? Or would it have been better for Bobby to never learn at all?

This is not some insane, rambling story. It sounds like it, yes, but it's not. This frightening tale is actually based in fact. And if you can't interpret, I disown both of you!! Really, I'm not crazy. It's just been one of those days!!!

Princess, Queen, Angel

Only Ten Months Old

My little foot lingers
Pointed toward you
As I wonder

Will you catch
Me if I fall?
But I take a step of faith
Touching my mismatched sock to the ground

But my little toes are far
From ready to carry
Me toward your waiting arms

The floor flies
Toward my fearful eyes and
I close them but I never feel
The blow of the hard wood floor

I look to see
You smiling
Back at me and then I know
Mommy, you're my hero



Only Four Years Old

It’s been weeks
Since my hair was brushed
I wanted to wear it
In a bun just like you

And if you ever felt
Embarrassed by the pink tutu
I wore down the aisles of the grocery store
You never said so

You always threw
Your head back and laughed
And called me your princess
Your own little princess

I always looked up
To you and saw what a Queen
Must be like

So I made you a crown
From old paper and crayons
And I was glad that princesses
Grew up to be Queens because

I wanted to be you


Only Sixteen Years Old

I won’t lie
We don’t always agree
But you’re the first
I come to with everything

You pinned my hair up
Buttoned my dress
And as we sat there together
I could feel you looking at me

Did you feel this was a turning
Point in my youth
That I was finally grown

Or did you watch
With an wiser eye
Seeing all the mistakes I would
make in my life

The doorbell rang and you almost
Jumped but answered
It with a smile

No interrogations were made
You held Dad back
The way you looked at him
Made me laugh

And as we left you looked
At me and I prayed
That you saw a little
Of yourself looking back


Only Eighteen Years Old

You bring out the last
Box and throw it in the car

You apologize for your hair
Tied back in that red bandanna
But to me you’ve never
Looked so beautiful

We both speak slowly
Trying to delay
That single word
That final word

You wrap me in your
Arms. A tear falls
From your eyes

I wish there was something
I could say, you whisper,
Some pearls of wisdom
I could offer

You’ve given me everything
I need, I whisper back

But even as I drive away
I am afraid


Only Five Years Old

The hospital had smelled
Of sickness and death

Here at home was where
You belonged

Your face looks so pale,
Your eyes so empty

It feels like now I should
remember all the beautiful
Times we shared

But all I can think
Of is the future, looming
Ahead without you and I can’t see
Without the light

Your fingers move slowly
Covering my hand
How cold they feel!

And I’m again
A five year old girl
Needing your comforting smile
To whisper what to do

I’m still just a princess
Not ready to be Queen


Only 1200 Seconds Old

Did you hold her close
in your angel arms?
Sing her to sleep

I hope you let her hear
You laugh, see
Your smile

I hold the world in my hands
And it’s funny
That the world
Is so very small

Her eyes flutter
And I don’t want to move
Let her sleep

Maybe she’ll grow up
To be a musician
Or a writer
Or a dancer

I want to protect
Her keep her safe
There’s so much darkness
And she needs light

A smile turns
The corners of my mouth
And I look up
Past the confining walls

I lean in close
To her baby ears
I know what you’ll grow up
To be I whisper softly

A Queen

A Chesire Grin

No really, I can't think of any title that would suit this post, especially seeing as I have no clear plan of what this is going to even be about. Okay, so it has been forever since I've written anything... FOREVER!!! Ah yes, my public, you are missing me terribly. I know. No fear. I'm back.

I graduated High School. I feel that is worth mentioning, though both of my readers I think already know this. Still, it is a miracle to me that it actually happened. I am so grateful for all the people who have been with me through all of this. I may not have done High School in the conventional way, but I had strong people helping me through. I may not have experienced the traditional "High School Moments", but I don't feel like I've really missed anything. I hope I will feel the same way in twenty years, thinking of the glory days. (My glory days though will have to come in college, as my glory days of high school were mostly spent in hospital rooms and hooked up to oxygen tanks.)... Just sayin'!

Okay, so with college up ahead and a job search currently underway (if you know of a job, I could REALLY use one as I am broke), I have been less rigorously searching for agents. I did, however, receive a rejection letter that made me laugh a little (this is definitely the first one that made me do that). This is how it went.


Dear Ms. D'Arc,

At (redacted), we appreciate you submission to us of your novel, Jhevalia. Unfortunately, we found we were not able to accept it due to the fact we do not believe it is our kind of manuscript.

I personally had difficulty with the fact that your characters do not seem believable. You have a writing style and even the concept of your book could be very enthralling, but your first few chapters at least were much too squeaky clean. People simply aren't like that. I thus found it impossible to believe.

BLAH BLAH BLAH ect.


I had to laugh. First of all, I was really tempted to invite her down to Utah, to church. Then again, I'm wondering if she saw my letter came from Utah and was trying to show a "sheltered little Mormon girl" what the world was really like. And secondly, I'm writing YA (young adult). I can't imagine that most parents look especially hard to find books for their kids that are slimy and crude. But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe they scour the shelves looking for anything but something squeaky clean!! Heaven forbid my children don't get to read about horrible main characters who care nothing about themselves and behave in gross, scummy ways!! Anything but that!

Wow, I had a little more contempt built up there than I'd realized. Strange. In any case, I'm not going to dwell on it any more. These agents are from New York. Maybe they can't imagine a day where a line of swear words aren't repeated hourly. Maybe there is a lot of scum in their surroundings. It just made me terribly sad. I've always known the filth sold. I always knew that slime and sleaze were gobbled up on the rack. I just never knew there would be such a prejudice against something clean, against characters who stand for morals such as courage and purity. Yeah, that is really saddest part of all. Maybe the worst part is I knew it all along, on some level.

I do have to make those decisions now though. I have to firmly promise myself never to give in, even when the cost is high. Maybe someday I will find an agent whose interested, who promises publishers and contracts. And it will be so easy to be swept away in the thrill of the moment, to maybe let him/her change parts of my book that make it just what I don't want it to be, what my standards can't let it be. I have to make the decision now to keep my values high and to never raise them, no matter what the cost... no matter what.

I'm reminded of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (the book), when she meets the Chesire Cat (my absolute favorite character).

Chesire Puss, asked Alice. Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here? That depends a good deal on where you want to go, said the Cat. I don't much care where, said Alice. Then it doesn't matter which way you go, said the Cat.

Oh, I totally have a title now.

The Bane of My Existence, The Thorn in My Side, The Pebble in My Shoe, The Fly in My Ointment (AKA... my book)

I can hardly stand it any longer. It's tortuous, day and night. I can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop dreaming about it. I actually have devised a world in which I cannot escape. I would love to have someone else consider my novel genius and offer to publish it for me... sure! But the chances of that actually happening are so slim I can hardly stand to think about the possibility anymore. What should I do? Well, the simplest thing to do would be to forget about it entirely. And believe me... I've tried.

I am literally haunted though by my book. It occupies a great deal more of my thoughts than I would like to admit. I love my characters, so much that it's agonizing to have to keep them secret. I want to share my story, for it is my story that I tell. I've written simply a fantastical morph of the life that I've seen, with some embellishment (if you know me, you see already I am so good at that in real life).

This is a rant and nothing more. But I honestly can't stand the way my book stalks me. It will be something I will always love. I know that. But until I can share it, I don't think I'll ever be able to just let go. (I already know that's what a lot of people expect me to do. They think because I'm young that this is a phase. It is no phase. They are polite sure, but most (even many in my family) don't really believe I have a shot at the presses. And maybe they're right...)

Discouraged? Yes, but mainly because I recently received a rejection note saying this agent just wasn't drawn to the sample pages she requested. She dismissed me through boredom. I'm just trying to rebound now. I really do feel like one of those old single women who at the age of sixty nine lives with twenty cats. I'm talking about the women who always put themselves out there, but are constantly rejected. No one wants them. That's what it feels like to be in the "slush pile" (another idiotic agent/author/publisher/writing world term). Goodnight, America!!

Jhevalia

Lesylia Grey was eight years old when her mother sent her running through a dark forest all alone. The next morning found Lesylia asleep in a meadow and her parents dead in their car from a supposed crash. No one could explain it and no one tried.

Now, on the brink of her eighteenth birthday, Lesylia is being thrown to one more relative and returning to the place where it all happened, the cold landscape of a small Alaskan town. But living in the darkness takes its toll.

Dreams begin invading her mind, presenting five oddly dressed beings that, like her, all have sparkling silver eyes. Reality though will take a turn when her dreams come to life, revealing a magical race, one to which she belongs, one from which her parents ran away, and one that now needs her help.

With the five others in her coven, Lesylia must come to an understanding of the power that rests in her blood, the reality she sees in her dreams, and the dark secret of her mother’s locket. Lesylia must lead an army into Jhevalia to fight against The Order, her parents’ murderers, to save her own mortal world from complete annihilation.

But as they near the battleground, Lesylia’s psychic power foretells the brutal slayings of every member in her coven and she is left with a choice. What would she be willing to sacrifice to save them?

Query Shark

I was so naive at the beginning of this process. I thought to myself... Self, I will write a book and spend every waking moment on it for nearly four years, send it to a publisher and spend my days looking through glass windows at my name in print!! Okay, so while I was not quite that optimistic, I certainly didn't think I would go for nearly eight months of standard form rejection letters. Enter query shark.

I read about query shark in this month's Writer's Digest magazine. I was so excited. Janet Reid is a literary agent at Fineprint Lit based in New York City. Well, apparently she hosts a blog for young hopefuls such as I who all too often receive standard form rejection letters as opposed to actual replies. On her blog, you can submit you query letter and she will slash it to pieces (literally... there is a reason her blog is called Query SHARK!!!). I have not submitted my query letter as I am a 100%, born and raised coward, but reading all the posted shreds of query letters and her responses has made me re-organize my own quite a bit.

For anyone who has ever considered getting ANYTHING published (in which case you really will need a query letter), I URGE you to visit her blog here.

Moments of Grace

Ah, more philosophy!!! It seems to me that all I spout on here is moments of realization and my own personal eyes on the world, life, and just about everything else connected with it. I can't help it though. Here is my outlet, so if this doesn't interest you, shield your eyes or click off the screen (flip the switch).

The last few weeks have been dark, which is probably why it has been so long since my last post. Then again, maybe if I had posted something more recently, things would have seemed less horrible. In any case, things were bad. I had been to countless doctors, trying to figure a few things out. And while the sun was beginning to shine more brightly and the trees and flowers were blooming once again, I felt myself coiling into the darkest corner I could find. Everything has been attacking me lately, even such benign things as deadlines, money (I should probably say the lack thereof), my future, and my past. Saturday was the anniversary of my mother's death (though anniversary just doesn't seem like the applicable word here).

Every year around this time, when life again is forming and the sun stays up longer and the crickets chirp louder and the birds begin to sing early in the morning, I can't help but think of her. The late warm evenings bring to recollection every old memory of barbecued chicken out on the trampoline when my dad was out of town. And while these memories are all so very sweet, they leave a sharp pain somewhere inside my heart that continually throbs.

These things were invading my mind constantly over the past few weeks, making my heart throb like never before and leaving numerous tear drops on my pillow at night. I was in constant, tangible pain. And then I took a picture, one picture that changed it all. I never take pictures... ever... so it was a rare occasion for me to use this feature on my phone, but I was playing with my cute niece and felt it was important that I capture the moment. Sitting on my lap, she looked up into the camera with me as I took several hurried shots.

I looked at those pictures for probably fifteen minutes after taking them, moving from one to another constantly until I had every image burned into my brain. As I looked into my eyes, it was almost as if I could see a part of her there, like I was reflecting her in some way from me. Now, I don't look like my mom. At least, I never really thought so. And that has always killed me inside because of all things, I have always wanted to be reminded of her when I looked in the mirror, see some part of her in my eyes or mouth or chin. And on the fifth anniversary of her passing, sitting on my grandmother's front porch with my little Trish, I saw something.

I doubt if anyone would see what I saw when looking at those pictures. I highly doubt that there really is any similarity captured in that photo. Nevertheless, I was shown this for a reason, like she was reaching out herself to comfort my throbbing heart. It's as if she was reminding me that I have the potential to be everything she was: open, kind, loving, emotional (it's a gift), brave, and so very tough. I have the ability to become that way inside of me... Me!

I was reading a portion of my book the other day when a short passaged jumped out at me. I mean, it flew from the page.

“But then, in the most unexpected of times, we find those small redeeming moments of grace, shadowy glimpses of bliss. And though small and often far spaced apart, those moments make everything else bearable. There are even times when the joy is so profound that we would gladly take on anything more just to keep it a little while longer.”

I have felt my share of pain, but it will only make the joy more sweet. I deal with daily regrets and heartache, just like anyone else out reading this right now. And I can pack my pain around with me on my shoulders, using it to push others away and causing misery everywhere I go. Yes, that is an option. Then again, I could use it to brighten my life. I could use it to appreciate every smile I create or every laugh I can utter. I can use it to bring myself to the kind of person I want to be: kind, loving, joyful, compassionate, and emotional (I was once told that I have the ability to cry over things that matter to me. Believe me. I already have this one down!!)

This one picture on the SIM card of a cell phone was MY redeeming moment of grace, my shadowed glimpse of bliss. Through all the sadness and pain, I was given a gift beyond measure. I was given love.