The Ever Enlightening (and NOT depressing), Hilarious, and oh so Enchanting Post

I am not a depressing person. I love humor and comedy. I make up my life by seeing beauty, by noticing small ironies... even by imagining the beauty and irony, symbolism and redeeming moments I cannot find in the real world. In my books, my characters encounter frightening things, horrible circumstances, but I would never consider it a depressing story. On the contrary. I find their story a hopeful one, an assurance that the promise of new beginnings and happy endings can unfold for anyone. 


Yet, there is someone out there (actually, a few more than just a someone) that tells me my posts make him/her want to jump off a bridge. Okay, so here's my attempt at being light and humorous. Here's my try at taking my readers off the bridge and letting them swim (not drown) in the water. 


Huh, I guess I could get carried away writing about a clown called Chuckles who works at the Pirate Circus. Then again, when I think of writing that, I instantly want to turn the pirates into clown-hunting ghosts. Would that be depressing? You tell me! 


I think laughter is the most therapeutic activity a person can do... the MOST. There are times when I laugh, and it's all I can do to stop. I laugh, not even really about anything. And I know everyone in the room is staring me down, reaching for the phone to cal Bellevue. But there's something inside of me that doesn't want to quit, a holding I grasp for into a happier world. I laugh because there are times I know if I wasn't laughing, I'd be crying. 


Okay, again I think I'm straying into the depressing zone. Should we debate the validity of leprechauns and the myth of the rainbow? Or is destroying that hope too depressing to bear? 


Yeah, so this post is going completely catastrophic! Really, all this attempt at levity is making ME want to jump off a bridge. Goodnight, my readers. Yes, both of you. 

Inspiration, Mutilation, Irritation

Everyone knows inspiration. We've all experienced it. We've had a thought, seen an action, took a journey that gave us exactly what we needed... enlightenment. For me, it was a stupid bedtime story I had been telling my niece and nephew at the time. For a few minutes each night, I created my own world, my own reality. And as I began to personalize my character, I realized I had drawn a mirror of myself. 

Months, even over a year passed before I made anything from it. Lying in a hospital bed, I began to write a story, one that was intended to fill a page... maybe two. Nearly four years later, I have finished a 105,000 worded fantasy novel with 15,000 words into the sequel. I was inspired. Whether for the best or not, I was drawn to write a story that honestly changed my life. 

Here's where the mutilation takes a role. So often we (including most predominantly myself) take the inspiration we're given and destroy it in the way we present it. We try to exactly duplicate what our hearts feel, the way we experience things of meaning. We try to share it with others, and when they can't understand we seem to fail. I want people to read my book, tell me what they think, but no matter how hard I try, no one will be able to share my experience in writing it. It was mine and mine alone. I can bring people into the worlds that I create, but they may never feel at home there like I do. 


Okay, so you officially think I'm crazy. Well, before you call out the loony squad, hear this. Maybe when inspiration comes, inspiration that is meant for only ourselves, that is impossible to share (perhaps even inappropriate to share), maybe we are given these types of information to share it with someone else. And who better to listen to our thoughts, understand the strings in our heads than our Father? Who better to give us insight, to prepare us for peak moments of thought, actual seconds in time where the pieces fit together?


I know I started talking about my book and ended with divine inspiration. But maybe that's what my book is. Not for anyone else, but for me. Maybe giving me the ability to write this book was my own kind of inspiration? I already know a lot of my own personal answers can be found in its pages, things I didn't even mean to write in. Yes, it's quite possible that my book will never become a bestseller, never get even so much as an interested agent. Maybe that's okay. Maybe the reason I wrote this book was not to share it with others, let people in to the characters I love, the fictional places I've visited. Maybe there's another plan in mind. And... well, who am I to put my plan over His? 


PS... Note that I'm saying maybe. I do not pretend to know His plan either so... agent, publisher, if you're out there and thinking that my book may be freaking fantastic... comment below!! 

Memories

I hold an old cardboard box. It's worn and beaten. It has no value. Even its contents are aged, aged to where they've seen better days but to where they hold no classic style. A few wooden blocks, maybe a pair of mismatched baby socks. That's all you'd find. A passerby wouldn't glance a second time at this old battered box, but I kneel. I hunch over until my back is strained.

A treasure trove is this rotting container, full of things I've missed for so long. The crayons that I drew with, the dolls that I dressed. They're bringing back, carrying me on waves of time, of years, of lives. I see myself so clearly, holding this ratty doll. I see myself so young, brushing her hair so smoothly. There's a light in the fireplace, there's a peaceful hum, a lilting murmur of voices.

And then I'm back, pulled into the world I tried to escape. I'm sitting on a musty floor, cradling a soiled doll. The image has left, but never that little girl's smile, a smile I used to know. I can feel it surrounding me with every grin of my own. So I hold the doll, realizing who I am and the person I've become. I can see that little girl, that happy little girl. I am not that girl anymore. I cry and I hurt, a hurt so deep that it punctures my heart. But I'm strong. I don't feel the strength, but it's there even as the tears fall.

I lay the doll inside the box. I close the lid with an inward sigh. I could throw it away, be rid of the sad little box of memories. But I tuck it carefully into the corner of a darkened room and close the door. It will always be there. There will always be that dimpled grin in the back of my mind. And living with it makes each day easier.

That little box would have no value, not to anyone in the world. But like it I am. Just like that tattered box of broken memories, I have  been tossed to and fro. There are scars that cover my skin. My eyes are filled with tears only because I've needed them so. I hold no value to so many, but there will come a day when I will be of some good to someone. I will remind another of what they can be, of who they are. I will give another the strength to push forward. After all, it's not the pain that matters, but the bruises and scars it leaves behind.

...and through the woods

I never have understood why people find forests and dark clusters of trees so uninviting. I find them awe-inspiring. They present moods, whether dark and thoughtful or those thickets where splotches of light filter through the branches and create patterns on the ground. They cover a passerby from the rain, or let large drops of water sprinkle melodically through their leaves. Being in a forest of trees during a rainstorm is like watching a dance. The leaves rustle, the boughs sway, the rain falls. Even music sounds from the drip, the drop, the plucking of a spiderweb's threads.

In my book, the trees are meaningful. They are not just a piece of background. Lesylia often "goes down" into the grove of trees. But they simply aren't a way for me to create a mood, or establish a setting. They stand for change, whether good or bad. The trees stand as barriers between her and other forms of herself, other realities she becomes as she experiences... well... her life. She passes through a grove of trees in the very first chapter, in the prologue actually, and experiences the first tragedy of her life. Nearly ten years later, she again walks through a forest and discovers the truth, whether she wanted to or not. She is faced with choices and she walks in the woods to make up her mind. And even in one of the final chapters, she runs through a thicket in the middle of a rainstorm to fulfill her destiny, to nearly confront her own death. Yes, the trees are significant things.

I find it no coincidence that they are pointed upward, upward to the heavens. And yes, all plants do this, but the trees always seem to get the highest. Just a bit of insight. Take what you want from it.

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.