Teaser?

Posted: October 16, 2014 in Uncategorized
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I talk a lot about the novel I have been writing since November of 2011.  But yet I have not really shared any part of it.  So after thinking long & hard I decided I’d share a teaser from it.

(Just keep in mind it’s still rough draft.)

It wasn’t possible for her to see in the dark, or feel anything around her.  Her body seemed to stop moving as soon as the siren began blaring around her.  The light flickered off and on, just enough to see her parents, Peter and Alisha Montgomery, pacing back and forth.  Worry terrorized her features.  The lights flicked off and the room was dark.

She tried to use her other senses, hoping they’d kick in, as she listened to someone rummage through a drawer.  Loudly.  Almost too loud.  Why did it seem so loud to her?  A clap of thunder rumbled through the house as all the small knick knacks lined up along the walls clanked together.  A bright flash of lightening lit up the room for about two seconds, just long enough to see her mother standing in the doorway, alone.  Where was her father?  Did he leave?

Hushed whispers talked among themselves as Emma held on tight to a small teddy bear her parents gave her the night before.  She was good at school so her parents rewarded her with a brand new stuff bear.  She named it Butterfly.

“Alisha.  Now.  Grab Emma.  We have to go.”  Her dad’s voice was very strong.  Made Emma feel safe every time he spoke.

Her mother hurriedly picked her up and held her tightly in her arms.  Emma’s small hand lost grip and dropped her bear.

“Mommy!”  Emma cried.  “Butterfly, I can’t leave her.”

“I’ll get you another one tomorrow.  We have to hurry now.”

Her mother pushed the door open, just as a gust of wind blew it completely off the hinges and it flew into the house next door crashing through their large window.  Emma’s heart pounded, confusing thoughts raced through her mind, unable to grasp what was going on.  A loud siren blared endlessly through the air as large raindrops, and hail the size of softballs pounded down on their heads.

Emma watched as her dad raced by them splashing water all over the side of them, opening the cellar door and ushering them inside.  Her mother walked carefully, trying not to miss a step and trip, down the steep wooden staircase that led into what, sometimes, felt like the pit of death.

The cellar was pretty much empty except for benches that was connected to each wall, a large shelf in the far corner holding boxes and see through plastic boxes, and another shelf – smaller than the other – at the end of the stair case leaning against the wall.  This one, however, held blankets, flashlights, and lanterns.  Emma hated being down in the bottom of this, the smell alone was more upsetting than knowing what was going on outside.  It smelled of mold, and dirt.  Dusty old hole in the ground that has been there since before her dad built the house they live in.

Her dad locked the door and began walking down the steps into the bottom before grabbing her mother and her into an embrace.  She always felt so safe when she was nestled in between her mother and father as they held on tightly.  She sighed; feeling as if this is exactly what needed to happen.  Her pounding heart settled and they all took a seat on the bench farthest away from the door, but below the small window.

Emma couldn’t grasp on to what was going on as her mother gripped her hand tighter.  For a brief second, she thought a train was about to push its way through the cellar that was holding her and her family.  The air around Emma’s head growled, her heart hammered in her chest.  The scariest thing for any child is not knowing what is going on around them, and when their parents look frightened, it doesn’t help matters.  Parents are supposed to be comforting, and in charge,  In a moment of weakness children are unaware of how to cope.  Handle things that are not in their control.  Emma moved closer to her mother and felt a reassuring squeeze to her shoulder as her mother wrapped her arm around her.

Flashes of light lit up the cellar from the small window above their head.  She listened as the rain battered the top of the cellar.  One single clap of thunder crashed making Emma jump nearly three inches off of the bench that was holding her and her mother.  Her father paced the floor in front of them clutching a flashlight tightly in his hands.

A noise drew her sight to the staircase and up to the door as she realized the door shook violently, pulling on its hinges.  Peter turned to his wife, kissed her on the cheek and took off in a sprint to the door dropped the flashlight.  Emma watched as it rolled underneath her stopping the moment it hit the wall.  Her eyes flashed back over to her dad just in time to watch as he grabbed the rope attached to the door and pulled, leaning back he bent and tried tying to a wooden step.  The door shook harder and Peter tripped, losing his balance and falling over.  He lost his grip on the rope.  Just as he got back to his feet, the door was sucked up and out of the cellar and up into the sky.  Peter rolled down the stairs and hit concrete landing on his back, once coming to a stop he looked up to see solid black swirling wind and a felt a suction, almost like he was hooked to an invisible rope being pulled out by someone in the yard.

The winds pulled strongly lifting Peter up as he floated slightly up and over the wooden steps.  Suddenly his arms flew out, and with his fingertips he gripped the fourth step holding on with dear life.  He felt a splinter as his fingers ran around the front of the step, trying his hardest to get a better grip on the step.  He knew there was no way his family would make it without him.  He had to stay here to help with his family and raise his daughter.  He looked up and saw horror plastered across Emma’s face.  His heart broke.  His baby.

The wind pulled harder, the force was becoming uncontrollable as he felt the fingertips of his left hand slip.  The wind pulled his left arm up, he was almost floating, only thing keeping him grounded was his fingers of his right hand.

Alisha screamed.  “Peter!”

Peter tried to scream.  To tell Alisha to stop, to stay with their daughter.  That there was no way she would be okay if she lost both parents in the same night.  Especially right in front of her eyes.  But as soon as he opened his mouth the wind sucked the breath completely out of his lungs and he felt deflated.  He felt a tear form as he felt his fingers slip off of the wooden step taking one last glance up at his family.  His wife, his high school sweetheart, the love of his life.  His daughter, oh Emma, he thought, his darling daughter that they were unsure if they’d ever have.

With his eyes pinned to his wife and daughter he mouthed “I love you” just as his fingers slipped off of the step and felt his whole body go limp, and lifted – floating up toward the door.

Alisha jumped to her feet and ran toward him.  She pushed her hand out toward his hand and grasped pulling him backwards.  She felt her feet sliding, but stopped on the bottom step.  She planted her feet securely on that step and held on tight.  Gripping his hand with everything she had, she wasn’t going to let go until her arm detached.  Just as she thought she had him, his body slamming into the steps she lost her balance and fall backwards, and luckily pulling Peter with her.  They both landed hard onto the concrete flooring rolling to the middle of the floor.  Peter stood up first, and helped Alisha to her feet.  With every amount of muscle she could muster, Alisha pushed Peter backwards, just in time to feel the suction of the tornado wind sweep her feet out from underneath her.  Her face slammed into the concrete flooring before being pulled out by the winds and smashed her face into each step on her way up.

“MOMMY!  NO!”  Emma yelled as she watched her mother’s limp body be swept out of the cellar and into the dark winds.

Quote of the Day.

Posted: October 3, 2014 in Uncategorized
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Nothing is impossible, the word itself says ‘I’m possible’!
Audrey Hepburn

…worse enemy

Posted: October 1, 2014 in Uncategorized
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I decided that I am my own worst enemy.  Hard thing to admit, but it’s true.  I am the reason my book isn’t getting finished.  &&& what I decided the most is that it’s not because I can’t write.  All I would have to do is sit down and write.  But it seems when I sit down to write I find something else to do.  Then, I turn around and blame it not having inspirations (although, at one point I didn’t have any, but I do now.) or not being able to write when I want to.

Truth is – I’m lazy.  I never thought a person could be too lazy to sit in a chair && do nothing but hit buttons on a keyboard.  But apparently I am.  I go into my “writing room” – which isn’t actually that, it’s an empty room that my computer sits in with a calendar, cork board, & dry erase marker board on the walls – pull out my chair, sit down, roll around the wooden floor screaming “weeeeeeeeeee” for about thirteen and a half minutes – finally pull up my story and then I sit and stare at the words on the screen.  My eyes bounce around the words as my brain tries to decide if I want to remove some of them.  When it finally decides to stop they bounce around the room.  I’ll turn around in circles in the chair.  I’ll roll over to the window and stare out at it, which would be my sister-in-law’s house.  I watch the children run up and down the road screaming, laughing, and having fun.  I’ll get a grip on the wall and push hard, rolling my chair across the room until it stops abruptly on the other wall.

I do this for awhile.

I always feel so accomplished when I finish a chapter.  Especially if the chapter has given me a tiny headache.  When I finished chapter twelve I was so excited because that means I was going to start chapter thirteen.  As I pulled up word to begin chapter thirteen I got discouraged and aggravated.  That would be the moment I wish I could wiggle my nose &&& the words just appear on the paper.  Yes.  I know it doesn’t work like that.  But it would be nice.

As I sit here I have wrote maybe three or four pages into chapter thirteen.  Just staring at that blank chapter is a moment where you just think ‘ugh!  Never going to finish!’

I eventually roll myself away from my desk and into the living room, abandoning my rolling chair and removing myself to stare at some shitcom playing on one of the six channels I receive in my living room.  I sit on my lovely couch & think that only a few minutes of television then I will go write some more.  (Just fyi: at the point, I haven’t wrote a single word.)

Fifteen hours later I awake in a puddle of drool and crusted over eyes & realize somewhere I fell asleep and it’s now tomorrow.  At this point, it’s still dark outside and I decide that if I go to sleep, in my bed right now, I will wake up at a decent time.

But first, I’m hungry.

After rummaging through my kitchen, I shovel the food in, yes, using a shovel, my mouth before I proceed to go to bed way too full.  In the middle of the night I wake up with heartburn so bad I have to vomit back up all of the food I decided to shovel into my face, half of which falls out of my bra and onto the bathroom floor.

Sweaty and weak I take myself back to bed where I doze off again.  49 hours later, I awake with a headache so bad I can’t open my eyes or move my legs.  (How that works, I’m not sure.)  I wake up in just enough time to go back to sleep so I can get a little sleep before going back to work.

I work three days, twelve hours a day – that’s it.  Then on Tuesday I repeat everything I did the previous week.

I’m mostly joking.  Expect for the truth in there.  I will leave it to you to decide what is true.

writers block

 

I’m not sure if I’m still suffering from writers block, or if my imaginary friends are quiet.  Or possibly I’m attempting to write stuff that I’m not meant to write?  Is that even possible?  Can a person only be able to write one form of writing about certain subjects & the rest are completely off limits?  Would Stephen King be able to write romance?  Would Nora Roberts be able to write a thriller?  Is it possible for James Patterson to write a science fiction?  (If any of them have, it’s throws my theory out.  I am not well read in all of their books.))

But as I sit here I think of the novel I’ve been working on since November of 2012 & I wonder to myself, am I trying something that is impossible for me to write?  People always tell me that I am capable of writing anything I put my mind to.  But am I?  Honestly.  But then I wonder even more than that, am I really the writer I think I am?  I feel like if I were I would have more writings that are finished.

Maybe I am still trying to find excuses as to why I don’t write more.  Last night I opened up my novel & wrote three paragraphs & then when I was finished, I sat back in my chair & wondered if I even liked what I had wrote.  Do all writers go through this?  I’m almost to the point of cutting off a finger.. or two.  Pull a Picasso and cut my ear off.  But instead of whatever he did – I would put mine in a box & mail it to someone.  Who?  I don’t know.  Who on this planet would want my ear?  I’m joking – mostly.

Honestly, at this point, I have no idea what I’m even talking about.  It’s seven o’clock in the morning & I haven’t been to sleep.  My head is foggy & my body is exhausted.  All I want is to sleep – however, sleep isn’t my friend at the moment.  I know that throughout the day my mind is still on the same thing.. writing.  I still carry a trillion pens, & fifteen hundred notebooks in my purse.  I think if I were to dig I’d find a notebook in my car.  You know, just in case.  I still find myself going out in public with friends and writing on napkins when something hits and I need to write it down.  I still find myself watching or reading something thinking, oh yeah, I need to make a note of that.  It could come in handy for something I could write in the future.  All of the articles I read of writers & authors, they all sound like me.  Everything they say they feel or do – I find it’s exactly what I do or feel.  I love to write.  ((Even simple things like a blog.  Even though I don’t write as much as I used to.))  I just can’t always seem to get the words flowing as easily as I did.  Like when I was between the ages of seventeen & nineteen.  To be quite frank, if I had started a novel at seventeen, I would probably have finished it.  But at seventeen, I had no idea what I liked or wanted to do with my life.  I didn’t realize writing was it until I was in my twenties.

I just need to take it day by day.  One day at a time.  Day.  By.  Day.  I can’t expect the novel to write itself or me write it in three days.  It takes time.  I even know this.  Common sense.  But there will always be a part of me that believes it shouldn’t take YEARS to write a novel especially if you already have the outline of it.

I have faith in myself, always have – I will finish this novel.  When?  That I have no idea.  But I will.  Hopefully before I’m thirty, but at this rate, I honestly don’t know that.

I have always been good at working through problems.  That is what I have right now.  A problem.  So I will trudge on and work through my problem.  Hopefully, I will fix it soon.  But I could always write more of these, at least then I know I’d still be writing, even if it isn’t on my story.

Luck.  I need luck.

I have spent 11 mother day’s without my mother. So today, instead of being sad, I figured I’d tell a story about her.

There were many years, fifteen worth, of stories to tell about her. All different but alike in the same. My mother was my best friend. The only person on the planet who I could tell anything to && not be afraid of their reaction. I always found myself going with her to work, mostly because I couldn’t find many reasons not to. On day, early morning hours where dew was still on the grass and fog hovered over the trees, I was with her. At this particular job she was a morning cook &&& opened the cafe. Every morning was the same thing, I’d fall asleep on the top of the freezer while she made homemade biscuits. This day started out no different than any others except I didn’t go to sleep. That morning I decided that I would keep my mother company, pulled up a seat, and sat there talking.

In the middle of a conversation I heard banging on the back door. My mom told me to open it, it was more than likely the lady that comes in after my mom to help finish prepping breakfast. As I made my way to the back door I stopped and thought about this for a moment. I was there every morning, even when the co-worker showed up, and never did her knocking sound like this. I turned &&& told my mom I was a little afraid of opening it. My mom pulled me back && decided I was correct, instead, she called the police.

That particular day a man was banging on the back door trying to get in because someone was literally beating the snot out of him. If I had opened that door they would have been on top of me.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of the mothers out there. I hope you get a chance to spend it with your children and enjoy your day. For y’all of you out there who no longer has their mother – share a story. Put their life out there so everyone can enjoy just how wonderful your mother was or is.

♥♥♥

I am attempting to write through this writer’s block.  Yes!  The writers block I have had since November of 2013.  No!  I’m not kidding.  It’s beginning to grind my gears to the point of wanting to scream.  

The last few days I have wrote a few stories.  Nothing big.  But stories nonetheless.  It still takes me a bit to do it and I have cheated a little with writing poetry.  But small is better than nothing, correct?  I may be kidding myself, but I am trying.  

I decided to give a new writing style a try.  See if I get the creative juices flowing.  What style?  Limerick.  For non writers out there that is scratching their forehead trying to remember from school what a “limerick” is, let me enlighten you.  A limerick is a five-line poem with a strict meter.  The rhyme scheme is usually A-A-B-B-A. Lines one and two end in the same rhyme.  Lines three and four end in the same rhyme.  Line five ends in the same rhyme as one and two.  

Example: 
There was an old man with a beard,
Who said, “It is just as I feared! – 
Two Owls and a Hen, four Larks and a Wren
Have all built their nests in my beard.”
       -Edward Lear, “A Book of Nonsense”

I have yet to actually try and write one.  But I plan on it.  Tomorrow.  Maybe?

This post was originally wrote November 05, 2013.

I sat here tonight and cleared out my computer.

For almost five years I have not had internet and rarely ever used my computer.  Only doing small things: playing games or using it to write.  A few months after I moved into the house I live in now, I hooked up my computer and it wouldn’t turn on.  That’s always a sad moment for someone who used to live on their computer.  Then I think about how much music and writing I have saved on this and the moment becomes even sadder.  So, I unhooked my desktop and put it away – hoping one day I might figure out how to fix it.  Last week my brother came and got my desktop and fixed it – sending me a picture message while at work proving that it was on.

I am not sure if I have been that excited in a while.

I finally hooked it up and turned it on.  Then sat here and deleted everything that I no longer have the use for.  I removed quite a bit from my computer.  Three different messengers (MSN, AIM, & Windows), games that I have played & won many times (leaving only three games left: Supermarket Mania, Farm Frenzy 1 & 2, & Hotel Mogul.

It was so many years and days I spent on the internet when I lived with my dad that I feel like I have completely erased that side of me.  I think about it, every now and then, of how many years I spent in front of a computer.  That when my Dell went out a few years ago I freaked!  Not honestly because I lost all my music – I could get that again – or the writing I had – none of it was finished – but because I couldn’t spend my life sitting in front of it eating as much as I could put in my mouth.  I have wondered how I allowed myself to do that.  Even though the internet obsession began when I was 13 and ended when I no longer had the internet (19 years old) it seems like a part of me that I need to put to rest.  Finally be done with it.

I had made a whole new me.  A better me.  I went by a fake name, fake looks, and fake hobbies.  I made things up so much that, for the longest time, I honestly believed it.  Until I looked into a mirror and realized that it was nothing but lies.  It was so nice to be able to sit around and have conversations with people about everything, from politics to music.  I enjoyed the people so much that they became all I ever thought about.  (I have often wondered what ever happened to those people.  The friends I made all of those years hiding out.)

I have sense been in contact with friends I had before that happened & they all ask me the same thing “where have you been? “  Truth is, I was here.  I was living in my hometown until I was sixteen & then only moved twenty minutes away.  I was not able to be found on MySpace (when it was popular) or FaceBook because I used my ”fake” name.  Fact: my FaceBook is still under my fake name.  That’s why no one can find me unless we’re mutual friends with people.

I wonder a lot, sitting here today, if it was a down spiral after losing my mother.  I was fifteen when that happened and after that never came out.  I never surfaced again until I was 23 when my dad passed away.  Why then?  I am not sure.  But I do know that I got back in contact with friends from high school, and I leave my house.  I have a job (didn’t back then and when I did only lasted about six months before I quit, leaving myself back into the internet) that I enjoy more than anyone could imagine.  I began writing again – almost finished with the rough draft of my novel.  I have a cell phone & that might seem strange to admit, but I didn’t have a phone when everyone else did.  Because I didn’t want to be found.  I wanted to be left alone with my food and computer.

I found it a big step when I made my twitter account & used my name @HightowerBarb. (Follow me. *winks*) 

Will I delete my FaceBook & make a new one finally, making it public, and letting people know how and what I’m up to?  That’s the biggest question for me right now & I’m not sure yet.  Finally getting under my name on everything will be something I didn’t think I would do when I was younger.

Will I go back to those ways once I get the internet back (will have it about three weeks after I wrote this), or will I continue with the life I’ve made in the last two years?

Will the internet seem as great as it did, not even, six years ago?

This was an issue I had for many years and I decided last year that the only way I could fix my problems and live the life I want – achieve the things I want in life – is to admit & correct.  I guess that’s what I feel like I’m doing right now.  Admitting it so I can correct it.

I have admitted to having a lot of problems in the last few years and I haven’t had as many issues.  Life seems better and the sun seems brighter.  (Even as corny as that sounds.)

I guess only time will tell just how much I have changed and how many things I won’t let affect the way I live and act.  I’m just hoping for the best – and hopefully I will finally be able to be the person – completely – that I have always dreamed about being.  Intelligent.  Happy.

For now, though, I’m happy with being content.