Happy Birthday…

Today would be my mothers 50th birthday.

She was 40 years old when she died.  I was 15.  It has taken sometime to think about it without wanting to cry.  It has been nearly 10 years.  It doesn’t seem like it.  April of next year will be 10 years.

She would be freaking out.  I remember when she turned 40.  It brought her to tears many times.  She kept saying that she was closer to death.  She was scared to get older.  But who would have ever thought that she may have known something that we didn’t.  She turned 40, July 19m 2002 & passed away April 10, 2003.

I had actually forgot what today was until I talked to my brother.  After a while when something breaks your heart you try & forget about it.  I succeeded.  We usually go on vacation this week.  In 2002, our last family vacation, we went to Kissimmee, Florida.  Got to walk around Walt Disney World & have a bird poop on my head.  It was one of the best vacations we ever had.  Or at least one of them.

I miss her like crazy.



I used to be a big blogger.  Would blog all the time.  Then I stopped.

I made this account a long time ago.  I actually forgot about it until I seen someone blogging on it that I hadn’t seen in a long time blog.  I went to comment on her post & it told me that I have an account.


When did I make an account on WordPress.  I’ve always used Blogger.

I have some learning to do on this site.  I don’t really know how to work it, nor do I know if I’ll continue to blog on this or not.  It really isn’t any different, I don’t blog anywhere else, either.


I have been in a major slump lately.  Writing slump, that is.  I have been trying & trying to finish the story I started & nothing.  I’ve been asked a lot if I plan on publishing when I finish.  Truth is… you have to finish a book to get it published.  Right?  I told everybody at work, since I broke my foot a couple weeks ago, that I would work on my story since I don’t have anything else to do, & I haven’t.  Not a sentence have I worked on.

Do all writers go through this?  Does this make me less of a writer?

I can start stories.  But I end up writing a page & then nothing.  Everything I wanted to do with the story flies out the window & I never write on it again.  I sat at work last Monday & wrote a page.  One page.  I know what I wanted to do with it, even if it was just a short story, & nothing.  I ended up doing something completely different.  So I emailed it to myself & figured I’d work on it later.

I haven’t even pulled up my email.

Writing from work…

This is what I started at work but never finished & probably never will.

Do you think I should give up writing?

The light was blinding, searing through a crack in the wall.  Peyton was motionless on the three blankets she laid out to sleep on the night before.  She squinted a bit at the light stabbing into her eyes.  She inched her eyes open to welcome the new day & sighed loudly.  She didn’t want to be awake.  Awake meant that she was aware of everything going on around her; the sad parts & the happy parts.

She stretched; legs & feet feeling ten thousand miles away from the rest of her, & felt a cold chill run through her body.  She felt something nibbling her toes & sprang up to see a small rat scamper away.  Peyton blinked rapidly, & felt a shiver run up & down her spine.  Jumping to her feet, she ran toward the door tripping herself in the tangled mess of blankets laying on the floor.  The fall seemed to take forever as she soared through the air smacking into the floor; nose first.  She lay there, nose planted into the floor, paralyzed with unbearable pain searing through her face that brought on a string of tears.

Peyton inhaled a deep breath of air & exhaled as she sat up slowly & felt something drip down her top lip.  She glanced down at the dark wooded floor, covered in white papers, & noticed a drop of blood laying still beneath her thigh.  She ran her finger tips across her nose, pulled her hand away from her face & stared down at it in awe of the streak of blood that smeared her fingers.

Peyton blinked.

Gripping her sleeve between her thumb & first finger she wiped her nose, looking around as if someone was looking at her.  With the other hand she wiped underneath her glasses that was still crooked on her face & got to her feet.  She quietly walked out of the room, almost tiptoeing, as she approached a staircase that sat in the middle of this old abandoned building.

Peyton stood at the top of the stair case glancing around at the building.  It was once one of the most beautiful buildings in Seattle with its large windows lined in white marble, table tops of made of glass, chandeliers hanging with 321 bulbs shining brightly, & now it’s just a pile of heap that is rank with the smell of cat piss & baby vomit.  The windows were boarded up with  dilapidated two by fours, nailed in with rusty screws.  A couple boards hanging towards the floor, squeaking as the wind blew throughout the building.

That’s all I wrote.