Category: pain

Villains 

      First off,  I apologize for being a day late in posting. The headache monster visited yesterday,  so I got little of my work accomplished. 

      Villains are tricky.  We as writers often see the villain as a tool,  two dimensional concept of evil…as a reader though I am here to tell you that is the end of a story.  Even worse than plot holes,  a two dimensional villain is enough to ruin an otherwise great story. 

       I have a sure fire way of testing my villains.  I give them flaws,  make them as realistic as I can. Then I imagine them in town and let the mental movie unfold… I as I am watching ask myself three questions… 

1) Is the character sympathetic?  A villain who we can sympathize with will make the story more interesting.  Also I am one who thinks that the story should leave the reader wondering if they are happy with the villains defeat. 

2) Is there a way to defeat the villain?  Though I think that the villains defeat should raise questions about how the reader feels about it,  defeat is usually in the life of a villain. And a overpowering villain is often no fun for the hero… Unless the story is not supposed to get the happy ending. 

3) what are the traits that are showing up most with your villain?  Has s he/ she got flaws or traits that you should pay closer attention to? A good villain often has fears,  and accomplishments that they are proud of.  This makes a far more rounded character. Villains are still characters,  and the story is best when you treat them as such! 

Music soothes the mad poet… 

*image found on Google and only used for inspiration. 

            Recently I read a blog done about music and the effect it had on the life of the blogs writer.  It got me thinking.  So often life for me has revolved around the music.  The sounds of life have always been a rich and full part of who I am. I remember my Dad’s deep baritone singing “Amazing Grace” to me as a child. I remember going to see my great grandfather at his radio station and being enamored by it all.  I loved the poetry in the songs,  how it felt like your soul was understood by the person singing. 

          Grandma Ethel,  my Mom’s mom,  used to sit and listen to stories from her youth and she would share those with me.  Radio shows from another era.  She taught me to enjoy classical music,  how to close my eyes and visualize the music. 

         Music for my mom was such a rigid thing.  If it was not country,  she would not listen to it. And as a child,  in her house I was not supposed to listen to anything else either.  But daddy had records of all manner of song.  Stray cats,  and soft rock like it.  She would eventually learn to bend,  she grew to enjoy some bubble gum rock along with the country.  

                      I still remember the first time I heard real rock. My soon to be step brother had a cassette tape of Dr Feelgood.  I was eleven.  It felt wild and I was hooked.  I still enjoy country,  but I am eclectic in my music tastes. 

                Mind you I am skipping over bits of music and memory. I am trying not to ramble here.  The next influence was my first day of high school.  I was six weeks late because I had a child at fourteen.  I was scared to death of what high school would be. My elder step brother was dating this chick,  and man I looked up to her.  She was confident and sexy and badass. All of the things I knew I would never be.  Well she met me at the cafeteria doors holding a boom box.  It was blasting so loudly that the windows in the building were rattling.  Pink Floyd;  Another Brick in the wall part 3…Aka We Don’t Need No Education.  I can’t tell you how much better I felt about high school.  It was not that school was actually any better.  In truth it was a nightmare.  I just suddenly felt braver,  more secure.  

       Looking back,  every person who was ever a intimate in my life has a song.  My playlist is often a minefield of memories.  Some of which I have not even explained to my boyfriend of over twenty one years. Not because of anything other than the fact that I am done with the one who was once attached to the memory. 

        I may have been a singer and put my love of music to use,  except for the fact that I am unfortunately tone deaf.  I was not gifted with the beautiful singing voice that I would have loved.  It has not stopped me, i sang to my daughter.  I refused to deny her that bond,  both with me and with music. She still will ask for her lullabies when she is feeling bad. 

I sang four main ones to her.  “Hush little baby “,”the greatest love of all “(slightly mangled as i forget one verse), “rockabye baby ” (altered so mama catches as the original bothered me)  and the last is called the puzzle song. 

Lyrics for the puzzle song: *note I learned this is a chorus class in school and have no freaking clue who wrote it. 

I gave my love a cherry that had no stone,  I gave my love a chicken that had no bone,   I gave my love a ring that had no end,   And I gave my love a baby with no cry-in. 

How can there be a cherry with no stone?  How can there be a chicken with no bone?   How can there be a ring with no end?  And how can there be a baby with no cry-in? 

A cherry when it is blooming,  it has no stone,  A chicken when it is peeping it has no bone,  a ring when it is rolling it has no end and a baby when it is sleeping has no cry-in. 

What songs have made a difference in your life?  I would love to hear about them. 

Viewpoints 

Rain is the perfect weather to think in.  There is two sides to every story. That is something that we often forget,  especially when we are fighting.  When we are fighting,  all we want is to express our views.  We want to show that we hurt,  and that we believe strongly in what we are saying.  We forget that we love,  and that we may not be the only one who is right.  Two sides to each story does not always mean just right and wrong. 

          Sometimes,  an argument is about two people who have valid points and neither know how bend to see the other view. It really is normal.  However during the fight,  it is not something that anyone thinks of. I myself have been guilty of this.  We get so involved in ourselves that we find ourselves alone with hurt hearts and confused minds.  

          Still in the moment it is very hard to step back.  It is not a thing that comes naturally to most of us.  So we have to decide whether or not to back down or to feel like we are untrue to our own truths.  Standing our ground can cause friction between us and whomever we are arguing with. Sometimes backing down is allowing our truths to be ignored.  

            It is possible for both sides to be right.  So when you deal with the hurt from an argument,  keep that in mind. If you do not want to back down from your view,  it is fine.  Just consider that you are not the only one involved.  Consider if the other party could be right as well. 

Commodity 

Another day, 

Just like the 

one before. 

Freedom a lie, 

In the land of 

the free. 
Stolen from life, 

Forced to live 

this strife. 

No longer human, 

A bought toy

Forced to endure. 
No one sees

What is left of me. 

Nothing remaining 

Except a commodity. 
(Just a note) 

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Website: traffickingresourcecenter.org

http://www.truckersagainsttrafficking.org

Seasonal Blues

Screenshot_20161214-060114.pngso this time of year it is so hard for many people.  I often feel like it is the worst because of the expectations we are put under to be nice to people who we can’t stand the rest of the year.  Or the fact that we are separate from the ones that we love and have no way to remedy this. Sometimes it is just the weather changes and the sickness that seems to linger about making it even more difficult to be social.  I just wanted to reach out and say that you are not alone.  If this is a difficult time for you,  reach out.  There is always someone who you matter too… Whether you know it or not.  And in the holidays we some times forget about telling the ones around us how much we care.  For some the inner voice is not a kind thing.  Trust me when I say that you are not alone.  ❤

Self worth

So much I find myself having an issue… I am crawling my way to being healthy and a “successful ” person.  For me it is a constant struggle. It means that I have to put the work I do creatively in the world.  I face rejection. Ok,  you say,  and?… Well it comes down to what kind of day I am having.  And I know that I am not alone.  I so often on bad days convince myself that two monkeys with typewriters could write better than I do. And I won’t even get started with my art. It isn’t just depression,  it is self worth.  If you spend your whole life hearing that your opinion is not worth a damn then eventually… You believe it. This is not something that you can just get over!  This requires you to retrain yourself to believe that you matter.  That the systematic erosion of your dreams and desires was not in fact truth. That you can make a difference in this all too dark world.  So if I seem to be attention seeking with my art or my writing… It is not because I am actually attention seeking.. It is likely that I am losing the fight that day against seeing myself as worthy of doing it at all that day. Please don’t hold it against the writing or the art.

Dear Mama

Dear Mama,

I love you. All that I have ever wanted was to feel like you were proud of me.  I tried to be who you wanted.  I found that didn’t work. Then I tried being myself.  I found that I was happier,  but you still were not proud of me.  Mama I am fourty one,  and I have succeeded.  I am published.  I am usually a happy soul.  Yet when I fall,  and I do occasionally fall.  It is your voice in my ear,  telling me you expected it all along.  When I get rejected for my poetry, (as rejections are normal for the writer to recieve) that everyone else would tell me I wrote so well?  I hear you telling me that you didn’t want to hear it because of how depressing it was.

Mama,  I have published five volumes of poetry,  three children’s books,  and a novella.  You know that family have hardly even acted like it mattered?  I am doing what I told you I wanted to do at nine.  I am a writer. So I may never be a  novelist,  children’s books still need written. I have never asked for much.  Just a hey,  that is awesome.  Or even… Uh sharing it on social media that you have a daughter who is printed.  So I put space between us.  I admit that I was tired of feeling like you just didn’t care. I deserve to be someone who is cared about. I’m sorry that I was never the daughter you wanted,  but Mama,  I have always just been me.

Love always,

Your daughter.

Therapy

Not everyone is healed by medicine,  not everyone is healed by therapy.  Don’t get me wrong,  it can do a great deal.  Still it is alot like an addiction,  being mentally ill. Unless you are ready to heal,  all therapy will do is give you someone else to depend on. Someone else to expect judgement from.  This is often more detrimental to self esteem than helpful.  I have been seeing a therapist since I was nine years old.  For me it was just something that I had to do.  I have had some good ones,  ones who could make me see them as human.  I’ve had a few who abused my trust.  To tell the truth,  I have done more towards healing when I was not seeing one.  I used to dissociate.  For the ignorant among my readers,  the term Dissociate is technical jargon for saying that I was multiple personalities.  Twenty years ago I was a true mess.  Nearly twelve personalities that we knew of.  I was never sure where I would wake up,  and how much time would have passed.  One of my personalities was cutting. As stated,  I was not in a good place.  When I was in control,  I was having nightly nightmares. I was terrified of being put in a hospital. Mostly because I figured I  would not be let free. I am extremely claustrophobic. When I was little,  I was molested. I finally got the courage and told him that if he came near me again I would scream.  Well I guess he believed me… But he did decide to put one last scare to keep me from talking.  He locked me in the trunk of his car and told me I would die there.  I am not sure how long I was in there.  But I was there long enough to scare me.  I was nine.  It took me four years to gain enough courage to speak.  He said that I would never be believed.  Damn him for being right.  I was told that I was insane.  I showed all the symptoms of a abused child.  So much so that I was put in therapy.  I was put on medicine… But I speak up… And I am insane.  Fine.  I am fourty one.  I am finally one,  not many.  And I am insane.  He raped me at five.  He raped me until I was strong enough to say no. Then he raped my mind for the majority of my life. And if I had been believed he wouldn’t have been able to rape the girls after me.  He wouldn’t have been free. He is in jail,  but I check on occasion.  I am fourty one and I am scared of a small man who ruined my life.  I am not sure I will ever not be. Ask my family… I am a depressing poet who has always been crazy.  Oh wait,  many of them (not all)  will not even Acknowledge that I write. I embarass them. After all,  I was telling the truth.  I don’t lie,  because thanks to the dissociation,  I often have a hard time remembering things.  So why lie if I will only be caught. I am not crazy.  I need no therapist to hear me.  I am whole.  I have good coping mechanisms. And I will not hide who I have become for anyone!

Speak your own truth.  No matter what anyone else thinks of it.

Tired ramblings

Last night was not a good one.  I doubt that I slept even a full hour.  Every time I would try it would be falling into yet another nightmare. I have had them all of my life,  as far back as I remember. I rarely remember them,  only wake feeling afraid and small.

So I have been sleep deprived and shaky… Not a good combo. Well it has had me trying to gather all of the random thoughts swimming in my head. Quite unsuccessfully I should add.  So much so that I have decided to post some here to help my mind to relax.  And that it is a glimpse for you of my chaos?  Bonus.

1. I miss my grandmother,  well both of them.  But mostly my maternal grandmother.  I have been trying to learn to crochet.  And she was amazing at it.  She was just plain amazing,  but it is the crochet that is bringing her to mind this time.

2. Samhain.  Yes I am pagan.  And this is a time for family.

3. I am very likely not going to end up with the death of neverland as anything but a novella.  The halfway point is 5000 words.  So I find myself wondering if I am trying to exceed my reach.  I am a  poet.  I am a children’s author. I apparently can do short stories (aka novella). But can I do a novel?

3 i really am enjoying doing the art thing.  If you are curious about how my art is… Myne drawings album is public on my personal Facebook (Patti Harris).  Go ahead,  look!  I would love new input.

4. My daughter is starting to get into create music.  I really want to encourage that.

5. Yule.  I have a idea for a few of the people on my list.  Not that my list is big. I am not able to afford much for even those.

6. Butt coasters.  A friend of mine on Facebook is doing novelty crocheted coasters (www.facebook.com/nothingbuttcoasters/) and I am so tickled by the pug ones… (Thinking about them for one of my list…

7 money.  Always a issue.

8. After the first of the year,  do I want to do another bedtime tales?

9. Zombie castaways.  Android game..  The villa (a building to make needed items in the game)  if you combine love and rubber… You get bedsheets….

10. I really want a small crockpot for the truck.  I wonder if I can pull it off this month.

11.whether I should do a blog post about religion.  Or poets that I love and why….

12 my sister’s faeries.  I feel like I should help more than I do…

So much rambling.  I am heading to bed soon.  I hope that I sleep better tonight.

Rape culture

So I am not an easily triggered person,  usually.  However,  here lately social media has been testing the limits. Several times I have opened Facebook and found articles about children dying because they were raped.  Then there are the articles about rapists getting nearly no punishment for what they have done. So then I take to Twitter,  which is usually a little bit more light-hearted. Until the presidential election.  Then there started a new hashtag. #WhyWomenDontReport. Well,  that is a huge can of worms. It caused me to discuss this with Joe.

He said that most of the women who he knows,  or has known have been either raped or molested.  Then as we were talking about it,  he considered.  Of the twenty women who he was intimate with,  he said he was unable to say for sure on four.  The rest were survivors.  That is not even a random statistic.  That is women who he was with.

I was floored by that.  So I posted on Facebook. (So there is a thing on Twitter… #whyIdidntreport
I DID REPORT! At least the first time. I was told that I was a liar. Not all rapes go unreported, some people speak and go unheard. I didn’t speak of the second time because I knew I wouldn’t be believed.) I had several of my friends express similar situations. Think on this,  according to Google,  one in three women are raped in their lifetime. Yes men are also raped,  but I am not speaking of them,  not yet anyway.  So 1/3 of all women.  We as a people need to address this… That is a huge issue.

Add to the issue the ignorance of Trump’s “locker room talk” and the treatment of the victims by those who have the power to change things.  Is it any wonder that sexual assault is the least reported crime?  We make it hard for the scared to overcome the fear instilled by violence to step into a safe place…  And I for one am tired of that.  I was raped at fourteen and molested as a small child.  I am not a statistic.  I am  not a victim.  I am not allowing Rape culture to break me. I speak my truth,  and invite you to do the same.