I have a whole journal/memory box/Native American medicine bag filled with scraps of paper dedicated to my secrets and my confessions.
As I read through them and touch the items again for the first time in years, it brings up many emotions and tears. But as I begin to finally make the push of accepting these secrets, these faults, I will confess them here. Some will take more time than others, naturally, but some are small enough for me to finally say,
"It's me. This is me, this is my fear, this is my soul. And without it, I would not be where I am today."
So, here's my first confession. It seems to change shape, growing and shrinking, every few months, but I doubt this is something that will never truly escape my critical eyes.
I fear that having homosexual or bisexual characters in my stories and my novel will ultimately bring its downfall and also have my family look down on me or have no desire to read my (eventually, I hope) published work.
Yes, my novel has homosexual characters. Two are clearly defined as such, and one is what I would call a bisexual character. They are what I consider to be my favorite and most complex characters, though I tend to hide them so often from any curious eyes that you would never know it.
They are all mentioned occasionally in my clusterfuck of an "organization blog", A Series of Memories , though everything there is first draft only and meant to really just help me keep the area straight as I'm writing my novel.
I thoroughly enjoy creating scenes with these characters, and, being as they are all pretty big players on the stage I've set, are in the spotlight pretty often. And yet, I have kept their existance a secret from the people that I most want to read my work. My biggest fan, for instance, is my mother. She always has and always will be. I suppose mothers always are. She has read everything I have ever thrown onto paper, both in the draft/experimental stages and all the way through to the edits and final result, except for any portion of my novel. As of now, I'm guesstimating that my novel is about 40,000 words long, and I have more to go. I plan to split the final result into two books, if after editing and re-editing I still feel like it should be split. I think this is the most I have written without her eyes seeing it at least once.
It's not that I think it's bad. It's still in process, and still being edited so I know that it will be wonderful once I finish everything. It's just that my mother tends to be a little closed minded about such topics. She doesn't see love the same way I do. For me, it's not about gender, or height, or color, or background. Love happens, and most of the time, you can't stop it. If it's an honest love, an honest emotion, then it is worth it in the end, despite what may happen. It's something you can still look back and smile on, even if it didn't work out. But my mother has a harsher view of the world. Things are black and white, with each person and relationship having an "ideal option". To her, love means a man and a woman are married, for several years, and then have a few children, no more than three, and then that continues with them both remaining together until life is complete. A lovely ideal, I think, but how often does that happen?
But anyway, I am worried that her outlook on life will make her immediately doubt my novel, and therefore, doubt me in turn. But, hell, I suppose I'm this far into it now, so turning back isn't an option.
As of yesterday, July 1st, I have the amazing privilege of being pregnant and knowing about it!
I have yet to set up any doctor's visits or even tell my own mother about it (I'll be doing that tomorrow!),
But I am so excited!
July 1st would have marked the start of the 6th month without results since we have started trying.
I had been dreading July 1st for that reason.
I had started to feel a little bit let down.
But now I'm very excited!
My husband is a little more worried than excited, but I can understand that, since he's the finance man.
My worries are miniscule in comparison.
'What color will the walls be?'
'Will it be a girl? I hope so!'
'When are we going to get furniture?!'
I have so many things to dream up and so many beautiful ideas running through my head!
Also, while I'm thinking about it, I have been having a horrid time thinking up middle names.
(Yes, I already have names picked out. Don't laugh.)
But for a girl, the first name will be Isis.
There's no getting out of that for her, because I've loved that name for years now.
For a middle name for Isis, I'm leaning towards Marie, though I love Aveline too.
If it's a boy, the first name will be Ronald.
It wouldn't be my choice, but my husband asked that we name our son after his grandfather.
I agreed, but now I can't come up with anything good for a middle name.
I want it to flow well, but still be awesome, since he'd be going by his middle name anyway.
I don't know...
What do you think about the names?
This was written for Beth's blog, The One-Minute Writer.
If you want to see the post about this promt, Click Here!
It's not often that I reward myself,
Mostly because I don't feel that I've done anything worth a reward.
But when I do have that wonderful sense of accomplishment,
I take a moment to finally sit down,
Read a book,
Work on my novel,
Hug my cats,
Or watch my favorite show.
On the occasions where my husband feels I am not properly acknowledging an accomplishment,
He will take it upon himself to reward me,
With a night out with him;
A date for just the two of us.
And I think I like those the best.
Maybe it's because I've been so lonely lately,
But he's been there a whole lot more than usual.
I find that he wants hugs more often,
And that he even turns off the tv in favor of helping me make dinner.
I hear his loving whispers all during the day,
Even when he isn't nearby.
Maybe it's because my 22nd birthday was recently,
But he spent a lot of time thinking of me.
I came home from work to find he had custom built me some shelving,
And I was asked to dress up for a surprise dinner out to Texas de Brazil.
We spent the evening enjoying good food,
Each other's company and even a trip through an outdoor mall.
Maybe it's because of the stress I've been though,
But he's been much more considerate the past month or so.
He continuously tells me that we will conceive when the time is right,
That it is not my fault and should be optimistic.
When I ask him why he does all these things for me,
His answer is always the same.
The reason is because it's you,
Because you need it,
Because you love it,
And because I love you.
This was written for a prompt on Beth's Blog, The One Minute Writer .
If you want to see the exact post on her blog for the prompt I used, Click Here!
"Mama says I'm homemade."
She tells everyone she meets this little tidbit of information.
When she was small, this was what I told her when she became curious as to how she got here.
I assume she thinks that she was mixed together in a bowl like the cookie mix we make together.
She says the cookies we make are homemade as well.
She loves the idea that mommy and daddy were so lonely that they had to create a "homemade baby girl".
One day, she awoke. The world around her was dark. The dreams, that she had only known as reality until now, had very quickly faded. She still remembered the bright colors she had seen, and seeing the black gloom that encased each person in this reality made her sad. For the first time in her life, she felt sorrow, and tears fell from her eyes.
She walked through the dark world, watching the people as they trudged on, eyes cast down, and feet dragging. More tears were shed, and more sadness settled in. She noticed that her fingernails had turned a dull, listless grey.
The trees that she passed were all covered in black. She stopped to press her fingertips against a tree trunk at one point, wondering if they were all dead. There were no leaves, after all, and the trees all looked as if they had been burned.
A surprised gasp left her pale, chapped lips as the tree she had so tenderly touched crumbled and was swept away by the cold wind. Only a pile of charred ashes remained, and even that pile was quickly diminishing. She saw the palms of her hands were covered in soot, and though wiping them against her clothing caused black smears, the black could not be removed from her skin.
Staring down at her hands, she began to move forward again, hoping for something to lift her spirits. The ground beneath her now aching feet was hard and unforgiving concrete. The cracks in it were frequent, and she found herself entranced by the passing lines. As her head tilted farther down to get lost in the pattern, her hair fell, catching her eye. Her lovely, bright, blonde hair was dull, lacking the shine and luster it had before.
Horrified, she forced her head up. The crushing weight of this world fought against her, trying to bring her eyes downward again. Her clothes were no longer blue and green. Instead, they were multiple shades of white and black. Her skin was a sickly white, her hair grey and coarse. With only enough strength left to spill a few tears, she was enveloped in depression and surrounded by her own dark cloud.
The harsh environment and the lack of support from this world's residents had taken its toll. The girl from the colorful dreams no longer existed, and she was only a part of the dark crowd shuffling down the dreary, mist filled streets.
I hope he looks like you.
I want him to have your eyes, and your sense of responsibility.
I pray that he'll treat his future woman with respect, and honor.
I hope that he is a hard working boy, like his father.
I want him to know that sometimes life is hard and painful, but that in the end it is all worthwhile.
I pray that he will never have sickness and heartbreak in his life, even though I know he will.
I hope that he can love fully and completely.
I want him to care about the wellbeing of any others around him, regardless of whether or not he knows them.
I pray every day, while he grows inside of me, that he turns out just like you.
