A Bowlful of Consolation

Is there anything more comforting than a warm bowl of soup to combat the cold inside and out?

Dear Blog,

Dear Blog,

Sorry it's been a while. You know I still love you. It's just that my darn life is interfering again! Inconsiderate, I know. Between school, writers block and work, I confess that I have had little time to invest in you. I've sat here several times before trying to write something for you, but nothing comes. Know that it is not your fault, Blog, and I am sorry you have to suffer. Don't think this strain on our relationship doesn't pain me also.

I love you, Blog; do not doubt this. My love is weak, but true nevertheless. Perhaps we could come up with some tough love or "absence makes the heart grow fonder" analogy to make us both feel better? Then again, I have made enough excuses at this point. I ask not to excused, but forgiven. I admit my fault and abandon myself to your indulgent mercy.

I know this apology may seem rather dramatic. I felt it was the best defense against being unforgivably boring, and when one is trying to obtain forgiveness, it is best to avoid doing that which is unforgivable.

In sincere regret and repentant love,

Anna

The Way I Write Fiction

Also known as Why I Don't/Can't Write Fiction... this was part of the piece I composed for NaNoWriMo. Which, as you may recall, I failed on several counts. But here is a sample to be the object of your disgust and/or amusement.

There are only so many places you can go, until you hit the end. Be it the end of the places or the end of you depends, I suppose on a number of things-the greatest of these things being your personal perspective on it all.

Today I am sitting at a desk in front of a computer, trying to type. Anything will do, I suppose. I just need words to count and rack up my word count so I don’t feel like a total failure. The author is supposed to be writing. Me? I don’t need to write. I am a character and I need to do something exciting that will make you people feel like I’m worth reading about.

Like pressure in a pop can, or a mite under a microscope, you are waiting for me to do something exciting and for a story to emerge.

I’m sorry, we’re experiencing technical difficulty and it might be a long wait.

This also may be difficult on my end, because the author has the attention span of a fly, the plot planning ability of a stick and the endurance of a glass house. Also known as like none at all. Not that I have anything against the author personally. You do realize the author is telling me to say this, right? The views reflected in this work are not necessarily mine, nor are they necessarily her own.


Goodness, that’s confusing.

It might be nice if she could buckle down to business and grant me some sort of personality and get this thing moving. She’s trying now.

My name is Peter.

Good job, author! You decided on something.

What about Peter, eh? I wish I knew. I think the author wishes she knew. I’ll ask. Author? Do you wish you knew?


The author says yes.

What about Peter? What should Peter say and think and feel? What should Peter’s story be about? Where should Peter live and work and play and do the things one might want him to?

The author needs to decide.

Peter (that’s me) should probably wish for a better author.

For Peter, however, the author will try.

I, Peter, shall be placed in England (at least for now-until the author gets bored.)

Just keep typing words, author, that’s all that matters.

What shall Peter do in England?

Maybe I should live there for now.


Which would mean I would have a British accent.

The author is quite partial to British accents.

Oops... she got distracted... that's all I get for know I guess.

She says she's sorry.

Bullied

They stoned her heart a pebble at a time

Every word and every line they ever drew to dare divide

And isolate one soul in an assembly line crime

She drew back when they came near, each eager to toss a stone

And when the tears where pushing hard in the backs of pleading eyes

They’d leave her, sad, ashamed and so painfully alone

Everyone saw it but nobody knew it, not even she would admit

For bloodless battles rage in the freedom of apathy

And minds are quick to organize- what won’t compute, acquit

Right and wrong and respect were all lost because they were never found

And they stripped her personhood away, stone by stone and bit by bit

Another soul died inside, but nobody heard a sound

Three Letters

Today I got three letters in the mail.

One from each of the colleges I applied to.

It was like freaky synchronized mailing.

Three letters... weighted with either choices, chances and opportunity... or crushing defeat and rejection.

Nothing big, eh?

Letter one... here goes nothing...

Accepted! No way!? Seriously!? Yes!!

Letter two... it's smaller... oh no... is that bad?

What's this? Housing contract? Then I must be...

Accepted! Sweet!

Here goes three. By now, I'm feeling lucky.

Accepted! YES!!

All that stress and worrying for naught. Can't say I mind.

It's only the beginning and I have a lot of thinking and comparing to do, but I'm glad the waiting game is over.

Three out of three. Not bad odds, huh?

Circles In The Sun

I love the sun. It is beautiful, bright and it keeps the world I'm living on alive.

I need light. I need warmth.

I love the sun in the Summer and the Spring (I love tans,) but I think I love it most in the Winter. I am allowed the luxury of taking the sunshine for granted during those warmer months, but in the Winter, the sun is not always there.The contrast is sharper. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, presence makes your love stronger.

The presence of the sun today certainly strengthened my already burning love.

I walked a lot during the summer with my dog but since the cold came, the road has been abandoned for the couch.

Today I walked circles in the sun.

Two things I have missed, returned.

It was lovely.

But I concluded that I just want Summer back.

One day, one season at a time.

Thankful for a day of sun.

Waiting for seasons to come.