TANGLED SHEETS

During a writer's workshop I once attended, the attendees were given photograph prompts to write from. One of them intrigued me and I chose it to write a short fiction piece in first person point of view.

TANGLED SHEETS

I had one of those no-sleep-in (you can insert your own city here) nights. Not switching on the light, I crawled out of bed. I knew I was leaving a tangled mess of the sheets I had so carefully folded back early in the evening. Nights were like this often since the attack.

Experts contintually tell me I need to set a new routine at bedtime. Go to bed at ten after a nice warm soak in the tub with a cool glass of wine. Only one glass, not the entire bottle. Both should soothe me, comfort my inner angst, offer me a relaxed approach to the dark of my bedroom. It hasn't helped.

Someone else told me maybe I should leave a small light on and play soft music. At first, the light seemed like a good idea; it dispelled the darkness I had found engulfing me that night. It also created shadows on the wall, the ceiling, among the corners--all of which caused my heart to pound so loud I couldn't have even closed my eyes much less found sleep. And the music, even my favorite soft oldies stuff, covered up the chance that I might miss--as I had on that night--the jimmying of a lock or footsteps down a hall.

When I rose from my bed each night, I left the light off. I crept through the darkness through the unfamiliar rooms, dodging furniture shapes in a new arrangement. Slipping a finger between the blinds I peered out on the street from four stories up, needing to know if anyone lurked below. I didn't dare open the refrigerator for fear the light would give my position in my own home away. The fact that I had moved, left a home and an area that was ingrained in my soul, made no difference to my head. There was no safe place to my way of thinking.

So--I wandered around the fortress I had created for myself--rechecked the alarm system, putting my ear to the steel door leading into a well-lit public hallway, listening for any sound out of the ordinary, if I knew what that was anymore. Somewhat assured, I found my favorite chair, curled up in it, hugged myself tightly, and breathed deeply until I could force myself back to that bed--the bed with new soft, pink sheets and a large pillow to hug closely for added protection.

If I didn't turn on the light, I couldn't see the damage restlessness had done to the bed. But I was sure, well, hopefully assured, that when I once more am able to sleep and wake in a refreshed state, I won't find a knife-wielding stranger standing beside me, or see my own blood when I look in the mirror, flowing from wounds I am accussed of causing myself because I screamed and fought back. And those tangled sheets won't look the same as they had that night.

One day, or some night, I will have the freedom to accept peace, comfort, and that wonderful sleep.

SAVE ME

I took up writing so long ago because I loved stringing words together. I read every book in sight and, as so many writers tell us, thought I could write a better one. The mere act of creating my own stories gave me a feeling of power. It also made me feel complete; I have never lost that feeling when I write.

I have continued to write since that age of ten. Marriage, a career, children, and all that was required of a woman born in my era, didn't allow me permission to pursue that love for words. Do you think that stopped me from being a closet writer? Of course not. Do you think today I would shove my desires, my wishes, my longings for my bliss, as Joseph Campbell called it, and not follow it? Heck no! Don't tell me not to write! And whether or not I publish or give away my work, I am in for the long haul.

I never thought I wrote to save myself until recently. I've been looking back on my life, and how writing has influenced it. That's when I discovered how important those words I put on paper or screen have been all along. Writing has kept me sane, pulled me out of desperation, given me an outlet for anger, frustration, pain and heartache. When I have been about to give up--on more things than I like to admit--writing has given me a road to follow, a way to discover what makes me passionate about writing.

It's not something I took up--like tennis or cooking (or dieting from the cooking). I can't just give it up when I grow tierd of it, or toss aside like a fad I'm following. There is a hunger inside me that is only filled by this craft, and I am firmly rooted in what it adds to my life.

Hemingway once spoke of the artists from America who went to Paris or Florence to study and work. They would give themselves two years; if they weren't successful, then they went back to America, back to college, or to join the family business. It's not enough said Hemingway. "You have to be willing to give it as long as it takes."

Successs is defined by each of us in our own way. I feel I am a succcess because I've never given up on my love for writing.

BLESS YOUR HEART!

I have just read an article about a very famous mystery writer. She is a Georgia gal and still writes from that wonderful state. However, I did take exception with her lack of a Southern soul when it comes to our phrases when speaking.

She seems to feel we are somewhat less intelligent if we continue to use our syrupy words when speaking to others. I happen to feel all warm and cherished when hearing those words slip into conversations. And I don't think people who speak in that charming way are dumb.

When I hear my voice on the answering machine, I am thrilled. I still hear the South in my voice and my phrases. I have been away for almost half of my life (by necessity, not by choice)and I love the thought that I still carry the South withn me wherever I go, in how I act, and in the drawl in my voice.

Those phrases this violent-crime-scene writer thinks have no place in her books, fit right into the ones I write. No, they won't make the millions I am sure she makes from those books (which I read, too-lol), but I have warm, comfortable, friends from all over the country who enjoy my sweet words, my too-kind conclusions, my characters who always end up together and happy, and they've never complained about that Southern world I create from memories of a wonderful childhood.

And, yes, when I hear of sorrows, of illness, of questions--I often use one of those "quaint" phrases that particular author would never use:

BLESS YOUR HEART!!!!

FRIENDSHIP CAKE

As everyone knows, I am an avid reader. That doesn't mean that I read off the best sellers list in a timely manner. For instance, I have just completed a book by Lynne Hinton written in 2000; a book that I found to be entertaining, touching, and very true to life.

Five members of Hope Springs Community Church (North Carolina) gather together to create a cookbook. In the process of collecting recipes, they face issues of doubts, sex between unmarried couples, the pastor's quest for a closer walk with God, and the controversy of a white/African American relationship that produces a child. Throw in a death, a tattered marriage made whole, and all the gossip in a small town, makes for an admirable job of facing complex and diverse characters. Lynne Hinton offers a real tale about friendship, and issues that sometimes divide churches, written in a caring and forthwright manner.

I will look for more of her books; she's written many of them and I want to know more about her characters in Hope Springs.

WHAT'S HAPPENED TO US!

I think in the time I have been away from this blog, this country has gone mad. Not that I haven't been involved in crazy things myself, too numerous to answer, and too mundane for people who aren't involved to give a rat's arse. Shall I start with the murderer who got away with killing her daughter?

Casey Marie Anthony and her attorney's pulled off the coup of the year. She got away with murder and 64% of the people in the US agree with that statement. She'll be out of jail on Sunday; nutty publishers, TV show producers, book publishes, untold numbers of publicity seekers are willing to pay her huge bucks to appear, write her memoirs (would you believe that story?)and be in the limelight.

Then there are the others who believe there was no justice for Caylee Marie Anthony, who want everyone in the world to boycott anything she is involved in. Do you want to see her grinning smirk, her flirty eyes, on the TV or movie screen, on the back cover of a book? I think it is a horrible thought that she will make money off the death of that beautiful child.

And then there's our wonderful Senate who refuses to talk sensibly about raising the debt ceiling, won't roll the tax cuts back to pre-George Bush rates, will allow our national credit rating in the world go down the tubes (making our interest rates on debts go sky high), and insist that Social Security and Medicare be cut to all seniors as their number one way of lowering our debt in the future. Boehner cannot even control his own party and he wants to control this country??? And that bimbo, Michelle Bachman, says that not raising the debt ceiling will not mean we can't pay our debts, nor will it affect social security checks for August. And,of course, the poor in our country can find a job on August 1 when their benefits run out and immediately take care of their children. Yeah, right.

So should I really take all of this seriously? What can I do about any of it?

Not much, I must agree. But I can do what other Americans continue to do--speak out at the inequities in this country. Defend the dead and defenceless. Make our votes count in the next election. These are all our rights as Americans--even though several Republican friends assure me that if there was only one party in this country--Republican--this country would flourish. I have one question for them:

Where all all the jobs Bush created by cutting the taxes of the wealthiest individuals and corporations in America?????