A Carved Out Space

 I have an Etsy shop.  Just a little something that my husband suggested, since I like crocheting so much. “If you’re going to be making stuff, might as well see if you can sell some of it and make some money too.”  Honestly, I don’t really care about it that much; it gets pretty good traffic and people favorite stuff all the time, but I’ve only made one direct sale on it. People message a lot though, wanting items that are listed for $75+ for $15-20. I kinda get a kick out of telling them no and then they wail about how they can get the same thing at Walmart. I’m like, so get your keys and drive to Walmart then.  It’s funny, people don’t want you to confront them for being cheap, yet I’m supposed to bend to their demands.  Maybe that’s why the shop doesn’t do well.  But, again, not really why I opened it.  Moving on to the main purpose of this blog; I have gotten down some more pages for my story. And also some pages for some fanfic that I use to push...

 I have hit the largest block I have ever crossed in my life.  Nothing will flow from the keys or pen as I stare longingly at them.  Thoughts that flood the mind while breaking the waves of sleep, suddenly fly with the morning sky.  The one major project I’m working on, the one pieces of writing that means the most to me right now, seems determined to remain unfinished. I can’t make the stories intersect how I want them, or even how they should. I can’t get the subjects to aline in a way that makes sense. I can’t force the characters to interact or even acknowledge they know one another.  I’m going to take a breather from that and instead share something else I’ve written in the past.  Enjoy Blue Momma Blue socks.  Blue balloons. Blue baby whales on blue lined invitations. Blue emotions.  Blue light. Blue hospital bands.  Blue blankets.  Blue onesies.  Feeling nothing but blue, wishing for pink.  Three little blue boys, wrapped...

 Trying to set aside some time every day to write. Today has been…. Not ideal.  Seems there is always something in the way; laundry to take care of, dishes piled into the sink, tiny humans demanding lunch, games to play.  Still though, got in enough stolen time to put some work in.  I’ve been struggling with this story I’m writing - it’s about finding yourself and being true to yourself. My main character is fighting to find herself. She’d been raised and groomed for taking on her mother’s ideals and lifestyle, but she finds herself wondering why and wanting nothing more than to break away. That wish is becoming a reality, but not the one she hoped for.  Isn’t that the harsh reality of dreams, that they never seem to take the shape you pictured?  She’s facing the first of many uphill battles, picking up a team of support along the way. But, of course, not everyone is as they seem and some people only look out for themselves. 

 For as long as I could remember, all I have ever wanted in life is to write.  I used to carry around notebooks filled with different stories, different worlds. Pages and pages of ink and pencil just spread out between college ruled lines.  Fantasies building away in my mind. People with fantastical powers born every minutes of every day. “Dangers untold and hardships unnumbered,” to quote the ‘80s movie that kick started my love of all things magical.  When I first picked up a copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, I was 11 years old - I was the perfect target audience for such a tale. And it has been with me ever since, a special place I can return to again and again. “Hogwarts is my home,” became not a line in a book, but a mantra for a little girl that never felt like she quite belonged. I found a love and place where I could be me, and I have chased that feeling ever since. It’s this love that drove me to want to write, to bring the worlds only I can ...