myspokenheart

musings on life, love and laughter from my spoken heart to yours


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‘The Story of Me’… (Another piece of fiction… )

This is not  biographical. This is a piece of fiction. One day while at work, I believe it was in 2010, it was a very slow day and I opened up my note book and just started writing. This has been edited but not as much as some of the things I have written. I know this one will be my story. This one will become something more, when I am not sure, how with great discipline (gulp) but one day it will be something.

 

The Story of Me…

My name is David Michael Jones. David Michael. It’s a good strong name. A biblical name. A proud name. A boy’s name… But I am a girl and this is the story of me.

My father named me. I suppose he didn’t expect a girl. In reality he didn’t expect a child.
I like to think my mother had some beautiful name picked out for me and just didn’t get a chance to share it. Oh wait, I’m getting ahead of myself here. My mother. I never met her. She died when I was born. Leaving my dad to take care of a baby in the midst of his grief. It’s actually a very sad story, one I have only heard a few times, but have romanticized a million times. My mother is my hero. An amazing, selfless woman, full of courage – at least that is how I choose her to be… strong and beautiful.

My mother and father were still in the newlywed stages of love, when she began to feel that something was wrong. She was ill, she was tired, she felt ‘off’. After 4 different doctors and months of being told that she just needed to relax, that she was making  herself sick with all her worrying, that everything was fine, that she just needed to go home and be a good little wife, an eager young specialist, fresh out of med school, discovered the cancer. She was told that her and dad needed to take aggressive action, there were options, new treatments. And albeit they would be painful and would make her feel sicker sometimes, there was hope. Everything was set for radiation and chemo and all that fun stuff. They were prepped for all the lovely hours they would spend at the hospital and were just about to get  underway when mom discovered some other unexpected news. She was pregnant.

She now had a choice to make, which to everyone but her was no choice at all. She could abort me and go ahead with her treatments as scheduled, or she could attempt to live long enough to carry to me to term. The doctors said there was little chance she’d last long enough for “it” to survive without treatment, and that she couldn’t maintain the pregnancy while undergoing treatment, so either way “it” would die. But if she aborted “it” and went ahead with the treatment and if she came out clean and whole she could always try to have a family then. Well my mother said there was no choice to make. She would not sacrifice another’s life, no matter how small or “insignificant” to save her own. And that if God was willing we would both survive the ordeal and live happily ever after.

Well this story isn’t a “happily ever after” story. Just as she was coming up on 8 months mom took a turn for the worse and an emergency caesarean section had to be scheduled. They needed me out so that they could try to save her. It turned out I was born at approximately  9:30 on a drizzly May morning, and that my mother died at approximately 9:30 that same drizzly morning. No-one would tell me exactly when she died, or when I was born, but they said it was the anaesthetic, she was too weak, too sick, too frail for the surgery.
(I like to think that the nurses wanted me to be able to pretend that she actually had a chance to see me, maybe even hold me, and to fall in love in with me before she died. But I am quite confident that she died minutes before my birth.)

And that is how I came into this world.

Then there is my dad. I have seen the pictures of him before the cancer, before mom’s depletion, and he looks so happy, young, carefree, handsome even. I never got to know that man. The man I know is sad, withdrawn, worried, he looks tired and broken. He is a good man. He tries. But he IS a broken man. I know he loves me, but he is always just a bit distant. Always standing on the edge of my life, watching. In the early years I was raised by his sister Jane. I lived with dad, but Jane was always there. She got me up every morning. She cleaned me up, took me out, held my hand. But every night after supper she went home to her own place, only to do it all again the next day. Then she met this guy. She said he was “the one” and slowly we saw her less and less. When they got married they moved away, and then it was just me and dad.

Don’t get me wrong, he’s a good dad. He doesn’t lose his temper, and he has never hit me. But living with some-one who is chronically depressed is hard. When I was young I really didn’t notice. But as I got older I started to  realize that it was there. Like a thick fog surrounding him. He looks normal, he seems normal. He smiles sometimes, he even laughs. But he is lifeless. He died with my mother. You can see it in his eyes. He never laughs with his heart, and some days it causes me to feel broken myself.

Now some might think life has handed me a raw deal, that it’s just not fair. They may even go so far as to say God has a cruel sense of humour, that he has cheated me. I have even had people ask me how I can live knowing I took my mother’s life. I don’t know what they are talking about. I didn’t take anything! I was given a gift. A precious gift. And I know what that gift cost. I understand its value. I think I am lucky, luckier than most actually. God is good, and for that I am grateful.

Just like so many things that happen to us in life they define us, mould us. It’s those things, those moments, the ones that are beyond our control that make or break us. We choose to either succumb and live defeated lives or we rise to the occasion and choose to really live. I like to think that I am a masterpiece in the making. And therefore I refuse to be broken.

 

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Sharing… our precious creative babies…

I must confess I have been seriously contemplating how far to go with sharing here on my blog.  Although I am quite an open individual, I am also quite contrarily very closed and private. A walking juxtaposition I fear. I am afraid of sharing. I am scared to reveal the inner workings of my mind.

I am afraid because perhaps what I wish to share is not what I think it is. Perhaps I am enamoured because I have birthed it, only to find my glorious beautiful swan is really just an ugly duckling. My eyes may be blind as parents’ eyes often are. Our children are always the most beautiful, the handsomest, the most intelligent, the kindest. It is hard to look at them clearly, to see them in direct light and criticize what we see. Head in the sand is so much easier.

This holds true for our creative expression as well. Those children birthed from the recesses of our minds. In some ways finding fault in these children can be harder. As our earthly blood children grow we learn to accept them as individuals who are learning and aging and becoming independent (hard as this step in life is, it does happen). And in some ways the opposite can also hold true for the things that are birthed out of our creative selves. Sometimes what we see reveals parts of ourselves that we wish to keep hidden. Sometimes those revelations are so bold and blinding. Yet often it is only ourselves who can see those things we wish to keep hidden, since others do not generally know our intimate selves so deeply.

See I write stories. OK that is not entirely true. I START stories. I sort of have a problem with being unorganized and scatter brained combined with a severe inability to follow through. I have started a few of these stories that I so love to write, stories that have the potential to become novellas/novels and yet haven’t become much more than a prologue or first chapter. It is not about procrastination or a lack of desire to finish. Really it isn’t.

Perhaps just like a child I am trying to hold on to it as long as I can, afraid to let it go? Perhaps…

It’s difficult you see, for when an idea happens… well that is exactly how it unfolds – It just happens. I just sit down and it pours from my finger tips into the keys, or through the pen, which ever it is at my disposal. I do not think about it. I do not sit down with the intent to write something, trying to decide how it will go. I do not plan. I just open myself up and write it down.  And then I hit the point of being done for that time, where what needed release is now out in the open and the words dry up. It is like the idea just withers up and drifts away. But I can feel it lingering on the edgings of memory and I know it’s there. I sense it. But I cannot quite recall it. I cannot quite reach it. Like a dream in the morning. I know I had it. I know it meant something but it eludes me.

You see it’s like the story is trapped deep inside of me and even though I have an idea how it should unfold I cannot seem to get this information down onto the paper. I write, I read and it’s all wrong. So I rewrite and I read and again it’s wrong. So I walk away… and I flounder in this strange place where the words are floating just below the surface. I know what they should be. But I can’t seem to get them onto the paper in the form that they were when they were perfect and illustrative and reflective floating there below that surface. Instead they are jerking, halting, a foreign language – the fluidity is gone. They become harsh and ugly and show a distorted reflection of what I had beheld in my minds eye.

I want to share these ‘stories’ with you and yet I can’t seem to bring myself too… I have been fighting with myself on this for a few months now. What if they are no good? Or what if they are genius and some-one else took my ideas and perfected them? (Oh but how can one perfect genius? I suppose they could bring it to completion…)

So now that I have piqued your interest… should I share my handful of prologues with you all? Or leave it like all the other things I have avoided sharing?

P.S. the DoodleArt is coming along nicely I should be sharing that soon enough. In the next few weeks.

P.P.S. My mic works well, but again I am not feeling as eager to share as I had thought I would be… Give me time… it will come.


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NaNoWriMo… word counts suck…

The writing process is not going the way I had hoped. I am wondering if maybe my brain does not input and output information in the conventional ways. I believe that one should sit down and start a story and work through it from beginning to middle to end. That it is a chronological process. BUT this is not even remotely the way it is working. I have a handful of partially written chapters that I seem to be bouncing back and forth adding to, altering, changing, evolving. I can’t sit and write chapter 1… chapter 2… etc. No, instead I write a handful of paragraphs, I reread them, cut one and paste it in where I feel another chapter will take place and add a note that says -elaborate- … then I go back and do the process all over again. And so on and so forth.

I am behind on my word count. (by quite a bit I might add)

I do have a rough outline, I know the general direction I am heading in, I know who the main characters in the story are. But that is really about it. The rest seems to fall into place as I write. I close my eyes and can see a scene, then I have to try to develop it, choosing the correct words. The ones that will take my vision and put it into a form that will help others to hopefully see what I saw.  A lot of it is feeling, I can feel what it should be, but how does one go about expressing such things? (that sounds so artsy-fartsy and airheady)

And here I am avoiding working on my story, creating words for my blog instead. But these words seem to flow without all the restrictions, and complications. In a few minutes I have written over 300 words here, yet that has been taking what feels like hours to achieve in the NaNo-sphere.

Don’t get me wrong I am actually liking the story I am writing so far – I wouldn’t say it is great (by no means). I feel it actually has potential, that it isn’t complete and utter crap which makes me happy. I honestly wasn’t really sure what to expect as I have never written a novel before, I wasn’t expecting a cake walk, but I didn’t picture the process to look the way it seems to be unfolding.

Anyways I will write a few updates on how my experience with NaNo is going throughout the month… we will see you never know what can happen, right?