Something Else Sunday #12 – The Beginning of a Love Affair, Part 2

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Mid-yawn funny face. Still cute.

It’s Sunday again! I’m in the middle of a 24 hour shift at work (which basically involves sitting at a desk, being available, and awake…not a lot of actual work). Still waiting on the new domain to transfer over so I can start blogging over there…I’m sooooo excited and feel like I can’t possibly wait another day but wait I must. ๐Ÿ˜›

This week I’m continuing my story from last week’s Sunday. Like I said: Iโ€™m doing something a little unusual, a departure from my typical Sunday posts. Why? I just felt like something different, and this idea had been knocking around in my head for awhile. Itโ€™sย myย story, one thatโ€™s still growing, but the beginning, at least, I can tell because itโ€™s over and done with. This part sounds kind of like a downer…but it gets better! Also, even if it’s depressing or sad, it’s still MY STORY and deserves to be told. If it can help even one person realize that they are worthy of happiness and fulfillment in life, than it’s worth writing.


(Read part 1 first)

The little girl was growing up very fast, now. Pain has a way of doing that.

People kept asking her what she wanted to do. She was good at writing. Or she had been. She loved books. But she wanted to go places, do things, and help people. She wanted adventure. Some people kept putting pressure on her to be a teacher, be a writer…but she knew in her heart that while she loved those things, she didn’t want to make a career of them. Reading and writing were her joys, her relaxation, her outlet, and to her it just didn’t make sense to make a job of it. Odd as it was, given her other interests – medicine, the science of the human body, and to some extent the biology of the entire world, was her real driving interest.ย 

About her junior year of high school, she started writing again. Non-fiction now, more than before. Her fiction seemed uninspired, and her lack of experience annoyed her. She felt she couldn’t write a good, realistic story – even of the fantasy type – without more experience with people and places than she had, and it frustrated her.ย 

It came time to make decisions about college, and she let certain people push her away from what she wanted to be her life work. She majored in English.ย 

About this time too, there was this guy.ย 

She was angry about a lot of things, and so was he. She was in love. She thought they needed each other. She thought they would make each other happy. So she married him.ย 

Turned out, he was really very bad for her. He cut her down in all kinds of little ways, and told her he was intimidated that she was good at – better than, he thought – he was at a lot of things. Like writing. He was a writer. He was going to be an author. And her writing – that she already thought was rather shoddy and miserable – intimidated him.ย 

She loved him. She didn’t want to make him feel bad. So she stopped writing all together. She wanted to be a supportive wife, so obviously making herself smaller or giving up part of herself for him was the proper course of action.ย 

Little did she know how far down a dark road that way of thinking would lead her, and how long it would take her to come back to the light. But this was still the beginning.

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She finished her degree, and was so tired of picking apart books and essays for hidden meanings that she quit reading almost completely for about two years. During this time she had developed a rather snobbish attitude about popular literature (no Twilight or smutty romances for HER, thankyouverymuch), so the idea of picking up something that might be lighter, easier, more FUN to read, was out of the question.

But she had graduated, and that meant she could go on to other things now. Things that interested her, that set her brain racing, that made her stretch her mind and grow new thought pathways. So she went to phlebotomy school – it was the only medical course she could afford.ย 

She passed with flying colors. Her patients loved her. She loved working with all the different people, learning new things every day, playing with all the different machines and tests. This, THIS was what she was made for.

The books – she still loved books. In a way she still loved writing. But nothing had made her feel alive like this before, even though her job was a very simple one. Funny thing though, working this job – rekindled her love of reading. It was as though working a job so far removed from books, writing, and the literary world in general, made it come back into focus for her.ย 

Slowly, she began to realize that she didn’t necessarily have to make a choice. Even more slowly, she began to realize that it was okay to good at something and be proud of that thing. But she still had a long way to go.

To be continued next week (final part)…

Something Else Sunday #11 – The Beginning of a Love Affair

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Weekly cuteness overload, courtesy of Sir Tristan.

It’s Sunday again! I’m in the middle of a long weekend and am enjoying it immensely. I finished one gargantuan book and have spent a few hours listening to another while doing creative stuffs.

Pssst….reminder again, only a couple of days left on the giveaway for The Woman in Cabin 10…click through for the original post!

This week I’m doing something a little unusual, a departure from my typical Sunday posts. Why? I just felt like something different, and this idea had been knocking around in my head for awhile. It’s my story, one that’s still growing, but the beginning, at least, I can tell because it’s over and done with.


Once upon a time,ย there was a little girl.ย 

This little girl’s favorite thing in the world, was a good story. Before she could even speak, she was carrying books around, begging anyone who would take notice, to read stories to her. To tell her stories, if books weren’t handy, but books were her favorite. Her very favorites were ones with pictures of dogs and puppies. She learned to read quite early – possibly the result of her mother growing tired of the ceaseless “read to me, one more?” entreaty. Books…books before toys, books before friends, books before EATING.ย 

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This is STILL me at the end of a good book.ย 

She was 4 years old when she wrote her first story. It was only 3 or 4 lines, something about a girl named Mary that was cold because it was winter. It was written on the huge lined paper children use to first practice their letters.

A few years later (in about…1995?), she was using her dad’s fossil of a word processor to type stories when she wasn’t reading them. And she read A LOT. To the point of hiding books between towels in the bathroom so that she could read when nature called. She was frequently caught in school with books between the covers of her textbooks. Her mother always checked for flashlights after she went to bed. She was MOST PUT OUT by the age recommendations on books, because they always seemed ridiculously patronizing and on more than one occasion caused her mother to take possession of a book before she was finished reading it. THE HORROR OF AN UNFINISHED STORY. It started early, people.ย 

Most of the stories she wrote, at first, were fanfic – even though she didn’t know it! She just knew that she loved the characters in her favorite books and she was so sad to not be a part of their lives anymore, that she just HAD to continue their stories. The first of these was some version of The Boxcar Children. It has, mercifully, been lost to the ravages of time.ย 

Not too long after that, she discovered how much FUN it was to make up her own stories! She was forever starting books (though finishing them…that’s another thing), usually revolving around some girl or boy with a giant family (she was an only child until the age of 12) of multiple sets of twins that may or may not have had the same parents. When other kids were out biking around the neighborhood, she was typing away in her own little world.ย 

Eventually, people noticed that she didn’t only like to write, she was halfway decent at it. In school she was pushed into entering some fictional writing contests, and lo and behold – she was always shocked – she won. Not once, but 3 times. Her family – especially her paternal grandfather and grandmother – was thrilled. They were always asking to see her newest stories. Not that she surrendered these very often…she liked keeping her daydreams private, for the most part, but gradually, she realized…she liked the thrill of writing, liked this telling stories to others. She was good at it and it brought her joy.

She was also well on her way to becoming an obsessive book collector. For every Christmas and every birthday, her only request was…more books. Some poor misguided members of her extended family always thought that “books” translated to “clothes.” Sigh. At times she wondered if no one else spoke English, or if there was something wrong with her. Other kids definitely thought there was something wrong with her. But then, eventually she realized it was just easier to pretend she didn’t care what they thought. Pretend, because she did care, and the teasing hurt, but…there were always books.

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Then one day, her grandfather – the one who had always told her she could do whatever she put her mind to, the one that loved her writing and told her not to listen to the people who said it was a waste of time – died. He was 69. She was 15. It was a sudden, swift heart attack, with no precursors or warnings. The little girl, who had been painfully, slowly growing up, was devastated. One of the pillars of her world just suddenly vanished.

She thought she would never be able to write again, because every time she sat down at a keyboard, she could only cry. For the first time in her life, words brought her no joy.ย 

To be continued next week…