“Going Home Again”

* I’m usually a creative non-fiction or poetry kind of gal, but here is a short piece I wrote. Just thought I’d share. Any suggestions or comments are more than welcome.*

Kyle walked rapidly towards the gate.  Holding his airline ticket in one hand and his carry on bag with his lap top in the other.  He just barely made it.  He sat down in the aisle seat, took a deep breath and let it out.  It felt good to finally be able to relax for a moment and catch his breath.  He had gone straight from a meeting as the company’s head web designer, hopped in a taxi, and straight to the airport.

He was on his way home to rural North Carolina to see his mother.  He would miss some things from the city, but he was so looking forward to being back home.  The small house where he had grown up as a boy.  The brief moment of happiness was slightly sullied as he thought about why he was going.  He and his sister had been discussing placing mother in a nursing home as her health was declining and there was no one nearby to help her.  He didn’t blame his sister.  She lived further away than he did and was busy trying to raise two young children.  She was lucky if she could get a shower herself some days.  No other options and he couldn’t do it as he had a overloaded work load now that he had got the promotion.  It was just one of those sad facts.

The plane landed a few hours later.  After picking up his luggage he headed to look for Mr. Sullivan.  He was a farmer down the road from his mother, an old family friend, who had offered to come pick him up from the airport and take him home.  He remembered spending a few summers working on Mr. Sullivan’s farm as a teenager.  Farming was sure hard work, especially in the hot North Carolina summers, but Mr. Sullivan was a good fair man and his wife sure could make some delicious fresh lemonade.  He had been so sorry to hear she had passed last year.

He quickly spotted Mr. Sullivan.  He really hadn’t changed much, just a little older, and was still wearing those same denim bib coveralls.  They shook hands and headed to the beat up old light blue pickup truck with farm use tags.  After tossing his luggage in the back of the pickup, they started the half hour drive towards home.  It passed quickly as they caught up on the present and talked of days past.  He enjoyed again seeing fields of green grass with cows lazily grazing.  Once they passed the dilapidated tobacco barn with the kudzu running rampant, he knew they were almost there.

He told Mr. Sullivan thanks for the lift and headed inside to see his mother.  He briefly glanced at the little white house.  It had fallen into a state of disrepair since his father had passed.  The white paint was flaking in spots and the porch steps were slightly bowed from time.  His mother’s garden was in bloom with a rainbow of color.  She loved tending to her flowers, especially her roses, but it had become more difficult as evidenced by the overgrowth of weeds creeping through in places they had never been allowed before.  He would see if he couldn’t tend to the garden some while he was down.

The screen door creaked as he opened it and before he could knock, his mother opened the door.  She told him, “Oh Kyle, come on in.  I’ve missed you so.”  He bent down a little to give his mother a big hug.  She took him to the kitchen and gave him a plate with fried chicken, navy beans, and collards.  In between bites the two of them caught up on lost time.  Being there with his mother was like he never left.  She was still his mother, strong in spirit, though a little bent with time and a bit slower moving these days.

In those moments he realized he couldn’t even bring himself to ask his mother what he had come for.  She had always given her all to her children and family.  His mother deserved better and somehow he would make it work.  He could take his saved up vacation time off from work till he figured up a plan.  Who knew, maybe he could start up the home business he had always dreamed of.  He knew it was his time to give back a little.  He knew he was home where he belonged once again.

Rainy Day Mish-mash

raining sheets

raining sheets (Photo credit: mytimemachine)

It’s raining outside and it’s wonderful!  I love hearing it as it falls on the roof and pitter patters against the sunlight.  Fortunately I am appreciating the rain, which we’ve greatly needed.  I’m not usually so appreciative as the rain often makes me sad for some reason.  One of those great mysteries of me.  I’m also glad that though it’s raining outside and continually seems to keep raining more in my life, somehow I’m still looking out for rainbows.

Just thought I would share some about several random things, hence the rainy day mish-mash.  One is something just for fun, because everyone can do with something to put a little smile on their face.  I know I can.  I ran across a comic for writers yesterday during my surfing the net time and got such a kick out of it.  The strip was called Will Write for Chocolate by Debbie Ridpath Ohi.  I loved the title and think it’s brilliant, but go check it out.  Chocolate?  I am so there.  🙂

I’m still working on the freelance writing, but it seems to be taking a bit to get going.  Baby steps one at a time.  I’ve worked on an idea list for articles this week.  There are submissions still out that I’m waiting to hear back on.  Yesterday I finally ordered some business cards through Vistaprint.  I’ve been considering the thought of making a website, which seems everyone in the writing world recommends having, but so far have decided against it.

This week has gone by in a blur as I’ve been working a little more.  I am no where near being one of those people blessed to be able to write full time.  I would love to be and will continue plodding away on writing projects as I enjoy it so much.  I have spent a bit of time working on my main WIP, a memoir, and now have a whopping 24,100 words!  It’s my pet project right now just because I feel I’ve got to finish writing it while things are still reasonably fresh in my memory.  Time can make things a little less painful, but it seems to make memories a bit fuzzy.

Another big accomplishment for this week was I finished my submission to Memoir Journal.  They have a contest for memoirs in prose or poetry and there is no entry fee, which works for my minimal budget at the time.  The deadline is August 16th.  The downside is winners will not be announced until March 1st of next year, so a very long wait and I thought a few months was a long time.  I had been working on a memoir in prose for a while and was glad to get it done in time.

There are a few other projects on my to do list in the next couple of weeks.  One thing I think will help to keep me focused a bit is to put up a dry erase board near my computer and write a list of potential writing contests as well as other writing projects to work on with the deadline dates if they have one.  The other thing I need to do is find a writing group and/or an editor or something as I feel I desperately need some feed back on some of my writing.  The writing group I had gone to for a few times fizzled and is no longer in existence.  Any ideas?

Best wishes and happy writing… 🙂


Power of Words

*I apologize for little different than usual post, this is more of a venting.*

Words have the power to build up or breakdown.  I read a blog post the other day, which broke my heart.  It was so tragic, I don’t even want to post the link to it here.

The blog post was a book review and the writer of the post was extremely too harsh, in my opinion, to the book author.  Some of the words used were dull and mediocre to describe the book.  This wasn’t enough of a critique, so the post writer had to go on to say they couldn’t read any more of it and how bad it was it was part of a series. 

Even without having read any of the books in the series, I could applaud the book author just for being able to complete a book.  As a fairly new writer with limited experience in rejections it could about make me hesitant to ever publicly offer any writing for critique.  I will though and look forward to feedback.

One day I or any of us may be in a situation to offer feedback on a fellow writer’s writing and I hope we offer honest constructive criticism.  At the same time I hope we are not cruel.  It takes a certain amount of bravery for someone to share their writing with others.

Life experiences with emotional and verbal abuse have also colored my opinion on this subject.  If you’re made to feel you can’t do anything right, where’s the incentive to try.  I guess I could also blame it on living in the South.  I wholeheartedly believe the wise saying many mothers have taught their children, “If you don’t have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything.”  Guess I’m heading that direction, so I’ll stop my ranting and go write.