Oxygen and Writing

Writing to me is like the oxygen in the lungs, I need it in order to live. I often tell people it saved my life more than once.

With the discovery that you desire to be a writer, is disappointing. If you weren’t Stephen King or Dean Koontz the statistic of being successful is almost as great as winning the lottery. Back then, there was no internet or writing community that would give courage.

However, my first publication of a poem was displayed in a high school literary magazine.  Was it validation to what I was supposed to do with the rest of my life?

Nope had to go to college, go into the medical field and be absolutely miserable was what my family wanted from me.

Back then I wasn’t willing to give up not yet there was a local author coming to a book signing. As a newbie I had so many questions and I thought she would answer them.

She stated  in order to be an author one must live a little before any words come down on a piece of paper.(I swear my family got to her first)

Note to that author, If I could remember your name, I would like to give you a tongue lashing. For those years you told me to go out and live. ( All I can say is, thanks a lot for stomping on a teenager’s dream). I took the advice to heart and gave it all up.

So I went out party from the time I turned twenty one till I came home one night, kicked the bottom of my bed because Deverine really pissed me off.  Perhaps now I should thank him because a binder appeared, it was my very first novel. I often think when that moment happened, a light shown through the book. (Like the opening scene in Charmed where Prue, Phoebe and Piper stood together in front of the Book of Shadows)

I picked it up and  started to read it.

A touching moment is when you remember what brought you there, they say when something lost and you find it, it always belongs to you. Perhaps the universe was sending me a message.

The next day I got up and began to type the story in the computer. Each word brought me back, it gave me strength and I was happy. So I went back to college, I took one course Fiction Writers Workshop and I learned one thing, this is was my destiny I was born to write.

So I wrote a poem, called Bound, it is also published in a college literary magazine.

Even after I decided to go to college for writing, I also fell in love with dog shows (which isn’t any easier, there are lot of people out there ready to stomp on that dream too)There were others who tried to talk me out of writing. Cindy Spangler even brought a publisher author to talk to me at one of my dog training days.  The author stated, it was a hard industry to crack in to and I should find something for an income.

Hell, been there did that.

However, the universe sent me several things, Cindy Lee who has been my critique partner for over fifteen years, Becky Dickson and Ranee Dillion and a program that would simply help you with your dream.

So any new writers out there need validation go here…http://rebeccatdickson.com/

Currently I have one finished novel Because of You and my newest upcoming novel entitled Dharma Girl which is midway done. Look for both to be released very soon.

House For Sale

Holiday season is upon us, and the closer we get to Christmas the more, I think about my Nunny. I wrote this the night she died.


House For Sale

The essence of a house is weighed by the soul of a human. A house beats. The pieces of wood, metal and stone transform into a being.

A for sale sign dangles. The wind swings it to and fro. Other houses crowd in, but one stands out. White siding and a green porch. Paint faded by the seasons, bubbled and flaking.

The cars and people who pass by – they don’t see it as a home. But listen. The walls talk. They come alive with their previous owner’s story. Most people see the exterior and don’t bother to wander in. What they don’t understand is the spirit of the past always latches on to the framework. It carries like electric impulses though every nook, keeping it warm.

It all happened here. The music, the laughter. The family. The pride hung like a banner.

That laughter echoed beneath a floorboard. At one time, a Nunny and a Pap. They moved in at the milestone of their marriage. They had a son and daughter. The birth of a family would bind them for one lifetime. Yet as they grew, the sounds of high-pitched crying commenced. All it took was a simple trip down a short hallway.

Music and dance are the essence of harmony. Every Sunday morning, the owner starts coffee. The children come down to greet the sounds of polka. And dancing. The “one, two, three” would commence until all five grandchildren had their lesson.

Birthdays and parties filled that house. And every Christmas, the feast of the seven fishes – a celebration of tradition that traveled from the old country. Despite twelve inches of snow, the warmth started at the front door.

The kids headed straight to the tree, decoding whether stacked gifts were toys or clothes. Adults went to the kitchen. Sea salt and frying fish overpowered the pine and mulberry candle. In the oblong kitchen – hardly any room to move – they rarely had an accident.

Pap claimed the shrimp station. The grand-kids would wait until he stepped away from the half-full plate. When he returned, a single shrimp remained.“Keep it up, and there will not be any for supper.” The grandchildren already knew two other boxes were in the freezer.

The man at the head of the table was a regal fellow. The glue that bonded them.

“Outlaw,” He called her. “How many pounds of spaghetti did you make this year?”

In previous years, an over-abundance. She said she would write a note to remind herself next year. Yet, she would forget where she placed the note. This time, she laughed. It bubbled so that she shook her whole body.

Twelve Days of Christmas broke out. Every year, the oldest granddaughter would sing off key. They expected it, but laughed anyway.

The feast ended eventually, and the house would miss it. Waiting for their return. It never came. A sadness stirred. The couple would have forty years until death claimed Pap. Silence only in the stillness.

But no matter how many times she left, she always came back. Until she didn’t. And the pipes grew cold and longed for the polka. The walls grew stale, even after the family returned to view their lives through a spectacle of pictures.

The home turns into a house, awaiting another family  to breathe in new life.

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