My father was sick for most of his life. He had an auto-immune blood disease that has a ridiculously long name that I can barely spell. The disease affected his immune system so he had difficulty fighting off infections and colds – with the result that almost every cold he caught developed into pneumonia. Dad spent many times during the year in the hospital. It boggles my mind, truly, to think of how much he suffered through his life because of this disease, but it was rare that you saw it.

Dad was an amazing soul. Gentle, patient, loving. I would see him sit for hours playing catch back and forth with a kid to keep them entertained. He was incredible with children especially. I don’t think it’s a stretch for me to say that he was probably the ‘favorite uncle’ with my cousins. He certainly had enough Godchildren to his name.

He also, without question, loved my friends. It didn’t matter who I brought home, my dad (and mother too, to be fair) would ‘adopt’ them. Always with gentle teasing and a smile. And I think my friends all loved him too.

One of the most astounding things, to me, however was that through all this pain he suffered in his life (because it wasn’t just the auto-immune disease…he suffered through diabetes, pleurisy, cancer) he never lost his sense of humor. My father was, hands down, one of the funniest people I’ve ever known. It was a wicked sense of humor, too, which might surprise people who didn’t know him well. He was soft spoken, quiet, and nondescript. He was someone you probably wouldn’t look twice at on the street.

His sense of humor, though, was downright dirty. I don’t want to paint this picture that my family was perfect, because what family really is? Were there arguments? Was there drama? Of course. My mom could get moody and depressed (is that where I get it?) and the stubbornness gene inherited by my maternal grandfather certainly possessed me, Mom, and my brother. But one thing I remember, one thing that always sticks with me, is laughter. We had fun a lot.

My mom was pretty funny in her own right. It was a showy kind of funny though. You knew it, because my mom not only talked a lot, but she was loud. And while I know I got some of my quirky sense of humor from her, the wicked sense of humor was passed down to me and my brother from my dad, who appreciated a good dirty joke.

Those jokes came from a quiet person, though. Dad’s asides and witty remarks were only heard by people close to him, not only close to his heart, but also his vicinity.

I’m going to share stories here and there from my funny dad in occasional blog posts. From my funny mom. My funny family, in general. I’d like to start with my favorite story of my dad, because I think it perfectly encompasses his sense of humor and love of pranks. When people comment on my dirty mind and dirty sense of humor I blame it on my father, then tell them this story.

This story in no way is meant to impugn my lovely Aunt Gloria, who is a very nice aunt that I love very much. I loved my Uncle Elmer as well. Aunt Gloria was a bit of a prude and, from what I understand, wasn’t too knowledgeable about, um, sex things when she was younger. My mom had to explain to her fifty-something sister what a blow job was. Aunt Gloria thought that you literally held on and blew air on it. When I heard that, I imagined that it was why Uncle Elmer always looked grumpy. (Again, this is poking gentle fun on my aunt and uncle, who are and were good people.)

If you are unfamiliar with the term ‘hair pie’, I suggest you look it up. This is the Urban Dictionary definition: A hairy pussy, often with the bush in it’s natural wedge shape. Not intended as a derogatory term. I heard this term the first time in the movie “Revenge of the Nerds” – but I’m sure my father knew it long before then. Unfortunately, my aunt apparently never went to the movies.

The Hair Pie Story

My father was in the hospital recovering from another bout of pneumonia. The stays normally lasted two to three weeks, which was quite depressing for him. This was a man whose favorite thing in the world was to be with his family. Not only his wife and children, but his mother, his siblings, and his niblings. He looked forward to every visit of friend and family, and because he was a popular sort of person, he received many visits.

Fortunately, on this day, Dad was on the upswing of his recovery. He felt much better and hoped to be discharged within the next couple of days. While we tried to be at the hospital as much as possible, there were times where my mother, me, and my brother couldn’t be there – what with the demands of school (for me), work (for Donnie) and keeping house (Mom).

I can’t remember which day during the week this was. I’m assuming a Sunday, because I think that my Aunt Gloria and Uncle Elmer had gone to lunch after church. Either that, or they stopped for lunch after a round or two of golf at ‘the Club’. I remember that the restaurant was one of the finer restaurants in our area, though I can’t remember the name of it and it’s probably long gone as it is.

Aunt Gloria has a generous heart and she loved her brother-in-law, my father, very much. In fact, after their meal, she and Uncle Elmer planned to stop by the hospital to visit him. She was diligent about visiting the sick in hospitals, because, as I mentioned, she is a good person.

This restaurant was the kind of place filled with snooty white people with too much money to spend who would be horrified to be caught eating at a Howard Johnson’s. So picture a Sunday afternoon in a glittering and shiny dining room at a posh place where people ate Lobster Thermidor off china plates between sips of expensive wine. Definitely not the sort of place one could tell dick and fart jokes.

After their lunch, Aunt Gloria and Uncle Elmer went to leave, but in the front of the restaurant there was a sparkling display case containing mouth-watering desserts for which the restaurant was locally famous. Aunt Gloria paused to look (she had quite the sweet tooth) as Uncle Elmer not-so-patiently waited behind her.

“Do you think we should get something to take to Don?” she asked over her shoulder.

Uncle Elmer shrugged. “I guess we could?” he shrugged. “Don’t know what he’d want.”

“I can call him,” Aunt Gloria decided.

This was many years ago in the dark ages before cell phones. Aunt Gloria, ever resourceful, left Uncle Elmer at the dessert case and stalked over to the receptionist desk to ask to use their phone. One thing about my Aunt Gloria – she was formidable. My mother and her sisters were women you didn’t mess with or refuse, so the phone was hastily pushed across the podium to Aunt Gloria.

She called information to get the phone number to the hospital, which she wrote on the reservation sheet despite the hostess’ protest. It took a few more minutes, and a few threats to the hospital staff, to get her transferred to Dad’s phone in his private room.

“Hello?” Dad answered.

“Don! This is Gloria! Elmer and I are just leaving lunch at (insert restaurant name here) and they have this lovely selection of desserts. We want to sneak one up to you to cheer you up, but we don’t know what you’d like. There’s pies and cakes and cookies…what do you want?”

“Hmm…” Dad drew out as if in thought. “Well, there is something I’ve been craving that they haven’t let me eat here at the hospital. It’s been a few weeks and I’m starving for it.”

“Oh? What is it? I’ll see if they have it!”

“Hair Pie.”

“Hair. Pie?”

“Yeah. It’s my favorite.”

“I. I don’t know if they do. I can check.”

“Please do. It would make my day to have some.”

My poor aunt, having no clue, yelled over to my uncle, “ELMER! CAN YOU CHECK TO SEE IF THEY HAVE HAIR PIE?”

My poor uncle, standing at the dessert counter which was across the lobby of the restaurant, swiveled his head around to stare at his wife, his face draining of color. “Gloria! Shhhh!”

Now my aunt, much like my mother, has one of those strident voices that carry. You can hear them across an insanely large room talking at their normal volume. When they shout? Dogs several miles away cock their heads to listen.

“DON WANTS HAIR PIE! SEE IF THERE’S ANY IN THE CASE!”

“Gloria shut up!”

“ELMER!”

“GLORIA!”

In the meantime, Dad is practically tangling himself up in his IV lines and straining to not fall out of his bed with laughter. He can hear how loud my aunt is and he knows what the restaurant is like. On a sleepy Sunday, my aunt is now yelling about hair pie, loudly, for a bunch of stuck up, upper class snobs to hear during their shrimp cocktails.

Uncle Elmer strode quickly across to his wife and grabbed the phone from her to snarl, “We’re getting you apple pie!” at my father before slamming it down.

Startled, Aunt Gloria looked at the hostess and her assistant, who were both red in the face and striving hard to remain polite and professional. “Do you serve hair pie here?” she asked.

“Dammit, Gloria. Get your damn apple pie for Don and let’s go!”

Aunt Gloria was, of course, mortified when it was explained to her what my father did. She forgave him. It was impossible to hold a grudge against him. No matter what he did. I always wondered what those people dining there that afternoon thought when they heard a woman screaming about hair pie in the middle of their salad course.

My brother and sister-in-law had to say goodbye to their beautiful little Abagail. I wrote this for them.

I Knew

You loved me.

I knew.

I knew the day you picked me. My biological sibling was bouncing around, but you picked me. I never knew why, but something happened when our eyes met. Call it luck, maybe? I call it fate. We looked for each other and we found what we sought. A connection. An instant love. I knew I was cute, of course, but there were a lot of cute ones there that day. You knew I was special.

You loved me.

I knew.

I knew when we got home. A home. A real home. It was warm and cozy and full of laughter and fun. I had a new pack and I adapted quickly. This new sensation overwhelmed my tiny body. I tried to play with my older, grumpy sister. I did play with my human siblings – roughhousing with them in a way that reminded me of my puppy time, but fun. My Dad too. He was great to jump on when he lay on the floor. This house was the perfect house for me.

You loved me.

I knew.

I knew because most dogs aren’t this lucky. Some never have homes. Some have bad homes. Some have homes, but don’t have love. I did. In abundance. From my humans. My older sister. My new younger sister. They all loved me.

You loved me.

I knew.

I knew because of how you held me closer when older sister crossed the rainbow bridge. I did my best to comfort you because how often were you a comfort to me? I missed her too, but I knew all dogs go there eventually and some day it would be my turn.

You loved me.

I knew.

I knew because you gave me another little sister, and suddenly I was the responsible, oldest sibling. I tried to be patient and put up with their rambunctiousness and their playing. But they knew their place with me. How many times did I look at you with that exasperated look, only to get a laugh and an extra treat?

You loved me.

I knew.

I knew from a million small ways. The Sunday morning drives with Dad to get the paper. The way you let me snuggle close in bed at night. The extra treats you snuck to me. The endless throwing of balls for me to chase. The way you lay on the floor to play. The toys you bought. The clothes you put me in to keep me warm. The way I could bundle up under the blanket with you in the chair on cold days. The care you constantly gave me. Scratches in the right places. Sneaking bites of hamburger to me.

You loved me.

I knew.

I knew because if you didn’t love me, my fur wouldn’t be damp with your tears as you held me one last time. You told me. You said I was a good girl and you loved me. But don’t worry about me. I’m going to find Sophie waiting for me. Grampie will be chasing her on the tractor, but they’ll come to greet me. Grammie will too. Both my Grampies and Grammies. I’ll finally get to meet the kitty cousin who shares my name, and probably Dad’s old dog, Jasper, too. So don’t worry. I won’t be alone. I’ll be waiting for you. Because I loved you too. So as I drift to sleep, don’t cry. I’m not in pain and I know you did everything you could.

Because you loved me.

And I knew.

The lovely leader of our little writing retreat, Kristine, participated in a writing marathon and posted about her prompt.  I wanted to participate as well.  However, I knew I wouldn’t have the time.  Rather unfortunate, but since Kristine posted the prompt, I thought I might give it a try as a sort of challenge to myself to see if I could come through with anything. 

Challenge:  48 hours to write a maximum 1,000 word story in the THRILLER genre.  Setting is a service station and must include an umbrella.

This ended up being more of a challenge than I expected. I’ve never written anything thrilling or suspenseful, so that part was difficult. My biggest worry was the word constraint. Building suspense isn’t easy in one thousand words, but I tried my best. Total word count: 917

It’s 3am, Do You Know Where Your Gas Station Attendant Is?

The hum of the slushee machine churning out iced beverages next to the counter crowded into Marissa’s mind.  It was all she could hear, this late at night.  Early in the morning?  Three am could be considered both, she supposed.  Her forearms rested on the counter above the glass that covered the selection of scratch offs, as she leaned her body tiredly against it. 

Overnight shift sucked, especially when your co-worker decided to take a nap in the back, leaving you to your thoughts, the slushee machine, and the raging storm outside – almost guaranteeing no customers.  The pumps were deserted; the large neon sigh of gas prices blinked intermittently and Marissa made a mental note to leave a message for the owner of the gas station to have it checked out.

“I should have brought a book,” Marissa sighed out, her voice echoing through the store.  The fluorescent lights painted a macabre sort of scene in front of her, emphasizing the garish colors of snack food packaging, beer advertisements, and candy wrappers.  It hurt her eyes to stare at it for too long, but she had nothing else to do.  Bathroom clean, stock put out, cash register emptied into safe – all the ‘keep busy’ jobs done.

The light jingle of the door opening startled Marissa out of her half doze.  She glanced over, mostly to determine if it looked like danger.  Working overnight at a remote gas station did have it’s dangers, though their small town rarely saw any crime.  Still, it was better to be safe than sorry. 

A woman stood just inside the entrance, the door clanging shut behind her.  Her hands shook out an umbrella, spattering thick raindrops onto the clean floor.  Marissa groaned inwardly, knowing this would require getting out the mop and bucket.  The woman smiled at her, a slight tilt to the lips and shrug of one shoulder to indicate an apology.  Her hair, long and dark blond, hung wetly around her shoulders.

Funny.  Marissa hadn’t seen a car drive up.

“Can I help you?”

“My car broke down,” the woman said, gesturing with her free hand vaguely in the direction away from town.  “I called a tow truck, but they said it’d be about an hour.”  She sighed, pushing back the strands of hair stuck to her face.  “Is there any way I can use your bathroom?  I couldn’t bear to squat at the side of the road.”

Marissa smiled and pointed.  “Sure.  They’re public.  Just down that hall.”

“Thank you so much,” she said, her painted lips smiling widely over perfect white teeth. 

The woman disappeared and Marissa leaned against the counter again.  She thought about waking up Seth, but decided to let him sleep.  Standard protocol was to have both staff out on the floor late at night, but this woman posed no obvious threat that Marissa could see, and she knew Seth worked two other jobs besides this, so she let him be.

The slushee machine still churned away, the sign kept blinking, and Marissa kept staring aimlessly at the candy aisle.  To be honest, she zoned out until a particularly bright flash of lightning followed by a loud crack of thunder jolted her out of her daze.  She glanced at her phone.  3:45 am.  Strange, that woman never came back from the bathroom.  How long had she been in there?

Feeling uneasy, Marissa went to the bathroom door and knocked.  “Ma’am?  Are you ok?”

There was no answer, so she knocked and called again – harder and louder. 

Silence.

She tried the door, fully prepared to apologize, but found the bathroom empty.  Was Marissa so out of it that she didn’t see the woman leave?  No, she was positive she would have seen it.

She looked around.  The hallway was short and stocked with boxes of extra stock from their earlier shipment, leaving a narrow passage toward the back room where Seth slept.  Feeling more uneasy, Marissa went to check there, hoping the woman would be there.  Propped against the wall next to the back room door was the woman’s umbrella, still dripping from the rain.  Marissa frowned at the small puddle.

“Seth?” Marissa called as she pushed against the Employees Only sign to swing the door open.  “Seth, wake up.”

The back room was not large, enough room for some stock, a cot, and the manager’s desk and file cabinets.  The cot, a narrow, low-to-the-ground army cot was empty.  No one else was in the room. 

In spite of the warmth in the room, Marissa shivered.  She had seen neither Seth nor the woman leave.  Unless they went out the back door.  Her unease grew as she went to check that.  Locked.  From the inside by a bolt.  They didn’t leave that way.

She returned to the counter, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up now.  She didn’t care how late it was, she was calling her boss. 

Only her phone was gone.

Seth wasn’t prone to playing pranks.  “Seriously, Seth, if you’re fucking with me…”

The sign outside flickered again, and then went out.

“Seth, this isn’t funny!”

She heard a noise and spun to see nothing.  Her heart pounded now as she felt her back press against the cigarettes on display.

Marissa realized the slushee machine had stopped.  She heard her own ragged breathing as it dragged in and out of her lungs.  Then another sound.  A quiet feminine laugh. 

The fluorescent lights shut off and Marissa screamed.

I ran out of written pieces from the writing retreat. I had some ideas of entries I could do for this week, but nothing solidified. Should I write a memoir piece? Find a writing prompt on Pinterest? Try another poem? A piece of prose? I wasn’t sure. Enter Katy.

Last week, I was in a conversation with Katy, my sister-in-law, on Messenger.  We chatted about various things and she eventually mentioned this blog and that she enjoyed my writing.  It made me feel good, of course, especially as my last entry was about my brother, her husband.  I mentioned I’d been writing and posting online for a couple of years, had a fanbase, etc. and she wanted to read it.  I waffled about it.  Very few people in my real life know my pseud for the fanfiction writing that I do.  Three up to that point – as well as the writers at the writing retreat. 

Katy insisted, and I was quite hesitant to share.  I’m not sure why I’m shy about the fanfiction stuff.  I personally think it’s a valid genre, but for some reason I don’t want to share it with the people I know.  Not even my husband has read it (that I know, anyway).  In spite of the warning that most of what I write is gay romance, Katy wanted to read it.  I sent her the link to the latest story and hoped for the best.

Katy responded later that she liked it and couldn’t put her phone down, even to go to the bathroom.  I shared other stories with her and left it at that.  I honestly thought it would be the end of the matter.

Not so.  Two days later, I got a call on my phone from her.  Thinking, of course, a phone call equaled emergency, I answered only to hear “YOUR STORY IS FUCKING WITH MY HEAD!” yelled at me.  Apparently, the story gave Katy a pretty vivid dream.  She just HAD to let me know what the dream was and that I needed to write it right away. 

I did.  Below is the story Katy wanted me to write.  Why these characters?  Why a hot dog stand?  The phallic symbolism alone, well, that is for Katy to figure out.  I hope she enjoys it.  It’s not as detailed as her dream, nor is it as explicit.  I wanted it to be short.  In fanfiction circles, this would be called a one-shot – a story told as a chapter only. 

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“You Had Me at Hot Dog”

“That guy is back,” the high-pitched feminine voice spoke next to him.  The girl said this while dumping a half bag of fries into the bubbling oil. 

“He likes hot dogs,” Trevor said with a slight shrug as he placed said item on the rollers that heated up the processed treat.

“He only ever orders from you.”

“I’m usually at the counter.”

“Mmm,” Justice murmured, flipping the switch for the timer. 

“What’s that mean?”

“What?”

“That ‘mmm’.”

“Nothing.”

“Why do I not believe you?”

“You should wait on your favorite customer,” his friend replied, jerking her thumb over her shoulder toward the counter.

Trevor turned from his task to quickly toss the rest of the hot dog package in the fridge, then fully turned to step up to the counter, putting on his best customer service smile.  “Hey man, how can I help you?”

The guy on the other side of the counter merely nodded, though he stared up above Trevor’s head to where the menu hung.  Trevor waited patiently, resisting the urge to tap his fingers on the counter.  The guy ordered the same thing every.  Single.  Game.  Two hot dogs with cheese and a bottle of water.  Before the game and during halftime. 

It wasn’t like there was much else to pick.  Hot dogs, fries, chicken tenders, and nachos.  That was their basic menu.  Oh, and drinks.  Yet every time this guy studied the menu before stammering out his order.  Two hot dogs with cheese and a bottle of water.

Trevor grabbed a pair of plastic gloves from the box behind the counter and pulled them on in anticipation of the order he knew was coming.  Watch, the guy would probably just ask for the water where Trevor wouldn’t need the gloves.

“Um, I guess.  Um.  Two hot dogs with cheese?”

‘Why ask it like a question?’ Trevor thought, though he smiled politely.  “Coming right up,” he said aloud, as he said every time.  “Anything to drink?”

“Water?”

Another question.  Trevor didn’t have time to think of it, however.  He turned to put together the hot dogs as Justice stepped up to take the next person in line.  The game was still an hour away, but the early birds had arrived and were now haunting the stands for food.  Things should start picking up now.

The guy, the “Regular”, as Justice called him stepped aside.  “Cute Regular” was how Trevor labeled him, though he’d never tell her that little tidbit.  She didn’t need to know that Trevor secretly liked that the guy loyally visited their food stand every home game throughout the season.  Now, near the end of the semester with the football games almost over, Trevor thought he’d miss him.

He was cute.  Long and shaggy blond hair and the build of a football player.  Not one of those big ones that tackled everyone.  Trevor knew nothing about football, so he wasn’t sure what the position was.  He looked more like the ones who got tackled.  Who ran around with the ball.  Not that Trevor saw much of the football games.  He was stuck in the food stand for them all.

Trevor couldn’t have told you the color of “Cute Regular’s” eyes.  He couldn’t recall “Cute Regular” ever looking straight at him.  He did have a nice face and a nice, shy smile.  A little rough stubble completed the overall look that Trevor thought attractive.

He put the two hot dogs in a cardboard holder and side stepped to the nacho cheese pot to grab the ladle.  He slowly poured the cheese over each dog, making sure to give “Cute Regular” the perfect cheese-to-dog ratio.  Last thing was to grab a bottled water from the cooler and give both items to “Cute Regular”.

He opened his mouth to tell the guy the total, but “Cute Regular” already held out the correct amount to him.  He took it with a small laugh.  “I was gonna say six dollars, but you beat me to it.”

The shy smile popped out, though the guy had his eyes on his food.  “Th-thanks.”

“Welcome!  Enjoy the game!”

Things did pick up and, until the game started, Trevor, and his co-workers, kept busy making food and filling orders – which left him no time to ponder “Cute Regular”.  Once the roar of the crowd became steady, there was a short reprieve for the six behind the counter.  They usually used this time to give each other five minute breaks in pairs.  Trevor and Justice always took their five together.

“Must be a big game or something,” Trevor mentioned, downing half a bottle of water in one go.

Justice stared at him, disbelief in her expression.  “It’s a playoff game, dude, didn’t you know that?  We’re almost undefeated.”

Trevor shrugged.  “I don’t pay much attention to all that.”

“Did I tell you I found out who “Regular” is?”

Trevor ignored, and tried to hide from his friend, the excitement that statement made.  He tried nonchalance.  “No, you didn’t.”

“Jonah.  He was the quarterback last year.  Had to step up when our senior was sick that one time with the flu.  You don’t remember?”

“Mm, I think I remember something about that.”

“Anyway, he got injured pretty bad.”

Now Trevor remembered.  A career ending knee injury, which meant that the player, this Jonah, wouldn’t be able to play for college anymore.  “Ah, yeah.  That guy.”

“He was here on scholarship, I think.  I hope they didn’t take it away.”

“I don’t know why he’d come to games,” Trevor said.  “I’d never want to come to another one if that happened to me.”

“Me neither,” Justice agreed.  “You know, Trev, it’s almost the last home game.  You should give him your number.”

“What?”

“Your phone number.  You know.  So he can text you or something.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“He’s interested in you.  You’re interested in him.  It’s simple math.”

“First, that’s not really how math works.  Second, what makes you think he’s interested in me?”

“So, you’re not denying you’re interested in him?”

“Your logic, sometimes…”

“Come on, Trev, it’s obvious.  You always look forward to him and talk about him.”

Trevor snorted a little laugh.  “That doesn’t mean he wants my number.”

Justice finished the last of her fries and held out her hand to take his empty nacho container.  “Dude, he only orders from you.  Why do you think that is?  He likes the way you slip that dog in the bun.”

“Nice.”

“Just saying,” she shrugged.  “Do it, Trev.  If he throws it away or ignores it, you’ll probably never see him again.  No biggie.”

Only, it was a biggie.  Trevor did look forward to every other Saturday.  The two never exchanged more words than were necessary, but he found “Cute Regular’s” shyness endearing.  To know that he was the one who got dealt the shit hand as far as his athletic career sucked and Trevor felt a bubble of pity form in his chest. 

“Our turn, losers,” Lou, one of their co-workers, said.

Trevor and Justice returned, using the remaining downtime to serve the occasional customer and do some cleanup before the halftime rush.  Without a word, Justice tore a blank piece of receipt off the register and slapped it on the counter in front of him.  “Your number,” she ordered, emphasizing with a jab of her finger at the innocent slip. 

“Jesus, fine.  Ok.”  Trevor, mostly to appease her, scribbled his name and number on the slip.  Justice pulled it to her and stole the pen from his hand to add a ‘text me sometime’ and a smiley face before sliding it back along the counter to him. 

“Don’t forget.  I’ll be watching.”

“With my luck, this will be the only day he doesn’t come here for halftime,” he said, pocketing the paper in order not to lose it. 

“No chance of that,” Justice said, nodding her head to the right.  “Cute Regular” – or Jonah as Trevor now knew his name – had emerged from the tunnel that led to the stands.  Trevor’s hands tapped restlessly on the counter.  Why did he agree to this?  How embarrassing.  Jonah would just toss it away.  He knew it.  There’d never be a text or anything.

Jonah arrived at the counter, his eyes trained on the menu above Trevor’s head.  Trevor noticed his slight limp, something he’d never noticed before. ‘Two hot dogs and a water,’ Trevor recited in his mind.

“Hey man, how can I help you?”

Jonah looked down at the counter.  “Um.  I guess two hot dogs…”

“…with cheese.  And a water.”

Startled, Jonah glanced up and met Trevor’s eyes for the first time.  They were wide and blue, framed by lashes the same color as his hair.  It took a moment before he smiled ruefully.  “I guess I’m predictable.”

“Sort of,” Trevor said with a grin.  “I don’t think you’ve ever ordered anything else.”

“Creature of habit,” Jonah said, looking away only to meet Justice’s amused grin.

“Coming right up,” Trevor said, reaching for the plastic gloves so he could make up the order.

It only took a moment for him to put the order together and he turned back to the counter to slide them across to Jonah.  Jonah silently handed the dollar bills across to Trevor, again averting his eyes. 

“Thanks!  Enjoy the rest of the game,” Trevor said automatically.

“Don’t forget the receipt, Trev,” Justice piped up.

“Uh, I don’t need a receipt,” Jonah said as he picked up his food.

“Oh, you’ll want this one.  Make sure you read it.  You never know what surprises might be on it.”

Trevor shot Justice a small glare, which she returned with her impish grin.  With his heart in his throat, he pulled out the receipt slip with his number on it and handed it to Jonah, who took it without comment and turned to walk away.

“Happy now?” Trevor said sourly as he watched Jonah retreat from whence he came.

“Yes.  I’ll be happier if it gets you a date, but this is a good start.”

Trevor grunted and turned to the till to put Jonah’s money in, but paused.  Tucked into the dollar bills was a slip of paper.

“I know you don’t know me and this is weird, but I think you’re cute.  The season is almost over and I guess I wanted to take a chance.  Throw this away and forget it if I’m out of bounds.  If not, I hope you do text – Jonah”

His number was on the bottom.

“Holy shit,” Trevor hissed as he stepped back from the counter.  Lou gave him a dirty look as he had to step up to take care of another customer.  Justice, of course, followed him. 

“You ok?”

“Jonah gave me his number,” he said, waving the paper at her.

She took it to read, then started laughing.  “You both gave each other your numbers?  That’s brilliant!” she yelled.  “If you don’t text him in the next minute, I’m going to dump that whole batch of nacho cheese on your head, you idiot.”

Trevor fumbled his phone out of his pocket and, with shaking hands, typed in Jonah’s number in his contacts.  Before he could set up a message, however, a text notification popped up on his screen.

Jonah:  Thanks 4 the # – did you find mine?

Trevor:  I did.  Doing anything after the game?

Jonah:  I think I am now

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I’m open for prompts and ideas. Please comment if you have anything you’d like me to try!

It’s amusing to me that I post this today.  I posted on Facebook earlier “Fun as a writer…” and then proceeded to list some of the ludicrous things I recently googled to add realism to a story.  In addition, I added how fun it was to spellcheck another story that is 90% text messaging where I included purposefully misspelled words to mimic reality.  Let’s say it took a long time to get through the document.

What amused me, besides the humor of the topic, was that I referred to myself as a writer.  On our last day of the retreat (meaning this shall be my last day of the writing I did on it) our facilitator asked us “What did you get out of the retreat?”  I wrote the short piece below in response.  However, I think I received two amazing gifts from the retreat.  The first gift was the grace of befriending the phenomenal people who attended it with me.  To have these beautiful souls in my life now is a gift I can’t even begin to describe.  The other gift I received was the ability to say “I’m a writer”. 

It’s a powerful thing, though it seems like a small one.  Before I would say “Oh I write.  It’s fanfiction and nothing important.”  I didn’t validate my own writing.  I didn’t validate the importance behind it.  It is important, even if others think it’s not.  I know for a fact that I’ve brought happiness to people, and that, in and of itself, is my greatest blessing.  It has also brought me a host of friends who would not be in my life without my connection to them through our fanfiction writing. 

From here on out, I will try to write weekly and share it with you.  I am more than happy to take writing prompts, or story ideas, or write on anything you may request.  My sister-in-law, Katy, finally weaseled my fanfiction from me.  The other night I shared a story I recently completed with her.  To hear that she couldn’t put it down almost made me cry.  Then to have her call me two days later, screaming that I had effed up her mind with my writing and that she had a dream she wanted me to write about.  Katy excitedly described the scenario while I laughed the whole time until the tears fell and I could barely breathe. 

Hopefully you’ll hear the story soon.  I think it will be the first thing I work on – all for Katy.  Thank you for the inspiration.

Validated

I am validated.  It’s a euphoric feeling to know my soul can escape, still on it’s tether so it doesn’t desert me, but can be free.  My words have moved others in different directions, it seems, which has only ever been my goal.  A smile, a laugh, even a glint of tears in eyes, all sing to me that my voice has a purpose.

Self doubt is a powerful thing that can trap you, cage you, bind you.  Yes, you can write.  Almost anyone can type words on a screen, scratch a pen across paper.  You may even think that you’re good, because the words on the page or screen are exactly what you want to see.  Yet do others want them?  When you offer your words to someone, will they look at them like a child looks at a gift of socks on Christmas morning when they expected the coolest new toy?  Or will they gather your words to their chest and cradle them, cherish them, soak them in?

It’s a question you can’t answer until you offer them, but offering your words is akin to offering the barest essence of yourself to another.  It’s hard enough to do in conversation, but words on paper (or online) are permanent.  Anyone can return to them, pore over them, think over them, dissect them, tear them apart.  It’s both a horrifying and ecstatic feeling.

I have courage now.  Courage to share, to give out my words, to share them with others.  Until now I only knew the effect of my words through a screen – a screeching comment of a keyboard smash from another fan of the show I love.  But now I’ve seen the effect of my words in person, in smiles, in laughs, in teary eyes, and I know, now, that I shouldn’t keep them to myself.

Am I perfect?  Of course not.  And I don’t ever expect to be.  As in life, I expect to keep learning.  I like the imperfection, because it gives me a goal, a direction, a desire to always do better.  To do that I need to write.  I don’t care if it’s 100 words or a thousand, I don’t care if it’s crap, but I want to write every day, take the hour to myself and just let those words out.  Calm my restless mind and improve.  Work on my imperfections and continue to gift my words to the world. 

On the second night we had a free write where we could come up with anything we wanted.  We sat on the deck again, watching the lake and it brought this memory to mind.  This would have happened around thirty-five years ago, so my memory is hazy as to the details, but most of the things in these paragraphs happened.  Maybe not exactly in the order that I remember them, and a couple of them may have even been from other outings on the lake or other memories not related to the lake at all, all mushed into one memory of a day spent fishing with my brother.

On the Bay

There’s a sense of memory drifting across the lake.  Not what one would expect.  You expect many things seated beside a peaceful lake, but sadness?  Does sadness even have a tactile feel?  An odor?  A taste?  A vision?  A sound?  Not exactly, but senses can draw out a memory that induces sadness.  Reminds you of forgotten times.  Associates you with a happy time to which you can’t return. 

It’s the smell of gasoline burning in the engine as the propeller churned the water into froth as we slowly made our way from the boat launch, up the Saginaw River and into the Bay.  The smell of worms that wriggled in your fingers, their slime coating the tips as you carefully threaded them onto the hook.  The coconut smell of the SPF50 that encased you, slathered head to foot (oops, you forgot the ears) so that you couldn’t sit in the vinyl seat, sliding off if you didn’t remember to wedge your bare toes against side.

It’s the sound of the silence in the middle of the bay, the calm slap of water against the boat, the faint sound of a distant motor as some other fisherman chugged his way to his own favorite ‘guaranteed fishing spot’, the static from the radio left on ‘just in case’.  The fissure of a can opening, the sharp metal pop followed by the slight fizz of carbonation.  The voice of my brother, telling me stories of the Grandpa who had owned this boat and the other Grandpa I never knew, stories of my mom and dad long before I was born (the advantage of a big age difference).  His laugh.  His jokes.  Keeping me in stitches so that I didn’t even notice my line pulling down as another fish stole my bait.

The taste of bologna and cheese on white bread.  Stale Doritos because we opened the bag in the truck before we launched because we couldn’t wait, so when we ate on the boat they didn’t have that fresh, crisp crunch.  The sweet slide of a newly opened Pepsi over the tongue, perfect on a hot day in the middle of a big lake, baking in the sun.

The coolness of the water from the first jump in, the way the water caressed your skin like a lover, though you’re ten years old!  How would you know that?  You make that comparison decades later when you rethink this memory of this perfect day.  The water refreshes skin burnt by the sun, already an angry pink and you just know your brother will get ‘that look’ from Mom, in spite of being an adult man with a full time job.  The metal side of the boat burns your palms as you grasp it to scramble back in, because your brother reminded you that the Great Lakes connected to the ocean and ‘was that a shark fin I see off the port bow?’

The end of the day, when the sun tiredly sinks toward the horizon, somehow making that blue sky an even deeper blue.  You thought, looking at the noon sky earlier, that nothing could be more blue, but you’re wrong.  This is a bluer blue.  You watch your brother pack away the gear and release the three fish you caught.  Their tails splash a little trail away from the boat as you lean over to see, the weight of both of you tipping the boat slightly, and the fish disappear down into the depths to return to their own loved ones.  The anchor is pulled up, an old and rusty anchor.  This is, after all, your Grandfather’s old boat.  It clunks and sits wetly on the floor, a little puddle pooling around it that you move your feet away from.  No need to get wet again.

The boat is gone and we’re much older now.  Gone is the boat and those idyllic days where it was just my brother and me.  He’s married with kids who are adults now.  His whole focus went from me to his family, as it should.  I grew up too, forged my own path in life, moved far away and our time together has dwindled down to once a year.  There’s no boat, and even if there were, there’d be no time to use it.  He has responsibilities and I have people to see on my fly-by visits.  Yet sitting here on the edge of a small Michigan Lake, my soul yearns to be ten years old again, covered in bandaids, sunscreen, mosquito repellant, with my hair in pigtails, burning to a crisp on a rusty old boat in the middle of the bay.  To have another day of just my brother and me. 

You get a two for one, today!

My next writing retreat piece was another complete surprise.  I had no intention of writing something that turned out sad.  I tend to write happy fluff.  Our task for the afternoon was to wander around the inn and the lake.  Find a quiet spot to contemplate and be inspired.  Write whatever came to mind.  Draw your writing from your environment.

Missy and I wandered across the road from the inn to another part of the property, a newly built building that contained a meeting center, surrounded by a group of buildings containing extra rooms for the hotel.  It looked like it was set up to hold either conferences or weddings.  The landscaping was impeccable and beautiful and there was an obvious spot for a wedding ceremony, complete with the wedding arch at the back of the perfectly trimmed lawn.

We sat on the rocking chairs conveniently nestled on the porch.  It was quiet, because it looked like these buildings had just been built, but were not in use.  We were alone, listening to the quiet of the wind in the surrounding trees and the faint tinkle of water from a fountain at the end of the building.  It was peaceful.

Missy wandered around taking pictures before settling down to write in her journal.  I contemplated the spot set aside for wedding ceremonies and a story formed.  It started out sad.  I imagined a bride being left at the altar.  Why?  I’m not sure.  But in a twist, I think I made it even sadder at the end.  Please read and let me know your thoughts.

The Wedding

“So cliche,” I thought, poking my toe in the perfectly manicured green grass.  I had abandoned my shoes.  Gladly, too, as they pinched the heel of my left foot and started a blister under my right middle toe. 

I wondered what made this grass so green.  Fertilizer?  Mulch?  The feces of cows bought from a neighboring farm, tilled into the soil and decomposing to blend rich nutrients for the roots to feed.  But green.  So green.  Blinding in way that had nothing to do with the sun.

No, wait.  The blinding effect emanated from the shine of white at the other end of the runner.  A prim little pergola.  Or archway?  Is that what they call it?  Walk through the arch to your new life?  It’s also white.  So much white.  It did create a nice contrast to the green.  And the blue.  The blue blue blueness of the sky.  So perfect.  Everything perfect.  Just how I wanted it. 

The chairs were white too.  Fifty on each side of the runner.  Lined up neatly, perfect.  With bows on the inner chairs.  Also white.  Because that’s what weddings were, right?  White for purity.  White for chastity.  White to show the groom that yes, his bride was an untouched maiden sacrificing her virginity only for him.

I snorted.  Yeah right.  That had been sacrificed long ago, three men and one woman before Tom.  Purity.  An outdated concept in this modern world.  Probably outdated even in 1700.  Sex was universal, no matter the century.

I wonder if that’s why I chose red.  The contrast color.  Red for the vests.  Red for the ugly dresses for my friends because I couldn’t have them outshine me.  Red for the flowers.  The same flowers clutched between my cramped fingers.  How long have I held these?  The once pristine stems were broken and mangled, my perfect French manicured nails catching in the fibrous strands of the roses.  Roses.  Red roses for love triumphant.  Love passionate. 

I now wonder should I have chosen white roses to match the rest of this sham.  Didn’t they mean love dead? 

No, I chose red for the excitement that I felt at marrying the love of my life.  For the passion I still felt in spite of the cheating.  The breaking up and making up.  The harsh words.  It would be ok.  It would be.  Everyone assured me.  He’s changed.  He loves you.  You will be good together.  You will be perfect together.

A touch on the shoulder.  The cold fingers of my mother on my bare skin.  A shiver that had nothing to do with the weather.  No the weather was perfect.  Just how I wanted it to be.

“You should be inside.  People will arrive soon,” she said.  I looked up at her, hyper-focused on her lips.  So red.  So perfect.  Mother always looked her best with her perfect makeup and her perfect hair.  Her perfect husband.  Her perfect daughter.  And soon a perfect son-in-law. 

Her painted smile encouraged me to stand and she held out those hated perfectly white shoes to me.  “Don’t forget these.”

I smiled back and thanked her as I took them.  They felt so heavy, though they weighed nothing.

“Such a beautiful day,” she said as she led me back to my waiting friends.

“Yes,” I agreed.  “It’s perfect.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After we wrote across the street, we wandered back to our building, where we sat on that porch and admired the landscaping. Birds, a squirrel, curious bees, and butterflies flittered around us. Missy kept commenting on the hostas, which were hugely splendid and showing off their bigness. The creatures dancing among them certainly seemed to think so.

I’m not a poet. I certainly don’t think along those lines, not in the brilliant way that Missy can make words sing on a page. For some reason, however, I thought I could attempt one. Nature inspired me, as it has inspired countless poets throughout the centuries. Though I think this poem is terrible, and I ended up not sharing it with the group as I read the wedding story instead, in full disclosure I share it with you.

Playing

Beat one, beat two, gentle wings
Hop one, hop two, flowers swing

Brush once, brush twice, hostas dance
Look once, look twice, a nervous glance

Skip one, skip two, chasing a nut
Dash one, dash two, hide in a rut

Buzz once, buzz twice, a nectar dip
Sip once, sip twice, a honey trip

On the morning of the second day, after a delicious breakfast at the inn, we gathered once again on the deck of the boathouse (the private part of the inn just for us) and wrote together.  Kristine gave us a task to complete in a short amount of time.  Tell us what writing means to you.  The influence of my fellow writers inspired me to write my list the way I did.  I came up with sixteen reasons, grouped in fours, where each reason started with the same word.

What Does Writing Mean to Me

Freedom – to express myself
Freedom – to expose myself
Freedom – to share myself
Freedom – to be myself

Joy – when you find that perfect word
Joy – when you find that perfect phrase
Joy – when you nail that dialogue
Joy – when someone tells you that your story moved them to tears

Satisfaction – to create something of my own
Satisfaction – to sort out my feelings
Satisfaction – to describe something without using the word ‘big’ or ‘small’, etc.
Satisfaction – to complete something and share it with others

Humility – to know that I gave comfort to someone I didn’t know needed it
Humility – to know I made someone smile
Humility – to know I touched someone
Humility – to know I moved someone

Kristine, however, didn’t stop there.  She then gave us more time to pick one of the items and expand on it.  It took me awhile to get going because I wasn’t sure what I wanted to write about in regards to the above list.  I spent a good amount of time thinking on each of the items I listed and why I listed them in the first place.  When I began writing, what came out was a complete surprise to me, but it felt cathartic to get it out.  It ended up being a piece on social anxiety, which after I read to the group, was told by Kristine that she had no idea that social anxiety felt like that. 

Freedom to Share Myself

Social anxiety is the antithesis of sharing.  Strangers frighten you.  A friendly smile freezes you.  A simple “how are you?” asked politely as you place your items on the grocery belt stymies your brain, makes you forget polite responses, ties up your tongue, short-circuits everything you’ve been taught as you stammer out “you too?”

Social anxiety is loneliness.  You can’t express yourself with your mouth.  You open it but your teeth function as a brick wall, containing the brilliant thoughts just aching to come out.  They push.  Oh do they push, bang, smash at that wall, but the eyes on you halt everything.  Even if you say it, you’re so awkward…it will come out wrong or twisted and you receive a puzzled look, a concerned look, a ‘holy shit what did she just say?’ look. 

You don’t share.  You sit in the corner, if you actually make yourself go, and watch the rest of the party have fun.  You don’t contribute.  Small talk gives you a headache.  You practice conversations in your head, then get frustrated when others don’t respond the way they did in your imagination.  You hide, concentrating on making friends with the family cat, instead of the cute boy or girl who smiled at you across the room.

It’s stressful.  You want to connect, you want to have friends, you need to have friends, but the ones who fully understand you are few and far between.  Those ones know to talk first, to ask questions, to be patient, to let you work it out and give you the space to be comfortable.

There is one friend, though, one that never fails you.  Oh, it will still frustrate you, and sometimes you’ll want to smash it yourself, but the keyboard is waiting at home, in your safe space, in your quiet.  The plastic smoothness comforts your fingers and the rhythmic tapping soothes your anxious mind.  You’re finally sharing your thoughts and words.  It’s on a screen.  It may never be seen.  But they’re out, finally, and you can finally have peace of mind.

At the writing retreat, we were assigned to write anything we wanted to share for the first evening.  I was at a loss.  There was no prompt or direction.  It was a free for all and I had no idea on what to write.  We had a few hours to fill with dinner and writing, and planned to share with each other gathered together after our individual writing adventures.

Missy and I collected snacks and sat on the lovely back porch overlooking the lake.  It was quiet and peaceful.  The weather was perfect, as was the view.  Except for the fact that I had no idea what to get my fingers to start typing.

Missy busily worked across the table from me, curled up into herself as her poetry tumbled onto the pages of the writing journal I gave her.  I stared at my tablet, fingers resting on the keyboard with no clue where to start.  Then I remembered Pinterest.

I opened the app and searched for ‘writing prompts’ and I wasn’t disappointed.  I created a whole new board on my own Pinterest for writing prompts, but one immediately made me think of one of the fandoms I write for.  So, using a couple of the characters (from a fantasy episode of the show, so not in their normal appearance) I wrote the small piece based on the dialogue prompt I found.

I thought it was good, and actually didn’t mind the thought of sharing with these people who were still strangers to me.  Until they started reading theirs.

I heard a few beautiful pieces before my turn and with each one my heart sank.  I wasn’t near the caliber of these writers.  Even though we were warned not to compare ourselves to each other, it was impossible not to do so, especially as the lovely woman who went before me read something that was so moving and heart-breaking it made me cry.

As she finished, I looked down at my silly fantasy piece and wanted to leave.  Go down to the sweet little room I shared with Missy at the inn, bury myself under the covers, and give up any thought of writing anything else ever.  My piece wasn’t serious.  It wasn’t descriptive or beautifully written.  It wasn’t serious or moving or important.  It was fantasy fluff and I felt like a complete idiot as I read it, cheeks burning, heart pounding, and close to tears because I could feel my dreams just slipping away.

But.  They liked it.  They laughed at the appropriate places.  Gave me compliments.  I still feel silly that something so inane followed something so divine, but at least my confidence returned.

So now I present to you the very short (less than 500 word) piece I wrote from a dialogue prompt on the first evening of the writing retreat.  When I read it over now, I like it and might expand it into a longer story.  The dialogue that is the prompt is the last two lines that I italicized.

Thief!

“Thief!”

Pike froze, his ears turning toward the sound that echoed in the empty room.  His grunt of surprise was louder than he intended.  Why didn’t he hear the owner of that voice sneak up on him?  He prided himself on his highly developed sense of hearing.  His fingers gripped the small tiara in his hands tighter, pressing the smooth pads harshly into the sharp ridges of gold.

He straightened into a more upright stance, his tail curling around his left hip as if it wanted to hide from the harsh voice behind him.  He couldn’t blame his tail.  That voice was deep and loud, and Pike pictured someone tall and burly who could probably break him in two.  That would be a really bad end to this adventure, he thought.

“Thief?” Pike questioned, his voice jumping up into a higher pitched registry.

Two stomps of heavily booted feet jangled his nerves even more.  “Yes, thief,” growled out.

How to play this?  Pike wasn’t sure if the owner of the voice was the only one in the small manor or if there were guards swarming around ready to capture him.  His ability to teleport didn’t allow him long jumps, so he needed to buy some time in order to gauge the situation.  Obviously, the place wasn’t as deserted as he assumed it to be.

He went for nonchalance, spinning slowly on the ball of his right foot, holding both arms out to his side, palms up.  “How can you say I’m a thief?” he asked in his most incredulous and offended tone.

The figure in front of him did not match the voice.  He appeared human, if the ears on the sides of his head and poor hairstyle were any indication.  He was short, too, and skinny, though the heavy battle axe held loosely in only one hand hinted at great strength.  The eyes were dark and the man’s brow furrowed so deeply that Pike compared it to the great Mana Canyon in his home territory. 

“I’d say that the Lady Mackson’s tiara in your hand,” the man said, nodding his head at the article dangling from the tips of Pike’s fingers, “means you’re a thief.”

He had a good point, Pike thought as he turned his head to look at the tiara.  Both hands quickly jumped behind him, hiding the tiara and pressing it against the small of his back.  In a guilty move, his tail helpfully curled up there as well.  “I’m not a thief.  I’m just very good at acquiring things that aren’t mine!”

I’m humbled by everyone that has subscribed!  You can’t imagine what your support means to me!

Before I jump into sharing the things I wrote on the writing retreat I attended, I’d like to tell a little bit about this amazing experience that led me to have the confidence to share.  I learned much about myself during the brief couple of days in June, surrounded by the beauty of a small Michigan lake and like-minded writers.  I learned I have a voice.  I learned I could make people smile with it.  I could show a new side of things to people.  I could move people, and that is a powerful feeling.

Had I felt this before?  In a way.  My fanfiction work gets comments and love.  While I don’t write for that, I can admit it’s a good feeling to read them and know I brought someone to happiness or tears.  It always reminds me of a quote from Jim Valvano (Jimmy V.) – a basketball coach that died of cancer years ago.  During an ESPY’s speech (ESPN Sports excellence awards), he said the following:  Number three is you should have your emotions moved to tears, could be happiness or joy.  He was referring to yourself as a person, but if I can help someone’s emotions be moved, I consider it a success.

Earlier this year, a dear friend, Missy, posted information on Facebook about a writing retreat.  At this point, I had steadily been writing fanfiction for over two years.  I attempted original work in the past, but the fanfiction was my focus.  The writing retreat intrigued me, because I knew at some point if I were ever to take myself seriously – perhaps have others take my writing seriously – I knew I would have to take steps to explore it. 

However, attending something like this would be a huge step out of my comfort zone.  It is quite easy to post stuff anonymously online.  It’s another monster to throw it out into the world to people you know.  And, according to Missy, this would be writing and sharing with the group.  A group of strangers, save Missy, and I don’t do well with strangers. 

I did it though.  It was ‘hella scary’. 

We gathered, the eight of us total (plus one!) at a gorgeous inn on Gun Lake near Shelbyville in Michigan.  I was thrilled to spend time with Missy, who I hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.  My anxiety, however, was through the roof.  One gentleman, seven women of various ages, and another gentleman who didn’t write, but sat in on our gatherings to listen and offer support to his wife. 

I cannot say how blessed I feel to have come together with this group, allow them into my head and heart and to venture into theirs.  Their beautiful words not only inspired me, but also moved me in ways I’ve never been moved.  It’s one thing to read a beautiful passage in a book, but to have someone read aloud something beautiful, intimate, and personal is a whole otherworldly experience.  I can’t believe I was allowed to listen to these amazing wordsmiths, as much as I can’t believe I was able to share my words in turn with them. 

In short, it was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life and I can’t wait to do it again.

On the first day, the facilitator of our group, Kristine, asked us to spend a few moments and write a short piece with the beginning:  I Am Here Because…  It was the first thing we wrote and shared with each other.  I, of course, took it literally, as I take almost everything.  Everyone else wrote these beautifully poetic pieces, but I literally wrote why I came to the retreat.  We didn’t have much time (I think only 15 minutes?) to write the piece, so it’s not refined or anything, but I now share my first writing retreat piece.  Trust me, the rest is better! Enjoy!

I am here because…

I am here because I am scared.  I don’t do this.   I don’t share, but I want to move people with my stories.  I had a vivid imagination as a kid – I constantly made up stories for my cousins, my friends, and myself. Bedtime was my favorite time, because I would lay awake for an hour, tucked in warm blankets, dreaming up stories in my head as I fell asleep.

My parents got many reports about what a good and well-behaved student I was, but that imagination…dot dot dot… accompanied by an eyeroll.

I had an encouraging creative writing teacher in high school who loved my work no matter what it was.  Looking back, she probably should have called for some kind of psychiatric evaluation for some of the things I wrote (I’m looking at you homicidal stuffed bear that came to life) but she always praised me for making her laugh, which was really the only thing I wanted.  For someone to get a good feeling from what I wrote.

Just recently I got into fanfiction, which I know is not considered a serious thing, though there have been successful authors who either started out with this type of writing, or still do it even though they are published.  It took forever for me to share it though, and to this day only one person in my ‘real life’ has ever read what I’ve written.  My husband knows I write, but I’ve never shared with even him.  The friend who has was the one who told me to post it online and the first short story I posted scared the crap out of me.  I was so nervous about exposing myself like that.

Then the comments, likes, and follows poured in.  That has been the encouraging thing to me.  To know that something I wrote – even the small fluff that shouldn’t be considered anything substantial has brought someone to smiles or happy tears means the world to me.  So I am here because… (dot dot dot) I want to expand that.  Expand my scope and my ability and not be scared anymore.