I write

Some of you may not know that I am working on publishing my first novel. Those of you who follow “i wryte prettie” will likely know this, as that blog is designated to all things in the name of writing. Here, though, I had thought to expand the uchiwa — a Japanese folding fan — of my life, giving anyone who might be curious a closer look at the colors, shapes, and characters that comprise the person who is me. Second to my faith, I am wife to Michael, and third to that, I am, and always will be, a writer.

I spend my days tucked inside my bedroom, and further beyond that, tucked inside my bed, where a laptop habitually rests atop the book I’m currently reading. If you’ve ever stopped to wonder why I respond so quickly to comments and such, you will perhaps now understand why. My job, for however long I might be so privileged, is to finish editing this 1200 page beast. That is, if I can avoid succumbing to the distractions I sabotage myself with daily.

*Opens WIP document* “Oh, what? There’s a wrinkle in that shirt? Well, I must iron it right now, of course!” or “How can I be out of Q-tips?!? No. I simply will not accept that. I shall make my way as quickly as possible to the nearest Target and amend this harrowing news.”

Do writers really talk like that, you might ask? *ahem* When we’re feeling a tad pretentious, maybe. 🙂

Anyhow . . . The seed of intrigue was implanted in my mind by my most supportive and doting husband. You see, I didn’t always know I was a writer. And truth be told, there isn’t much in the way to prove this claim. I am not published, I have no degrees or accreditation which corroborate any right to this medium; I simply must . . . write.

Before writing, came reading. Lots and lots of reading. It is my postulation that before excellent writing must — no exceptions to the rule — come excellent literature. Inspiration. Passion. Desire. There must be something that takes hold of your heart, folds it possessively between concupiscible palms and forever ruins you to a life without prose.

After reading a series of books in which I could not, very literally, put down — I kid you not, I resorted to pulling off the side of the road to get a few more pages in before coming home from my then nannying job — and having to say goodbye to those characters who were not so much characters as they were my friends, I was, to put it mildly, bereft. I searched and searched and searched for a novel to grasp me the way those books had. I couldn’t find it, and so I remained in a state of despair until one day my husband casually suggests to me, “Why don’t you write a book?” to which I replied, “Me?!  You must be kidding. I could never write a book,” I said, thinking that writers were whimsical creatures, with minds like fireworks, exploding and sparkling brilliance without any effort put forth. I cannot help but laugh at myself now. Suffice to say, I did eventually sit down, sweating and tremulous, to type out what was possibly the worst 20 pages of literary excrement ever written. Ha!

Nearly two years later and here I am — still editing. And editing and editing and editing. I could very well edit for the rest of my life, though my husband likely won’t let that happen. Thank God for him!

If you do you follow my other blog, consequently you may have already found and read my poetry. I apologize for the redundancy, but I woke today feeling pensive and romantic, and also with that unnameable something I surmise all writers contend with on their more creative days. My wish was to share something with you. This is a poem I wrote and entered into a contest. It did not win, but I love it all the same. I hope you do as well.

Also . . . just thinking out loud here; if there is ever something you would like me to read or look at, just let me know. Seriously. I cease to be amazed at the talent and creativity I’ve seen thus far while visiting blogs. Obviously I can’t get to it all on my own, but if you lead me there, I promise to take a sincere moment to enjoy whatever you have and respond.

Disconcerted Hands

Been waiting for you . . . wasn’t sure if you would come.

I’ve made an enemy of hope, acquainting myself until I was no longer wanted.

But you did come, didn’t you.

And now that you’re next to me, words evade,

tangling themselves like vines around a gate, serpentine and selcouth.

Never been alone, just you and I.

Insecurity’s voracious appetite sinks its teeth where I’m most uncertain

I falter . . .

questioning whether or not my feelings go unrequited.

Maybe I’ll wait.

Maybe just a minute more.


Back and forth this old wooden swing takes us,

aching and sore, sighing with each sway.

The green needles, still damp from heavens tears, tickle my bare, restless feet.

I try not to heed these trepidations, the hindrance to your splendor.

The sweet breeze has brought along company;

remnants of today’s flirtatious sunshine and this evening’s proud fire.

It musses with your inky hair,

spilling it in that way that makes me shiver — makes me curl back my fingers.

A hummingbird burgeons inside my chest, wings flapping chaotically, restricted.

It hurts so good, like stiff muscle uncoiling after a night of sound slumber.

I’m reminded why I’ve come.

Flaming pinks and spicy oranges glow and blaze, melding at the hand of the careless painter.

A lovely sight we survey, then I think

we could be orbiting the moon, dangling on Saturn’s rings, and I would never know.

I see only one thing, wait for only one thing, want for only one thing:

for your hand, a mirror image of my own as it rests by your side, to reach out and touch me.

I’ve dreamt about this moment many times,

so much that I can already feel the warmth of your soft skin.

But I still want it — I want you to want it.

My fist opens, one trembling finger at a time, stretching towards your hand.

Stealing a glance at your face, I search to see if this pleases or frightens you.

I find your eyes cast down, ebony blankets  fluttering softly across your blossoming cheeks.

I wait . . . vulnerable . . . exposed,

hoping you will meet me half way.

Waiting . . . and then

I can wait no more.

16 thoughts on “I write

  1. No wonder your husband told you to write. YOU CAN WRITE! I love it when I fall into books and never want it to end. You feel like so sad that the little life in the book is over. Or at the very least you can’t see it play out any longer. You write your blog beauitfully and I cannot wait till you get your book published so I can pick it up. I read about 50 books a year, so I will add you to my list!

    • You are so kind to say that . . . Thank you. And you are so right about never wanting it to end. I am happy to report I found an incredible author who has 7 books to her series, all of which number over 700 pages each! If you are ever looking for history, romance, and the most extravagant writing style I have ever had the pleasure of reading, Diana Gabbaldon is your lady 🙂

      I think it’s cute that while you were reading my post, I was reading yours. I promise to respond soon; I’m trying to finish up my page goal for the day.

  2. Beautiful poetry. I’ve never dine this before, but for some reason I started reading your second poem backwards after reading it through, and it was just as beautiful – if not more so – that way. Funny.

    • First of all, thank you for taking the time to read. I’ve learned that little else claims value the way other’s time does, so truly, thank you! Second, that is incredibly interesting. Poetry in reverse . . . I will definitely have to give that a try.

    • Thank you for your words . . . I feel more blessed than I can express — though I do try, lol — and am humbled by the opportunity to pour my heart into prose. And yes, I am ever grateful God lent me an angel of His to marry 🙂

  3. Hello ! thanks for your sweet comment on my blog xx your blog is great.. very interesting too…I just read the post about the printed candles….super ! Gail x

  4. I almost got a white pitcher just like that one a Marshall’s I put it back last minute…grrr, why am I trying to save money?
    Your awesome, I just totally enjoyed reading some of your blog? Is it called a blog on wordress? No, right? Ah…well, what’s more important then my techy skills is that your awesome! I will be signing up to get your e-mails, can wait to read more, I find it hard to find unique voices in the blogging world.

    • LOL! Oh, no! I hate when I find something I love and then talk myself out of it! But . . . if it was overpriced, then it was probably a smart decision. I found mine at TJMAXX in the clearance aisle for $11. I’m sure you’ll find a great one again; just keep your eyes peeled!

      I am so glad you enjoyed what you read. And yes; it is still called a blog even though network isn’t the same 🙂 I spent a little more time this morning acquainting myself with your blog, and as soon as my husband can help me, I would like to put your button on my blog. I am not so skilled operating the widget gizmos. Likely, I could figure it out on my own, but the sun might be setting when I do 🙂

      • Do you have a button for your blog? That’s so sweet of you to put my button on your blog! I could tell you how to do it for blogger but not WordPress. $11 nice! The one at Marshall’s was $20.

  5. Hm . . . That is very good question! LOL. I believe my husband made one for me; however, if it’s not on my sidebar, likely it’s inactive. Once I have had a chance to talk to him, I will figure it out and shoot you a comment to let you know.

    Of course! I would love as many people as possible to find your blog. So much inspiration to be found there 🙂

    Ooo, $20 is too much! You will definitely be able to find one less expensive. A thrift store would be perfect! I looked there first, but they only had little ones.

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