Country Road

The rectangular red brick home centered itself on the gently sloping acre lot. Among the untrimmed hedges an old rusted wagon wheel steadily rested itself against the brick. The view from the peek a boo dirt road showed Evergreens sprinkled throughout the front yard and a lone Scarlet Maple stretching to cover the potted driveway. The backyard revealed itself to a densely wooded area parted by a thin trickling creek. To us it was known simply as the forest.

There were many days spent hidden in the forest. It provided us with a protective layer from the world. It was our imaginary world to create characters we dreamed of being. A strong solider, a fairy princess, a teacher, or a great animal tamer. Three seasons a year were spent in this forest. In fall we would collect brightly colored leaves and save them in ironed wax paper. In winter we would sled down the small hill beside the river and slide across its frozen shell. We spent hours building igloos only to crumble in minutes amid a snowball fight. In spring we would cup our hands to sip from the crisp, clear creek's water. But in the summer, the forest was noticeable quite. The stream had fewer visitors, the trees lacked their climbers. This was a season we missed in the forest. This was our father's season.

A Tilted Earth

He was wearing a tan corduroy page boy golf cap, his dark hair peaking out from either side and curling up in the back, clinging to the cap, a navy blue box stitch down vest, a blue and red plaid shirt with opal colored snaps down the front, and indigo jeans. In each of his hands were giant sugar cookies with colorful candies spotting the surface and sealed in plastic wrappers. He handed us the cookies like a cashier gives change to a customer. His hands were constantly occupied with something, anything other than his children. His curled his fingers around the suitcase handles to either side of him as he picked them up and swaggered out the back wood paneled door. I remember dropping the cookie, it shattering inside its clear plastic casing, and running to the living room where she sat in her faded blue floral flannel nightgown. As I tucked myself under her wing, I could feel her heaving sobs in every breath. The dust swirled around his car as he backed out of the dirt driveway. The sunlight poured through the glass door and forced its way through the slits of the curtain in front of the picture window attempting to fill the dark places created that day. It is my first childhood memory. In the comfort of my footed pajamas and matted blond ringlet’s, I was three.

OK, Here it is

So here it is, a new blog dedicated solely to the art of writing. It is my attempt to hone my skill, develop my talent, take myself out of my writing. Someone once told me that it took them about 10,000 words to take themselves out of their writing. The average page has between 400 and 500 words. It will be many a post before I am ready to begin truly writing. But for now, I will explore the things that develop good writing habits. Humor and self depreciation are my go to's in writing. I know that I will have to explore other voices in writing to be good. Some of it won't be good. Hopefully some of it will be extraordinary. I am counting on you in this blog. I consider it a dialogue and a preparation for the potential editors that are ruthless in their critique. I want you to be passionate about it. If you hate it, I want to know. If you love it, I want to know more. Let the soul bearing begin...