“Spirit of the Stairwell.” This story was inspired by a beautiful image captured by the author of this blog: Noir, the Darker Side to Sedge808. Thanks, for all the beauty you give, G. You always say it better. With pictures! ❥ ~JM~ Gavin headed up the imperious, winding stairwell for the last time today. For […]
Author Mae Clair is October’s Featured blogger in this, the second re-boot of my monthly featured blogger post.
In our interview, Mae shares some of her history and ideas about writing and success.
In your profile, you say you like to blend genres; does it happen as you write?
It developed as my writing progressed. I never liked being pigeon-holed to a certain genre, so my early books were a mash-up of mystery and romance. The romance eventually fell by the wayside and mystery took center stage. I do, however, blend that up with elements of the supernatural, paranormal, and psychological aspects. One book also included a bit of sci-fi with UFO sightings and Men in Black.
You wrote your first story at six; what was it about?
I don’t remember the content. What I do remember is being given the assignment and my classmates scrawled out a few lines…
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Words don’t seem like they can carry the weight of what I can’t set free.
Originally posted on Journey Into A on Feb. 21, 2018.
Maybe something’s wrong here
Maybe something’s right
But I don’t have you
By my side
My heart is beating faster
My hands are cold as ice
I don’t know if my head will stop pounding
What happened last night
I feel the clouds approaching
Thunder will start roaring
Maybe I will get through it alright
I hear the train’s whistle blowing
Stray cats are moaning
Maybe I will get through this alright
Well you came knocking on my door
The look on your face
tells me so much more
Where did we go wrong here
Where did we go right
Maybe I will get through this alright
Today I was reviewing what I have written over the past year. I wanted to direct a friend to a post that will clearly tell my story. But the posts seem to be just snippets of who I am. What do I point him to? My first post Belong, is a good slice in time, but confusing. I got so much clearer a year later with Shift | Shine. But it leaves out so much to stay tight. Prism Merge explains exactly where I was when I entered high school, but it requires Age 14, Take 2 to explain it. My Rape is poorly written, but ‘74 Fold goes on for 6 posts!
Can I run through all of these ramblings and tag them into a cohesive thing? Or do I let them just be what and when they are? What do I want? In Home I describe how validating it is to be understood. I suspect that is all I want, to be seen for who I am.
If you grew up in the 20th century, there’s a decent chance you wanted to be like Miles Davis, Billie Holiday, Humphrey Bogart, Albert Camus, Audrey Hepburn, James Dean or Jimi Hendrix. In their own ways, these people defined cool.
The cool person is stoical, emotionally controlled, never eager or needy, but instead mysterious, detached and self-possessed. The cool person is gracefully competent at something, but doesn’t need the world’s applause to know his worth. That’s because the cool person has found his or her own unique and authentic way of living with nonchalant intensity.
Source: How Cool Works in America Today
I suppose people who commit crimes have always been of interest to ordinary people, hence the media/news that report on these individuals, because of the public interest.
But the media will not report on people who suicide. This is a normal practice for media/news, and for good reason….
….but it baffles me that schapelle corby gets the intense media treatment, when this person is just a common drug trafficker.
We say we are fearful of terrorism, and yet we thrive on the information of the incidents ?????? (not me).
All I know is: the human ego feasts on drama….
But when I hear that schapelle corby has an instagram account and gets thousands of followers, I die inside when I hear about the intense/obsessive interest in her life.
I have absolutely NO interest in schapelle corby!!!!!!!
Many of you know I survive through clinical depression. And though I am 42 (as of this writing) I’ve struggled with this Specter since middle school. Many of you know all too well, the impact it has had on my life and those around me.
I feel pushed by the Lord everyday, to be as open as I can about it – feeling alone is the worst feeling in the world.
I don’t want anyone to feel like that. No one should.
I feel pushed to face the darkness, and encourage those who deal with the same demons. To talk about my experiences with those who have lost loved ones to this affliction, and may be themselves, pressing on through the awful quagmire of hopelessness.
So about this map…Having blogged for almost two years, I am thinking of creating a series of short stories about several heroes and their struggles with mental illness.
I wanted to share the beginning of their world with you.
I wrote a short story on stonewalling in relationships, which inspired me to begin to branch out with my writing.
Robert sits in the Cafe Flore.
He sips a cup of green tea.
He traces words in a note-book.
A stranger flips the table and shouts: “When you are ready to decide who you are let me know!”
His Mother throws poems at me and weeps.
“Such lovely poems,” she says, “but all about me…all about me.”
I wear the black trench coat of mourning.
“Ya know,” I say, “I was taught to be more dispassionate.”
Robert rights the table and smiles: “So was I. We’re Jewish, ya know.”
“Yes.” I sigh. “More tea?”
Robert nods and passes me the cup.
“I had a dream about you,” says Robert.
I see all of San Francisco from the summit of Mount Haleakalā.
It is dawn and a dense fog settles as a crown around my head.
There is a scent of roses.
A jagged crack slaps my face.
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“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.” ― Anaïs Nin
Calling All Writers
If you like to write then we need your help. One of our readers, Michelle, at Putting My Feet In the Dirt has an ongoing reader created story page at her website called Monotony Free Mondays. We need writers to join in with our regular group to help write this story together. Continue reading “Do You Write Too?”
Something as mundane as finding that I’ve followed someone by mistake can unsettle me for days.
It’s not uncommon for me to find comments about a post that I know nothing about; I often don’t know what’s been posted until I see a comment.
I usually read the post before I reply.
The trigger in this case was that I replied to the comment, went to see what it was about; saw a very nice blog, but not one that I would follow.
It felt odd.
How did it happen?
I told a friend.
She thought that one of my alternates had played a prank.
Why didn’t if feel like something I would do?
Then the trigger kicked in.
Was I hacked?
I rarely discuss the practical problems of being a blogger with Dissociative Identity…
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The ongoing sight of our elderly and disabled living their last days in filth on our city streets fill me with shame.
It’s hard to believe that it wasn’t always like this.
For me, the question is not what the government should do about it.
The question is what are we going to do as people to correct a fatal mistake in public policy?
The policy of deinstitutionalization was premised on the idea that human rights and class mobility are a national priority.
“We as a Nation have long neglected the mentally ill and the mentally retarded. This neglect must end, if our nation is to live up to its own standards of compassion and dignity and achieve the maximum use of its manpower. This tradition of…
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Dear Readers of Survival,
I have neglected this site, as well as my own as of late. The past years dedication to WP had seriously eaten in to my obligations as a homemaker and Mom. I have decided to slow down, a lot. However, this question/thought hit me the other night. I hope you will be able to add to it!!! Much love, Heather
I sit quietly alone on my terrace watching the sun set on the day, as I have done oh so many times before. There is one particular sunset I do recall. Though it was only about 4 years ago, the night was still, the air a pleasant spring time damp. Torches of candle flame stood tall without nary a breeze to fight. This sunset is a memory. I ask myself just when it became so and just why. What was so different than all of the other nights when most probably, the setting was just the same? I ask myself “Will tonight become a memory and if so, when?”
When does an event cross the line and become embedded in our hearts or mind. Why is a memory thought as one a day later, but forgotten with time? We use the terminology in the present that it will “make a great memory”. Such a fun time, a sad time, an unexpected moment, but does it always make the cut, does it really? No, it doesn’t. We forget it. We can possibly recall it with help, but it is not embedded as a memory free for the taking.
I can recall a time when I was about 4 years old popping tar bubbles on a telephone pole one hot summer day. Why? Was it the sensation of the goo on my fingers that nothing else ever matched? What was it? Why is this afternoon of my life still so vivid? The first Beatle album I ever listened to and just exactly where and how I was sitting on the floor of my neighbor’s bedroom at the tender age of about 6. When my dog got sprayed by a skunk. I am sure that memory and the tomato bath she received that night was perhaps distinctly because of the odor I encountered all but once in my life.
People. I have memories of people whose life crossed mine for not more than 10 heartbeats of my own life. Why them? What subconscious meaning did they give me? Something, for sure. Why do I recall them now? Today? Why do my friends have vivid memories of times with me and I, myself, have no recollection of that moment?
The mind and the way it files and retains events selectively is astonishing. Are memories to treasure, to learn from, or to keep a mental note on just how fast time flies? A marker for where we were then and where we are now? As a reminder of simpler days, of harder ones, as ones we didn’t even notice or appreciate in their presence (Hence, a dog’s tomato bath). Will this evening 10 years from now be a memory? I doubt it, but I never expected tar popping to be one either.
Memories, What do you think???