Haiku – How To Clean A Memory

Take a photograph

Save it for a rainy day

Then wipe off your tears

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The Year of the Writer

When I was in 6th grade my teacher told me that I wrote an excellent poem far above my grade level. It rhymed, it made sense, it was even kinda funny. The wonderful thing about that poem was that I had never written one before, and It was perfected in under ten minutes.

Since then I thought myself a brilliant writer. It was the first time anyone had ever told me that. A few years had past before anyone had complimented me on my writing skills again, so I started to think less of it.

My senior year had come around and my english teacher was thrilled with my college essay. She told me I “got the stuff.” This wasn’t the moment I decided to write a book though, that moment was long before. I would stay up countless hours to write drafts of novels that were never completed. Ideas that were lost on scattered pages and on old computers that were never backed up. The only completed book that I ever wrote was in middle school, and I couldn’t even tell you where that hunk of printer paper is today.

So when I got back into reading for fun, sometime in-between the last Twilight book and The Hunger Games, I told myself that I can do this. I’m smart, I’m imaginative, and I “got the stuff.”

The problem was that I never found my idea, there was no spark to light the fire, I didn’t have that best selling bombshell. Despite my road bumps, I never gave up. After years of internal torture I finally may have something worth a chapter 2.

I will probably start posting snippets of it, asking for feed back. I don’t wan’t to continue a dead beat story.

However, I want to be honest with you. I have been scared of this book. I have sat there for hours staring at my finished prologue, worrying about moving forward. I have deliberately ignored the file on my desktop labeled “Dystopian Novel” since before finals week. What If It turns out that this idea is no good, and I’ve let even more of my time decay? What If it’s a great idea, but I’m not skilled enough to carry it out?

I think about the storyline constantly, playing around with it in my head. I just fear the pen and paper. I worry that I’ll take a wrong turn and become so discouraged that i’ll stop.

And I don’t want to stop.

This is why I have marked 2015 as “The Year of the Writer.” As my greatest and foremost important new years resolution, I vow to leave all my fears about this book behind and to jump into it with everything that I have.

This is it. I’m all in.

The New Years Manifesto. 2015

1. Look for what makes you happy, look past the sorrowful.

Life is much too short not to explore the beautiful.

2. Find people who inspire you, who broaden your knowledge.

Leave behind the simpletons you met before college.

3. Travel to the most dazzling cities, forget home for a while.

See new sights, learn new languages, try on a new style.

Purple Town

Now. Take me on an adventure.

Enticing. A town that’s already been painted red so that we can splatter it with blue.

Whimsical. Red and blue?

Yes. Let’s paint a purple town. I’ve never seen a purple town.

Old-fashioned. Fill it with wealth and royalty.

Reveling. Dress me like the kings and queens of western culture, purple robes mantled down my spine.

Killer. A town to symbolize the sin of pride.

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A Little Christmas Gloom

We haven’t left cookies for him in a few years. I don’t remember which year it was exactly, they all start to get foggy.

I remember staying up on Christmas Eve waiting for him with my sister. The two of us would dress up in our footsie pajamas and hide out in the basement watching holiday specials and drinking hot chocolate. She would always snooze off before me, but I was determined to meet him.

There was one year where I thought I had him. It was the latest I had ever stayed up, probably around five or six in the morning. I heard something upstairs and I knew it was him, but something bolted me in place. I couldn’t move. There were bells next, and they were the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. Slowly but surely, I was dozing off.

I woke up the next morning upset that I had allowed myself to sleep. I had never been so close, or so bewildered.

Since then I believed in the jolly old man more than I had in my entire life. My sister has long given up hope, but my father never spoiled the magic for us.

I never wanted to know the truth, I wanted to keep the magic until it was time to pass it on. This year was different. This year I found the presents labeled with his name sitting in a shopping bag behind the washing machine in the garage.

And just like that, the magic was gone.

I guess I’ve known for a while, however my reasoning was bigger than believing fairy tales. I’m just not ready to except adulthood. I turn twenty this coming year… and It scares me that I’m not Daddy’s little girl anymore. I have no more time to slack off and I’m about to be part of a world that is not my friend.

I love my father for keeping the magic almost twenty years. I love that my inner child still gets the best of me on the worst of days. I don’t even care that I can hear him going downstairs to get the presents as I write this post.

I’m just happy that he still goes through the trouble to keep the magic alive, to keep us feeling young and to keep us believing in what makes us smile.

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