#I always hope someday to see her books published and her face on a dust jacket

[platypusisnotonfire]

Ok so I feel like a slightly more positive post needs to follow this as I ran out of space in the tags but like

I was coming out of a …I guess I can’t say sheltered environment because naive I was not and I met so many people that were dangerous but…. Isolated? I think isolated is the word. Socially disconnected. And then suddenly having, if I were to estimate, 50ish homeless people over those two years that I talked to, learned from, knew everything about. They told me the daily news. They told me their drama. Eventually I knew about what mental illnesses they struggled with, what prescriptions they were on, what illegal medications they were using to cope with lack of medical care. I helped first responders with medical history when no one else knew. I gained such a perspective on the world talking to people who had it worse than me but were still keeping on keeping on. And I loved all of them.

[curmudggeon]

Southern Hope (Arthur Morgan x Female Reader)

❝ If by any chance...in another lifetime, we happen to see each other again, I'll come and find you. And I'll make you fall in love with me, over and over again ❞

In which romance novelist, Mary-Beth under the pen name of Leslie Dupont, writes a coming of age love story based on her favourite gang members in the past, You and Arthur.

Trigger Warnings; Violence | Blood | Angst | Sexual Intentions

A/N: This is a project I've been working on for quite a while. I had the idea in mind when I had the chance to experience the musical composition of Aaron Copland's quintessential American Dream, 'Appalachian Spring' -one of my favourite pieces with such a beautiful storyline. And I wanted to retell it in the form of a book that is available on my Wattpad (ongoing) for you to enjoy from Mary-Beth's POV. I hope you show love to this book as much as I loved writing it. Have a sneak peek at the prologue!

Read on Wattpad here for more chapters to come!

PROLOGUE

Leslie Dupont; Mary-Beth Gaskill

Lemoyne, Saint Denis

November 1907

-

“Mademoiselle Dupont, we expect your next manuscript to be submitted by next summer. Now is not the time to be reminiscing.”

Here we go again

Mary-Beth sighed as her editor, Céline Laurent, had warned her once more for not meeting the deadline to her books. She was in a crucial position in her life. After her debut as a romance novelist, The Lady of The Manor was an instant best-seller across the country. It was the kind of thing she specializes in, silly ol’ romances.

“I promise you, I’ll get it done by then.” Or maybe, at least not for now. She shouldn't have promised something she couldn’t keep, especially in the meantime.

“I’ll take your word for that, if you don’t meet the deadline by then. Y’know what will happen to your contract, Leslie.” Céline stood at the door frame of Mary-Beth’s office with hands on her hips and raised eyebrows.

She knew exactly what she had meant. In fact, she knew the consequences on the back of her head when she first signed that contract with her publishing company. Two more books were requested of her. Or else she would be evicted of her apartment and be forced to live along the streets of Saint Denis for the rest of her life. A life of luxury slipping between her fingers.

“Yes, ma’am,” Mary-Beth disclaimed, the moment her editor slammed the door as she left her office. Heaving yet another exaggerated sigh, she crosses her arms on the grand rosewood desk, flopping her head on top of it. “What am I going to do now…” She murmured into the crevice of her arms.

Mary-Beth was in the middle of a major writer’s block for a few months now. She lost sight of that imaginative space of hers, consisting of the most swoon-worthy romances to the picture-perfect life she portrayed through her characters. A part of Mary-Beth that her readers absolutely adored. But, her head was now a clouded space of everlasting void. It was difficult for Mary-Beth to come into terms of writing again, but she couldn’t quite identify what had put her into this position.

Once she gathered the courage to write again, it all came crashing down like violent tidal waves when she came face to the daunting blank page of nothingness —almost drowning her.

It was as simple as that. Come to work, have a cup of tea, sit down, and a blank page.

Every. Damn. Time.

Maybe it was because she was already nearing her mid-thirties, and she hasn’t found someone to sweep her off her feet. Maybe it was when she first held Tilly’s baby that she found the need to be a mother someday. Maybe it was the overwhelming response towards her writing, she felt the need to hide away into an abyss. Or maybe she couldn’t stop thinking about the time she had come across John again after so many years that the memories just come flooding back.

Or maybe, just, maybe. It was because it’s November.

The most dreaded time of the year. November, in which the seemingly fearsome Van der Linde gang had officially broken up. Guns were fired, ties were broken and deaths were grieved. An unforgettable, painful memory.

She would often think about campfire songs, the girls and, Miss Grimshaw’s constant nagging about undone chores. Oh, how best of friends Céline and Miss Grimshaw would have been if she had heard Mary-Beth had been slacking again. It was her coping mechanism, think more about the good times to get rid of the bad ones.

Mary-Beth remembered when she took in her hands at being a matchmaker. Prancing around the camp, she would eye her two best contenders. You and Arthur.

She knew from the start when you had laid your eyes on each other for the first time, she could see through the inexplicable connection in between. You were both extremely awkward when it came to small-talk or addressing each other as you walked by across camp. However, it never stopped Arthur to come to camp as soon as he could just so he could see you, even just for a second.

The conversation would often start with Arthur while on his way to Dutch’s tent,

“Hey,”

“Hey.”

“I’ll leave you to it then.”

“Yea sure…”

—and that would be it.

At the same time, every single day, at the course of sunset.

You poor socially inept fools.

Mary-Beth, Tilly, and Karen would always see the interaction happen in the middle of their afternoon chores. Grinning from ear to ear. They would elbow each other whenever there was something different about the correspondence.

One time, you would walk past him, suddenly kissing him on the cheek and scurrying away.

Arthur would stop in his tracks, stunned, with a hand-over where your kiss tingled on his skin. Then he would look back at you as you laid down, smiling to yourself against a tree with a book in your hands. And Dutch would yell his name, knocking him out of his stupor before he noticed he was staring for a little too long.

The girls would start applauding for your heroic performance, it was like a groundbreaking plot twist Mary-Beth couldn’t wait to write about when the idea came into mind.

The both of you were like a walking excruciating slow, slow-burn romance novel. That was when Mary-Beth would cue in her entrance as matchmaker as soon as the interaction slowly died down. Your story had to have a happily ever after in her book.

She would pester you and Arthur separately, mentioning each other’s names and slipping in hints of romantic intentions from the other side so the both of you can address whatever this relationship was.

Mary-Beth knew it was a mission accomplished the night Sean was rescued back to Horseshoe Overlook. When she stood aside of the camp watching Dutch and Molly ballroom dancing into the moonlight, she caught a glimpse of you and Arthur behind them. Running into the woods, hand in hand, giggling to yourselves like prepubescent teenagers.

After that night, it was a considered job well done when your chance encounters slowly turned into planned ones. He would take you on dates, and you would show him affection like nobody’s business. A perfect couple, your American dream.

Until it became a nightmare.

And Arthur had passed,

your Arthur.

Ever since then, Mary-Beth wondered what had happened to you. Were you still alive after all these years? She couldn’t imagine how hard you must be coping with the news. Or what if you didn’t know at all? Even when she asked John and Tilly, they said you disappeared that night he passed.

Not even a single trace. Where were you?

Mary-Beth dismissed the thought out of her head, lifting her head away from the desk. She had to let go of these memories for her own well-being. For what seemed like yesterday were merely years ago. But it couldn’t have hurt to reminisce just a bit, for old times sake.

The story of You and Arthur was unwritten, left to collect dust from the lack of content. The perfect example of a sepia-tinted photograph, forgotten. Mary-Beth believed the both of you deserved something much more than a devastating ending. She wasn’t as ruthless as the other authors she had met that held an iron fist when killing off their characters. Mary-Beth wasn’t like that.

And the idea came to mind. She was a romance novelist for a reason; to fulfil all the possibilities for the unconditional love you shared.

And so Mary-Beth picked up her beautiful fountain pen,

She began to write on the great desk in her quiet room.

To write the most beautiful story of the century,

You and Arthur. Arthur and you.

A perfect couple. The American Dream.

A life that could have been so much more,

A life to remember…

[blahsome]

March 18 2020, yet another big milestone. 25 years. A quarter of a century. Is it a big deal or are numbers arbitrary and it’s the same amount of a deal as it ever has been? I can’t publish everything I’ve written down for this year without feeling guilty, but I also can’t step on no toes all the time. And now, I will also feel guilty posting this when there's a pandemic occurring, but, I am trapped at home with little to do other than edit and re-edit this writing to be suitable enough for the public. I started writing this on April 9, 2019, too early to start my 25th anniversary writing? I’ll guess not. So here it is, my yearly open letter to my mother with intermittent ramblings and poems about my experience moving though life as the person I am and my perceptions as a flawed but resilient female. It’s like if I put it out there, maybe I’ll somehow reach her and she will somehow let me know. Highs and lows, as usual. Just after 2 years off the sauce I had a bigger ‘aha moment’ than putting down any bottles, though one wouldn’t have happened without the other. I realized drinking wasn’t my real problem to begin with. It was people, and my desperate need for their acceptance and approval. My need to be recognized and valued instead of coddled and unconsciously kept in a box. My need to control the outcome of situations and stepping on toes in the process. After so long being alcohol free I came to see that I had to start living for me. In early June 2019 a dear friend turned me on to a book called CoDependent No More. In maybe a week’s time I absorbed every word, the narcissist in me was almost convinced that I’d written it myself, it resonated so deeply. The following week I started attending CoDA meetings. Now that so many of my grievances and ailments make sense, I only wish I’d known sooner that it was okay to live life with me as my number one priority. I didn’t know before that I didn’t have to feel responsible for other people’s actions or inactions, but my self worth had been dependent on it. I’m 95% sure my mother was CoDependent, and with that consideration, I’m able to understand her life choices better and therefore navigate my own with slightly better foresight. Wikipedia says “Codependency is a behavioral condition in a relationship where one person enables another person's addiction, poor mental health, immaturity, irresponsibility, or under-achievement. Among the core characteristics of codependency is an excessive reliance on other people for approval and a sense of identity.” Now, that’s just one definition. There are many charastics to pick and choose from, and let me tell you, us codependents (I can only speak for myself) can be picky and choosy. Some people define codependency as a disease because if it goes untreated it only gets worse. I’m trying to break a lifetime of habits. Hi, My name is Blossom and I’m CoDependent. Every Monday night I go to a meeting where a group of women gather and we all try to work on ourselves to let go of whatever unmanageable ailments are keeping us shackled. It’s humbling and it fills me with hope. It empowers me to continuously seek change and clarity. Codependency is a tough one to recover from, as you can’t quit people. Once I had a name for this problem, every love song sounded different and every frustration made sense. I became able to recognize crazy making and slow down and see that I didn’t have control and things had become unmanageable. In doing so, I was able to step back and make better decisions for myself and my life and that’s how this whole last year unfolded more in my favor than any year previous. I worked on detaching and I started living for myself. March is a hard month for me. I sometimes feel so undeserving of a skin to be settled in. I writhe around in my persistent and annual grief. I start getting anxious in February wondering how it will appear this year. This March is particularly hard. I moved into a house with strangers and rarely stay there. I’ve got no place of my own to grieve, and with COVID-19 amongst us, I don’t want to take up any more emotional space while the world is feeling its current devestations and fears. My hopes for 2019 were to have more highs than lows, make my amends and reconciliations, and to keep my head mostly above water. And that was mostly the case. My aunt told me shortly after my post last year that my mom had self imposed low self esteem (now I recognize this as codependency). Watching home videos of her I feel like I could see stress in her face and I think about what she wrote in her journal about worry making her face look funny and how she didn’t want anyone to feel as she did. Maybe because it was a different time she felt like she couldn’t talk about her anxieties and had to bottle them up. I’m thinking about all the time I’ve spent transfixed by being a motherless daughter and trying to figure out where I fit into the word. I’m thinking about how long I spent tending to my father's bent and dusty wings, thinking I’d needed to see one of my parents fly so that I could’ve learned how it’s done. I’m in some required college to career success class that’s making me question my path, as if stress wasn’t doing that already. I’m laying in bed wishing that I’d figured out sooner that my wings were fine regardless of anyone else’s. I wish you were here so I could tell you all about everything. And so you could do the same. And so we could share the load. I quit smoking finally. Now my only vice is other people’s problems and trying to fix them to no avail. The eternal heartbreak I mentioned in my last letter makes more sense now. And the boy who told me to turn off the lights on my birthday sent me a podcast that said something about only being able to be loved as much as you’re willing to be vulnerable. And I think we’re all scared to be completely honest about how shitty we are, so we just perpetuate the shittiness and stay closed and unloveable. Early August 2019- I’m off track as usual, probably malnourished, definitely exhausted. This morning I was crying, I thought I wouldn’t be able to pull it together and that my eyes would be red when I got to my first job of the day. I think I was mourning. Things are going to change so much. I won’t have any more free time. I have to restructure everything. Which I think is what I wanted, but what a learning curve. I still have desperate hopes of creating a camp for motherless daughters someday. And it has to be accessible to all. But lord knows how far off in the future it is. At this time my feet are seldom beneath me, I’m sprinting forwards and if I stop I will stumble. I have to figure out my shit first I guess, and I’m putting in the worrrk. Or trying to at least. At a CoDA meeting a woman was talking about learning how to wield her anger, a thought that made me tremble. I liked the sound of it, as I have so much, and if we could turn it into a power, a force for good...it’d be all over. But I’m stifled by it, embarrassed of it. When I cancel plans it's usually because I’m embarrassed about how angry I am over something out of my control, and I can’t come down. Everyone was relatable, everyone seemed to be making progress, even if at this time it looked like a breakdown. They told their stories and I cringed inwardly, thinking of what I would have done in their situation. The time for change is now, I’m shaking in my boots. Some poetry and prose: My broken heart painted my world red slandering your name ensuring I’m to be seen as a fool who sobs wolf My depressed history understands every bit of where you come from like we have the same veins My logical self tells me that’s your burden to bear but I do everything I can to fabricate your crutches and excuse your bad behavior - Codependent Cowgirl Uncharmable. You only want your ex cause you think that’s where you can be yourself, but really that’s where was born the version of yourself you hate the most. Here I am standing strong, aching for my newest weakness. You’re having none of it. If I unclench my jaw and take a deep breath Tears roll down my cheeks THIS is relaxing So I tense back up And jump back into my cortisol spiral There is too much to get done to spend even one second thinking about you Six Sundays have passed since I’ve seen you last Codependency writes all my prose and all my sonnets All my pros and wilted bluebonnets - Go hard or go home Or go hard and stay at home, for forever because you thought you and your home would be each other’s salvation because home was the only thing that ever willingly invited you to change it and was better for it. But home got too heavy and home wouldn’t change on its own. And all the changes you did accomplish didn’t prove your worth. Plagued by nostalgia and sentiment Chronic grief Frozen in grief, and just when I begin to thaw, the temperature drops again Perpetually stressed What if to lose a parent as a child, is to lose the present. Because then you are trapped dreading the uncertainty of the future and wondering about a past you never knew and will never know, theirs. - Fuckless nights I unwittingly dusted off my fiddle strings and played as best as I could but you were never pleased. I was always out of tune or just off beat. -- And so let us not demonize others for our perceived shadows they cast and have casted We can’t all be deciphering your eccentric and elaborate needs when you’re shouting CUNT at the tips of your fingers and claiming to empower women while you dig in your claws to another. Chicken soup wasn’t enough to cleanse your soul. -- I think about you every day Literally nothing happens And I’m reminded of you I wake up I think of you I want to punch a wall I till the dirt I think of you I go on a date I don’t like him I think of you I let myself get so fucked up over you My rose colored glasses are shattered but I’m still wearing them I can’t bring myself to say nothing but nothing I say gets through to you I was operating out of a place Of fear I felt threatened by any number of women I’d never met and will never meet. I saw a message on your phone It confirmed my suspicions You drunkenly tried to explain it away I wanted to believe you but I had already poured the concrete and I cart it with me everywhere Slowly I’m leaving little bits here and there Becoming lighter - This week I wrestled with my codependency, Manic and exhausted from my nervous system vibrating I spent countless hours elbows deep in the dirt trying to find the root of it all An unsolvable problem parallel with reality Hard work makes me stronger Even if I can’t kill all the weeds Progress over perfection What even is progress? fuck my life. I’m no fun at this time. The doors will rot in the yard, my gut tells me just like the others. It’s not even a metaphor, just a strong probability, and a waste. Oh my god the realizations just keep rolling in. For hoarders the drama triangle isn’t just for people, but objects too. The doors must’ve been playing victim, and he’s gone to rescue them. The only corner left for me is The Persecutor. - Back in the thick Texas air Drawn to tough love From best friends to boyfriends Can’t get enough of the push and pull I’m nothing like the others I’m so much more with so much less You make me nervous But I don’t have much to lose I want to roll over and kiss you on the mouth I want reciprocation I want you to push my face away Just to kiss me on the neck You always get me with a twist We are scared of each other Collective hurt Collectively hurt We are missing something and are unable to accept ourselves and each other as we are I don’t know how you can lie to me Or how I can stick around for it For all those times you smash it right I guess Second best to you kissing my neck Is when I’m out of sight but on your mind I don’t fit in to some plan you thought you had I break the mold I’m quiet and bold We are anxious, we are stepping on each other’s toes Bite your tongue For better or for worse Things stay the same But with time, and your tongue between your teeth Eggshells are everywhere, splintered into our feet Make it up as you go along Keep the gas on I’m filling the space between my eyes and my rose colored glasses with wool - Same as ever Tongue between my teeth Lighting up another 100 out of 10 You wonder if you know me But you don’t give yourself the opportunity I’m right behind you writing my words that my teeth won’t allow my tongue to speak Desperation is such a drain Self inflicted low self esteem A familial affliction Looking like a 10 Feeling like a dud That low self esteem has me trembling And today was a good day - With a bottle of booze as his gate keeper He’ll never let me in I’m flushed, way too in my head Thinking up scenarios to catch you with your hands red bloodied from tearing my heart out and probably hers, too. - When I first quit drinking I felt this temporary empowerment, like I always had my wits about me. I could do anything. And then my codependency cloud settled back in, my intuition slipped back out the window. Now it’s like I’m in the desert, with a paddle, which makes even less sense than being upstream without one. It takes so much energy for me to state my needs. I’ve lived much of my life being brushed off and I predict rejection of my needs and so I try to suppress them and be ok with things as they are, but I need more. When I’m cancelled on, or am not prioritized, I need to be provided with alternatives or I feel insignificant. Reminders of my stated needs feel like nagging. I need reassurance. It’s exhausting and disheartening. -It’s the little things like when I ask if you want to do something and you tell me what you’re doing instead, without offering any alternative. Or when you tell me nothing. And I have visceral feelings that to inquire is to overstep and overstepping leads to termination. When I’m doing better I don’t write as much. Pain is romanticized, joy is foreign to me and perceived as fleeting. I’m trying to flip that script. Going to CoDA helps me in this effort. It reminds me that there is space for me and it's ok for me to have needs and taking care of myself should be step one in all of my endeavors. It's ok to say no. I don’t owe anyone anything, and also no one owes me anything. I’m closer than ever before to becoming the butterfly out of the cocoon, though I'm still very far, and that's okay. Progress over perfection. Now wash your hands and stay safe. If not for you, then for your loved ones, or your friends friends loved ones.

[theoddcatlady]

I Don’t Want to be a Mermaid Anymore

I mean, every kid went through that phase, right? When you’d go to the pool you’d dive in and imagine your legs fusing into one and growing scales of your favorite color. I wanted blue scales. More than once I’d surface hacking and coughing because I’d try to hold my breath for a second too long. Not pleasant. But by the time I was ten I could do it for quite an impressive amount of time.

My dad thought it was hilarious. Mom treated it as just one of those childish things I’d grow out of. But my Uncle Craig actually encouraged it.

Uncle Craig was my mom’s oldest brother, a big man with a thick stomach and a roaring laugh. Despite having four kids of his own, he loved coming to see me. He’d bring me seashells and tell me stories about his latest catch. And he always listened to me tell my mermaid stories.

I was an imaginative lil kid. I loved coming up stories about this mermaid named Elora, who was pretty and looked just like me. My parents never cared to listen. But Uncle Craig would eat up every one. Every time he came around he’d ask me, “So, what has Princess Elora been up to lately?” and according to him my face would light up like lighthouse through the fog.

For my eleventh birthday, he took me on a fishing trip.

Mom tried to talk him out of it, saying I’d be bored the whole time, but Uncle Craig said that he’d ‘show me a mermaid’ and that was it. Mom knew I’d never shut up about fishing with Uncle Craig if he was going to show me a mermaid. So when Friday finally came around Uncle Craig picked me up and we drove to the ocean.

Uncle Craig had his own boat, and it was actually pretty decently sized- big enough for us and three of his friends- Abe, Bobby, and Irvin. Irvin brought his twin daughters Ocean and River. They were quite a bit older than me, probably almost eighteen.

His friends were quite nice, asking my name and complimenting my Ariel backpack. Once we headed out on the water, Irvin turned and asked, “So Hazel, your uncle says you have stories about Princess Elora the Mermaid. Care to share a few?”

At first I was nervous, four adults and two older girls with all their attention on me, but once I got going about the time Princess Elora battled a hammerhead shark, I was chattering away with no fear at all. River would ask questions, like what was Elora’s palace like and what she liked to eat for breakfast. Ocean didn’t talk very much, but she braided my hair and made it super pretty.

I think my mom expected I’d be bored to tears or that my uncle and his friends would get drunk and rowdy. On the contrary, there was a few beers tossed around at night, but the men stayed sober the whole time.

Saturday I fished for the first time.

That was kinda boring, but Ocean and River made it fun by singing. Both of them sounded just like the mermaids I dreamed about. Ocean would encourage me to join and even though my singing talent would make a deaf man’s ears bleed, the girls would grin and bear it.

I caught a fish about midmorning. I don’t really remember what it was. All I remember is screaming that I was catching something and my uncle was right behind me, encouraging me and telling me I had this, I had this!

And I did. It was a tiny little thing, but the way everyone acted like I had just broken a world record. Lots of cheers and slaps on the back, picture opportunities abounded, and Uncle Craig lifted me above his head and tossed me into the water. Apparently it was a tradition.

My clothes were soaked, but I was grinning from ear to ear when he pulled me back out. This was the best birthday present I could’ve ever gotten, I’d almost completely forgotten about the mermaid thing.

When I was shooed off to bed, Uncle Craig winked and said, “When we find a mermaid, don’t worry- we’ll wake you up.” With a promise like that, it was almost impossible to go to sleep. I did end up drifting off sooner or later.

I was awoken by my shoulder being gently shook and Abe’s quiet voice.

“We spotted one. Come on up, lassie.”

I stumbled to the deck, rubbing the sleep dust from my eyes and looking around eagerly for the mermaid. The mood had entirely changed from the day.

Ocean and River were sitting at the front of the boat. My uncle was sitting on to my right while Irvin and Bobby were to the left. No one was talking, or singing, or even smiling. I frowned and opened my mouth when Abe pressed a finger to his lips.

“Shhh...”

My mouth shut. Abe stood next to me, his eyes flicking around. The only sound was water lapping at the boat.

Then Ocean gasped.

“There she is!”

I ran to the front of the boat with my uncle, my heart pounding. Was it her? Was it a real mermaid?

I saw the brief tail flip before my uncle threw the nets over her.

“Think we got it! Ocean, River, start singing!”

The sisters joined in unison, singing a song I didn’t understand or know. The water turned to white foam as whatever was inside the net thrashed about. Beads of sweat dripped from my uncle’s face and landed on the top of my head. He gritted his teeth and pulled harshly. “Irvin, grab hold! She’s a fucking fighter!” He barked.

I got pushed out of the way as the other men grabbed the net and pulled, I heard the sound of something heavy coming out of the water.

The girls silenced their singing as the catch was hauled up and then dropped on the deck.

It was a real life mermaid.

The creature attempted to sit up as best as she could, trying to fold her tail beneath her as she looked around frantically. The lights on the boat flicked on brightly and she flinched, covering her face.

I could scarcely breathe. I’d always hoped I’d see a mermaid someday. I would pray that they were real. And the real deal was just as beautiful as I hoped. Her kelp green hair clung to her skin, patches of cerulean scales growing across her breasts and arms. Her tail flopped about uselessly, the fins translucent and glittering in the light.

Her royal blue tail, with gold flecks mixed in with the smooth scales. I barely realized I was reaching out to touch it.

Uncle Craig seized my hand before it got too close.

“Whoa, Hazel! Don’t touch!”

The mermaid lowered her hands as she bared her teeth ferociously, and it showed I would’ve made a horrible mistake- her smile was more like a shark than a pretty mermaid princess’.

Bobby chuckled and lifted up his right hand, which was missing three fingers. “Rookie mistake. Been there done that, kiddo,” He said.

I gulped and backed away.

Uncle Craig pulled a knife from the sheath on his belt, and my attention hyperfocused on that. “What are you doing?” I asked.

The mermaid’s face had gone pale. She attempted to struggle away, but the twins grabbed the net and twisted it around her, make it impossible for her to crawl to the edge of the boat and jump off. My uncle paused for a moment before he turned to me.

“Remember how we gutted that catch of yours this afternoon?”

I nodded.

“This is the same concept. You can go back to bed if you don’t want to see.”

I swear time froze. I looked at the mermaid, who was starting to shake. Her eyes looked at me. She knew what that knife meant. I knew what that knife meant.

I didn’t move. I didn’t say anything. I just nodded.

Mermaids bleed an almost greenish red. She wasn’t alive for much of it, Uncle Craig didn’t prolong her suffering. He slowly began to cut her down the middle before he froze. “Holy...” He made the final cut fast and I saw dozens of reddish-black beads swirl about in her guts. The other men began to freak out, swearing and running their hands through their hair. Bobby’s jaw dropped. “That… that can’t be...” He stuttered.

“Mermaid. Caviar.” Uncle Craig lifted up a handful of it, running the small beads between his fingers. He looked at me before he grinned. “I’ve been fishing for maids since I was your size, Hazel, this is the first time I’ve personally harvested mermaid eggs. You’re a good luck charm.”

I ran below deck to puke. I didn’t make it to the toilet. I collapsed outside the bathroom and my dinner splattered across the floor. The stomach acid burned as I continued to dry heave, and it took all my strength not to pass out in my own vomit.

I don’t know when the girls came down, but they didn’t get mad about the mess. They cleaned me up and put me to bed.

I almost could’ve thought it was a dream, except in the morning when I walked up on deck to see the mermaid tails put on ice.

They’d caught one more since I was in bed. This tail was ruby red and thicker than the other. I ran my hand over the scales, and they were as smooth as they looked.

“We caught a merman after you went to bed.”

I turned around to see Uncle Craig, who looked nothing but proud at his catch.

“You know how much last night’s catch will pay out for me?”

I didn’t answer. He continued.

“Enough to keep pay for your college. Already got my own kid’s covered. You want anything else for your birthday? New bike? Trip to Disneyland?”

I looked back at the scaled tails. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t say anything. I just remembered the look in the mermaid’s eyes before the knife plunged in her chest, the spurt of blood covering my uncle’s hands.

“��� I can understand if you’re upset.”

Uncle Craig sat a hand on my shoulder. “Your mom was the same when our dad took us the first time. Mermaid catching runs in the family. Has been since your great great granddad. And it isn’t pretty. But it’s what we do.” He ran a hand through my hair and I flinched.

“Let’s go home, kid.”

Uncle Craig treated me to an enormous ice cream cone on the way home, my favorite flavor- cake batter. I ate it while trying to forget about the tails without mermaids attached to them.

I avoided my Uncle Craig a few months after that. I’d hide away in my room and pretend that I was busy. This didn’t stop him from leaving me presents. I slowly grew to forgive him and soon enough we were hanging out like old times.

It’s been ten years. I’m already a published children’s writer. I write books about Princess Elora the Mermaid. Kids love how she has these crazy sharp teeth, although parents not so much. Writing about her makes me happy.

Uncle Craig passed away two months ago from heart failure. He lived a good life. Long and full of happiness. One of the two things he’s left me is his fishing boat.

I got in my car and drove to the ocean as soon as I could. When I got there I saw two grown woman waiting for me. It took me a second to recognize them as Ocean and River.

Ocean smiled and waved.

“Hey, Hazel! You’re not so much of a kid anymore… up for a fishing trip?”

The other thing he left me was in my pocket. A list of coordinates. Places to fish.

“Can’t wait. I’ll drive the boat.”

[learning-through-life]

Mother’s Day 2020

I’ve tested some of my writing out on you before, so here goes… This is a partial merge of sorts from stories I wrote several years ago about becoming a mother and the children I adore. For Mother’s Day this year, I thought I would share. Some of you may even be able to relate in some small way. Keep in mind that this is just my perspective based on my own experience(s) and my own level of crazy! I hope you enjoy it. I first became a mom in August of 1985 and I wrote the following in November of 2014. My desire is to write a book someday, but that’s a venture and vulnerability I’m not sure I’ll ever really take. Instead, I’m testing the waters by publishing to a blog and to my Facebook friends. My friends and family know me and know I wear my heart on my sleeve. I use to hate that. I don’t any longer. I am who I am. I’m a work in progress.

 AHHH… THAT THING CALLED MOTHERHOOD 

Becoming a Mother: They say there is no love like a mother’s love and at the expense of insulting all the “non moms” in the world; I have to say I believe it’s true. For most, something very internal happens when one becomes a mother. I think it has to be the most powerful thing in the world. I guess it’s like being overcome with a presence or a force that is all consuming and all encompassing. The invisible wings of protection spread out from inside of us and wrap around our children. Every fiber of our being goes into love mode, protection mode. Our body and mind fill with an intense sense of responsibility for this little human being and we feel we must meet their every single emotional, physical, spiritual and educational need. 

We are not even really consciously aware it happens. It becomes us. It just is. We don’t acknowledge it or say it, maybe we don’t really even know it, but internally, we believe we are the one and the only one who will be responsible for the grown men and women our children someday become. We don’t necessarily want or need credit when our children are successful in life, but certainly it's our internal make-up to take blame and feed the guilt that comes along when and if our children have problems or struggles in life. This fact distinguishes our title as “mother”. 

What complicates things even more is that fear sets in. We fear something happening to us, something happening to them, something happening to the world… basically we fear everything as we, as mothers, come to the realization that we actually may not be able to protect this little person who we love more than we ever thought possible. Thus, from the first child on, we embark on a roller coaster of emotions that simply, but not so simply, come with the territory of being a mom. A mother is a mother is a mother. We protect, we hover, we often smother, and we feel so deeply that there are times we feel our heart may just explode. It doesn’t even really matter the order in which they come, but there are indeed at least some distinct differences for birth order. At least in my experience. 

The First Born: 

A natural and very distinct phenomenon takes place and sets root with our first-born and as the highest in the sibling pecking order of family, they don’t have a chance! The “mother” in us takes flight and thereafter will soar until the last breath we take. And, because it’s all new to us and we don’t really know how to navigate this new adventure called motherhood, our first born gets the brunt of our “crazy”. Some of us learn to cope, deal and display our “mothering” a little “better” (for lack of another word) than others and with time. Or, at least we evolve enough so subsequent children are somewhat protected from the entire “first time mom” syndrome. But, yup, the first-born always seems to gets it the worse. 

The first-born is subjected to doctors’ visits with every scrape, cut, fever, complaint, or pale face. The first-born gets the panic- stricken mother who loses her cool when other children don’t play nice or when a teacher isn’t fair. And, God help the woman (or man) who breaks the heart of our first born because if we could, we would scratch their eyes out! The wrath of God may be easier than the wrath of a mother whose first born is wronged. The first-born gets all of the fear wrapped up in well intended over protection and a continuous hovering mama bird. The rest of the clan may get “if it’s not bleeding don’t bother me” or “fair is what we go to in the summer and the rest is life, so suck it up Little Buckaroo”. Which way is better? That remains to be seen as we watch our children grow from infants, to toddlers, to preschoolers, to teenagers and into adulthood. Could how they turn out and cope with life be a direct result of their birth order within the family and the mom they happen to be subjected to within that order? I don’t know. 

For me, I admit my first-born did indeed experience the worse of me in many ways. My beloved son has the distinction of being my first-born child and therefore, is cursed and honored at the same time, for I did indeed embody the epitome of that “first time mother” syndrome. I once rushed my son to the doctor’s office, sure he had lead poisoning and would certainly die, only to my embarrassment (but relief) when the pediatrician “washed” the dulled marker line off his arm and sent me on my way! Knowing I was a first- time mom, the doctor was kind and compassionate, but I have no doubt he didn’t have a laugh over it when I left. True story. My poor son! 

Conversely, I would like to think my son got the best of me too. He had the first and only spot for two and a half years, got the honor of my individual and undivided attention as I was able to establish a bond and rituals with him that included daily walks on the beach and Friday night dates at a local children’s play spot where he delighted in the pizza buffet and animated circus animals that sang songs. There was nowhere I would have wanted to be other than that loud, chaotic place with my beloved son each and every Friday night. He loved and received lengthy cuddle time and extra story time. And, he would contently lay in my arms as I held him, rocked him and sang to him which I was content to do until well after he would fall asleep. He was at peace in my arms and I was in my own little heaven on earth with him there. Did, by simply being the first born, set my son up for a life of tug of war between caution and compassion, sensitivity and restraint? Yes, indeed my first born got both the worst and the best of me sometimes intertwined with each other with consequences that may be to his detriment or his advantage or if lucky, both. 

The second child: The …… daughter! 

And then there were two! Truth be told, my daughter didn’t fare much better as the second child as she was the daughter, a protected species in its own right. Born on her daddy’s birthday, my second born, the last child I knew I would have, and my only daughter, all stacked the deck and set the tides in motion for her to be sentenced to excessive “mothering” far beyond her due. Did that in itself pave way for a daughter with a fighting spirit and a desire for independence that has made her into a woman to be reckoned with today? 

My daughter has always loved to feel loved and always wanted to know we were near, but she was never one who wanted an excess amount of demonstrative affection. Although her curse was to receive it in abundance. From me. To this day! 

As an infant, she would let me kiss her and hold her and rock her but only for a little while and always on her terms. When she was ready to sleep, or even when she just wanted to lay alone and explore her new world, she would fuss and squirm and fight until I would put her down. In her crib, and in her own space, she was free, she was content and she was at peace. And, as she grew, she had little time for cuddling and kissing and hugging. She was busy learning and growing in leaps and bounds. She had a big brother to keep up with and was not going to be left back in the dust. She learned fast. In a blink of an eye, she went from infancy to toddler to preschooler. Before I could catch my breath, she was talking, walking, swimming, running and playing. She did indeed keep up with her big brother for he was her best friend and she was his. 

And then there was always me. Running behind them both, holding my breath and desperately wanting to catch them if they fell. 

Just Breathe: 

Motherhood can actually be quite terrifying at times. No lie … It has been a journey that has encompassed the gamut of emotion including joy, happiness, pain, sorrow, confusion, loneliness, peace, contentment and satisfaction. Sometimes, all in one day! But, regardless of all that, becoming a mother was the best decision of my life. A decision I have never regretted, not once. 

They are adults now. When I look at my children as adults, I know that whether nature, or nurture, or birth order, or gender, or time or place of growing up, or a combination of all those factors, they are both good, solid human beings of character and integrity. They are different, yet very much alike. 

Now, I breathe a little easier. Just a little. My fears and over protectiveness may look somewhat different these days, but it’s still there. Admittedly, after all these years, I’m still not totally evolved. Still a mother bird who wants to wrap her arms around and protect my babies. 

It doesn’t matter much that they are grown adults, because when I look into their adult eyes, I can still see my first born who opened up my heart and my second born who together with her brother, made it complete. 

My happy place is knowing my children are safe, and happy and healthy. Yup, the “mother” in me took flight and thereafter will soar until the last breath I take.

[craniodad]

Dear Craniosynostosis: A renewal of a letter

Three years ago I wrote a letter to Craniosynostosis. I was so proud to have it published in The Mighty. It is about a conversation that I have with cranio from time to time. Reflecting on what I felt, and how I feel now.  Today, I update it a little. For Craniofacial Awareness Month, Kati and I have been posting vlogs answering questions about Craniosynostos. Every day on our YouTube channel, and even here on the sidebar. Yep, 30 questions that we have been asked, with answers that come from experience. Some of our conversation drummed up this letter. We decided that I would read this for one of the final vlogs this month. However, in order to do this, I wanted to bring it to the now. I did not want to leave it behind, collecting dust. So, without further ado. Below the break is the updated letter to Craniosynostosis. Dear Craniosynostosis, When I first met you, I hated you with every fiber of my being.  I felt that you took something away from me. In your own, special way, you exacted every ounce of fear and inadequacy out of me. You brought it forward for the world to see.  In an instant, that seemed to take forever, you seemingly took what was to be one of the most beautiful moments of my life, and you riddled it with fear. You corrupted it with doubt and a never-ending list of unknowns. We met on April 10th, 2012 at 8:36 am. That very moment is seared on my heart and soul. My wife and I prepared for nine amazing months for that moment. I had visions and dreams of what life was going to be like when my daughter was born.  The illusions of grandeur that countless books are written about. Watching my beautiful daughter grow up, holding her in my arms. Someday walking her down the aisle to join her beloved. Having the quintessential father/daughter relationship that every dad longs for. However, because of you, the moments that these visions, hopes, and dreams became instead a myriad of storms, worry, and doubt. I had never known of you, craniosynostosis, yet you found it fit to thrust yourself into my daughter’s life, with little regard. Even worse, after barely getting to know you, I learned that you meant my sweet little girl was going to be in the NICU. A place of nightmares for all new parents. It was there that I further learned that there would be many, many surgeries to come. Somewhere in the whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and specialists I came to understand something. That the picture perfect life that I had hoped for my daughter was not going to exist. I fell weakly to my knees, and cried, for hours because of this. Not out of some injustice to me. No, purely out of what I thought you were stealing from my daughter.

Your presence, craniosynostosis, is evident.

For almost six years you have been making your presence known.  The confused look that many, even some doctors, give us when they first hear your name. The lavender-ish hue that has taken over our family’s wardrobe. We are constantly reminded that you are there. That you will be there, forever. You cause some to be stricken with discomfort, because of her appearance. Their lack of understanding causing them to recoil. Or, the most heartbreaking, move away from her. The reactions that you have caused have pulled from me grossly misplaced anger. A fire that burns with the fire of a thousand suns longing to burst forth.  Only to be choked back by fighting tears and a forced smile. Your involvement in my daughter’s life has resulted in nine painstaking surgeries. Nine times that I have had to face the veneer of the same room and the macabre that it entails. My God, how much I hate that room. Nine times in our lives that minutes have ticked across the clock like days, and ceaseless prayers have been uttered.  Our hearts never beating out of fear of breaking. Nine times that endless days have been taken away from my little girl’s life.  Days that she should be running around and playing. That the world should be filled with the sounds of her laughter. Carefree days of blessed childhood. Not hooked up to machines. Recovering from her body being cut open and parts of her fixed. Nine times that I have been on the verge of a total breakdown, feeling like a crumpled tissue in a trashcan.  Nine times that I have had to hold fast to my worries and thoughts to be there for my daughter and the rest of my family. Countless times that we have walked into a doctor’s appointment wondering if we were going to be told to get ready for another round. Nearly six years of vacation time being spent in the PICU. Not at the beach, camping, visiting family, experiencing the world. I needed to teach my three year old son to say your name. Craniosynostosis. A name that I could not say for the first six months of knowing you. For all of these reasons, and the ones that I have not listed… I have hated you.

But six years is a long time, dear craniosynostosis.

Dear cranio (I can call you that now) over time I have grown to love you. Looking back, I cannot fully explain how I came to this place.  However, I realize that by you taking all of my gut-wrenching fears and feelings of inadequacy, and putting them out there, you have compelled me to become something that I may have never been. You have made me a better dad. You have provided me with countless chances to see my beautiful, amazing, daughter be strong when she had no choice. Letting me know that she is going to be even more so as she grows. Nine times you have shown me that I can, much like my daughter, be strong.  Nine times you have let my wife rest her fears upon my shoulders and allowed me to carry the burden for her.  You have not given me a choice in this, just like you did not give my daughter that choice. For nearly six years you have given me time to watch my daughter show us all how strong she is, and in turn how strong I am.  You have freed me from meaningless trips to the beach and replaced it with time that I never would have had.  You have slowed my tongue and increased my knowledge on things that no parent should ever need to learn, but many would benefit from. Nine times, in fact all the time, you have taught me to value the moments like they are the last, to strive for every minute of every day to contain an hour of love. Hearing my three year old son say "Craniosynostosis" makes me smile. Seeing how he loves his sister eclipses so much doubt from my mind. Slowly, but surely, those illusions of grandeur that I thought were lost, are coming back. Re-framed with you in mind, but even more amazing.

Craniosynostosis, you have not broken me, or my daughter.

In the forges of your angst, you have hardened me, to be the rock that my family, and especially my daughter, can find strength, love, support and compassion when they have exhausted themselves, and any other time that they need it. You have shaped and molded me into a strong and unyielding force, much like you did my daughters skull. You have formed me into the father that my daughter not only needs, but deserves. I am no longer afraid of you cranio. In fact, I see your involvement in my daughter’s life, and in turn my own, as a badge of honor… and I display it proudly.   Regards,   Cranio Dad You can always read more here: http://bit.ly/2wmtahZ

[enfprogress-blog]

Writing Day 1

So, I enrolled in this course because I have always had a natural inclination to creative imagining and good verbal intelligence. I have been able to put those two natural skills together to be a decent writer when I have had a need to do so, mostly involving papers and essays throughout school. I received enough praise from teachers growing up about my writing to feel more and more of an inclination towards wanting to become a writer, not to mention the fact that as I got older and experienced reading more and seeing more media, I became fascinated with hoarding ideas about stories and characters I would want to write someday. I had had experience with being able to shmooze my way through college with my writing to appear competent enough and make good grades. I could even be funny when I wrote for The Burning Book. I know I can turn it out sometimes, but, like a lot of my abilities I see in my life in the bigger picture, I notice that consistency is something that is NOT a strong point in my life and natural skills, be it on a grand scale or with smaller, individual struggles and goals.

I know that my tendencies towards writing is analogous to a lot of my other strivings in life such as getting in shape, my obedience to God, my surrender to faithfulness and consideration of others, and being able to create more of what I want in my career goals and money making. I know that I did have a really good creative spurt there for a bit with writing the 160 poems, and a lot of that had to do with putting my heartbreak over XXX into some sort of creative outlet, not to mention the fact that I was able to constantly put my mind towards it when it was as simple as jotting down words and phrases that came to me on my phone in the space of a text message box. I also had the benefit of taking my days off to spend a few hours just jotting and editing things down over several cups of coffee...but even then, I would waste a lot of time over fooling around on Facebook and other things while doing this writing process.

Right now, I’m having to face things that I see in my walk with God, what my friend and just-about-mentor Andy has been discussing and sharing with me, and what Carolina had been telling me the other day - that I’ve gotta let the ego fall aside and really sink my teeth and existence into the admittance of how little I have to be proud of. This definitely applies to writing. This definitely applies to what I was reading about that Tucker Max blog the other day, the emphasis upon hiring being an issue of showing what you can do and have done rather than degrees and ideas that look good on a paper resume. Certifications and degrees are all for naught unless you have tangible work that you have accomplished that can be pointed to. For me, at best, I have several old The Burning Book issues that aren’t even electronic and are a distant memory for most and those poems that haven’t been put into published status, much less a blog format. At least I do have those poems in which to use as creative content for when I do get things going, but it looks like I need to start today in getting things going.

I know that I want to write a lot of the stories on my heart. I want to be in good shape. I want to be a person of value to my family, friends, community, and to God. I want to pay my parents back in full and be making good enough money I don’t have to work at the Post Office with the business and writing goals I have accomplished and continue to work on. I know that, as I was talking to Carolina, that I feel an ennui about wanting to be better and knowing that I am not and that dragging my feelings down, but she was right at first even though I had to drag it out of her - that I had no right to that sort of self-lament...you have to be somebody in order to do that...but that’s the paradox right there...by “being somebody”, so to speak, you are not going to have that tendency. You’re going to have the confidence and skills under your belt to dust yourself off from a solid blow to your ego and career. The moment you trip into self-lament, you’ve become someone who doesn’t deserve to have that luxury. How novel. You can only ever be keeping your head down and grinding. If it is harder than you feel it should be, it is because you haven’t built momentum to prove to yourself. Oh well. That’s the nature of things.

So, I’m hoping I can get something out of the guidance in this course. Better, yet, I am hoping I can be able to draw things out of myself that can be focused on and shared later on with others through my unique perspective on a blog about goals and career as an ENFP. I know that, as Andy put it, that loving discipline and correction is something sorely lacking from modern-day self-help books of all sorts. Absolutely and completely missing. Well, actually not in The Art of War, but he doesn’t really pronounce it exactly like that in Proverbs. There’s room for being able to display and discourse about it that would be uniquely apart from Steven Pressfield’s technique in self-help guidance unto writing and whatever your goals are. I know that a big part of this is also gonna be about being able to think out loud in another medium like writing and coming up with new and fresh ways of thinking about things, like for instance just now with what I was describing in the previous paragraph about what all Carolina has been telling me. Noticing that line drawn between having and not having the luxury of feeling sorry for yourself and the irony being that if and when one does have such a luxury, they simply won’t use it. They have no use for it. They have learned it isn’t a luxury it’s only a trap, even if they might actually be justified by the measure of the world in using it. Nobody was going to blame certain actors and certain professionals and certain athletes falling from grace into second place when everything seemed to be going for them...or failing just short of making it to the playoffs when it seemed like all their hard work was all but laying out a trajectory towards the highest of accolades/awards/championship ring for that year. No one could blame them for having a moment of weakness and anger and sadness toward themselves in such a context...but they won’t and you can see how they do not in the history of all such high level accomplishers.