Sexuality in Literature: Why I've Decided to Write a Bisexual Character

                Diversity is something I have always been mindful of in my writings. I’ve taken time to layout lists of characters and their aspects for many of my stories. I’ve made sure to have racial diversity, religious diversity, language diversity, skill diversity, personality diversity, as well as moral diversity. I try not to write too many stories where all of the characters in them are from the majority or are Caucasian.

                I’ve had people ask me about diversity in my writing’s before. One of my primary readers once approached me about a book I was working on and asked, “Are all of the character’s white?” I politely reminded her of a few characters who, at the point in the story she was currently at, had only been mentioned a couple times. As that story progressed, my African American, Hispanic, and Korean characters became more prominent figures. Seeing as this particular story is meant for publication one day I will not be posting it on any of my social media sites so I therefore cannot provide you a link to it. To be honest, I spent a lot of time on diversity with that story. Racial and class diversity were a couple of the story’s elements that I paid the most attention to.

                In another one of my writings I wanted to make a point of having religious diversity, especially since the subject matter at hand was one that would cross into religion and theology. In this fantastical tale of myth, I have creatures from all sorts of mythology and those creatures each have their own belief systems. My main vampire character is Catholic, the main Siren character is Greek, and another vampire is Atheist (http://writingangel2010.deviantart.com/gallery/50286567/Everlasting-Lie-Trilogy). I also have stories that include Egyptian mythology and the difference between cultures (http://writingangel2010.deviantart.com/art/The-Pharaoh-s-Guard-Introduction-453055286). I like to keep my characters as diverse as possible.

                Lately though, I’ve crossed a new line. I posted on my Instagram a couple months ago about starting work on a story that would contain my first ever non-straight character. The response I got was predictable. Very few people liked the photo and comment. Most didn’t respond to it at all. This isn’t surprising to me. One person, one friend, did comment though and she was someone of the LGBT group. She liked the idea of me writing a character that she could possibly relate to on the level of sexuality.

                To be honest, I had wrestled with the idea of having a character that wasn’t heterosexual before, but I had chickened out and decided to make him metrosexual. In all honesty, I think that was a good move at the time. My writing skill has progressed from that point and there was no way I would have been able to portray that character as being homosexual without feeling guilty. Why? Because at the time I was but a child. I had no idea of how I felt about the LGBT group let alone how people would react to it. I feared that portraying such a character would lead to fractures in some of my friendships. Now though, I can honestly say that I feel no guilt or sense of ‘wrongness’ for writing such a character. 

                Scythe, son of Mortem and Vita, is a new character for me and stands out amongst the other characters I’ve created. He’s free spirited, lost, and struggling with the idea of destiny. And, as I mentioned, he’s bisexual.  I have no regret in his creation. I actually spent a lot of time in prayer and meditation about the impact he could have on my writing.

                I am a Christian. This is something I would proudly proclaim to the masses. I’ve been taught that homosexuality and bisexuality is a sin. I’ve been taught that it’s a choice. These are not matters that I wish to argue over and I respect everyone’s opinion on them. When it comes to this mater I am normally quite. I tend to keep my opinions that I think people will blow out of proportion to myself, but there is one thing I want to say about this mater. No mater your religion and no mater your beliefs on whether it’s a choice or not, it still exists. It’s existed for a long time. And what is literature, my friends, if not a mirror?

                Many symbols have been given to literature, but my favorite is the mirror. Think about it for a moment. Literature, in any form, shows society. It shows humanity. It shows the struggle of the Human Condition and the Human Experience. It shows us who we are.

                The purpose of literature is to teach, to inform, to document, and to let people know that they aren’t alone. If you think about it, every story ever written –every news article, every pamphlet, every book, and every poem –is about humanity. Yes, there are specific kinds of literature that target specific subjects, such as a pamphlet promoting an event or a new business, but literature in every form seeks to unite. It seeks to show humanity as a whole and to teach us that there is help out there, that we’re not alone, that the problems we face every day have been faced and beaten before by others who have gone before us.

                Since humanity is the subject of all literature, and humanity is diverse, why then should literature not be diverse? This, my fellow humans, is why I’ve decided to write a bisexual character. I wish to portray humanity as it is. And to do that I must be diverse in all things.

 However, there are two last things I would like to point out. The first being that I know that some of you who read this will not like my ideas and will be completely against me writing this character, but neither Scythe nor I care. What you must understand is that the characters of a story are the not author. Yes, the story is part of us. Yes, when you buy a book you are purchasing a piece of the author’s soul. But no, the Characters –the shadows on its pages –are not mirrors of the author’s personal life. I am not my characters, and they are not me. To use an analogy I do try to stay away from just as God created man in His own image and man does not always resemble their creator –does not always show or proclaim who their creator is –so characters do not always resemble their authors. In fact, the great play write, William Shakespeare, is a perfect example of this. Nowhere in his works is it possible to point at a character and say, “That’s Shakespeare. Right there. That’s him.”

The last thing I want to point out before I conclude this little article –I guess that’s what it could be called –is that I am a firm believer that every great library has a book in it to offend everyone. Like I said before, one of the main purposes of literature is to teach, and to do so some times is has to offend.

So am I sorry that I no longer have all straight characters? No. Do I feel guilt at having a bisexual character? Do I feel like I am sinning by writing him into existence? No, on both points. I write what I feel I must. I write the stories I feel that should be told. If I start to write something and get a sense of wrongness, I throw it out because A) it either is really wrong to write about it or B) I need to solidify what I personally feel about the subject matter before I embark on the journey of writing it.

Now, I am not going to tell you my personal feelings on this particular subject matter, for the only personal feelings that mater here is the feeling that Scythe belongs in his story. That his story is one that I feel compelled to write. It may not be my best story and it may never be seen on the shelves of a Barnes and Nobel, but it is one I will write. One that I will continue to post chapters of up on my DeviantART site. Because I believe in diversity and believe that as a mirror literature should be diverse. Just like there isn’t just one type of chocolate or one type of coffee there isn’t just one type of person, and literature should reflect that. 

(Scythe's story can be found at: http://writingangel2010.deviantart.com/ Under the titles of: A Weight of a Prophecy and The Callidus Chronicles) 

Nostalgia and Smoke

I have so much I'd like to tell you -so much on my mind -but seeing as it's nearing four in the morning when I'm writing this and I neither wish to start packing for my next semester of college (read last semester) nor wish to think of what these next four months might hold in store for me, I suppose I should write something. After all, it feels like ages since I last updated this blog. Though, in reality, I just posted a collection of original dabbles not too long ago. Still...

The question is, what should I write?

Should I tell you how I doubt myself? How I sometimes have the fleeting thought of dropping out of college that isn't so much as fleeting because sometimes it likes to stay around for tea and cakes? Should I tell you of how I taught my three-year-old foster sister how to play an air guitar? Should I tell you how I had to explain to said three-year-old that Batman doesn't eat people but save them (long story. Cute story. But long)?

Perhaps I should write about sexuality in literature. After all, I've already been working on an article, so to speak, on the subject. Or maybe I should jot down another dabble. Or I could always recite to you some of my favorite lines of the book I'm currently reading. For the record, it's Looking for Alaska, by John Green. 

There's so much I could tell you, but what should I tell you? Hmm? I can tell you anything. Literally. At this very moment you have absolutely no power over what I say or do. I could write about anything. Tell you anything I wanted to, and you'd have no power to do anything about it. I could write about how uncomfortable thongs are and you wouldn't have a say in the mater. How does that make you feel? I'm not going to write about thongs though (Cue the sarcastic awes). I love a good fashion article as much as the next girl but I have absolutely no desire to talk about or ponder on undergarments tonight. Particularly not the thong. I mean, come on. A thong? It's a piece of string, people! It's like a really, really, really, skimpy loincloth. Tarzan wouldn't have even worn that, even if it was the last piece of clothing in the jungle. 

So, since we're not going to talk about thongs (pity since I now feel like I could write a rant article on them), the question still remains, what should we talk about? 

Nostalgia! Now that's a topic. We'll talk about nostalgia. Or really, I'll write about it and you'll read it. Because, let's be honest here, no talking will take place unless you decided to put your thoughts to the keyboard and write me out a little comment on this piece of work I call a blog post. In which case, if you do, I would respond, then you would respond, then I would respond. That's how communication works. Message, sender, receiver, reply...but as much as I'd love to talk about communication and all the lovely little facts I've learned about it from my communication classes, and about how all those factoids are part of a bigger picture us students of humanity like to call the human experience and condition, we have a topic to talk about. 

As I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself, nostalgia....

Have you ever experienced those moments where you feel nostalgic but you don't know what for? Those moments where you just lay there sucking on a piece of chocolate as images of your life flash behind your eyes and though you don't smoke you contemplate how a cigarette would feel in your hand because, for some reason you can't explain, it feels like the only thing that moment is lacking is a cigarette?

Maybe you have, maybe you haven’t, or maybe I’m the only person who’s ever felt that way. Which I find highly unlikely considering that billions of other humans have walked this earth before me. After all these years, and all those humans, you can’t say I’m the first person to discover this state of being. You just can’t.

Regardless of whether You’ve felt that state or not, that’s how I felt yesterday (And by yesterday I don’t mean like four ago from when I started writing this yesterday…I mean like technically two days ago yesterday), as I lay there on my bright green yoga ball with a piece of Lindor chocolate melting on my tongue. A cigarette right then, I thought, would fit perfectly in my hand. Which is odd considering that I never have, nor do I have a desire to ever, smoke, because of three reasons: A) I can’t stand the smell of cigarettes. It’s just nasty, B) Inhaling a stick of tar and rat poison is not at all appealing to me, and C) I’d like it if my lungs continued functioning as they’re supposed to…thus I was left with an empty hand…which isn’t really accurate because I did end up picking up my ink pen and journaling.

I think it’s the metaphor, the symbolism behind smoking, that’s the whole reason I think about it sometimes. I mean, you could chalk it up to the media if you’re one of those people that think the media are to be blamed for everything. It’d be really easy. Like, seriously. Think about it, the media (particularly movies and magazines) has the nasty habit of portraying people who are nostalgic, depressed, sad, worried, and contemplative with either a cigarette or a bottle of booze in there hand. There you go, See, I blamed the media. But really no…just no…it’s not the media’s fault. At least, as a student of literature and humanity I don’t want to say it’s the media’s fault. But, I digress (Something I’ve been doing a lot of since starting this post. Seriously, someone should count how many times I’ve gotten off topic or on tangents so far….look, there I go again. I really need to stop. But oh well, like I said earlier, you really have no power to make me. Plus its four in the morning, I’m sleep deprived, and suffering from a state that all book worms no very well, called a book coma).

As I was saying, though. I think it’s the metaphor, the symbolism behind smoking, that’s the whole reason I sometimes contemplate how a cancer stick would feel in my hand. I’ve come to realize that John Green uses smoking as a metaphor and symbol in his works. In The Fault in our Stars, Green outright says it’s a metaphor through Augustus Waters. In Looking for Alaska, it’s a symbol. A symbol of what? I’m still working on that. I’ve come up with a list of many possible meanings for it, but I think it all boils down to one single quote from the book, and that quote is:

          “Why do you smoke so damn fast?’ I asked.

          She looked at me and smiled widely, and such a wide smile on her narrow face might have looked goofy were it not for the unimpeachably elegant green in her eyes. She smiled with all the delight of a kid on Christmas morning and said, "Y’all smoke to enjoy it. I smoke to die.”

          I’ve underlined those words in my copy of Looking for Alaska because it feels like there’s something deeply profound about them. Like Mr. Green maybe saying he’s talking about smoking, but really he’s talking about life.

          You see, the characters Pudge, the Coronel, and Alaska smoke a lot in the first half of the story, and they talk about smoking a lot, and they buy smokes a lot, and on top of that they drink and goof around a lot, and in between –as well as during –all those times they talk about life. They go about it in a vague sort of way, the talking about life, where you sometimes have to reread what they said just to be sure you heard them correctly, but it’s absolutely life that they’re talking about.

       

   “Y’all smoke to enjoy it. I smoke to die.”

          What is Alaska saying there exactly? That they smoke for the heck of it while she smokes to numb the pain? To chase herself to an early grave because she believes the only escape for her – the only way out of the labyrinth, as she puts it so eloquently –is death?

          I mean, I know what I believe she’s saying, but what do you think she’s saying? This whole wanting to smoke every once in a while, without really wanting to smoke? What is that about? Does it have something to do with what Alaska said? With what John Green wrote? Maybe it all goes back to pleasure or pain. The motives behind it. In those nostalgic moments, are you feeling pain or pleasure? Are you feeling at ease or like a rat trapped in a maze?

   

       So many questions to ponder over. It’s a funny thing nostalgia. It’s defined as being, “A sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past,” yet it can stir up all sorts of emotions. All sorts of ghosts. I was experiencing wistful affection when I thought of that cigarette, and I wondered what it would be like to hold it between my fingers and inhale its poisonous innards.

          Hmmm….

          “Y’all smoke to enjoy it. I smoke to die.” That’s really the point of it, isn’t it. Maybe the media is to blame somewhat, for portraying the habit as being relaxing. Maybe that’s why the thought crossed my mind.

 Enjoyment. Wistful thinking of the past.

“Y’all smoke to enjoy it. I smoke to die.”

I still feel like there’s more behind those words. More to them. I suppose I’ll have to spend more hours debating their meaning with ink on the pages of my journal. Perhaps, after time, I will come to a conclusion I’m satisfied with.

Can you tell that I’m in a very nostalgic and contemplative mood today? I’ve been like this these last couple of days. Last week before my final semester of college starts and I’m not doing anything society would deem productive. I’ve just been lounging around in my fluffy batman pants and black shirt (not every day, mind you. That’s just nasty. Personal hygiene…it’s important), alternating between reading Looking for Alaska and checking my messages on DeviantArt and Facebook. I don’t really no why I bother checking facebook anymore. It’s gotten so predictable. My entire newsfeed at the moment is wedding, wedding, wedding, wedding, anniversary, wedding, anniversary, engagement photos, baby photos, cute status about baby, status about how someone wants a baby, more weddings, and oh, look, a rant about some sports game. Like I said. Predictable. Yet, I check it. You know, for connections and all that.

My yoga ball’s been my chair for these past few days and I’m convinced that there’s nothing more comfortable than a yoga ball. Except maybe a bed after falling off said yoga ball multiple times and whacking your head on all sorts of random pieces of furniture. I’m going to return to school with bruises everywhere and people are going to ask me how I got them, and I’m going to have to say what I normally have to say when people ask such questions, “I was doing something stupid.” And Then I’ll tell them that I fell off a yoga ball and a few of them will blink unbelievingly, but those who know me will laugh and shake their heads, and say, “Only you.”

That’s my life, folks. I’m a contemplative, nostalgic, Batman loving, yoga ball using, chocolate eating, girl who sometimes thinks about cigarettes even though she knows she’ll never try one because she finds them utterly unappealing.

And that, my friends, is all I have to say. 

Dilly Daddleing with Dabbles

Dabble #1: Stumbling Toddler 

                She sleeps all day and parties all night. Her only care in the world is making sure she makes it into work on time so she can pay the rent. Because paying rent is what being an adult is about, but there’s more to adulthood than bills. More than moving out and exercising freewill. She thinks she’s all grown up, but she’s really a stumbling toddler playing with electrical sockets.

Dabble #2: Walking Corpse 

                My hands are cold without yours to keep them warm. My soul is freezing more by the moment as the days of our separation tick by. I fear that there may be no thawing it. With each passing moment I can feel myself changing. Feel my life force draining. Where are you? Where have you gone? And why have you left me a walking corpse?

Dabble #3: Everything She Dreamed Of 

                She thought she had wanted to leave. She was a small town girl enticed by big city lights and wishing, as she leaned against that cold window, that she was anywhere but there. Traffic, coffee, more opportunities, less cotton, no corn fields…it was all she had ever dreamed of. Everyone at home were settlers, but not her. Oh no, never her. She wasn’t like them. Those rednecks. Those hics. She wasn’t a hillbilly or a cowgirl. She was meant for more. Dreamed of more. Nothing but joy had been felt the day she had packed her belongings and shipped out. Yet, the room was cold and so was her soul. Her heart ached. Her soul cried out in pain. What was wrong with her? Why did it hurt so much? The apartment was perfect, her job was satisfactory, her life was the hectic hustle and bustle she had dreamed of, and yet she wished that she could walk across town at night without the fear of being mugged. She wished to go to the beauty salon to sip lemonade and gossip about Sally and Joe. The big city was everything she dreamed of, but not all that she hoped for.

Dabble #4: Churches 

                Big churches with multiple services…it’s so easy to get lost in them. Sink into a back pew, do your time, and leave without once being noticed. Simple. Easy. The hardest part is navigating through the masses. So many bodies. So easy to disappear. So few with identities. They were perfect for some, but not for all. A small church, now that’s built on connections; it's built on identities. Everyone knows everyone and they even know things about you before you know them. No peace. No quite. No escape. Getting out is easy, it’s getting to the door that’s the hard part. Everyone wants to talk. Everyone wants to ask, “How have you been?” “Where have you been?” “Are you feeling alright?” “Can I pray for you?” Religion, you think, is built on the concept of a relationship. A relationship with the Creator. So why not have those connections. Still…it’s so easy to disappear in those big churches and sometimes invisibility is nice. No church is perfect though. Churches are made up of humans and humans are far from perfect. Yet, as you walk through the aisles of your home church, that small town church, and think about the big one you sometimes attend, you can’t help but think; big churches have the masses, but small ones have the faith to feed them.

Dabble #6: To be Someone 

                All this hustle and bustle and yet no one’s going anywhere. Stop lights, coffee, heated words, clacking heels, and roaring engines. Everyone’s trying to get somewhere but no one’s moving. Stuck on life’s treadmill they go on, trying to give time they don’t have and steal what little they can for a few seconds of sanity. In the end they all end up in the same place. In their beds plotting to do the same the next day. Meaningless is what their existence has become. Exceptional is what they desire it to be. They push and shove, they elbow people out of their way. They run on the treadmill of life so they can climb the ladder, so they can leave a mark behind. Because everyone wants to be someone before they die. 

Dabble #7: Sound and Fury  

                “It’s all sound and fury,” the professor rephrased the great playwright and for the first time in years the student felt that she finally understood those words. No matter how much she learned, no matter how many books she read, no matter how many exams she passed, in the end it was all sound and fury. It was all nonsense. It was all meaningless. What mattered wasn’t grades or that coveted piece of paper saying she graduated. What mattered was passion. And she had lost it. 

Class Murmurs

Class is not a place one might call heaven. In fact, I think many people, if they had to give it a name, would call it the exact opposite. Class is where you go to learn. To sit quietly and stare at white boards or to have in depth intellectual conversations. Class can sometimes be funny and can sometimes be the perfect forty-five minutes you need for a nap. Sometimes it can be worth your time and other times it can feel like it'll never end. Regardless, one of the best things about class is classmates.

I'm a humanist. My area of study falls under humanities and I am obsessed with the human condition and experience. I think one can learn more about life and why people do what they do by watching people and reading literature than by sitting in a classroom, listening to professors drone on about topics I, frankly, sometimes can't care less about.

When I get in those ruts where I would rather be anywhere but in class, I do something that professors would probably not recommend. I tune the professor out. My attention shifts. I won't care about the numbers on the screen in front of me, the formulas, the theories, the dates, the Acts and treaties,..I won't care about any of it, especially if I feel that I already know the concept being explained to me. Yet, I do care about what's taking place around me.

My attention moves from the lesson to my peers and sometimes I catch little bits of conversations that make me smile. I have to admit, though, no mater how cruddy I'm feeling I always pay attention in my literature classes. I credit this to having an interest in and caring about the topics in those classes. Also, literature professors are the best professors. They're quirky, they're weird, they're entertaining, and we love them because of it. They make class interesting, and some of the tid-bits of conversation I'm about to give you actually came from a few of my English professors.

I like to keep a record of some of the more interesting things I hear in class; things that put a smile on my face or illicit a reaction from me. I scribble them down in my notebooks, on napkins, on candy wrappers...on basically anything I can reach and is able ot be written on. Then, the ones I don't accidentally misplace throughout the day get put into my handy dandy notebook (yes I did just quote Steve form Blue's Clues. Don't Judge me!).

The following is a list of some of the quotes I've managed to save through what part of this semester has gone by. Half way through the semester and I don't have nearly as many quotes as I normal do, but hey some of them are golden. I only hope they can brighten your day as much as they did mine on the days that I heard them. After all, sometimes the best medicine is a little smile or laugh.

Statistics Prof: You need to by a calculator. TI-83 or 84. I don't want you doing anything in here by hand.

Guy 1: Did he just say we're only allowed to use calculators? Not do math by hand? 

Guy 2: Yeah.Guy 1: Wow..I may actually pass this class.

Shakespeare Prof: Use that as a bookmark. Books are really good at storing things.

Guy: I just wrote '1' twice.

English Prof: That's alright. You're an English Major. You don't have to be good with numbers.

English Prof: I took the essay off the test.

Class: Awwwww.Prof: English majors know how to bluff their way through essays.

Girl:That's what we were banking on. 

Prof: I know. I was an English major once too. I know how this works.

Guy in Statistics class: Screw this! I'll just drop out and become the Joker.

Shakespeare Prof: Help me with the math. I'm a humanist, not a mathematician.

English Prof: What about Furry? 

Class:...

Prof: Micheal Furry...the fiancee...

Class: Ooooooh.

Girl: We thought you meant Nick furry and I was wondering where he came into Irish Literature. 

Shakespeare Prof: Indecision is the key to flexibility.

Girl: When you only need ten points it's really hard to motivate yourself into going to chapel. 

300 Things that make me Smile

1. When there is a full moon.

2. When someone does my hair.

3. Mozzarella sticks.

4. Lemonade

5. Buying new clothes.

6. Jeans that fit perfectly.

7. Going though old pictures.

8.Rereading old journal entries and realizing how strong I am.

9. Starbucks with my best friend.

10. Listening to music on road trips. 

11. ihop Pancakes. 

12. Doing nothing. 

13. Being organized. 

14. Spending  time with my friends. 

15. Spending lots of time with my friends. 

16. Staying up all night on the computer.

17. When my hand gets warm from holding coffee.

18. Wearing a dress with converse.

19. Laughing uncontrollably until my stomach hurts. 

20. Mac n' cheese.

21. Over sized hoodies.

22. When a song describes my situation perfectly. 

23. Spending the day watching chick flicks. 

24. Getting butterflies on the first day of class. 

25. Going tubing. 

26. Boys who drive trucks.

27. The smell of fresh cut grass. 

28. Getting a package.

29. Getting a letter. 

30. Stocking up on Bath and Body works products. 

31. Carrying hand sanitizer everywhere I go.

32. When a little kid reaches to hold my hand.

33. Lunch at subway. 

34. Disney songs.

35. Having a bunch of books to read.

36. When a song brings up a good memory.

37. The stars.

38. Meowing at a cat and it meows back. 

39. Having a conversation with my pet bird.

40. Baking a cake.

41. Men with nice muscles.

42. Mini cupcakes.

43. Handwritten letters.

44. Feeling confident. 

45. Relaxing outside.

46. Dancing around my bedroom when no one is watching.

47. Cuddling with a pet. 

48. Loose sweatpants. 

49. Glimmering water.

50. Starbucks during the fall.

51. Feeling free.

52. Laughing until I cry.

53. A new pair of shoes.

54. Fresh, warm, cookies.

55. Christmas desserts. 

56. Rereading old texts.

57. Singing in the car.

58. Snow in my hair.

59. Shopping for books.

60. Having conversations with the random people I meet at stores and on walks.

61. Keeping a journal. 

62. Extra buttery popcorn.

63. Watching the rain.

64. City lights.

65. Receiving a flower. 

66. Having a good time with friends. 

67. Going to concerts. 

68. Wearing a cute dress. 

69. Waking up and realizing I have more time to sleep. 

70. Halloween jewelry. 

71. Sunny, windy days. 

72. Hot chocolate.

73. Carrot Cake.

74. Apple pie.

75. Apple butter. 

76. Cinnamon candles.

77. Making s'mores. 

78. Black cats.

79. Breaking out an extra blanket. 

80. Pumpkin pie. 

81. The harvest moon. 

82. Autumn sunsets.

83. Sitting on a tailgate.

84. Country music stations.

85. Being surrounded by nature.

86. Thunderstorms.

87. Hot cinnamon rolls with chili.

88. A warm summer breeze. 

89. Classic rock music. 

90. Being different.

91. Sunny mornings. 

92. Rainbows after a storm.

93. Finding a lady bug. 

94. The smell of coffee. 

95. Black veil Brides.

96. The sound of rain. 

97. Camping. 

98. Noticing the beauty of life.

99. Aquariums. 

100. Chasing my dreams.

101. Sleeping while it rains. 

102. Finding a new song I like and listing to it on repeat.

103. reading while it's raining. 

104. Shopping for new summer clothes.

105. When the Christmas tree is the only light in the room.

106. The smell of food in the oven. 

107. Listening to music. 

108. Open roads.

109. The changing of the leaves.

110. The quietness of the country. 

111. Sitting in the back of a pick up truck. 

112. Clear skies. 

113. Sunny skies.

114. Pitch black nights. 

115. Lightning bugs.

116. Porch swings.

117. Fresh air.

118. Boot-cut jeans.

119. Cornfields.

120. Mason jars.

121. Canning season.

122. Shucking corn. 

123. Bonfires. 

124. Nascar. 

125. Dirt roads.

126. Morning dew.

127.Crickets at night. 

128. Small towns.  

129. Country morals.

130. Hay rides.

131. The last day of school.

132. Perfect hair styles.

133. Sharpies. 

134. Walking into an air conditioned room on a hot day. 

135. Getting a funnel cake at the fair.

136. Eating oreos. 

137. Laundry right out of the dryer.

138. When a cat purrs. 

139. Wearing fuzzy socks.

140. Fresh fruit. 

141. Cotton candy.

142. Finding money I forgot I had.

143. Curly fries.

144. Amusement parks. 

145. The coziness at Christmas time. 

146. Being able to sleep in. 

147. Having the house all to myself for a day. 

148. Heart-to-heart conversations with my closest friends. 

149. Being on a dock. 

150. Tire swings. 

151. Chocolate covered pretzels. 

152. Spending time with mom. 

153. Watching dad play video games.

154. Soft pretzels.

155. Strawberry flavored cupcakes. 

156. Syrup pancakes. 

157. French braids.

158. Colorful sunsets. 

159. Water balloon fights. 

160. Girl scout cookies.

161. Tight hugs. 

162. Lazy days.

163. Doing crazy things with friends.

164. Having a nice day.

165. Coloring with sidewalk chalk.

166. Sleepovers.

167. Loose shirts.

168. Sleeping on freshly washed sheets.

169. Eating donuts. 

170. Eating gushers. 

171. The smell of cologne. 

172. Photography.

173. Writing.

174. Fruit smoothies. 

175. Hawaiian Pizzas. 

176. Naps.

177.Thinking back on my childhood. 

178. Snow cones.

179. Messy buns.

180. Dandelions.

181. Girls night out. 

182. The smell of flowers. 

183. Drinking pina-colada Fuze. 

184. The smell of coconut.

185. Popsicles.

186. Eating junk food. 

187. Thinking back to how far I have come in a year. 

188. When people compliment my outfit. 

189. Men with blue or brown eyes. 

190. Finishing a good book.

191. The smell of a new book.

192. Sitting down on warm pavement. 

193. Adding new songs to my ipod. 

194. When guys are taller than me. 

195. Spending time with family.

196. Getting notifications.

197. Breakfast for dinner. 

198. Ice cream for dinner. 

199. A clean room.

200. Getting lost in a book.

201. Having a mini worship service alone. 

202. Being told I'm good at what I love to do. 

203. Feeling infinite.

204. A child's laughter. 

205. The first drop of a roller coaster ride.  

206. The cold side of a pillow. 

207. A scent that brings back good memories. 

208. Seeing how in love my parents are with each other.

209. Seeing an old couple holding hands. 

210. Rereading my favorite book.

211. Jumping off a swing.

212. Watching my family.

213. Game nights with my siblings. 

214. Chocolate covered popcorn. 

215. mom's no-bake cookies. 

216. When dad turns a movie into a valuable lesson. 

217. My parents' silly arguments.

218. Seeing that look of pride in my dad's eyes.

219. Being able to tell mom everything. 

220. Walks around my hometown with my grandma. 

221. Going through the family ancestry and finding a long dead relative that looks like a living one.

222. Finding out my passion was genetic. 

223. Seeing my parents in my grandparents. 

224. When dad worries about me. 

225. Mom's little reminders on living a good life. 

226. The way dad smiles when he looks at mom. 

227. The way mom smiles when she looks at dad. 

228. Sister nights.

229. Giving life advice to someone younger. 

230. Receiving life advice from someone older. 

231. The smell of lilacs. 

232. The horrible taste of fresh picked rhubarb. 

233.Homemade kool-aid Popsicles and slushies. 

234. Watermelon seed spitting contests. 

235. Wearing a jacket with shorts. 

236. Swimming in a lake.

237. My brother's passion for our family. 

238. My little sister's boldness.

239. The brilliance of a bird's feathers.

240. Playing fetch with dogs. 

241. Hair products that work.

242. Vanilla wafers.

243. Sour cherry candies. 

244. Moist dirt. 

245. Late night talks.

246. That shy feeling I get around cute guys.

247. Having conversations with my characters.

248. Listening to my parents tell stores about their younger years.

249. Disney movie marathons.

250. Long walks. 

251. Cold drinks. 

252. Watching movies with friends.

253. Falling asleep to music. 

254. Getting into the zone when writing. 

255. The sound of a fan. 

256. A bird's song. 

257. Taking care of an animal. 

258. Falling asleep with a pet curled up by me.

259. Loosing track of time because of getting lost in a game or book. 

260. New Notebooks.

261. Starting a new journal. 

262. Bubble baths. 

263. Singing in the shower. 

264. Hot showers. 

265. Comfy pajamas.

266. Texts from my friends. 

267. Having a dreamless sleep.

268. Being so tiered that I fall asleep as soon as I lay down. 

269. Dreams so good that I don't want to leave them.

270. Christmas shopping. 

271. Mom's home cooked food. 

272. Watching soap operas and talk shows with Grandma. 

273. Waking up completely refreshed. 

274. Watching my uncles interact. 

275. Realizing my siblings and I are a lot like our parents and their siblings. 

276. Family reunions. 

277. My dad wishing he could fix everything. 

278. My mom's old morals.

279. Warm fires during winter.

280. Burnt hot dogs.

281. The smell of fire. 

282. The sound of fireworks. 

283. Meeting new people in the bookstore. 

284. Seeing someone read a book I love.

285. Reading a letter I wrote to myself years ago. 

286. Swapping gaming tips with my friends.

287. Geeking out. 

288. Finding something Batman themed. 

289. Building a beautiful house on Sims. 

290. Decorating a room. 

291. Going on a bike ride. 

292. Singing while cleaning. 

293. Character sketching. 

294. Seeing one of my characters develop. 

295. Driving down an open road with the windows down. 

296. The smell of alfalfa. 

297. Talks with my good friend Tina. 

298. Being able to tell my best friend everything. 

299. Knowing that I'm not cool and being okay with it.

300. Finding that perfect pair of shoes. 

A Fork in the Road

Hello world. It's been too long since I've updated this blog. I'm not going to lie and say it was because I didn't have time. I'm not even going to give you the poor excuse of being uninspired. The truth is, I've had plenty of ideas of things to put on here, but I've pushed it off because I've found myself laying in the gutter.

My life has been nothing short of stressful lately. My thoughts have been plagued by the future and how the path before me is lacking illumination. I don't know what's going to happen, and I keep having dreams that I'm going to screw it up. With my anxiety and stress levels high, it's hard to keep a positive outlook on life. I must brag a bit though, I have managed to keep my cool. My temper is not something I've lost due to this stress. Of that, I'm proud.

I have to say though, it's been tough. There's been a lot of changes taking place in my family this summer and a lot more lurking around the corner. Dealing with change has never been easy on me. It's always been...difficult, to say the least.

In these stressful times, I've often found myself craving another life. I've actually put down a few books I started reading because I wished I was really going on those adventures instead of laying in bed waiting for the future to hit me.

Two weeks left until school starts...and I don't even know if I want to go back. Sure, my friends are there. My job is there (though I do have another one here, at home). My degree is only a year away. But tuition is high. The stress is high. My doubts are high.

I haven't even started packing yet because every time I think of doing so I get nauseous. What are you supposed to do when you no longer feel like you belong somewhere but you know that if you don't go back you'll never get your degree? And you really want that degree.

I made a promise to myself years ago that I wouldn't be like some other people I know. That I would go to college, no mater how long it took, get my degree and do my best to change the world. I wouldn't settle. Settling for okay wasn't (Read isn't) my thing. But, right now -in this very moment -I want nothing more than to stay in this small town, get a full time position at my summer job, get an apartment, and continue to lead the children's Wednesday/Sunday morning programs at my church.

Why continue? That's what I've been asking myself.

Why go back and try to get the degree I've always wanted when I'm pretty sure my old nemesis Math is most likely going to prevent me from reaching it? Why put myself through an endless cycle of class, work, study when the result might not be the positive one I want? Why take that step when there's an illuminated path sitting right here? There's open doors here that could take me exactly to a life that I wouldn't' mind living.

Problem is, taking that path would be settling. And I don't settle. To quote Catwoman, "I wouldn't be able to live with myself," if I settled. I'd always wonder if I could have passed those two worthless math classes. If that degree could have made a difference. What it would feel like to walk across the stage to get that all so important piece of paper. It'd make me feel weak. Like I was a coward. But at least I'd have my own place, and I wouldn't lose the connections I've made over this summer, and maybe people would stop comparing me to a certain someone. Maybe they'd stop forgetting my name if I was a permanent figure. I could make a life here. I could make it work...but, ultimately, would I be happy?

Probably not.

So what choice am I going to make? Am I going to step onto the dark path or the well lit one? As crazy as it may sound, I'm still leaning towards that dark path...as wonderful and in reach the bright one is. One step. One choice.

You know, someone smart once said that the first step was always the hardest. They were speaking nothing but the truth. As I stare at the two roads in front of me, I'm left to ponder Frost's question. Do I take the well worn one or the one less traveled by? Like Frost -knowing myself as well as I do -I have a feeling that I'm going to take the road less traveled. The road that I'm not sure is safe. The road that scares the living daylights out of me.

If anyone is reading this, anyone at all, I just want to ask for one thing. Could you pray for me? I could really use some guidance right now. And some courage. And a little more self-assurance.

The Flower Man

It was a small town –a small, plain, town that no one would spare a second glance at. There was really nothing special about the place. The streets were cracked, the buildings old, and the downtown was home to the only stoplight in town, which never turned green and guarded a mostly vacant intersection. Regardless of the weather, the stores down town always had business. Though you wouldn’t think it by looking at the mostly empty parking spots that sat before them.

                In the winter, down town was bustling with life. Cars were parked along the roads. People honked in frustration, looking for a place to rest their vehicle. Tempers flew, people cursed, and then smiles were given. No matter how mad you were at another, you always made sure to bring a bit of holiday cheer with you.

                Yet, in the summer, when the days are long and the sun too hot, very few cars could be seen. With shorts and tank tops the townspeople wandered around on foot. Their skin getting gloriously sun kissed. Shop owners loved those days. Their doors would be propped open, box fans would be blowing beside them, and people would wander in for the sake of getting out of the heat or for a friendly chat. It wasn’t about business on those days. It was about community.

                On one such day, near the middle of the hottest season, a couple of kids ran out of the local coffee shop. Their hands held freshly made smoothies in clear cups with large neon straws. Their sneakers thumped as they raced after each other, giggling.

                “Run, run, as fast as you can!” chanted the little boy with a mop of dirty curls. His orange colored smoothie was held tightly in his hands.

                Chasing after him was a girl a bit older than he, with pigtails of the same dirty curls. She had been entrusted with his safety for the hour, while their parents socialized with the coffee shop goers…and the lumberman…and the sheriff…and any other person they happened upon on their way to the town barbeque that was taking place at the town square.

                “Maxie! Slow down!” The girl huffed as the distance between her and her brother grew.

                “You can’t catch me! You can’t catch me!” The little boy did a twirl in the street.

                “Watch out!” the girl screamed just as her brother tumbled back. Baby blues grew wide as he tripped on the cracked street, falling back into a man riding by in his motorized scooter.

                “Woah, careful there,” the man grinned down at the child who had fallen at the wheels of his transportation.

                The girl rushed to her brother’s side. She quickly picked him up, her eyes scanning him for any injuring. The man above them chuckled, and she looked up –knelt on one knee and still holding on to her brother –to see him grinning down at them.

                “Looks like you gave your sister a scare there, little man,” the skin around the man’s eyes crinkled with glee. His face was folded, as were his hands, from the years he had endured. There was nothing more than a small wisp of snowy hair atop his otherwise bald head. Freckles covered his face, and spread down his neck, like someone had splattered chocolate across his flesh. His brown eyes twinkled at the children.

                “Sorry, mister,” the girl apologized as she stood up and drew her brother closer to her.

                The elderly man was a common sight around town. Though neither of the children knew his name. They only knew what they saw daily, and daily he was seen driving around town in his scooter with a bag of groceries and a camera in his wire basket.

                The man chuckled again, his polo covered chest shaking from the force. “Now there, there’s nothing to apologize for.”

                “Sorry,” the little boy mumbled.

                “No blood, no foul,” the man assured again. His smile was so kind that both children found themselves lacking fright. In a town where everyone basically knew everyone, they were standing before a man they had never met. A man who everyone knew of, but didn’t know personally. At least, the children had never heard anyone call him by name. He’d always been referred to as the flower man.

                The man had a reputation in town. Everyone knew of his daily routine. He’d leave his small, one bedroom home early in the morning and spend the entire day riding around town. He’d never go home without a bag of groceries and a new picture on his camera. A new picture of a flower.

                His entire day was dedicated to finding the perfect flower to take a picture of. And it had to be a flower he had never taken a picture of before. He’d ride thought he parks, through down town, by the gas station, pass the police station, by churches and homes. He’d inspect every flower he’d see. But, it would take him hours to find one that he deemed photo worthy.

                No one knew why he did what he did. All they knew was that he seemed to enjoy doing it. There was a rumor that he was a retired nature photographer, and another that he collected photos of flowers. But the most wide spread rumor was that he was a veteran who suffered Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. That rumor said that he had fought in World War II and that, after seeing all the bloodshed and losing all his friends, that he had come home and started taking pictures of flowers as a reminder to himself that there was still beauty in the world.

                Despite there being rumors, and despite him being a frequent customer of the down town shops, no one had ever asked him of his past. It wasn’t because they didn’t care that they didn’t ask, but that they feared triggering painful memories. They knew not what the man had experienced in his life, and they didn’t wish to inflict pain upon him by inquiring of his experiences.

                “Say, do you two think your parents would mind if I borrowed you for a bit? There’s this flower, in the barrel sitting outside Jenkin’s Hardware, that I’d like to get a picture of,” the man asked. “Problem is, I can’t seem to work my camera today. My hands are old and sometimes my bones down’ want to bend right. But it’s important that I get this picture. Do you think you could help?”

                The brother looked up at his sister, who looked down at him before nodding. “Sure.”

                The man’s smile widened. “Oh good!”

                He lead the children across the street and to an old barrel that sat outside the hardware store. With shaky hands, he carefully handed his camera to the sister and instructed her as to how he wanted the picture taken. “That purple flower there, dear. Get down close, so you can see inside. Not too close now. Back up a little. That should be about right. Now, take the picture.”

                The girl pressed down on the camera’s button. A small click was heard as the shutter was snapped shut. She pulled the camera away from her eye to look at the image displayed upon its screen. “Is this okay, mister?”

                “Yes, dear,” the man praised. “That’s perfect!”

                The man took the camera from the girl and, for a moment he didn’t say anything. He stared down at the picture of the purple daisy. Its petals were soft. The lighting had been perfect.

                “Do you know,” the man spoke up with watery eyes. “Why I take these pictures?”

                The children shook their heads.

                “They say you’re a veteran,” the girl spoke, “that’s wants to see beauty.”

                “They say you’re crazy,” the little boy added.

                “I am veteran,” the man’s smile was sad now, “and I am crazy, but neither of those rumors are right. I take these pictures because my beautiful bride loves flowers. When we were younger I would shower her with flowers. She use to keep the most beautiful garden. Children would flock to our home to gaze into the pond and dance among the rose bushes, but sadly they’ve all stopped coming now. Those children grew up, and had their own children, and made their own gardens, and never come to call. But my bride, she still loves those flowers. She still loves their smell and their beauty. She still loves the way the sun looks on them and the way they can make a person smile.”

                The man paused, shutting off his camera and placing it back in his wire basket. “My bride and I are frail now and gardening is not something we can do. She’s been very sick. Has been for many years. She can’t leave the house now. Can’t even leave the bed. So, I bring the flowers to her. Every day I take a picture of one of the pretty flowers those children that use to roam through our yard have grown, and I stop by the drug shop and have it printed out, and I give it to her. You should see her smile,” he beamed. “Ninety-four years old and she still looks as pretty as she did when we were sixteen. My Elma Mea. My lovely bride.”

                The children didn’t know what to say, so they stood silent until they saw their parents leaving the coffee shop. The adults caught sight of them right away and crossed the street to meet them.

                “Well you two didn’t get very far,” the mother announced.

                “I’m sorry, Sally,” the old man greeted the woman, “Your daughter was just taking a picture for me.”

                The mother’s eyes softened. She opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted by the man, who said, “I should be going now. I need to have this picture printed.”

                “You should come to the barbeque,” the father suggested.

                “Oh no,” the man laughed, “All that smoke. Not good for my old lungs. You and your family have fun though, John.”

        

        “Will do, sir,” the father smiled back as the old man began on his way.

                “Daddy, Mommy,” the little boy spoke up. “You know him?”

                “I thought no one knew him,” the daughter stated.

                “Of course we know him,” the mom smiled, her eyes watching the old man as he thanked a young lady for holding open the drug store door for him. “We use to play in his and his wife’s garden.”

                “Mommy?” the little boy asked.

                “Yes, baby?”

                “Could we go see him tomorrow?”

                The woman looked at her husband, who smiled down at their son. “You know what, Maxie, I think that’d be a great Idea.”