On This Cloudy Summer Night

On this cloudy summer night, the green trees from my window set the scene, with the flickering flame of a vanilla rose candle like a campfire in the dark.  Alaska summer lightens all hours of the evening with a twilight dusk.  Rain lightly showers through the billowing winds, calming my writer’s soul.  Today starts my staycation, half home and half with a long ago friend.  Bills paid and minimal cleaning done, so that I could enjoy a much needed rest beside a firelight and waving colored keyboard lights.  Even my office light is a pinkish hue.  I’ve waited what seems like forever for this week to come.  The mental burnout and consistent challenges have pushed me to an edge.  My post grunge music playlist speaks volumes to my latest moods.  At first, I wasn’t sure where to begin my vacation or what I should write.  It’s funny how hard it was to describe relaxation versus the dark moments that flow so easily.  I want to practice writing the wonderful and mesmerizing scenes of breathtaking beauty that surround me every day.  Alaska is such an experience.  Winter may be too long, but summer more than makes up for it.  I confess, I like the subtle darkness of fall and the winter hoarfrost, but I will embrace the last dregs of the gorgeous sunshine and teal lakes.  The wonders of this world are so close by, that we tend to miss them.  If you can, take a moment to really see what’s out there and call someone you miss.  Though I may not finish a novel in nine days, I will definitely breathe and make the most of my break.   

Writing Anxiety…Again

Often I find myself caught in the clutches of writing anxiety.  The thought of turning on my computer and writing about my experiences freezes me on the spot.  The rush I get from streaming a tv show to block the discomfort, is enough to make me forget what I love to do: write.  I realize how long it has been since I created a post and I am disappointed in my own lack of effort.  I used to use writing to process all of my dark raging emotions, now I turn to romantic asian dramas or quaint murder mysteries.  Mentally, I put myself down for not progressing in my books or putting in effort; it is an unhealthy habit.  I know I can write, because others have read my stories and can’t wait to read the next part.  I was about to write a poem today, but I decided to share in this form.  I may go through long periods of time filled with dread when it comes to writing, but it doesn’t make me any less of a writer.  The same goes for any of you who experience writing avoidance.  Sometimes it just takes a small paragraph posted to a safe community of writers to carry us to the next piece.

Sick in September

I rested in the crook of my brown leather couch.

Congestion clogged my right nostril.

And I struggled breathing,

Through the gross mess of puffy tissues.

Each episode of Hotel Del Luna

Left me quiet in a mass of blankets.

And I struggled sleeping,

Through the painful rest of my aching back.

Today I’m in a cozy gray sweatshirt.

Throbbing pangs climb up my left leg.

And I struggle sitting straight,

Through the Guild Wars 2 campaign.

When my Elementalist dies,

I want to lie down

And sleep soundly,

Through the long healing night.

“A City Night”

August 31, 2021

Wind litters the cement with lost chip bags and disposable cups.  The cement makes a pathway around the stone water fountains in the city park.  In the center of the fountain display, stands an angel statue looking to the sky.  I follow its piercing gaze to the blanket of smog covering all the stars that should be visible at night.  I look around the park and see trees littered with a different kind of “trash.”  Hidden even as you walk past.   I keep an eye out for staring eyes and quick movements, but I only see worn out shoes and paper thin clothes.  To me, these starving people aren’t the trash we make them out to be.  

Each person has a story.  A story I will never know and have many ideas about.  How many have left home to spend years on the streets?  How did they get here?  Why did they leave?  How many have fought for our country and paid a terrible price?  What about the kids whose homes were so bad, that outside was safer?  So many questions, but one: “How are you?” We’re so afraid of those words, so afraid to speak to their dirty faces and cardboard signs.    

Some people are so lost, they yell at you randomly on the street though you never said a word.  Often, it’s a well dressed man that reeks of alcohol, cat-calling you in the night.  He may not be living homeless in an alley, but he is just as lost.  In a way, we are all lost trying to make it somewhere, where the only place we are all headed for is death.  Tonight is no different.  Not for anyone, not even for me. 

I know it’s dangerous to walk in the park at night, but it’s where I have to work.  The Big Man gives me a task and I can’t just say no because I’m scared.  Believe me, I’m terrified I’ll end up like a discarded processed snack, but you can’t always fight demons at their ritzy homes.  Some are out here in the dark, living off the “scraps.”  I happen to care about those “scraps.”  Even the ones working nine to five cheating on their wives.  Everybody deserves a chance, except maybe Hitler.  Chances are, he was a demon.  Probably one of those good-for-nothings that couldn’t handle it.  Even demons like to climb the corporate ladder.  

No, murder is not the way to climb the corporate ladder – training my student apprentices can be hard;  They have some of the worst ideas.  Luckily, I didn’t need to bring an apprentice with me tonight, though they would have to face it soon.  I don’t envy the leaders that have that responsibility.  I am still too young to train them in combat and how to fight.  Thank the Lord above for that!  Gosh, I really need to watch what I say.

Speaking of the Big Guy, his chosen angel could use some work.  I mean, you may have the power of God bestowed upon you, but you could be a little more sensitive.  Was it really that hard to tell Penelope that the monster could kill you in your sleep instead of will kill you in your sleep?  She hasn’t slept right in weeks and we are all paying the price for it.  In training today, she almost stabbed me in the arm with that dagger, throwing it toward me like I was the practice board.  Sheesh.  The last thing I need is a scar from the training room, what a joke that would be.  I’m already the butt of them all.  I didn’t start out that way at the Cemetery.  Yeah, I know it’s cliché, but it’s a great story.  

I stop pacing around the trees when I hear a faint growl.  I bend low and stay still.  There it is again.  It’s coming from a park bench, hidden beneath a set of trees.  I have to walk softly, so it doesn’t hear my steps touch the grass.  The growling gets louder, then a faint cry emanates from the same direction.  I had better hurry. 

I run without bothering to keep quiet.  I reach for my iron short fork from its sheath on the side of my right leg.  I shove the large animal-like shape away from the woman on the bench and plunge my fork in its chest.  It screams from the reaction of iron on its bile smelling skin.  Its belly begins to expand outward and I drag the lady as far away as I can just before the demon explodes into toxic goo.  Its insides land everywhere, burning the grass down to the soil and tree bark to the roots.  That stuff will burn your skin off.  

The woman next to me screams and gets up to run away. 

“Hey lady!  Wait!  Don’t run!  I’m not going to hurt you!”  I gave up yelling when she made it clear across the park center in about five seconds.  She must have to run on the streets often enough to be able to go that fast.  I hope she has a good hole to hide it. 

I pick up my short fork and wipe it onto the ground before putting it back in its sheath.  It will eat away a bit of the leather, but it beats getting caught with it out in the streets.  I still had to act like a normal human being prowling out in the park in the middle of the night.  You’re not allowed to walk around looking crazy.  When the cops drive by, they get suspicious.  

I don’t bother to clean up the nasty mess on the ground.  It will disappear before morning.  The sun seemed to burn the truth away at first light.  Even the people looked better in the daylight.  

I walk back towards the statue of the angel and give it a final once over, then shake my head.  If only this angelic stone could do its job and protect these people: the lost and the lonely in the park.  


Negativity creates an atmosphere of lies. You progress in your writing, then you get jabbed with, “Why are you doing this? Your writing sounds awful. Do you even know what you are doing? What makes you think you will ever be a professional writer?” I know these to be lies.

Because I grew up around lies, trust is difficult for me, so only a few people have had the chance to read my stories. I chose to share two different stories with two different groups of people. You know what? They liked them! All four of them cannot wait until I write more! Not just that, I ENJOY it! Yeah, there are nights when I spend an hour and only write a couple sentences, but those two sentences lead me to write more next time! Also, all my work is rough! I haven’t polished any of it yet. I’m still working on at least five books!

Fight the negative thoughts encouraging you to quit! Give yourself a break. You are working at it each time you stare at that blank page, willing it to give you ideas. The practice of trying is still working.

I will keep writing and posting for me, my goals, and for those who love it.

To all writers and creators out there, keep at it and tell yourself, “Shut up, bad brain! I’m not giving up!”

If you have had negative thoughts writing/creating lately, write a comment below. (By the way, writing comments is still writing!) 🙂

The Me I See

August 5, 2018

I think I am “all that and a bag of chips”

Then I see a picture,

And I look



It doesn’t look like me,

The me I see.

Who can write poetry 

From pain to a painted breeze.

Or find laughter in my punniest soliloquy.

What about the deep incisions 

Into my treasure chest of kindness;

Shared to the souls I most 

Tenderly connect?

Or my special declarations of wonder and love

In forms of caresses and hugs?

Who made it so I looked too different

From the woman I know inside.

It can’t have been that many kneaded scars

To fill the body glove.

The softness of the lining

Is altogether shining

Like a galaxy of silk

With stars of balled up cotton;

I’m comfortable to touch.

Your gifted secrets not forgotten;

To all those persons who’ve confided,

I hold your hearts when life’s too much.

Moments in selfish anger and impatient frustration

Couldn’t be the fault of this.

You see me as a rose,

With very little thorns.

I hoped to be the calla lily,

Offering cups of gentle compassion,

But maybe 

I am 


It matters,

My appearance,

My authenticity.

For it matters,

What you comprehend,

The me I know,

Or the me I really am.