perils with writing and whatnot
I know that the best way to learn how to write is to write what you know and write, write, write. I think what is going to save me here is to go the easiest route I can come up with. That would be to write about myself. Am I being narcissistic? I’m positive that it seems that way to you. I hope you’ll be curious enough to keep on reading future posts to find out if this is really true about me.
I was born on a Sunday morning two minutes before nine o’clock. I make special note of this because of what happened to my mom. Her pregnancy with me was uneventful. During the last months, she did a daily route of cleaning the house, doing laundry if she had a full load of clothes waiting, and talking to neighbors across the fences of the yards. She pulled weeds in the garden, went to the lady’s circle at the church, and cooked dinners for my dad. She was the typical pregnant housewife.
When her water broke, a neighbor had to take her to the hospital because my dad, being a fireman, had been detained by a lit cigarette. Her labor was unbearably hard. She didn’t know it though because back in those days, mothers were put under for even normal deliveries. My mom’s wasn’t normal. Her RH negative blood almost killed her during the delivery.
I was born healthy. So healthy that I weighed just two ounces less than nine pounds. Yes, I was a big baby.
Why is being born on Sunday something I make a big deal about?
When my mom woke up, it was just a little after nine. She was having some trouble waking up completely. She heard church bells, many church bells in fact. She actually thought that maybe she had died and was on her way or was already in heaven. As the sleepiness wore off, she heard more church bells. At that point she was almost positive that she had died.
What brought on all the bells? I was born at St Luke’s Hospital. This hospital is in the downtown area where there are several old churches. Yes, the bells chiming as my mom awoke were the ones for Sunday morning worship.
Just in case you’re wondering, my mom’s brush with death due to the RH negative factor was short-lived. She did have a little trouble bouncing back, so taking care of me was exhausting at first. Of course, I didn’t help any. I was battling problems of my own.
for the works I've written and those to come.
writer, musician, dreamer
Author, Blogger, Social Media Jedi
The Writing Site for Independent Authors: News, Resources, and Advice
Psychology to Motivate | Inspire | Uplift
Rebelling against a culture that values assimilation over individuality.
Join me as I edit my first novel and aim for publication
The Cat's Write
For women and those who love them
Articles, Poetry, Opinion, Personal Essays, and Visual Arts
Learn how to write poetry, fiction, personal essays, and more.
Spotlighting inspirational women and how you can make a positive impact too
An Australian Fantasy/ Fiction Writer
Text+Sound by Wayne Mason
helpful writer ramblings from a disturbed mind just like yours
Living the creative life...
And other metaphors for motherhood
Random thoughts, manic randoms, continuous randoms.
A tale of insecurity, fear, betrayal and love....
take a trip with me to the darkside
Author of Young Adult Fiction
Life is make believe, fantasy given form
Official Website of Luciana Cavallaro
From Relationships to Weightloss
We're not really mad geniuses. We're just a little miffed
Conjured by Sarah Doughty
How to stay alive until you die, starting now. Writing helps!
a sporadic account of things that matter to me.
Weird and Random Thoughts
Learning to live all over again after Brain Injury and Concussion
Writing fiction and non-fiction - one idea at a time
"There is nothing to writing. All you have to do is sit down at a typewriter - and bleed." Ernest Hemingway
A place to share insight and information about the many forms of writer’s resistance (writer’s block, procrastination, distractions, looking for answers in the fridge, keeping yourself too busy to write, etc.) so you can stop resisting and start really enjoying your writing.
A Blog On Writing