LATE AFTERNOON LIGHT

Her heels clacked on the stone walkway, as she made her way home, her soft-cotton summer dress, a fading lemon in the late afternoon light, swishing against her bare legs. The fabrics caress reminded her of Antonio's hand, sliding over her knee as they watched the black and white movie in the park.

She smiled, wishing she were still with him, but she had to leave, get up early for work. His eyes lingered in her mind, the way they enveloped her, looked inside her, so deep.

She shook her head, grinning, trailing her index finger across her red-tinted lips, and then she felt as if she was there with him: the smell of honeysuckle so close, as they leaned against the mid-high brick wall, covered in purple and pink flowers, to better see the movie. And the kiss that Antonio stole when she'd left, his lips touching hers, and the taste of red wine on his tongue.

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An earthen chill permeated her skin as she entered the stone tunnel. She shivered and pulled her knitted champagne-colored sweater closer about her.

Her mind's eye swept Antonio's shape, his lean frame, his thick wavy hair hugging his ears, and his strength as he pulled her in so close she thought she could crawl inside him to stay forever safe and loved.

She cinched her sweater tighter about her neck as she walked, the tunnel's chill burrowing its way under her skin, unaware of the ever darkening shadows that collected around her.

She was so distracted with Antonio's vibrant green eyes, like emeralds immersed in clear spring water, that she didn't hear the footsteps following her. Or the metal click of a pistol's hammer being pulled back.

The End of the Dock

     Water lapped against the dock's sides, as if individual gloved hands played patty cake in the distance. Nothing else sounded except the occasional bird, a seagull he thought, but he wasn't sure. His mind was frozen inside his skull, sullen, as if the earth had slipped from under him. The wooden boards creaked beneath his weight as he walked the dock, a reminder of his existence in the world. He flinched at his own breath and wished they had taken all of him—not just his career and his family.   

    A soft breeze, smelling of salt and dead fish, cooled the tear tracks that streamed down his face. He shivered and pulled his jacket closer about him, forcing his hands to leave the warm sanctuary of his pockets. When he stepped to the end of the dock's surface, he paused for a few seconds, listening, remembering. Then he jumped, letting out all breath before hitting the cold, black water.

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MUSINGS OF THE DAY - July 24, 2015

"Everything a writer learns about the art or craft of fiction takes just a little away from his need or desire to write at all. In the end he knows all the tricks and has nothing to say."

- Raymond Chandler -

The other day I was thinking something similar. How easy it is to get online and find all kinds of websites and blogs and think-tanks for writers on how to write. There's also the long list of ways to  figure out agents—what they want and what they don't want. Jeez, it's amazing anything is every written or published, or, for that matter, read.

And boy is there money in it. There's always some ad, book, or program that can give you the magic key to writing, to publishing, to being read, and let's not forget—to making money with your writing. I think the only ones making money are the ones selling how to do it.

I remember a time when I was so busy trying to "write well" that I was spending more time figuring it out than actually doing it. And all the while my fear increased. I can't do this. This is too hard. I'll never make it. I'm just not good enough. And before I knew it I wasn't writing but stuffing my writing in a drawer, pretending I never wanted to write in the first place.

Ugh!

So, enough of that mindless chatter that has nothing to do with writing. I decided to just write and have fun and stop trying to figure it out to guarantee a future outcome.

There's a balance point between learning to do something and doing it. 

Writing, for me, has to come first. Always. 

Then I can incorporate the tricks and gimmicks I've learned, if I want. I can keep learning about the craft of writing, because, truly, I love it too, but the learning of writing well can't replace the actual act of writing itself.


Raymond Thornton Chandler was born in Chicago, Illinois on July 23, 1888 and left this world on March 26, 1959. Chandler was a novelist and screenwriter. In 1939, Chandler's first novel, The Big Sheep, was published. 

MUSINGS OF THE DAY - July 22, 2015

"Hope is not a resting place but a starting point - a cactus, not a cushion."

- H. Jackson Brown, Jr. - 

Who can resist this one? Whenever I've been given hope, and I accept it as a true gift to utilize there is action to take. 

The action involved in changing from one thing to another is never comfortable and sometimes is downright annoying, but if I want the result of hope, then I must act on what hope tells me is possible. 

Simple enough. 

Not necessarily easy.

I've been traveling and enjoying the summer with my boys, but with all this playing there has been a lapse from maintaining my blog. I still wrote but nothing for the blog; all my writing was for other projects, which is great that I was able to keep on task with those.

My hope is that I will secure my routine for my blog, keep posting musings and stories, maybe even some poetry. My hope offers me possibility. The possibility of doing what I hope to do. 

Of course, to do what I hope to do I must act, so I am experiencing the cactus not the cushion. I cannot rest on my laurels, thinking the blog-writing will manifest itself. 

So I write.

The Unwanted Fervent Love of Mosquitoes

While watering the yard this morning, hose in hand, spraying the green grass and wild flowers, I killed a mosquito who was sucking the blood from my arm. I truly dislike mosquitoes.

Every summer I wonder the same thing: Why are there mosquitoes?

I know the general "food-chain" reasoning, knowing that another bug benefits and so on down the line, but what the heck do they have to do with me and why do they keep pestering me?!

Why are some people tastier than others? Is "tastier" even the right connection? So my musings this morning stem from this need to know: Why me?

I found great information in an article by Joseph Stromberg,  Why Do Mosquitoes Bite Some People More Than Others. He specifies eight different reasons for the extra loving I receive from mosquitoes. Of course, not all eight apply to me, but I now have a better understanding of why my body is the ultimate love-fest for mosquitoes.

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Number One: Blood Type Anyone?

Supposedly, those darn, pesky mosquitoes are picky on what type of blood they prefer. They have a favorite. Type O seems to be the one they most gravitate toward. Type B was their next favorite, and Type A was their least favorite. Unfortunately, as of this moment, I can't recall what blood type I am, so I'm not sure if this reason is a deciding factor for why they love me so much.

Number Two: How Much Carbon Dioxide Do You Blow?

As we humans breathe, we exhale carbon dioxide, and mosquitoes are attracted to how much we emit. Now they say that generally how much carbon dioxide any one person emits tends to depend on how large they are. I'm guessing for myself I'm sitting in the middle on that one, since I'm not large but not petite either.

Number Three: Are You Exercising? Increasing Your Metabolism?

Mosquitoes smell our sweat, which contains ammonia, lactic acid, uric acid, and other substances, which help them find us. They also like higher body temperatures, which makes sense they would zero in on us if we're physically exerting ourselves. Our warm bodies are attractive. I have to say, I am guilty of this. Hurray for exercise!

Number Four: Skin Bacteria. Say What?

Mosquitoes enjoy the bacteria on our skin, but they don't like a plethora of different kinds of skin bacteria. They like it better when the person just has a few bacteria friends. For myself, I've never taken the time to figure out what or how many bacteria adhere to my skin. Your guess is as good as mine.

Number Five: Had Any Beer Lately?

Mosquitoes love it when people drink beer. "Just a single 12-ounce bottle of beer can make you more attractive" to mosquitoes, though the scientists have no idea why that is. What's good for me though is I don't drink. Drinking beer is not the reason why they love me so much.

Number Six: Are You Pregnant?

This makes sense, considering what we've learned so far. Pregnant women are warmer and larger. Between the extra heat they generate and the more carbon dioxide they are sure to exhale, they are prime targets for a mosquito's love nibble. Great news for me—I'm not pregnant!

Number Seven: Really? The Color of Our Clothing?

Yep, the color of our clothing. Mosquitoes like their victims fashioning mosquito-trendy colors, like red, black, and dark blue. These colors are similar to glueing a bullseye on your back.

Number Eight: I Knew It! It's My Parent's Fault!

Genetics may be the deciding factor—a whopping 85%. 


As Stromberg points out at the end of his article, the benefit of some not attracting mosquitoes like the rest of us is scientists may be able to use "chromatography to isolate the particular chemicals these people emit" to create a bug repellant that us unfortunate ones could use. 

At last, there's hope.

Okay, now I'm informed, though I'm not sure any of it truly helps me feel better about the love-hate relationship mosquitoes and I have (they love, I hate). I guess I'm stuck with bug spray and covering up when the sun goes down and staying out of marshy areas with tall grass.