tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16670908379288001452024-03-05T04:38:03.191-08:00Robyn's Ramblings Rambling About the Many Adventures of an Aspiring Author!Robyn Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10336881782682808439noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1667090837928800145.post-70391676275339667882014-05-20T13:38:00.001-07:002014-05-20T13:38:59.527-07:00Adventure of SummertimeHello!<br />
<br />
The season for days blanketed by the intense sun, and sapphire nights dancing with stars is here! And of course my favorite thing about this season is the abundant time I have to read and write!<br />
<br />
I have created quite the summer reading list. One I kept dreaming about during the last few weeks of school.<br />
<br />
First up on my Summer Reading List is none other than '"Juliet" by Anne Fortier. I have read this book a couple times before, but it's enchanting world of Romeo and Juliet still has an affect on me. There's nothing quite like warm, golden Tuscany to kickstart Summer. Of course it also helps that the most romantic of all couples are the center of this novel.<br />
<br />
Here's a book trailer for this romantic tale.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/x4Rk-WvB8Nw?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
And if you also want to get reading for the summer you can start with my short story that was recently published in an art journal if you would like.<br />
<br />
<br />
The Hushed Tone of a Symphony<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
She had fingers
designed to romance piano keys, the woman whom my father had loved.
Occasionally, when dusk would drift in through the windows of our home, father
would sit at the family piano and trace the instruments black and white teeth.
No one in our family had the talent that is needed to entice a piano to sing,
and yet in every childhood memory there the piano was, guarded in the
background. Father was the only member who was allowed to sit at the piano
bench. At times when I was supposed to have been tucked away in my bed, I would
sneak down to watch father’s hands fall over the forgotten keys, his fingers
like kisses upon the worn ivory. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
When dusk made way
for the moon father would get up from his spot and join my mother on the porch,
their hands blended into one flesh. My mother never questioned the reason for a
piano that no one played and took up such valuable space in her parlor. She
dutifully dusted it, and made sure us children only grabbed it with our eyes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Once when I was
seven and had entered into the phase of life where curiosity filled my mind
more than playground games, I opened the lid on top of the piano bench and met
the matured photograph of the woman whom my father had loved. She was posed by
the very piano I was standing next to, her classic hands draped over the keys,
sharing secrets. My seven year old brain didn’t understand the heart’s
melancholy memory. That evening when father came home he was at a loss for why
I handed him a picture of my mother and told him I liked this one better. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Father didn’t
realize I had found the picture of the woman from his youth, who had married his soul until I was sixteen
and had tried to sneak out to meet a boy. We sat across from one another at the
kitchen table etched with devoted dinner conversations. He slid a cup of coffee
to me, “You want to tell me why you were out whispering on the front porch when
you should be sleeping?” I gulped down the coffee in reply, my cheeks still
burnt with the fever that afflicts young hearts when the moon was entirely too
silver. Father looked down into his own cup, his smile reflecting off the dark
liquid. “Love is always the strongest at the most inconvenient times isn’t it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Maybe we are the
inconvenient ones.” I prodded the coffee mug back to him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Father nodded. “We
can be.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Were you ever?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He clinked our
mugs together. “Fathers are never inconvenient.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I thought of the
woman in the photograph, her eyes the shade of promise. “You weren’t always a
father.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
He looked over the
mugs, the photograph mirrored in his aging face. His eyes dropped with
remembrance as he stood. “That was a long time ago, sweetheart.” He moved past
me to the stairs angled near the piano. “Go to bed now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
My eyes followed
his leather shoes up to the room he shared with my slumbering mother. When the
door clicked close I tip toed to the piano. I hovered my hand over the reserved
keys, my fingers too unholy to graze something so sacred. It was a long time
ago, father had said, and yet it could have been yesterday. A moment gone but
still treasured in memory.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I didn’t learn to
sympathize with the piano until I walked around with a tarnished engagement
ring hung around a chain on my neck. It was my constant companion along with
the empty echo of vows never declared. My siblings had all spread their roots
from the house of our childhood, but I had returned much like the way a horse
finds home when abandoned in the forest. I learned to spend my days in a
delicate manner, not leaving my room until dusk wrapped its arms around the
world in a quiet goodbye. When the orange light strolled in through the windows
I would sit by my father on the piano bench, which had now made room for two. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You never learned
to play.” I told him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Never.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I watched his hand
comfort the sad smile of the piano. “She—She didn’t teach you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Father played a
note. My ears buzzed at the piano’s peaceful voice. “No. She didn’t need to.
Watching her play was the point.” He hit another note that mingled in with the
dusky air, rising until it wasn’t a part of us anymore.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Why do you
remember?” The engagement ring fell across my chest.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Why would I
forget?” He picked up my hand and laid it on the keys, the recollections of a
protected antique love that dreamed inside the piano rippled through my
fingers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“But she only
lives in your memory.” The engagement ring sighed against my skin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Father pressed my
hand down, sending up a melody, “Then she still lives.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
That night I laid
to rest my engagement ring next to the photograph of the woman my father had
loved, not in a grave but in an eternal treasure. The lid closed not with a sound of finality that I had expected but with
the hushed tone of a symphony.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Robyn Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10336881782682808439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1667090837928800145.post-78749552392782280762014-03-20T16:43:00.001-07:002014-03-20T16:43:36.634-07:00The Adventure of the Romantic Hero<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYOa3zPEmcfKhuN8dmnEobSvlSgu7nnksRQlg4MqEgf8MFvZNJdx3GxfBpDKupTdq9xmE4OWeXjd_pO9JzjGxtQE05hMFySB3-sDPmoQyWol-rsZyOha0g2BZLnfkAL0GiWw1mdI0hRf0T/s1600/Cherry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYOa3zPEmcfKhuN8dmnEobSvlSgu7nnksRQlg4MqEgf8MFvZNJdx3GxfBpDKupTdq9xmE4OWeXjd_pO9JzjGxtQE05hMFySB3-sDPmoQyWol-rsZyOha0g2BZLnfkAL0GiWw1mdI0hRf0T/s1600/Cherry.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Nearly everybody gets twitterpated in the springtime.<br />
<br />
But, this feeling of floating on clouds isn't just around in the spring for those who read.<br />
<br />
Love at first sight? More like, love at first paragraph.<br />
<br />
There is a fever known to many readers as "Fictionalitis". It is a sickness that has no cure. Yes, this is the condition in where people are in love with fictional characters. Every reader is guilty of this. These characters float right out of the black and white pages of our favorite books and right into our hearts where they refuse to leave. Not that we mind.<br />
<br />
You never forget your first love.<br />
<br />
Mine was none other than Gilbert Blythe, the hero from one of the best books known to literature, A<i>nne of Green Gables. </i>Anne might not have liked when he called her "carrots", but I certainly found it charming.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiueKsfeYtKk9pyFYbUvSgMWKC-Fvl6Z5dhByNSCuB8OWkWZY9-ZX2KEB2RFken-iMzpFgZe-zlcvrTHWPtv6mQblP9BXt-N2hb19nHmDKzn6pHd7DGw3fp0iinbUPzvLCfIsyDosEwIQjR/s1600/Gilbert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiueKsfeYtKk9pyFYbUvSgMWKC-Fvl6Z5dhByNSCuB8OWkWZY9-ZX2KEB2RFken-iMzpFgZe-zlcvrTHWPtv6mQblP9BXt-N2hb19nHmDKzn6pHd7DGw3fp0iinbUPzvLCfIsyDosEwIQjR/s1600/Gilbert.jpg" height="320" width="282" /></a></div>
<br />
But even as bad as it may be to carry torch for a fictional character, the fall is even harder when you go head over heels for a character you wrote for your own story.<br />
<br />
Of this I am quite guilty.<br />
<br />
In fact, in the novel I'm writing right now (on page 82) I just introduced the romantic hero. I know, I'm already on page 82 and am just now introducing the romantic hero? Trust me, he's worth the wait. There's nothing like a handsome fictional character to get your inspiration tank to full.<br />
<br />
Now, it might be those blossoms that are hugging tree branches in the spring sunshine that is making my sentimental heart want to write about a romantic hero. For a hopeless romantic such as myself, writing about the leading man and how he settles in the heart of the main character is always my favorite part. It's also the part I work the hardest at. The romance is the heart of the story and therefore the beat needs to be strong and true.<br />
<br />
I had my writing partner read the first part where I introduce the romantic hero and judging by her giggles, I'm guessing he had the same effect on her as he does on me.<br />
<br />
Hopefully one day you will read my novel and fall in love with the romantic hero as well!<br />
<br />
Enough rambling for now!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Robyn Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10336881782682808439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1667090837928800145.post-27803444770748589182014-03-05T22:11:00.000-08:002014-03-05T22:11:11.784-08:00The Adventure of Peter PanI'm back! <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And it's only been a week!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Be proud!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As before mentioned I have been writing every day and I said I would put some different short stories on here. So here we go!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I might be a fairy tale believer, and some of you already know this. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So it probably won't be a shock about the subject of this next story!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Never Grow Up</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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“
<i>‘All of this has happened before, and it
will all happen again’</i>.” I breathed, mustering up every ounce of
enchantment in my voice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I’m
pretty sure <i>this</i> has never happened
before.” My friend, Julie scoffed, her sarcasm covering my darkened backyard.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Now,
missy, is that any kind of attitude to have?” I demanded as I closed my
well-worn copy of <i>Peter Pan</i> and put
away my story-telling voice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Her
sigh winged its way over to me through the darkness. “And what exactly is the
attitude I’m supposed to have? Why did you even bring that old book out here? It’s
too dark to read.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
snuggled deeper inside the blanket covering my shoulders, “Yeah, because that’s
what I was doing…reading it…not reciting it from memory.”
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“You
have <i>Peter Pan</i> memorized?” Her
disbelief covered me more than my blanket.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
reached for my binoculars. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“It’s
not…if you’re ten! It’s the eve of your eighteenth birthday!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
looked through the binoculars, searching behind every star. “Your point? And,
where are your binoculars? You’re supposed to be watching the roof!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
With
a groan, I heard Julie fidget with her own binoculars before she continued. “We
should be doing something adventurous. But no, we are out here sitting in the
cold, catching pneumonia like two old ninnies.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
dropped my binoculars in my lap. “Hey! Don’t make me any older than I already
am.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Julie
looked over at me, her binoculars reflecting off the moonlight, her eyes taking
on the glow of fairy dust. “Speaking of ‘older’, don’t you think you are just a
bit too old for this?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
leaned back and took in the show of the night sky, complete with shooting
stars. “ ‘This’ being?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Jane!
You are turning eighteen tomorrow, and we are looking for Peter Pan!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
smiled at the sparkling night, “I fail to see the problem here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“And
that’s what scares me.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
tucked my arm behind me, turning it into a pillow. “The only thing scaring me
is the possibility of missing Peter, because <i>you</i> keep forgetting to watch the roof!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Jane!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“And
as for you, the only thing you should be scared about are pirates, especially
Captain Hook.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Julie
threw herself down on the ground by me and peered over me, her face blocking my
view. “Jane, listen to me. Peter Pan and Captain Hook aren’t real.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
shoved her away. “Excuse me please. You are blocking my view. Sounds to me that
you need a little more faith, trust and…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“No!
Don’t even say it!” She completely collapsed onto the ground and rolled over
onto her back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Pixie
dust!” I finished, my storyteller voice in full effect.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I
can just see us now. We <i>are</i> going to
be old ninnies with pneumonia in wheelchairs still looking for Peter Pan.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
blinked the stars from my vision and sat up. “No…no that won’t be us.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Julie
sat up, her binoculars still glued to her face. “Why not?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
My
sigh shot across my backyard like the shooting stars in the sky. “Because, by
then we will be grown up.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Julie
put her binoculars down. “Oh.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Yep.
Once you’re grown up, you can’t ever go to Never land.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Is
that what this is all about?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
hid behind my binoculars. “I turn eighteen tomorrow. It’s my last chance to go
to Never land and not grow up.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“What’s
so bad about growing up?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I
forgot. You’re already eighteen.” I threw my head back searching for the second
star to the right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“What
does that have to do with anything?” Julie joined me in looking, following my
gaze.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Because
you’ve already forgotten!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Forgotten
what?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
threw my binoculars down. “What its like to be young! To have dreams. Not get
caught up in the way the rest of the world is.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Julie
picked up my binoculars. “What are you talking about Jane?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Every
one always has dreams. But they all end up settling and then the next thing
they know, life has passed them by and everything they wanted is out of their
reach. People forget what it’s like to have a young and hopeful heart.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“You
think that’s going to happen to you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“It’s
what happens to everyone.” I played with the unraveling fabric on my blanket.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Julie
handed me back my binoculars. “I don’t think that’s going to happen to you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“How?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Because
you won’t ever be like those people.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
looked back at the sky. “How do you know that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Because
I don’t think any of those other people have the faith like you do.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
smiled at the moon. “Really?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Would
anyone else be sitting outside waiting for Peter Pan?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
replied with picking my binoculars back up and searching the skies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Julie
laughed as she followed pursuit. “You know, if Peter Pan does indeed show up
tonight, I have a bone to pick with him?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“And
what would that be?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“He
didn’t come to take me away to Never land.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
almost dropped my binoculars again. “Is that right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Julie
tightened her grip on her binoculars. “You’re not the only one who has <i>Peter Pan</i> memorized.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
shrugged. “Well just keep thinking happy thoughts. He will show up.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“How
can you be so sure?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
cleared my throat. “ ‘<i>All of this has
happened before and it will happen again.’”</i></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Robyn Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10336881782682808439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1667090837928800145.post-48140632300513724402014-02-26T09:56:00.002-08:002014-02-26T09:56:56.301-08:00The Adventure of Getting the Ball Rolling<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7AgyUL1CBzIl4JK8PjYE1kcajjAHY_rpqlKiVbb7TdS9XDINGFOnz9NaIHp_iyQOl01DMr8Q1dL0yezOVOEb5nbQxJE96aJiiqufz6daQFzNOEqsgz5_rw0vBpZBQfO4dSyV4n04HTxBt/s1600/journal_and_pen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7AgyUL1CBzIl4JK8PjYE1kcajjAHY_rpqlKiVbb7TdS9XDINGFOnz9NaIHp_iyQOl01DMr8Q1dL0yezOVOEb5nbQxJE96aJiiqufz6daQFzNOEqsgz5_rw0vBpZBQfO4dSyV4n04HTxBt/s1600/journal_and_pen.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
My name is Robyn, and I am a horrible blogger.<br />
<br />
If it helps, I do think about you all the time my dear little blog. But, I do believe that is no excuse for not writing a blog in four months. Four months!<br />
<br />
Again, if it helps, I have hardly written anything in these last four months.<br />
<br />
In my defense, school is a bully and doesn't like to share me with my writing world. Does writing essays count as 'writing'?<br />
<br />
Have no fear! That is all about to change.<br />
<br />
You see, one of the main reasons I have taken a "vacation" from writing, is not only has Inspiration refused to come visit me, but his evil twin Discouragement has decided to move in. For about a month I have shied away from anything that was story related, feeling every drop of doubt.<br />
<br />
Battling such feelings of doubt and fear of being a horrible writer is probably all a part of the job. But, I won't let it conquer me.<br />
<br />
I have heard multiple times that an author should write every day. And I am now taking this to heart. I decided to go back to my roots of writing with a smooth pen on a fresh piece of paper, rather than typing the days away. Seeing blue ink smudged on my hand, might be one of the homiest feelings I could muster. I am reminded of the days when I was a little girl and would lug around a Hello Kitty binder jammed with random papers with my unreadable writing scrawled over every inch of every page. This new method is already healing my wounds of doubt and bringing me back to the reason I write anyway. I am hopelessly, head over heels in love with the way words flow from my heart and onto the page.<br />
<br />
So, every day I find a new writing prompt and jot down a small story in my little writing journal. And I will upload some of those stories onto here.<br />
<br />
I know what you're thinking. Uh-huh, sure, we've heard that before. We won't hear from you again in another 7 months!<br />
<br />
I don't blame you for the lack of faith.<br />
<br />
But, I feel like I have learned a lesson in my aspiring author career. Nothing will keep me from writing again, especially something as silly as doubt. When something is your heart's desire, it was probably put there for a reason and you should hold onto it and cherish it.<br />
<br />
See you soon!<br />
<br />
Enough rambling for now!Robyn Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10336881782682808439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1667090837928800145.post-78486953603979497052013-10-24T11:46:00.001-07:002013-10-24T11:46:20.756-07:00A Short Story AdventureI do believe it's time for another short story... and a new blog!<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Usually I have the hardest time shortening any of my stories to be less than 250 pages. However, after all of these creative writing classes I am learning to master the art of the short story. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This is a little tale about two ladies who share a name. And as Juliet once put it, "What's in a name?" Without further ado, here is a short story I wrote for one of my creative writing classes. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL86OQlk-lTWE9P3HRXfXIdV3lmB7jpR4NPmjmbCR6YT2RMF-7x3C-K7FxHSBDX6KkdcaX0RZdXNd2SLALEjuEyRmA1As-VOzrKF1TmY-XMTlE4B4bjlgvTkehFsCWRMUNaNAsh6mWnt87/s1600/Mason+jar+solar+light+lids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL86OQlk-lTWE9P3HRXfXIdV3lmB7jpR4NPmjmbCR6YT2RMF-7x3C-K7FxHSBDX6KkdcaX0RZdXNd2SLALEjuEyRmA1As-VOzrKF1TmY-XMTlE4B4bjlgvTkehFsCWRMUNaNAsh6mWnt87/s320/Mason+jar+solar+light+lids.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Eleanor</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
had kissed Cupid.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
was one for the books… literally. I had gotten into the habit of lugging around
a large spiral notebook with me whenever I was cruelly forced to sit and listen
to my great aunt Eleanor’s jibber jabber. We stared at each other from across
the cold gray table. My eyes masked my intense pain of boredom, while hers
overflowed with enchantment. The sparkles in her chestnut eyes danced as she
rattled on about her teenage date with the God of Love. So lost was she in her
reverie of passion tipped arrows and pure fluffy wings, she didn’t take notice
that I had pulled out my notebook and was scribbling away. I added, “Fling with
Cupid” to my ever-growing list of aunt Eleanor’s lavish delusions. Over the
months I had stored up quite the collection of her insane rambles, planning to
show my mother just how crazy she actually was. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He
kissed me with magic.” Aunt Eleanor’s airy voice floated over the table.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
glanced up at her, taking in how she had her delicate blue veined hands clasped
together under her chin, “Yep.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
why it felt like we were walking on air.” She breathed out a dream filled sigh,
her eyes searching the ceiling, as if she expected to see Cupid hovering near
by.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are
you sure you weren’t flying? The kid does have some wings, you know.” I rolled
my eyes, before plastering on my practiced fake smile, as she looked my way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
covered her mouth as she giggled like an eight year old, rather than an eighty
eight year old. “Well, our love did take us to new heights!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
slammed the notebook shut, “I bet.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
wheeled herself to my side giving me a good look at the vibrant fuchsia tutu
she had fashioned around her tiny waist. She thrust her shaky soft hand into my
curled up fists. “Ellie, have you ever been kissed with magic?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
blinked. “Nope. Can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure to kiss Harry Potter yet.”
I knotted my hands together, pushing away her small paw.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Her
shimmering eyes dulled, “Oh, how I pity you!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
blasted to my feet, my chair screeching along the drab charcoal floor, causing
random salt and pepper heads from around the visitor’s room to all glare at me.
“I have to go aunt Eleanor.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
wheeled by me, escorting me to the door. At the pace we were going I began to
wonder if my great aunt was part snail. I figured I could have pushed her to
rush things along, but what was the use of going out of my way. She let out
another breathy giggle. “Mercy me! Look at me go. I should enter a wheelchair
derby.” As we neared the door she puffed out, “Did I ever tell you about the
time I won the Indy 500?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
looked through the glass doors to the beautiful sight of my mother’s navy mini
van waiting at the curb for me. “Nope. Bye aunt Eleanor.” I turned on my heel
and raced through the door, pretending I didn’t hear her call after me,
“Goodbye my little darling! Say hello to your boyfriend Harry Potter for me!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
threw myself into the front seat, my lip falling into a pout. I yanked the
seatbelt down all the while grumbling under my breath. My mother chuckled, “I
take it you had a good time?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
pierced her with the dirtiest look I could muster, “I don’t understand why you
hate me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Her
sigh lasted until we pulled out of the parking lot. “Honey, I’m not in the mood
for your teenage angst. It really won’t hurt you to visit her once a week.
She’s your namesake!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And
I thank you from the bottom of my heart for naming me after a lady who thinks
she planted one on Cupid.” I tossed my feet up on the dashboard. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
mother’s smile glistened, “Oh! Did she tell you that story? That was always one
of my favorites.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Mom! You shouldn’t give in to her
delusions!” I reached for my notebook.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
Ellie stop it.” Her tone tightened around my name. “You’re making her sound like
she’s crazy.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
exactly what she is.” I ripped open the notebook. “I know she’s your favorite
aunt but I think you need to come to grips that she belongs in a loony bin
rather than a nursing home.” I flipped to my list. “According to Eleanor, she
dined with royalty every night for ten years. She has a jar of stardust under
her bed. Oh, and we mustn’t forget that she claims she has a treasure so
beautiful, the world wouldn’t know what to do with it. Now, here’s my personal
favorite, once she held the sunrise in her hands.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
threw the notebook down showing my mother just how angsty I could be. She
pulled into our driveway, silence pouring out of her. After she came to a stop
she sat there running her hands over the steering wheel, as if it was going to
whisper to her the words she wanted to say. “Eleanor.” She exhaled my name.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t
call me that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Her
hands slid down into her lap. Her eyes sought out mine. I tried to avoid eye
contact but the quiet somber flickering in her face kept seeking my attention.
She blinked, “Eleanor, you just don’t understand her. You don’t.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
glanced down at my own knotted up hands lying in my lap. I licked my lips,
preparing to fire back with a usual cheeky response when my mother spoke, “I
wish you deserved your name.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>****************************</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Miss Ellie, I
don’t think it’s a good time for a visit.” My aunt’s nurse folded her hands
calmly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
crossed my arms, “Well, my mom already dropped me off.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Perhaps
you should give her a call.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
nurse eased into her own practiced smile, “So she can come back and pick you
up.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No.
I mean why isn’t it a goody day for a visit.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
rehearsed smile deepened, “Your aunt isn’t having an easy time of it today.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before
I could ask her any more questions I heard my aunt’s breezy voice thundering
out from the visitor’s room. I charged past the nurse heading straight for the
room. The nurse followed me, “Miss Ellie, I really don’t think she is up for
any visitors today.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh?
Is that why she’s in the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Leave Me
Alone” room?” My fake smile slid across my face as I glanced over my shoulder
at the nurse. I opened the door to the visitor’s room to the scene of my great
aunt surrounded by the crabby salt and pepper heads who she calls neighbors.
Her neon orange outfit stood out in contrast to the jaded blues and grays of
the crowd that circled her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Tears
streamed down her face as she clutched in her petite arms, an oversized mason
jar. She hiccupped, “It is! I’m telling you the truth! Why can’t you see it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
hand gripped the door handle, my knuckles turning white as a salt and pepper
man hit the side of my aunt’s wheelchair with his cherry wood cane, “Yeah.
That’s a jar of stardust. And I’m John F. Kennedy.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Aunt
Eleanor bawled, “You’re not nearly handsome enough to be him!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“At
least I’ve still got my sanity, unlike you!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Aunt
Eleanor crumpled back into her chair. She caught sight of me, still standing
with the door open, and the dam of her tears completely broke free. “Ellie!
Ellie, tell them! They don’t believe me, Ellie!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Every
head turned to look at me, sending me into full retreat mode. That is, until I
got a glimpse of the nurse standing behind me. She crossed her arms and a smirk
snaked over her face. With a weighty grumble I stepped into the room and forced
my way through the small cluster of canes, wobbly knees, and knobby elbows. I
pushed past the man who had hit aunt Eleanor’s wheelchair, “Excuse me, Mr.
President.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Aunt
Eleanor reached out for me, dropping her precious jar in the process. Mr. President
moved faster than I thought his joints could allow, bending down to snatch up
the jar. “Oh, yes. Mighty fine stardust we have here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
hand moved faster than my brain could process what I was doing. My hand snapped
out fast to grab at the jar I startled Mr. President so that his bony fingers
loosened up on the jar. “Your reflexes aren’t what they used to be, now are
they, JFK?” His lips formed into a snarl. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I do
believe you are all way past kindergarten, and should not be acting like kids
on a playground.” I raked my eyes over the huddle of grays and blues. “Now I
think all of you should think back to when your mothers taught you some
manners. If you can remember back that far.” I grabbed the jar and plopped it
down in a stunned aunt Eleanor’s lap. I wheeled her away to the corner window,
hidden from the peering eyes of her peers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
scooted a plastic chair close to her and sat beside her as she caressed her
stardust jar, muttering, “They didn’t see it Ellie. They just couldn’t see it.”
I reached out an awkward hand and patted her arm the way I imagined one would
pat the head of a grizzly bear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
She rubbed at her
swollen eyes. “Don’t you see it Ellie?” She lifted the jar to my face. I looked
from the jar, to her, back to the jar again. Instead of tiny little stars,
there were dozens upon dozens of pictures. She popped open the lid and
sprinkled the pictures down onto her lap, black and white photographs falling
like shooting stars. “Aren’t they all beautiful?” She looked at me, her brown
eyes now brimming with her normal enchanted expression.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
feeblest of smiles stepped onto my face, “Yes.” I breathed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
picked up a faded photograph. She handed it over into my hands. I gingerly
touched the edges, taking in the sight of a light haired man sitting on the
hood of an old Ford. The way the sun fell though his hair, it almost gave him
an angelic halo. He was looking down at the photographer with the same look in
his eyes that haunted aunt Eleanor’s. “That’s your uncle George.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
handed the picture back to her. I watched as it floated down into her hand. “I
don’t remember him.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No.
No, you wouldn’t. He died long before you came along.” She returned the picture
to the jar. “We were only married for ten years. We were as poor as poor could
be. But every night as we sat across each other at the dinner table, we felt
like royalty. Being together was more important than all the money in the
world.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
picked up a faded envelope. She popped it over into my hold. “Do you fancy reading?”
She giggled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
bit back a smile as I opened up the envelope and pulled out an old letter. The
poetry of my great uncle’s marriage proposal was spelled out in delicate
calligraphy. Aunt Eleanor tugged the letter from my tight grasp. “It’s a
treasure isn’t it? That man knew how to kiss with magic.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
scooted in even closer, to gaze down at all the different photographs. “Why do
you have so many photos aunt Eleanor?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
ran her fingers over them. “People say that stars are the jewels of the sky.
These are my jewels.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
straightened up. I began to scoot away as if the photographs were blinding me.
Aunt Eleanor’s hand stopped me. I allowed her tiny hand to slip into my
clenched fist. I unraveled my fingers, as I felt the warmth of aunt Eleanor’s
palm against mine. She gave my hand a squeeze before pulling away, leaving a
small colored photograph in my hand. “This is one of my favorite stars.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
unfolded my palm. I recognized aunt Eleanor right away. She was sitting by a
hospital bed, with light streaming in through the window. In her arms she
cradled a newborn. My hand began to shake as I saw that the baby was me. Aunt
Eleanor spoke up, “You were born right before sunup. I was in the room with
your mother. She handed you over to me as the sun broke out. I looked down at
you and I knew I was holding the sunrise in my hands.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Later
as I climbed into my mother’s van I had disappeared into a deep haze. When she
put a cool hand on my shoulder, I jumped. She laughed, “What’s going on with
you, Ellie?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
found my voice. “Don’t call me that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
drew back her hand. “Why not?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My
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Robyn Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10336881782682808439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1667090837928800145.post-65112873686223253672013-09-11T15:18:00.000-07:002013-09-11T15:18:08.491-07:00The Snow White Adventure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Apples have the ability to make our mouths water just by taking a glance at the glossy vibrant ruby peel. Our hands will itch to run our fingers over the smooth fruit. They beckon to us to come take a crisp bite and have the juice drip lazily down our chins. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Apples also have the reputation of being called "The Forbidden Fruit". Now, Eve might not exactly agree with that, but there is another lady who will more than approve of this moniker.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Rumor has it, that Snow White and apples didn't exactly see eye to eye. To her, apples are the epitome of forbidden fruit. Judging by her traumatic experience with the fruit, it is more than likely she never went near anything apple related again. How can we blame her?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I, on the other hand, have apples on the brain. This is what tends to happen if you are writing a novel based around the Snow White fairy</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">If you have read any of my previous blogs, you will know that I am an avid fairy tale believer, and that I've been working on a fairy tale piece.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Although, I must admit, that it's not exactly surprising that I have ended up writing a novel about fairy tales (it just comes with the territory if you are a hopeless romantic) but it is a strange turn of events that I am writing one about Snow White.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You see, from the ages of seven to eleven I would have sworn upon my stuffed animal collection that I was a Princess. I had my dream palace all designed out, complete with a Beauty and the Beast type library. If one wanted to throw a Princess tea party but didn't know how to go about it, I would be your girl. I even had all of my little friends dreamily gazing out their windows with stars in their eyes, waiting for Prince Charming to show up and sweep them off their seven year old feet.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And of course, I was an expert when it came to Disney Princesses. I knew them inside and out, as if I had met them in person. And I was 100% sure I was going to grow up with beautiful flowing locks like them (Seems to be a common Disney trait to have astounding hair). But even though I was a die hard Disney nerd, I hated Snow White. It practically seems like a sin not to like the first ever Walt Disney movie. But, alas, I just couldn't connect with the first Princess.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I thought the story was boring, with not a lot of depth. I thought Snow White was annoying. And the Evil Queen scared me out of my knee caps. I grew up with a repulsion to the princess and couldn't understand why other people adored her so. I mean, come on, Ariel and Belle was where it was at. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Then as I grew older and wiser I began to see Snow White for who she really was. She was a tender hearted Princess who graciously loved everyone and every thing that crossed her path. She didn't even harbor any mean feelings for the Queen who despised her. She was also an undying optimistic, who had no doubt she would get her happily ever after when the time was right. Her heart was full of faith in people (She completely tore down Grumpy's walls) in life and love.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">If any Princess deserves a novel written about her, it's this one.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Snow White's story is one of the best well known tales out there. Or is it? I guess when I finally finish my novel, we will know for sure!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Cheers to a new tale of the Snow White fairy tale!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Enough rambling for now!</span></div>
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Robyn Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10336881782682808439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1667090837928800145.post-69077871646791396252013-08-19T23:09:00.000-07:002013-08-19T23:09:15.891-07:00The Learning Adventure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Summer has come and gone. </div>
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The days of falling golden leaves, chai tea, and snuggling up in a warm blanket with a good book are just around the corner. However, also around the corner is school, which usually means more homework time and less writing time.</div>
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I had high hopes of being able to write this summer. I envisioned my summer days would be filled with writing each and every single hour away with the bright sun streaming in through my window. I even set a deadline for myself. I was supposed to have finished the rough draft of my novel. However, it was not to be so. </div>
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I only wrote a whopping 9 pages.</div>
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After beating myself up for not making time to write this summer as I fully intended to do, I realized that even though I had barely written a word, (and my characters were probably wondering if their story was ever going to get an ending) that God must have had other plans for my summer.</div>
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Even if I didn't do what I set out to do I still had one splendid and blessed summer. I have spent countless happy days bent over some wonderful and charming books (At least I read 9 books this summer...does that make up for the 9 pages I wrote?). I have laid under the gleaming and twinkling stars almost every night. I have had deep soul baring conversations. I have fallen more in love with God. I have built up friendships that are very dear to me. I have had special people move into my life, and I have had special people move out. I have learned more about life and love and how deeply I believe in what I do. I have learned more about my heart and how much God wants to give me.</div>
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But what I have learned most of all, is that things don't always go as planned. I wasn't planning on spending almost every single day in the company of wonderful friends. But I am more than glad I did. I wasn't planning on only writing 9 pages in my novel. But I'm almost glad I did, because absence truly does make the heart grow fonder and I have missed my little novel and I am feeling very inspired to go back to it again. I think it has missed me too.</div>
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But what I have also learned is that these memories and lessons I have learned will maybe help my writing one day. I feel certainly inspired by these sweet summer memories and even though there were some bad mixed in with the good, as there usually is in life, it will be a summer I will carry with me and will retreat back to when I need some inspiration.</div>
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Hoping your summer was beautiful as well!</div>
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And I will try not to go another two months without posting anything.</div>
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Enough rambling for now</div>
Robyn Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10336881782682808439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1667090837928800145.post-31104841169914403372013-06-02T23:02:00.000-07:002013-06-02T23:02:09.645-07:00The Adventure to Inspiration Part 2<div style="text-align: center;">
Ah, summer! The season of vacation and the time I am supposed to be feverishly writing away in my little novel.</div>
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Of course, as fate would have it, when I realize that I only have two months to finish my new novel (thanks to the deadline I have assigned myself) is when inspiration decides to also take a vacation and leave my side and go visit some other blessed author.</div>
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And so, yet again, I frantically search for inspiration. Another way I do this, other than watching some of my favorite movies as mentioned in The Adventure to Inspiration Part 1, is I listen to some of my favorite songs.</div>
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First up is 'Moonlight Serenade' by none other than the wonderful Glenn Miller. The Glenn Miller Orchestra was all the rage in the late 1930's and early 1940's. During World War II soldiers and their sweethearts would dance the night away to the serenade of Glenn Miller's big band. I am a very old fashioned girl, and my heart belongs in the 1940's, and no other music quite gets me like swing music does. So of course when I hear swing music, especially my friend Glenn Miller I am instantly swept away into a sentimental and poetic state of mind which makes me want to write the night away, my heart singing along with every sentimental note.</div>
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Doo-wop! Oh, the music of the 50's and early 60's. Told ya I was old fashioned. Doo-wop is insanely charming and more than fun to sing along to. And it is some of my favorite music to write along to. For some reason, more than any other genre, doo-wop makes me want to rush to my laptop and type until my fingers go numb. </div>
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And of course, I wouldn't be me if I didn't have songs from some musicals thrown into the mix. Musicals are my bread and butter. And as much as I get teased for loving these movies, it will never stop me from watching and singing along with them with a huge smile splashed across my face. Watching these movies with their sweet songs put me in such a lighthearted and blissful mood that I could stay up until the wee hours in the morning writing. Especially this song from 'Oklahoma!'. This song will make me grin like a fool even when I am 90 years old. </div>
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Enough rambling for now!</div>
Robyn Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10336881782682808439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1667090837928800145.post-74921132337962873062013-05-31T13:12:00.002-07:002013-05-31T13:12:56.652-07:00Adventurous New GoalCheers to another adventure!<br />
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After school pounding me into the ground this past month and a half, I am very much so in need of another adventure...and a new blog post!<br />
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No other season quite holds the promise of new adventures like summer does. Something floating about on the warm summer breeze seeps into my heart causing me to smile upon the world, and as you can tell, it almost makes me rather sentimental. I have always loved summer, because not only do I get to escape the terrors of school but I also have time to write. Practically every summer I sit in my reading chair with light pouring in through my windows and just write the days and nights away in perfect bliss!<br />
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And so, this summers adventure will result in me finishing my novel that I am working on. I have given myself a deadline and I MUST finish my novel (at least the first revision) by my birthday in early August.<br />
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Prayers needed.<br />
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I only have a little over two months to finish this new task I have assigned myself. But I couldn't think of a better way to spend my summer then with some quality time with my new novel. And since this new novel is all about fairy tales, I am hoping that the summer will bring along a happy ending for me too. A happy ending complete with finished novel!<br />
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Enough rambling for now!<br />
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<br />Robyn Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10336881782682808439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1667090837928800145.post-25788699794923441082013-04-15T23:50:00.002-07:002013-04-15T23:50:28.021-07:00Fairy Tale Adventure<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Once upon a time.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Four of the most beautiful words ever uttered. Usually after these enchanting words, a fairy tale is sure to follow.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There are many people out in the world who downright refuse to believe that fairy tales are real. I have never been known to be one of those individuals. Not that I can completely blame those who are cynical about it. This world isn't full of pixie dust, nor do we have Fairy Godmothers here to do our every bidding, and unfortunately, many people are still searching for true love's first kiss. These things, and many more combined could lead people to think that fairy tales only exist in books. Fairy tales are too "perfect" and are not true to real life.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I beg to disagree.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I have a philosophy that life is very much like a fairy tale. Why, if people only took a closer look at fairy tales they would see that the stories are far from perfect. In life, we all go through hardships, and it is the same in fairy tales. Before Prince Philip could get to his true love, Aurora, he had to battle a dangerous dragon. Snow White had to eat an apple and fall into a perpetual sleep before her prince found her. And Cinderella was lonely and overworked before she went to the ball. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This is proof that even in fairy tales there were trials and tribulations. And such is the case in real life. We all have our fair share of problems but that doesn't mean we won't have a happy ending. God is the creator of happy endings and most definitely likes us to have one. In a lot of fairy tales there is always someone to aid the heroes and heroines. In our case we have God over a Fairy Godmother. And God will give us an even greater happy ending than has ever been written down, more beautiful and enchanting than fairy tales. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I have always had an idea that these fairy tales couldn't have just come from nowhere, and that they couldn't just be stories. They had to be inspired and based off of real people. Which is why I have decided to write a story based entirely around fairy tales. Since I am such a believer in fairy tales being true to real life, what could be more reasonable than to write a book about fairy tales. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Enough rambling for now!</span></div>
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<br />Robyn Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10336881782682808439noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1667090837928800145.post-87393690379645144972013-04-04T16:08:00.001-07:002013-04-04T16:12:02.347-07:00The Publishing a Short Story Adventure"Short" is the last word I would use in describing any of my stories. From the very first novel I wrote when I was six, all the way up to now, practically all of my stories could stretch across all of America.<br />
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I like to blame my extensive story telling on that I am Irish, because it is a well-known fact that the Irish are natural born storytellers. However, that is probably just an excuse. I guess what it boils down to is I just love to talk ( Sorry to everyone who knows me and can't get me to shut up).<br />
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So never did it really occur to me that I should write a short story. In all honesty, I didn't think I would be able to write something that didn't result in 400 pages. This all changed when one of my English Lit professors sent me an e-mail and told me about a literary magazine. They were asking for short stories and she really thought I should submit something. </div>
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I remember literally gulping. <i>Me</i>? <i>Actually</i> submit a piece of my writing instead of dreaming about it? Whoa, whoa, whoa Professor! I don't think I am quite ready for this! I have only been writing for 14 years! Maybe I should wait another decade or so!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
However, thankfully I am blessed with a beautiful mother who believes in my dream even more than I do. She gave me a lot of encouragement and wouldn't let me pass up this opportunity. So I went to my little laptop and sat in my brown fluffy reading and writing chair next to my overflowing bookshelf and began to write.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For some reason the line "I fell in love when I was seven years old" had been playing in my head for weeks. I felt a little nudge from God that I should write it down and boom! 8 pages later I had a short story. Who would have thought I would have been able to do it? It was nothing short of a miracle. </div>
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<div>
I submitted it to the magazine and of course didn't hear back from them for some time but lo and behold! One beautiful day I received an e-mail congratulating me on having my short story titled "What is a Kiss" accepted to the magazine! My first story ever to get published! </div>
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If you would like, you can read my short story down below. If you remember what your first kiss was like or if you ever had a childhood romance then you might rather enjoy yourself!</div>
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Enough rambling for now!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiNJZ8pvtzDPNdonBRlZ8phAQiXwWjFi3UzKdPjqzmpg-1VW0AljcIHlll4vuPwkN0pX3jZJntn-kOVKZ8lCLE8Xymsqje6Irc35CSs5Y-TxrDV2J2bsN8a_BtES1iPyPEbt4gU67QNhGf/s1600/Kiss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiNJZ8pvtzDPNdonBRlZ8phAQiXwWjFi3UzKdPjqzmpg-1VW0AljcIHlll4vuPwkN0pX3jZJntn-kOVKZ8lCLE8Xymsqje6Irc35CSs5Y-TxrDV2J2bsN8a_BtES1iPyPEbt4gU67QNhGf/s320/Kiss.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What Is A Kiss?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I fell in love
when I was seven years old. Or better yet, that’s when I was first kissed. And
I’ve been told that kissin’ and being in love are one and the same. Most people
would figure that seven years old was just a tad too young to be knowing about
lips and smoochin’. Most folks would say that my older siblings who had been in
high school at that time had probably corrupted my innocence. More than likely
the Christian folk would have declared that our deteriorating society and the
trash being shown on TV gave youngsters the idea to try kissin', and heaven
bless them if they let it happen right under their noses.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Well those good
Christians would have fainted and floated right up to heaven if they knew that
I first became interested in the idea of kissin’ right in my own Sunday school
classroom. It was in the month of June, the summer before I would be starting
the third grade. After a dreary winter and a showery spring, June came bouncing
along bringing with it a feeling of liveliness. For us kids that liveliness
came in the form of sweet freedom from school, but for others that liveliness
morphed into something along the lines of summer flings and wild adventures.
Bottom line, there was something floating around in that warm summer breeze
that left every single person affected. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
The story of my
first kiss began one warm, dry Sunday morning in Mr. Gloss’s Sunday school
classroom. All of us boys and girls were surrounding a large round wooden
table. All the boys were smashed together on one side of the table while us
girls sat cramped together across from them. It was a known fact that for a
girl to sit by a boy or vice versa just wasn’t done. At this point in life us
kids were split into two groups. One of these groups was full of kids that
thought the opposite sex was crawling with the much-hated cooties. The other
consisted of boys and girls who found each other ever so slightly intriguing
and would therefore chase each other around the blacktop at recess.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
At that moment I
had yet to figure out which group I belonged to. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
It was amazing I
had lasted that long in the in between stage for a majority of my good friends
were members of the group that found boys to be cute and interesting creatures.
And no boy was more fascinating than Johnny Stevenson. Apparently the way his
blue eyes mischievously twinkled had the power to turn any girl into a giggling
machine. I wasn’t really sure what the big hoopla was. Thanks to Johnny’s mom
being best friends with mine, we were continually being roped together and he
had never turned my stomach into butterflies. But out of all the boys I knew I
would have bet that he didn’t have cooties.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Now on the
previous Sundays we had been learning about our forefather Jacob. I had grown
to really like that Jacob and I felt as if he was almost a friend. On that
particular Sunday we just so happened to be talking about how Jacob met Rachel.
I was listening intently, hanging on every word that Mr. Gloss was saying. Come
to think of it, I was probably the only one who had been paying attention. All
the girls were probably passing each other secret notes or drawing little
hearts with Johnny Stevenson’s name in the corners of their bibles. And the
boys…well only the Good Lord knows what the boys were doing. Mr. Gloss began
speaking of how our forefather Jacob traveled far and wide and came across the
beautiful Rachel watering her Daddy’s sheep. Being the gentleman that he was,
Jacob helped Rachel give her sheep water. I was sitting there smiling to myself
thinking what a nice man he was. He sounded almost as sweet as my own Daddy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
And then Jacob did
something I didn’t see coming. Why, that Jacob grabbed Rachel and planted one
on her. And what’s more he went and asked her Daddy if he could marry her. My
jaw dropped. What would make Jacob do such a weird thing? Mr. Gloss went on and
said that Jacob was <i>in love</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> with Rachel
and that he worked for Rachel’s Daddy for seven years in order to marry her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
And then came the
big whopper. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Mr. Gloss said
that those seven years only seemed like a few days to Jacob because he was so
head over heels for Rachel. Of course the girls who didn’t think boys were
cootie bags all decided to listen at this part and began to giggle over this
romantic sentiment. And the boys just sort of cleared their throats. As for me,
my eyes grew wide and my brain started going at 100 miles per hour like it had
never done before. And I could have sworn a light bulb turned on over my head,
but that could have just been the sun’s ray’s streaming in through the corner
window. Jacob <i>kissed</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Rachel. It must
have been one heck of a kiss for him to want to marry her. Could a kiss really
make a person want to go and do a bizarre thing like that? I wasn’t so sure. I
wasn’t even really certain what a kiss between a boy and a girl was… or meant.
Up until then I thought kissing was only something crazy teenagers did because
they were bored or it was something parents did because that’s what happens
when you are married. Now I started thinking that maybe that wasn’t what it was.
Maybe kissin’ meant a whole lot more.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
What was a kiss?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I couldn’t stop
thinking about it. I had to know what a kiss was and I had to know right then.
As soon as Sunday school was over and the boys climbed all over each other
racing for the door to go play a rowdy version of ball, us girls stayed behind
to talk, much like the way our Mother’s always lingered to gossip after a
dinner party. I rounded up every last girl and we all formed a tight knit
huddle and when I had their attention I whispered, “What is a kiss?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
My best friend
Tiffany, the leader of the gigglers, laughed outright at me, “You don’t know
what a kiss is? Haven’t you ever seen a movie?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I pinched her arm,
“I’m not stupid!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
She rubbed her arm
with a scowl on her face, “Then what do you wanna know?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I ignored her and
turned to the other girls, “What do you think a kiss is?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
We all fell silent
and racked our brains. We all somehow knew that this was the first conversation
we had that resembled what grown ups were always talking about. We didn’t wanna
say anything dumb. This is what we came up with…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I think a kiss is
something Moms and Dads do. If you wanna be a Mom that’s when you kiss a boy.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Kissing is a dang
sure way to catch a cold.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“If you kiss a boy
he is gonna tell all the boys and then you’ll <i>die</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> from being embarrassed so bad.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I gawked at them
as if they all had two heads. It was easy to see they didn’t know what a kiss
was either. I popped my head out of the huddle and cautiously looked around me
to make sure no one else was around to hear what I was about to say because it
was of the utmost importance and secrecy. I hunched back down and whispered so
quietly everyone had to lean in closer to hear what I said, “Has a boy ever
kissed ya?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Then everything
exploded all at one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Ewwww.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Are you kidding
me? I don’t wanna die!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“If a boy ever
kissed me I would run away from home.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I heard that if
you kiss a boy you aren’t married to, your lips fall off.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
And then the one
sly reply that got everyone to shut up was Tiffany who proudly exclaimed, “Not
yet!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
The rest of us
began buzzing with excitement and worry. We talked amongst ourselves as if she
wasn’t there. Was she crazy? Would she catch a disease and die?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would her lips fall off? Who would she
kiss? Then we all stopped and stared at her with saucer size eyes. Her nose was
so high up in the air we could all see that she needed to blow her nose. She
sighed dreamily and clasped her hands together, “I’m gonna kiss Johnny.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Even the girls who
swore boys were rats were enthralled at this statement. All the girls nodded to
each other in agreement. If you’re gonna kiss a boy and risk dying it might as
well be Johnny Twinkle Eyes. I crossed my arms and glared at her as I declared
for the whole posse to hear, “You’re stupid.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
She pinched my
arm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
A peacemaker piped
up, “Girls be nice now.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I shook my head,
“I’m not being mean. You’re just stupid. Why would you kiss Johnny if you don’t
know what a kiss is?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
She stomped her
foot, “I know what kissing is. You put your lips together and make that gross
smacking noise.” She then went on to demonstrate how it worked on the back of
her hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I grabbed my bible
and began to storm out of the room, not wanting to associate myself with dumb
people. I paused at the door and turned to face the girls who were all staring
at me with surprised expressions. I hesitated before I dove in and bravely
stated like I was wiser than Solomon “That’s not what a kiss is.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
After that I
turned on my heel and sped away. I’m sure after I left that that was the first
time that group of girls began to gossip just like all of their mothers, and
all about me too. I began to feel sorry for Johnny. I could only hope that he
would stomp on Two Lips Tiffany’s foot if she tried to catch him. On the ride
home from church I stared out the window and guessed that kissing wasn’t all
that bad if Jacob and Rachel did it. But then I got to thinking about Adam and
Eve. I figured they had probably kissed, and look what happened to them. After
that I began to worry that kissin’ really could make you die. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
mom snapped me out of my own world when she asked me what I learned about in
Sunday school. Without thinking I replied, “Smoochin’”. My parents hesitated
before both started laughing. My mother wanted to know what exactly about
kissing. “Oh ya know…Jacob kissed that Rachel and then he worked for three days
or something for her…Mom…what’s a kiss?” I held my breath hoping for a good and
honest answer but my parents only shared a look and smiled at me through the
rear view mirror and told me “You’ll know when you are older”. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I wanna slap
whoever came up with that saying.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
That night as I
lay in my double bed I decided to pray and ask God what a kiss was. I figured
he knew best since he created smackin’. But before I could get my answer I fell
fast asleep. The eye-opening day had wore me out. I woke to my mother hurriedly
dragging me out of bed and shoving a pink dress over my head telling me to do
something with my hair that resembled a rat’s nest, because Johnny Stevenson
and his mom were coming over any minute. I pouted. How was I expected to have a
play date when I had more important things on my mind?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
was something different in the air that morning. That liveliness I had
mentioned earlier seemed to be in every breath I took. At the time I didn’t
know exactly what it was I was breathing in I just knew I felt like it was
Christmas morning. The sun even seemed to light up the world differently. It
had a softer glow as if the sun’s rays were reaching down to hug whoever
happened to be outside. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Johnny
and his Mom soon arrived and our mothers shooed us out of the house telling us
to go and play like good little children. Johnny and I didn’t even say hi to
each other but started off lazily walking down the hill to the small pond out
behind my house. That didn’t last very long, however, we soon took off in a
race to see who would be the last person or the “rotten egg” to reach the
water’s edge. Johnny found us small gray rocks to skip across the green pond.
Johnny’s rock only skipped twice when mine bounced a good three times. I don’t
think he liked that because he was the one who taught me to skip rocks after
all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
watched as the rocks would kiss the waters edge and that got me to thinking
once more. I chucked all my rocks into the pond before I plopped down under our
old oak tree to cool off in its shade. I needed to figure out this whole
kissin’ business. I began to watch Johnny who was still focused on beating my
three skips.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He glanced over at me and furrowed his
eyebrows, “What ya starin’ at?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
didn’t hold back, “Johnny, do ya know what a kiss is?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His
rock clumsily slipped from his hand and all the twinkle snapped out of his
eyes, “What?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
got up and handed his rock back into his suddenly sweaty hand before I asked
him again. This time around I was a bit more careful because I didn’t want him
to laugh at me like Tiffany did. I didn’t wanna pinch him. “Do you know what a
kiss is?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
flung the rock into the pond without even bothering to skip it, “What you wanna
know that for?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
wanna make sure you know what a kiss is because Tiffany is gonna kiss ya.” I
placed my hands on my hips.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Disgust
crawled across his face and he shook his head madly, “I don’t wanna kiss her.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
smiled a bit too big, “That’s good cause she don’t know what a kiss is. I bet
if you kissed her your lips would fall off.” I went back to my spot under the
tree and left Johnny awkwardly standing there. He kicked at a patch of grass
and shoved his hands into pockets. He began turning as pink as my dress. I was
about to laugh at him when he sat himself down right across from me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
mischievous twinkle flashed across his eyes, “Lucy…do you know what a kiss is?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
shoe was on the other foot and I was the one being asked that embarrassing
question. I squirmed uncomfortably not knowing what to say. I shrugged, “I
dunno. I don’t think anybody does.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
know. I think God invented kissin’. He knew it was the nicest way of showing
someone you’re in love with them.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
almost went into shock, “So…you mean that kissin’ and being in love…it’s the
same thing?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Suddenly
those blue eyes were sparkling so much it looked like fireworks. The next thing
I knew, Johnny pinned me up against the oak tree and planted one on me just
like my friend Jacob planted one on Rachel. Johnny’s kiss was just like that
summer morning. Warm and dry and it almost felt like the sun’s rays were
hugging us but I can’t be sure about that. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
the kiss was over we looked at each other for a second or two. “I guess we’re
in love now.” I told him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
He nodded, “I
guess so.” After that we did the only logical thing for two seven year olds to
do. We went back to skipping rocks. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Robyn Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10336881782682808439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1667090837928800145.post-6473025336802202332013-04-02T16:47:00.001-07:002013-04-02T16:47:15.849-07:00Adventure in Staying FocusedIt's a scary world out there, folks!<br />
Especially if you ever want to see a book of yours nestled in a neat and tidy bookshelf in bookstores across the country, or crammed into those bookshelves that never seem to be quite big enough in the homes of readers. (Side Note: I am one of those individuals who can never find a bookshelf big enough. I am an intense bookaholic and in being so I am continually buying new books. So not only is the bookshelf in my room over flowing, but I have taken over four other bookshelves in my house. Sorry family!)<br />
However, in order to see my book in any kind of bookshelf I have to find a literary agent, get published, and oh yeah, FINSIH MY BOOK!<br />
I find myself becoming insanely inspired over the slightest things and so I rush to my computer in search of my story, but then I find myself on blogs and websites of my favorite authors. I'm starting to think I have a problem because sometimes I don't even know how I get onto these websites.<br />
But it isn't all for naught, not only do I enjoy myself carousing around these websites but I find out interesting things that will help me on the road to getting published. Thankfully these favorite authors of mine give good writing and publishing tips. But they also give guidelines and reality checks for how hard it is to get published.<br />
But this is where I begin to feel about the size of Stuart Little (For those of you wondering, that's about two inches). The phrase "It's a dog eat dog world" doesn't even come close to describing the world of getting published. Writing is hard work, wracking your brain for the practically perfect opening line to hook the reader, trying to make the characters seem real so the reader feels they could ask them to grab a quick cup of coffee, and making the plot seem effortless and unique.<br />
And once you are done with the whole nose to the grindstone... or in my case, nose to the keyboard, here comes the part where your self confidence will plummet. From what I have read, most authors get turned down around FIFTY times before they ever get published. Now let's think about that for a minute. Fifty can seem like a very non-threatening number... for example, "I'll have fifty scoops of ice cream" doesn't seem so bad, but "My little book I poured my heart and soul into was told fifty times that it wasn't good enough"is a downright tragedy.<br />
However, I am determined NOT to let that bring me down. If I never get published, that still won't keep me from writing. If someone told me to stop writing that would be like them saying "Stop being Robyn".<br />
It's a scary world out there but sometimes it is good to be scared because you can see how strong you really are. And so I need to stop looking at other people's websites (or at least cut way back... let's face it, I will not be able to do it cold turkey) and stop thinking about getting published and just focus on finishing my book.<br />
<br />
Enough rambling for now!<br />
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<br />Robyn Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10336881782682808439noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1667090837928800145.post-85481223595983688312013-03-15T18:12:00.000-07:002013-04-02T16:15:14.535-07:00The Adventure of Old Stories<div style="text-align: left;">
I have been writing pretty much ever since I learned the alphabet. So you can imagine just how many stories have piled up over the years. I have two large plastic bags filled to the max with random and scattered papers, stuffed hidden away in my closet.</div>
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This is sad to admit, but if there ever was a fire, I would probably grab those bags first, <i>then</i> think about hightailing it out of there. There's too many memories and pieces of me that I wouldn't be able to replace.</div>
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Late last night I got the urge to read some of my old stories. After sitting in my closet, rummaging through what was sure to be about a billion papers, I finally found a novel I had written when I was just thirteen years old.</div>
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Excitement raced over me when I held that story I hadn't seen in seven years. I scrambled out of my messy, paper covered closet and feverishly began to read. What I thought would be an entertaining stroll down Memory Lane, turned out to be a cringing hike up Bad Writing Mountain.</div>
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After reading the first paragraph I found myself shaking my head at my own writing. I was <i>very </i>thirteen. And to make matters worse, I was a thirteen year old who apparently thought she knew the ways of the world like the back of her hand.</div>
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The story line jumped around from here to there, the characters didn't have much depth to them, and my facts were all way off. I found myself looking over my shoulder, making sure no one was around to get a peek at this little story. If anyone had gotten a glimpse of this rushed novel I would have been so embarrassed that my face would have permanently remained red.</div>
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But the thing is...even with all the rushed story lines, boring characters and bad grammar, I still found that I was enjoying myself. Even though my writing wasn't the best it could be, it undeniably had a lot of heart in it. It had a charming simplicity to it, reminding me of the young girl who looked at the world through rose colored glasses, never allowing the negativity of life to settle into my little world.</div>
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Suddenly I felt like I was thirteen again, and was back in my cozy little computer room, typing happily away with the summer sun streaming in through my window. The sounds of 1940's Big Bands serenading me in the background, filling my heart with inspiration and a love for writing.</div>
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It doesn't matter that this story didn't turn out to be a classic like <i>The Great Gatsby</i>. It made my heart soar when I was writing it, and that's what is the most important thing.</div>
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I realized that I have almost lost that simple charm that used to paint itself across the pages of my stories, giving it a depth I wasn't even aware of. Sometimes I get too caught up in writing a well written story that I forget about that young girl who had the key to writing a beautiful story. Put every last inch of your heart into it.</div>
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Funny how the title of that old novel of mine is <i>All My Heart. </i>It's like I knew :)</div>
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Enough rambling for now!</div>
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Robyn Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10336881782682808439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1667090837928800145.post-34935394512551232012013-03-07T22:54:00.000-08:002013-03-07T22:57:27.000-08:00The Adventure to Inspiration Part 1<div style="text-align: left;">
Oh, inspiration! Come out, come out, wherever you are!<br />
I have a love/hate relationship with inspiration. Sometimes it will give me the best story ideas, or it will refuse to come visit me. It seems like there is no in between. When my inspiration tank is almost on empty I like to try a few things.<br />
The first thing on my list of inspiration ideas is I like to watch some choice movies. Movies make me way too happy. I am notorious for having movie marathons with my friends. So of course there are some movies out there that make me inspired to start writing,</div>
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One of these movies is Midnight in Paris.<br />
This movie is all about Paris.<br />
Paris in the 1920's.<br />
Paris and the 1920's. Two things, by themselves, can make my heart skip a beat. But put them together and I am in full swoon mode. Paris is dripping with charm. It just might be the prettiest and classiest of all the cities in the world. This movie never fails to get my inspiration going because it's no secret that I was born in the wrong time. I should have been with those Flappers doing the Charleston. Also every thing within me wants to travel. Plus, this movie has some of the greatest writers known to mankind. Fitzgerald and Hemingway. Who doesnt want to spend an hour and a half in the company of some of America's finest writers in one of the most beautiful cities in the world?<br />
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I first fell in love with Midnight in Paris within the first few minutes of the film. And you will see why. If this doesn't inspire you, I don't know what will.<br />
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The next movie on my inspiration list is none other than... Singin' In the Rain!<br />
Arguably the best musical the world has ever seen. It is also set in the 1920's...I'm sensing a pattern here. This film has the charismatic Gene Kelly. The scene where Gene Kelly dances and sings in the rain, represents how love should be. So happy that it could be the stormiest of nights and you would think the sun is shining. This song makes my old fashioned heart sing!<br />
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I could go on about the movies that inspire me, but I won't because I don't think you all have the rest of your lives to hear me ramble on about amazing movies. So in conclusion I will leave you with a clip of a Disney movie. Disney is really the only way to go. Walt Disney is the king of imagination and creativity. All of his movies inspire me and make me smile the entire time I'm watching them. Especially during this scene...<br />
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Enough rambling for now!</div>
Robyn Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10336881782682808439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1667090837928800145.post-27985884031044408302013-03-05T23:05:00.001-08:002013-03-05T23:06:46.801-08:00Germany Adventure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYJXVLN1OPxudSwBVh2USDYNOJsESqQ5-2uYUbtE208gHeBw5TXQ-odxDRCltQ80bXvQ_4VcPHq0Qpye_te1T6R0Su1nW2FCyIULm5Dys9DNOKual4a02fGL9SinTNbZ8v4_mAiUtR9oPt/s1600/Germany+map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYJXVLN1OPxudSwBVh2USDYNOJsESqQ5-2uYUbtE208gHeBw5TXQ-odxDRCltQ80bXvQ_4VcPHq0Qpye_te1T6R0Su1nW2FCyIULm5Dys9DNOKual4a02fGL9SinTNbZ8v4_mAiUtR9oPt/s320/Germany+map.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The first hint about my novel that I'm working on! Half of my book is set in...Good ol' Germany!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Germany is a breathtaking and beautiful country. Germany is famous for many things, such as, the birthplace of Albert Einstein, the astounding Neuschwanstein Castle (Fun Fact for the day: Walt Disney modeled Sleeping Beauty's castle off of the Neuschwanstein). However, my personal favorite thing about Germany, is it is where The Brothers Grimm traveled near and far, here and there, up and down, writing down stories that are now our beloved fairy tales. (Thank you boys!)</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf9eOhxNwgDr6kkilG1PLSs_wZ8AaUADmLGSk4vnJDbgsy7VxJxoU9Qgjvfr_faQ6z6MvbjAIeMogvyFAvv3Jbo-Cd4_kI4o-yvPzNIF7_ixCCStNRzbDzMxiuft_g3bTEaTH3GV1ysoQW/s1600/Neuschwanstein_castle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf9eOhxNwgDr6kkilG1PLSs_wZ8AaUADmLGSk4vnJDbgsy7VxJxoU9Qgjvfr_faQ6z6MvbjAIeMogvyFAvv3Jbo-Cd4_kI4o-yvPzNIF7_ixCCStNRzbDzMxiuft_g3bTEaTH3GV1ysoQW/s320/Neuschwanstein_castle.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> (The Neuschwanstein Castle. <i>This</i> is what I call a vacation home.)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I don't think I realized at first what exactly I had done to myself. I was way too caught up in the excitement of writing a new story. How am I supposed to write a novel that takes a place in a country I have never been to. The closest encounter I have ever had with Germany is I sat by a girl, who had just moved from Germany, in my American history class in high school. If only I knew what I know now. I would have asked her every question under the moon about Germany. Of course, I don't think I would have gotten very far. I would have been too distracted by how cool her accent sounded.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And then I had another lightbulb go off when I realized that not only is my knowledge about this country limited, but I know nothing of their language! Once again the closest encounter I have with the German language is my cousin who took German for three years in high school (Hi Jeffy).</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So I took matters into my own hands and actually sent an e-mail to the tourism center of the town where my novel is set. I have never done so much research for a story before. Not only did I send an e-mail across the world, but I have poured over my computer for hours upon hours trying to expand my horizons for my story. I'm sure my Dad wishes I put this much effort into my math homework (Sorry Dad). </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This really is a new adventure for me. I have always been obsessed with whatever story I am working on. But I have never tried to track down a tourism center, in hopes they will answer some of my questions. I guess what I have truly realized, more so than the realization of the daunting task of setting my novel in a country I have never personally laid eyes on, is that this novel is different than all the rest. And more importantly, I am really spreading my wings as a writer. Hmmm... spreading my wings... maybe that's why my parents named me Robyn ;)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Enough rambling for now!</span><br />
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Robyn Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10336881782682808439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1667090837928800145.post-31604157495981247032013-03-05T16:46:00.001-08:002013-03-05T16:46:27.324-08:00My Adventure in Talking to My Favorite Author<div style="text-align: center;">
Once upon a time I was blissfully browsing through the bookshelves of Borders (RIP Borders) when I stumbled upon a book. Now I know our parents tell us to never judge a book by its cover, but I simply had to this one time. Of course at the time I was a young teenager and the good looking man on the cover, reeled me in, but the author is what made me stay. After I was done praising the cover, I opened the book and within the first paragraph I was hooked and have stayed that way for over five years now. Not just on that one particular book but by everything that one author, Julie Lessman, has written.</div>
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Her books have in many ways inspired not only my writing, but my personal life and lives around me. So one day after working up enough courage I decided to e-mail her and tell her just how much her books have blessed me. </div>
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And what do you know, the very next day she e-mailed me back. It's not every day you see an e-mail from one of your favorite authors in your inbox. But I didn't waste any time by trying to take that moment in. I opened that e-mail so fast, lightning would have been jealous.</div>
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I don't think I have ever received such a nice e-mail in my life. She was very humble and kind, and without a doubt I know, she is a kindred spirit. I really admire how she takes the time to talk to her readers. One day if I am ever blessed to get published, I hope to be like this favorite author of mine. Ever-thankful and always humble.</div>
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If any of you are wondering just who exactly this woman is and what her books are like I suggest you go check out her website. www.julielessman. com</div>
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I hope you like her books as much as I do, and if you do, then I am just pre-warning you that you will get no sleep while you are reading her books. These are definitely the kinds of books you stay up until five in the morning to finish.</div>
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Enough rambling for now!</div>
Robyn Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10336881782682808439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1667090837928800145.post-21037676962637792013-03-04T14:02:00.003-08:002013-03-04T14:07:06.626-08:00Adventurous Imaginations <div style="text-align: center;">
I have a philosophy about life. That it is one thrilling adventure.</div>
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<i>Especially </i>when you are a writer.</div>
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Us writers stumble across adventures almost every time we walk out our front door. Or if I'm being honest, adventure can find us even when we are lazily sitting on our couches, eating a bag of Doritos, blankly watching our favorite T.V. shows. In my household, my family and I would most likely be watching Duck Dynasty (Shout out to Si) or Big Bang Theory. </div>
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It might strike some of you odd, or even unbelievable that writers could find adventure sitting in their homes doing absolutely nothing. And I must admit it does seem rather far-fetched. </div>
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But that's what makes being a writer so completely wonderful. Writers don't necessarily have to go out and hang glide off a steep cliff or go deep into the grasslands of Africa and be chased by a fierce and hungry lion to have an adventure. </div>
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Don't get me wrong, that certainly sounds like an exhilarating way to spend your time. However, if you happen to be one of those individuals who don't want to find themselves staring into the amber eyes of lion, getting all close and personal, then trust me when I say that adventure can be found in the safety of a home.</div>
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We are able to experience all life has to offer because of a little thing that is most commonly known as an imagination.</div>
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God gave writers an amazing imagination that can take them to the four corners of the world, across the seven seas, and maybe even to the moon if we feel the urge to go, without ever having taken a step outside. </div>
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I firmly believe that God gave us such insane imaginations so that writers can write with vivid details so that we can sweep our readers off on a wild ride so that they truly feel they are along for the ride with our characters. </div>
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In fact, I recall telling my beautiful Mediterranean looking sister one day (shout out to Rachel) that the reason I have such an untamable imagination that refuses to stay calm and realistic is because I am a writer and can therefore dream and see clearly all the places I wish to see but can't. And it also helps my readers so they can picture everything I am writing as well. </div>
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Like I was saying before, adventure can come and claim us when we are least expecting it, and that's usually the best kind of adventure. We could be relaxing on our couch with our family laughing at Uncle Si's antics from Duck Dynasty when our imagination will break free from us and we will find ourselves in the middle of an adventure.</div>
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Anything and everything can inspire our imaginations, which will therefore inspire a story. So, for my writers out there...always be on the look out for adventure. It could be closer than you think.</div>
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Life is still a thrilling adventure, whether you are a writer, reader, or run like the wind away from anything resembling a book. Just be open to greeting your adventure whatever it may be. It could be running for your life from a lion or it could be that your imagination will spring to life and take you off on a crazy whirlwind adventure.</div>
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Enough rambling for now!</div>
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Robyn Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10336881782682808439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1667090837928800145.post-53433539013519838412013-03-03T00:46:00.000-08:002013-03-05T23:09:50.626-08:00A Writer's Adventure of Trying to Sleep. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As most writers know, inspiration is a finicky thing. Inspiration never pays us a visit when we need it most. Instead it will wait for the most imperfect moment to come knocking on our door. In my case, inspiration usually comes to call extremely late at night when I should be snug in my bed and happily off in dreamland. It never fails that almost every night I will snuggle into my warm bed and just as I get comfortable, the most brilliant ideas I have ever thought of in my entire life (okay... maybe not that bad) will come bounding into my head, chasing away any thought of sleep.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It can be quite aggravating I assure you. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So there I am. Laying in bed watching new and exciting scenes of my novel flash across my eyes. My heart will be literally pounding from all of the inspiration rushing through my veins. This will go on for several minutes until I realize I am faced with a dilemma.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This dilemma is called Do-I-Get-Out-Of-Bed-To-Write-All-This-Down-Or-Stay-Where-I-Am-Praying-I-Will-Remember-All-Of-This-In-The-Morning.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">More often than not, I'm sorry to say, I end up going with the option of praying I will remember all of the details in the morning. And I'm even sorrier to say that that option usually never works out for me.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As soon as I wake up, my first few thoughts will be about my story and I will lay there staring at the wall, racking my brain to remember every little detail I came up with just hours before. And when I find that I cannot, I solemnly comfort myself, telling myself that those ideas probably weren't all that brilliant to begin with. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Such is the life of a writer. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And more importantly such is the adventure of an aspiring author trying to get some sleep. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Enough rambling for now!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>Robyn Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10336881782682808439noreply@blogger.com0