Tag Archives: writing

Step into 1898: A Scene from my Historical Novel

17 Jun

Welcome back to SGL! I decided to share a scene from my debut novel, Amelia, today. Angie Barrington is a wealthy widower in Portland, OR. It’s 1898, and Angie is forty years old and one of the elite set of society. She’s a kind hearted woman who has taken in her niece, Amelia, the main character of the story.

Is that enough background? I hope so, let’s dive into it, shall we?

Angie rarely took advantage of her social status, but this was one of those times when she knew it would come in handy. Now, the trick would be convincing Mr. Fletcher, the owner and editor-in-chief of the Oregonian, to give Amelia a chance. It wouldn’t be easy, but Angie had a feeling she’d be successful. Seeing as Mr. Fletcher had been eager to meet with her, she didn’t think he would want to insult her with a refusal. As the carriage took her across town, a question ate at her. What if her darling niece rejected this opportunity? Had Amelia been caught by the glimmer of society already?
Resolutely, Angie put the doubt out of her mind. Amelia was a sensible girl. She had nothing to worry about.

She entered the offices of the Oregonian and was surprised by the hustle and bustle. People yelled across the room and hurried between desks. She paused and continued toward the glass-enclosed office at the end of the room, where a heavyset man sat behind a desk.

“Forgive my intrusion,” she said, opening the office door, “but the young man at the front
told me to come straight in.”
“Of course, Mrs. Barrington. Please, have a seat. I’m Mr. Fletcher.” He waved a hand toward a chair in front of his desk.
“Thank you for taking time to meet with me. I’m sure you’re very busy.”
“Oh, not at all, ma’am. It’s no trouble for a lady such as yourself. What can I do for you?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard this before, Mr. Fletcher, but my niece has talent.”
“Yes, yes. I’m sure she does.”
“And she aspires to be a reporter one day,” Angie said then corrected herself, “I’m sorry, I mean a journalist.”
“Naturally, naturally.”
“In light of that, I brought a piece she wrote.” Angie pulled out Amelia’s written description of the balloon ascension.

Mr. Fletcher fairly snatched it out of her fingers and scanned the paper. “This is quite good…quite good. There are several structural errors and… well…it is quite good, I assure you.”
“I’m glad you think so. I was hoping that you could perhaps find a place for her here. She’s still young and needs to learn the ins and outs.”
Mr. Fletcher rubbed his hands together, his eyes darting around the bustling newsroom. “We could put her with Larry, or Frank. No, no that won’t work. Maybe with Stanley.” After a few more mumbling attempts, he shifted his focus back to Angie. “We can do that, Mrs. Barrington. As you say, she’s not ready for a writing job, but there are a few places we could put her. Naturally, I’ll need to meet her. Not to imply that she isn’t a credit to you, ma’am. I’m sure she is, sure she is.”
“Thank you. Amelia will be so excited when I tell her.” Angie stood, preparing to leave.
“Of course, of course. Did you know that my wife has always longed to be part of the circles that frequent the Portland Hotel? But new money is looked down on, you know.” He shuffled some papers and moved a pen to a small cup. “It’s a constant conversation in our home, you understand,
her wanting to be a part of it. Her heart is set on it, you see.”
“I’ll send her an invitation to accompany me the next time I go, if you think she’d accept?” Angie smoothly accepted his request for a favor. She was only glad that it was something as simple as this.
“She’d be beside herself, I assure you,” Fletcher said. “This week, perhaps?”
Angie smiled, not surprised that he was pushing her for a specific day. “Of course,” she agreed. “I hadn’t planned on going this week, but I’m sure I can fit it in. And I’ll bring Amelia in next week. Perhaps Monday?” If he could play that game, so could she.
“Yes, yes. That will do.” Mr. Fletcher nodded, clearly done with the meeting.
“Until then, Mr. Fletcher. Thank you for your time.”
“Anything for you, Mrs. Barrington.” He bowed but didn’t move from behind his desk. His manners apparently only went so far.

~While that’s not the actual end of the scene, that’s where I’m stopping it today!

~Laura

*whispers, you can get your own copy of Amelia here as an ebook or paperback. And here‘s my website

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From My Desk: Updates, Projects and More!

11 Jun

Welcome to SGL again, friends! Things have been happening so here we are again, with some newsy-news.

To start off with my debut novel that came out in February 21st… first, how has it already been almost four months since it came out!? I have a website that, while it’s rather plain right now, it’ll improve as time goes on, but there’s info about Amelia, the series and me! Amelia is available in four local bookstores, Oliver Books, Big Story Bend, Dudley’s Bookshop Cafe and Roundabout Books. It has been so surreal to go into bookstores and see my own book there! I’m so thankful for each of those shops that carry Amelia.

I have gotten some lovely reviews about it, and would love to have more! You can find it on Goodreads and Amazon. Thank you so much!

I’ve been working on the next installment, Georgia, and that is going well. Lots of figuring out of timeline and researching the most random facts from the 1900s!

For Aunt Lolo’s Amigurumi, I’ve been busy crocheting again, finally finished the crochet-along that I started way back in October!

I just love how they came out, and the color scheme of it all. I’ve also made an amigurumi Newsie doll for a local performing arts company, for their silent auction coming up.

I’m planning on making another ‘Jack Kelly’ doll, he just came out so cute!

The books I’m wanting to read this year… I’ve been trying to focus on my shelf of books that I’ve not read. Just a few examples to get me going:

original Star Wars books – read the Han Solo Adventures, review for book 1, here.

10 Days in a Madhouse by Nellie Bly

The Book of Three by Lloyd Alexander – currently reading

The Cricket in Times Square by George Selden

Pearl in the Sand by Tessa Afshar

Here Burns My Candle by Liz Curtis Higgs

Chaim Potok books

Of Gold and Shadows by Michelle Griep (released 2024) – Read, here’s the review!

Prequel: The Adamah Series by Nick Michael (re-read)

The Octonumi by Trevor Alan Foris (re-read)

This past weekend I planted my vegetable garden and so far it’s surviving these days of 90 odd degree weather. It’s just a little plot with potatoes, pumpkin and beets for now. The peony and rose bushes have bloomed, the snapdragons finally are starting to, and three of our trees in the orchard have fruit on them!

Hubby and I replaced the battery in my 1968 VW Bug, so now I just have to wait for the weather to drop (significantly) so I can drive it again.

That’s all for now, Laura

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‘Forget me, World’ – a poem

11 Mar

Hello again, friends! Thanks for stopping by SGL. For proper ‘mood aesthetic’ to go with the poem today, I suggest you turn on this playlist.

When the daffodils bloom

and the frost has faded from memory.

When the gray days of winter have passed

and you can fill your lungs with fresh, crisp air.

When music spills out of houses as bright as a new born lamb.

When the war has been won and peace has been found,

forget me.

Do not recall the one who seems to you the villain that caused

all the destruction and chaos and death.

Do not use my name to scare children;

don’t recite my many mistakes;

don’t use them as proof of evil-doing.

Don’t keep my memory alive if it consists of dire warnings and heartbreak.

Forget me, world,

as if I never was born.

Forget me, world,

if you’ll all be blinded of the good I tried to do,

by the evil that was done in my name.

Forget me, world,

and let me lie in peace beneath the daffodils.

Prompt: write a poem or story inspired by this line: “World, forget me”

~This was written with a character from one of my stories, in mind.~

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From My Desk: Updates, Projects and More!

7 Feb

I don’t really know the last time I did an update post. It’s probably been about ten years, honestly. But as I was trying to decide what to share this week, I thought, well, why not give a bit of a life update?

I’ll dive more into how self publishing my first novel is going; what’s up next in regards to my writing and my amigurumi business; the books I’m looking forward to reading this year and more!

As for Amelia, the first installment in the City of Roses Collection, the official release day is February 21st, 2025! From writing this post, that’s only twenty days away!

I’ve been working with Lieve Maas of Bright Light Graphics throughout this process and she has been so wonderful. She’s a wonderful designer – for the cover and interior – and even offers a one-on-one marketing masterclass.

Amelia will be available on Amazon and Ingram Spark. I’m still working to get on local bookstore shelves.

As for what’s next in my writing, it’ll be the next installment of the City of Roses Collection. As a quick explanation – I’m writing these so you, the reader, can read them in any order you want – or read any as a standalone. They aren’t a series, in other words, although you’ll see the character arcs throughout as some characters will, naturally, be in several books. But each book will focus on different characters but it’s all set in the same world.

Anyhow, I’m working steadily away on writing/editing the next installment and am loving it. I have high hopes of publishing it next year, but we’ll really just have to see how this process goes this coming year, as this is all quite new to me.

To move onto another of my hobbies – crocheting. Did you all know that I’ve got an amigurumi business? It’s called Aunt Lolo’s Amigurumi, and I have pages on Facebook and Instagram. I mostly make whatever strikes my fancy and will admit that I post items for sale rather sporadically. But I do take custom orders, and that’s what I’ve been working on this month. I still need to finish the patterns from a crochet-along that I joined back in October… The items are so absolutely adorable! I plan on putting them up for sale once I’ve completed the whole set, so if any of these catch your eye, keep an eye on either of my pages!

One more note on my book and amigurumi, I crocheted my main character, Amelia!

The books I’m wanting to read this year… Mostly I’ll be focusing on my shelf of books that I’ve either bought or been given that I’ve not read. Just a few examples:

original Star Wars books

10 Days in a Madhouse by Nellie Bly

The Book of Three by Lloyd Alexander

The Cricket in Times Square by George Selden

Pearl in the Sand by Tessa Afshar

Here Burns My Candle by Liz Curtis Higgs

Chaim Potok books

Of Gold and Shadows by Michelle Griep (released 2024)

Prequel: The Adamah Series by Nick Michael (re-read)

The Octonumi by Trevor Alan Foris (re-read)

If you’ve been following SGL for several years, you’ll know that I battled Lyme Disease and migraines for almost two decades. I am healthier than I have been in years but there are still the residual issues that come from having had Lyme as well as still dealing with migraines on occasion. These past months have been a bit of a rollercoaster as I’ve been struggling with health limitations again but all in all, I’m still so much better than I was even five years ago.

Other than that, I’m looking forward to visits from friends for my birthday; starting to dream of flowers and vegetable gardens, working on my classic VW come spring and taking a summer trip with just my hubby.

I hope you enjoyed this little look into what I’ve been up to and what I hope to do!

~Laura

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Writing Prompt- A Silent Storm

14 Nov

I haven’t written from a prompt in so long that it was nice to do this. It is fairly rough- as most all of these are that I share with you. I don’t edit much at all, and maybe one day I’ll look back and regret that but for now, I like that it’s something I’m able to do without too much work or editing or whatnot.

She sat on the edge of the wooden stool, fingers gripping the windowsill as she watched the darkening sky. Clouds had been rolling in and were slowly blocking out the blue she loved so much. She lowered her gaze to the ground, where squirrels and birds were dashing to their hidey-holes in trees. The farm dogs ran to the house, tails tucked between their legs, panting as they hurried inside. Even her father was coming in early, driving the tractor down the lane toward the shed they’d built for it last year. As if in response to the passing of the slow machine, the trees started waving in the wind, gently, gently.

Turning from the trees, she checked on her mother in the kitchen. She’d already helped lock the windows and doors, all but this front door where her father would hurry in with a worried gaze and a reassuring smile. Her mother was checking dinner, then would go stoke the stove. She smiled as her mother did just that. Her mother liked routine. Feeling vibrations in the wood floor, she turned to see her father cleaning his boots off on the front porch. She waited until he was ready and opened the door for him. And as she’d known he would, he looked worried but smiled at her so that the fear rising in her breast eased a little. She locked the door while he hung his coat up and moved to stand in front of the fire.

She turned back to the window, the dogs on either side of her, and watched the trees whipping back and forth in the wind and the rain… the rain was just as angry as the trees as it battered everything outside. A rhythmic tapping on the floor made her turn back around. Her father was sitting down in the rocking chair, smiling at her. Relieved that he hadn’t forgotten, she slipped off the stool, her bare feet hitting the wood floor one after the other, and hurried to climb into her father’s lap. He tucked a quilt over her and started the chair rocking as they watched the storm outside.

As she relaxed in the warmth of her father’s embrace, the stress that had been building in her chest eased even more. Storms were unnatural things – so violent and angry and yet, silent. Storms should rage and hurt one’s eardrums with the sound of the wind and rain and lightening. Instead, they remained silent- except for the occasional shuddering of the house from a particularly strong gust of wind. But the rocking chair kept up its rhythm, and her father’s arms were strong about her and she could feel that he was talking with her mother by the vibrations from his chest. And she pulled the quilt up around her shoulders as they rocked, gently, gently.

(the writing prompt was ‘describe a thunderstorm without using the sense of hearing’)

I hope you enjoyed this, thanks for stopping by SGL,

Laura

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Writing Prompt – Freedom

21 Aug

Prompt: I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees

I shifted in my bed, swinging my legs over the edge. It’d been so long since I’d stood up, I wondered if my legs would support me. Would I then be able to walk? Did I remember how? In that moment, I had to trust that my muscles would know. They always say that you only need to learn to ride a bicycle once, right? Perhaps that wasn’t the best analogy, since this was a little different. Walking being something that infants learn…

I pulled my attention back; this moment was too important to let my mind wander. But, blast it all if I didn’t have much control over my own thoughts anymore. I set my feet on the floor and stood, letting out a shaky breathe when my legs supported me.

“Is this really the path that you want to take? The other one isn’t all that bad.” He said, his voice meant to soothe.

But I heard the edge of anger, the sliver of disdain in it and widened my stance. I wouldn’t give in. I wouldn’t!

“And how do you see my life, once I’ve agreed to your plan? Do you see me as free?” The words came out of nowhere.  I clamped my mouth shut before more words spilled out.

“Of course. You’ll be free to live your own life, just as you have been these past fifteen years.”

To the outsider, his offer might have sounded good. Especially compared to the alternative I was gearing up for – possible death. But I knew what my life these past years had been like. And they’d been anything but free.

I knew what freedom was. I’d tasted it once- so many years ago it was a faint remembrance but it was there. And by that taste still lingering, I knew that how I’d been living – my body betraying me just as my mind was – that wasn’t freedom. I shifted my feet on the cold floor, sliding the right one forward a few inches. My stomach clenched and my muscles quivered but I remained standing. Emboldened, I slid my left foot forward.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him move but he checked himself. If I was to fail, it would be of my own doing. That had ever been his plan- set me up for doom, allow me to crash and burn and then, in the gentlest voice ever heard, pick me up and tell me how he’d known all along I couldn’t do it.

But this, this I would do. This was my one last chance for freedom. I didn’t care how much time I had left before my body gave out, I would die on my feet if I had to. No more crawling on my knees.

~A quick note- do I know what all these references are about? No. And while I’m curious, I find it a little cathartic to write cryptic things that tantalize the creative side of my brain, and then leave them there.

This way, we can each imagine just what it is that the person/victim has been going through and why they’re choosing now to break free of the control of the other person.

I hope you liked this and will enjoy future writing prompts that I hope to do as time goes on.

~Laura

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Writing Prompt – Deamon the Villain

13 Apr

“What are you doing here?” Daemon spewed the question out of the side of his mouth, the anger and disgust evident. If circumstances were different, he’d sideline the Hero, so that maybe he’d finally learn to stop interfering. But as it was, Daemon had to satisfy himself with a distracted question and turning his back on him. Far worse things were in the dark parking garage with him right now. He could deal with the Hero later.  He cast about, looking for the fiend who had lured him here. The cover of night made it easy for one such as him to hide. But he quickly remembered that it was to his advantage as well and took cover next to a pillar, pulling his long black coat around himself.  To his dismay, the Hero followed him. The insufferable guy slid next to him, his gray clothes melting into the darkness. 

wrtngpromptvillaindaemon

 

“Get out of here. I don’t have time to deal with you.” The side of his mouth twitched in irritation.

“I’m here to help.” The Hero’s voice was quiet and solid, not a waver of fear in it. Despite himself, Daemon felt a flicker of admiration for his long-time nemesis. Disgusted at the emotion, he jerked his collar high around his neck and checked that the safety was off on his gun. Once again, his eyes searched the darkness, sure that at any moment…

“Daemon. Come out, come out wherever you are.” The voice was alluring and dangerous yet deep inside, Daemon wished he could do as the dark voice asked.  He felt the Hero move from his side, but kept his eyes in front of him  – the Shadow would have to move eventually. “Daemon – I don’t like waiting. Come out here where I can see you. There’s no use hiding, I’ll find you eventually. Let’s get this over with, shall we?” 

The voice slithered inside him, planting doubt that he’d make it out of this alive. Daemon silently made his way to the next pillar, hiding behind parked cars as he moved. From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of the Hero on the other side of the parking garage. Desperate to get a better fix on where the Shadow was hiding, he screwed up his courage and hollered into the night ,

“What do you want with me?”

A low cackle filled the cavernous space, “You know exactly why I’m here. Don’t toy with me, pathetic worm. You haven’t dealt with that Hero like you were supposed to. So.” The voice dropped to a low pitch, so full of malevolence that even Daemon shivered. “You will die. And then he will die.” 

He brought the gun up, ready to shoot the first movement he saw, even knowing the bullet wouldn’t harm his opponent. Instead, a loud crashing noise followed by a startled grunt rent the air. Daemon ran towards it, dodging cars and concrete dividers as he went. The noise of the fight ended in a sharp, angry scream and Daemon slid to a halt as the Shadow fell to his knees. The Hero stood nearby, doubled over.  The hilt of a knife protruded from the Shadow’s stomach, all black with a red stone set in the pommel. Before Daemon could react, the Shadow fell in a dead heap, stabbed by the only weapon that could kill one such as him. 

The Hero turned. And instead of the obnoxious joke that Daemon was certain he would make, the Hero’s face was contorted, and he too fell to his knees. Daemon laid the Hero on his back, his hand beneath his head. The Hero’s blood covered him now but there was no victory in it for him.

“You pulled the Shadow’s knife from your gut? That was suicide!” Daemon’s heavy voice registered shock as he realized what had happened. 

“He was…going to kill…you.” The Hero gasped and coughed. 

“But…that would’ve done it for you. No more villain to your hero.”

“There’s more to.. you than…you know.”

Daemon snorted in derision, sure that the Hero had lost any sense he’d had. He looked over at the Shadow, laying in folds of black fabric, a ghastly look on his face. “That was the only way to kill him, you know. That knife. To kill such a creature…” Daemon shook his head, relieved and confused all at the same time. 

“You are…reborn, Daemon.The darkness will not… haunt you anymore.” With his last breath, the Hero blessed his enemy. And Daemon stayed on his knees, cradling the one whom he’d hated for all his life.

 

Today’s writing prompt was ‘The Hero dies for the Villain’. But I thought it would kind of spoil things if I told you that beforehand.

I hope you enjoyed this sad little short story! I’m plotting away on my book and I can’t wait to start writing it! By the  way, have I mentioned how much I’m loving The Writer’s Journey by Christopher Vogler? Definite recommend, there.

Anyhow, come back on Thursday for this month’s book review! Thanks for stopping by, let me know if you’ve got any writing prompt ideas, or even places to find cool ones online!

~Laura

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Shattered

22 May

This is a little something I typed out late one night recently. I felt that it might resonate with others, so I’m sharing it with you all.

Photo by Marika Vinkmann on Unsplash

It feels like,

under the smiles and laughter

that my heart is broken.

Broken in just the right way that

I’m able to shove it aside and decide

that it’s really all okay.

That it’s still whole.

But then a rainy day,

and one little thing suddenly makes me

Remember.

Remember the questions.

The Fears.

The Anger.

The Swirling Darkness.

Oh the pain of this broken heart,

Will it mend?

Will the cure that I’m working towards,

Truly mend it or will it remain shattered

Shattered.

Shattered inside while outwardly I

Smile.

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A Doomed Fate

25 Apr

I’ve been trying to do some writing prompts but none of them are working you guys – oy to the VAY. So I decided instead to dust off a portion of a little story I’ve been working off and on the past year. Because, you know, sometimes shiny new ideas call to you and you absolutely have to run with them for a little bit.  Just keep in mind that this is still a very rough draft, all right?

doomedfate

 

 

Photo by Greg Panagiotoglou on Unsplash

Kalick raged.

He could feel the presence, but he couldn’t see it. And he couldn’t fight what he couldn’t see. He threw his cup across the room in frustration,

“It’s there, Tallo and it’s closer than it’s been these twenty years. I can feel it. It’s calling to me, urging me on for its own purpose. But how do I fight it?”

A spindly man dressed in a monk’s robes, Tallo sat beside Kalick and stared into his cup of mead. Finally, he spoke, as if still considering what he said, “Perhaps, you don’t have to fight it. You say it’s coming closer now than it’s been. You could use that to your advantage.”

“Welcome it, you mean? Shall I bloody invite it in for supper?” His lips twisted in mocking grimace; he swung his arm wide to showcase the room. Once it had been grand, fine enough even for royals to stay and dine. And they had, once. But now the shine had faded from the candlesticks, the rug had been nearly worn through and only a few had occasion to sit around the long table. Those few were hardly noteworthy characters, even in these, the worst of times. They were the few that were searching for a way to change the fate they had been left to. The rest of the people either staunchly denied that their protector had abandoned them or meekly accepted their fate. Certain that they’d brought it on themselves somehow. But Kalick had gathered together a handful of men who couldn’t sit idly by and watch their families die.  They would fight, to the last of them.

Kalick shifted his shoulder, unease trickling down his spine again. That presence had been with him like a mangy dog that won’t leave your heels. Ever present, never wanted. Never acknowledged outright either. Until tonight. As he thought about it, the trickle grew, filling his mind. A pull, a tug, came from his right, like a string joined at the other end to….what? Turning quickly, he followed it, ignoring his companion calling his name. He would learn just what this presence was. He would learn just who had been dogging his steps, interrupting his peace and thinking they could get away with trying to lead him around like a child. They didn’t know just who they were dealing with. But they would. Just as soon as he had his hands around their neck.

~~

Tallo sat down heavily, deciding he wasn’t in the mood to follow after the erratic man.  He’d known Kalick for years now, but he had. . . changed. But then, they both had, he supposed. Tallo knew he wasn’t the best man for the job he’d been given, but he had been the readiest, and the closest at hand. Counting up the lost at the end of each day took a stomach far stronger than his. He’d turned to spirits to diminish the pain of counting wee lasses and lads’ lifeless bodies; to forget the sight of his own sweet wife succumbing to…but no. Better to think on how to help Kalick now that it seemed he’d reached another low point. The man had the worst luck, it seemed. But outright saying that he felt a presence? An invisible presence? The man had clearly gone out of his depth. Tallo hadn’t meant to send the man running out of the room with his suggestion. He’d merely been placating, pretending he believed that. . .a low moan reached his ears.

“Dash it all!” Tallo swore, tossing his empty cup to the table. He’d never forgive himself if something happened to Kalick, not after sweating and shifting by his side these past miserable years. If he had to live through this, so did Kalick.

Tallo rushed through the room, paused to listen for another sound, rushed through more of the empty house. For long moments, he couldn’t hear anything. Panting, he leaned against a door jamb, wondering if he’d heard the death rattle in his memory, instead of in reality. Feeling his heartbeat slow, Tallo fingered the chain at his neck. Perhaps he…There it was again. A weeping, pleading sound from above him. Taking the stairs two at a time, he wondered who could have made their way past him and Kalick to reach these rooms.  And he hoped Kalick wasn’t releasing all his pent-up anger on them. The man had a way with his fists that could terrify the strongest man. But when Tallo reached the top, breathing heavily again, he couldn’t fathom what he saw.

Kalick lay curled on his side, fists to his eyes, weeping. Above him stood a man wider and taller than any Tallo had ever seen, his face hidden by a hood, his clothes stranger than the sight of Kalick on the floor. Neither seemed to notice Tallo’s entrance.

“You will do this, Kalick, son of Perta, son of Hown. I have been waiting entirely too long. You know the cost if you refuse.” The man’s voice was hard, deadly. Tallo knew in that instant, whatever he wanted from Kalick, was a terrible thing indeed. And that he, Tallo himself, a worn-out monk, would be right beside his friend. No matter what it was. For it was one thing to choose a fate. But far another to be doomed to it.

 

“Answer me, Kalick.” His voice was like a whip.

“Yes. Yes, I will- will do as you say.” Kalick’s words came haltingly from his lips. He tried to keep them back but they formed of their own will. The consequences were too great to refuse. But the actions themselves were just as vile. His choice having been made for him, Kalick lay where he was, hoping against hope that the stranger would leave without another demonstration of his strength.

 

 

 

 

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Writing Prompt – Confession

17 Apr

wrtngprmptconfession

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

“On This Page I Write My Last Confession. Read It Well.

I confess to wandering, when my place was by your side. My heart was happiest with you but little things, daily things, pulled me away and sought to take your place. To my ever-lasting shame, I let them. They seemed so important then, but truly they weren’t. What a life we could have lived, if I’d only stayed by your side.           

I admit that I lied, when it seemed like it didn’t matter. Little white lies, that hurt no one, I told myself. If I could make my path a little smoother, I easily let slip a lie. Relieved when I got away with it and angry when I got caught. Were those lies worth the worry of being caught, keeping them straight day after day? 

I confess to holding grudges over the years. I knew that I should let them go but instead I ignored them. Pretended that if I didn’t think about them, they weren’t affecting me.

I admit to begrudging others my time, my attention, my love. I was so focused on me and my wants and desires, that I rarely saw the truth. The beauty of helping and connecting and sharing. By rote, I carried out these things but they didn’t reach my heart.

I confess to getting caught up in comparisons and striving for more, always more. A bigger house, a better car, nicer clothes, fancier things. 

I confess to giving such an outward appearance of morality, faithfulness and charity, that I never stopped and looked inside myself. To see myself truly. 

But as I write this with shaking hand and certainty that my last days are coming, I regret that. My life was good and full of good, but in striving for more, I lost sight of that. The end does not justify the means, because in the end, so much of what I was aiming for, no longer matters. In the end, I find that it’s me with my thoughts. Me with my family. Me with failing body and struggling words. Too late I’ve learned the truth. Too late I’ve come to realize what I should have been focusing on. All I can say is, I confess it. And don’t make the same mistake.”

~I don’t do much editing at all with these writing prompts. The idea, for me, is to let the words come as they will and leave them be. Getting the creative juices flowing is the goal.

~Laura

*this was originally published in February 2019 but I decided that it could bear a bit of dusting off and sharing again.

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