I'm not sure who I did it, but I managed to skate through high school without being too badly hurt. No one seemed to hate me, in all actuality everyone seemed quite nice to me. I'm not quite sure if they were nice to me because they wanted to be, or if they were nice to me because they pitied me. If you have a disability like I do, where you walk a fine line between one or the other. Some doctors say you should file for disability, other's say it's unnecessary. (I find it offensive when a doctor suggests such a thing) My left leg turns in at a very severe angle. When I was little the doctors told my parents it was just a mind thing, and that I would grow out of it. A decade later it still plagues me, I'm still forcing it straight, and yes it still gets the better of me and yes, even if it just turning in a little people do notice, and they ask. It's a humbling thing when some one asks you, "Why do you walk funny?" and your desperately trying not flush, because this must be the millionth time you've answered the particular question. So Either A: everyone was nice to me, just because. Or B: They pitied me. But of course, I was never invited to parties, never asked to hang out. I was dateless for both my high school proms, was never asked to dance. Outside of school, I was invisible. Except to one person. Elliot. He was a tall lanky thing, with barely anything to him but skin and bones and mop of blonde hair and thick coke-bottle glasses. Now I have to say, he wasn't very bright, but what he lacked there he made up in personality. He was a sweetheart. And never once did he ask me what was wrong with my leg. Usually I'd spend my day able to converse with anyone about anything. But when lunch rolled around, I had the bench to myself. Except when Elliot decided, that I shouldn't be sitting alone. We'd talk about anything and everything, just mindless chatter about this or that or crazy uncle bill, to fill up the hour. It was comforting to be talking to someone, instead of eating your cheetos in silence and wondering what the hell you were doing wrong. He even called to talk to me on the weekends. And then, people started to ask. And I guess these people would qualify as the snobs. "Why are you always sitting with him? Do you like him? Would you go out with him?" I'd roll my eyes and say something like…"He's a good friend to talk to." and leave it at that. But then one of the girls said something I'll never forget. "I think you and him would be perfect together!" and laughter ensued. Elliot was a good friend, but the idea offended me. Because I was quiet, because I walked funny, because sometimes I said wrong things that made me feel like a complete idiot, Elliot was all I could get.

Elliot fallowed these people like a pet, even after I warned him about how they were using him to get their laughs. Then it started. He started asking me out, and I know that there were some people pushing him into it. Of course I told him no. I honestly didn't think of him in that light. Not the way he was asking. I just couldn't do it.
Days would go by, lunch hours would be filled with the persistent "Why?" He would ask, and then they would prod, "Why'd you say, no, your hurting his feelings." or my personal favorite, "You're just being a bitch." This was a show to them. Leaving a pair of friends humiliated, one confused, the other guilty and even a little angry. (Not at Elliot mind you) After a while, I'd stop answering the phone. I was tired of answering the same questions, day in and day out. I'd listen to his voice on the answering machine for a few minuets before breaking down and answering. He'd always get me with that line, "If you don't want to talk to me, it's ok, I understand." And again I would tell him, "You're a good friend, one of the best friends I've had in a long time, but I don't think of you that way." Eventually he stopped calling all together. I found some friends who, like me, we're kind of social misfits., but they were bright, and they wrote! Elliot would join us at first. He was neighbors with some of them, so he was comfortable with them and that made me happy. But I could see it his face, that he was never really the same. He was saddened somehow, and it had something to do with me. He tapered off after that, joining the others at their table more often. I'm not quite sure if he understood how they used him, if he knew, he didn't act like it. Our conversations lessened, but didn't quite die. Summer came. He never called or answered. We never spoke, and when school came around again, he wasn't there. He moved away. I haven't seen him since.

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Charlie, Sylvie and my writing bit for the evening.
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I moved my hands across the bar, tracing the delicate grains with the tip of my fingernail. The room smelled of stale beer and fried onion rings. Somewhere beyond me, I could hear the smart crack on of the cue ball as someone started a game of pool, the game could only be described as a small thunderstorm against the chatter that clouded the pub. My brother and his girlfriend had dragged me here against my will. "You'll have a good time!" they said, "We won't make you feel like a third wheel!" They said. Oh liar, liar. So far I was at the bar by myself while they were in a booth, foolishly professing how one loved the other more. I was going to have to explain the meaning of 'Third Wheel' to my brother and argue that his idea of fun and my idea of fun, were two totally different things.

"Do you not like your martini?" The bar keep's craggily voice broke my concentration for them delicate lines that could hardly be seen through the deep varnish. His heavy black eyes were locked onto me, his brow gently drooping in genuine concern that a patron could seem so dissatisfied. I shook me head. "No, it's fine." I didn't want to tell him that when it came to his apple martini's, he was a little over zealous with the vodka. I tasted a hint of apple with my first sip, and after that nothing but the strong stark flavor of alcohol. Wasn't that the point of drinking? I don't think I had captured the concept quite yet. Not exactly convinced with my answer the bar tender moved down the bar to fill more orders.
"Mind if I sit here?"
"Go ahead." I answered not even bothering to look up.
I could hear the chair to my right scuff against the dark blue carpet. I still didn't look. Instead I took a sip of my apple martini. Mr. Barkeep, was watching me out of the corner of my eye. Maybe it would appease him. I gently traced the sleek stem of my glass as the bartender came to ask what the man wanted. I stared at the cherry in my glass, listening to my new neighbors soft tenor voice as he asked for a bud light off the tap.
I lifted my glass to my lips. I might as well drink it. " Do I know you? I have the strangest feeling that this is déjà vu." Oh No! not one of these guys! It was 2:30 in the afternoon, wasn't it still early for tail chasers? I raked my hand through my dark brown hair, silently cursing myself for leaving it down. I was preparing a cool hard look, fallowed by a good thrashing sentence that might scare the cheesy pick up lines away. Ah. I've got one, I gritted my teeth, I looked up….and I couldn't believe my eyes.

Somewhere in that triangular face, with the sharp nose and big green eyes, was a face of a young man I hadn't seen in years. "Charlie?" I asked slowly, uncertain and strangely hopeful. A smile broke from his thick lips, the same two large front teeth, front and center to give me a big warm smile. "I thought that my be you, Sylvie."
I smiled now. "Wow, I haven't seen you in forever. You look so different. It was half true. He had grown into that lanky body of his. I never suspected him to become a body builder type, but he wasn't a bean pole any longer. He was lean. The scruffy blonde hair that I remembered was cleanly cut, His thin face had grown into shape, and his green eyes were sparkling again beneath a pair of thin framed glasses. He seemed happy. God, I hope he's happy.
"Funny, I think you look the same." He said. He paused to softly thank the bartender and take a sip from the beer that he was given. "You look good," He said quickly, "I'm just glad I can still recognize you." Same old Charlie "You look good too," I said, straightening myself up so I could fold my arms on the cool top of the bar without tipping my drink. He smiled that goofy grin. He seemed unaffected by the damage that had been caused to our friendship years ago. It had been book marked to be remembered on a latter day I suppose. Did he think about me after all that time? Did he hate me? After all I could have sworn I hurt his feelings. What does a guy think about when he disappears from the face of the earth without a sound? "So what have you been doing with yourself?" I asked, I couldn't wait to here of his ventures. I had to check I had to make sure that that sad boy I saw last was gone, and it was only my friend that sat next to me. "I'm managing a feed store with my girlfriend." He said as he nursed his beer. A girlfriend? Charlie has a girlfriend?! I couldn't explain it, but I was proud of him.
"What about you?"
Oh, Gee my turn. "Ummm, I'm just going to college and doing odd jobs."
I watched his blonde eyebrows raise. "What no boyfriend, no best selling book?"
I pursed my lips. Hah. My karma had fixed that. "Nope not yet." I hope he understood I meant both things. "A work in progress." I confessed, half humiliated.
His large hand patted me on the back. "You'll do good." He stopped to take a swig. "When you do publish something, I don't care what it is, I want a signed copy." He was smiling, and his voice that I still imagined high and squeaky from years past, was sincere. I could only smile, a small compromise. "You got it Charlie, it's a deal."
"And none of this, to and from crap." He said waving his finger at me. "Ok," I said slowly, "How about, to my best bud Charlie?" He was nodding. "Yep. I could live with that."
He beamed another smile. He was happy. Yep. I could live with that too, Charlie, I could live with that too.

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I'm certain my grammar is off somewhere in those paragraphs. Would any writers have any suggestions or opinions on what's decent and what needs improvement? Do you have a favorite writing exercise?
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I have no exact timeline for my writing life. It started somewhere in my childhood, tucked between the love of writing stories for school and the need to see and be somewhere other then my room. I did it because the characters where all I had. While my brother was off playing football and my dad lost fishing in some mud hole, it left me enormous amounts of time to write. I'd fill up notebooks with my scrawny, hardly visible words and tell a tale of a world that was far more interesting then my own. I'd forget that my dad didn't know squat about raising a girl by himself. I wouldn't feel homesick for my mother who lived across town. I wasn't forced to play the roll of the girl who was barred from doing nearly everything to becoming an extraordinary being who could do anything.

It's my one and only escape from a world I have never felt comfortable in. It helped me through the trials of breaking my fathers heart, going through trivial errors of high school and it's sink or swim, eat or be eaten social order. And now I'm leaning on it to help me figure out what kind of person I am as a young woman. I only hope I'm nurturing it in every way I can.

They say your best bet is to write what you know. Strange. I've never met a vampire. Have you? No. The gothic dressed kids at the mall do not count, not even the ones who the plastic fangs. But I still write about them. Lately my main my project has focused around the subject. No. The main character isn't a vampire. Just a girl. A girl who falls into tragedy and is submerged into the same dark underworld that her parents tried to shelter her from. The only thing I could give this girl, Keirra, are the lessons I've learned from my father, despite how we've hurt each other. Our relationship became strained the day I decided to move in with my mother. After that, we pulled apart. We force ourselves to speak, but we have nothing to talk about. He couldn't tell you what my favorite color is, and I couldn't do the same. It's the sad truth. And it's my gift to this poor creation that I've made. She'll fall into the same crowd, the same vampires as her parents, and when it comes time for her to want to break from this deep blood thirsty world, she'll start to remember things her father had done, as if he was trying to prepare her for this very act and by the end she'll realize her father's love is endless, despite the words that have fallen out of his mouth.

One of these days, if I could ever douse the flames of the mindless chatter that nags in my head, and finish this book-I want my father to read it. Yes, odd for me, I have a hard time letting anyone read anything of mine. But I want him to read it and realize, yes, he did cut me deeply throughout my life , yes, I committed the act of hurting him just the same. But even so, when he tried to teach me something important about life I want him to know. Hey! Guess what!? You're snobby daughter was listening!! Who'd a thunk it?!

Last time I went to his house when a big cook out was going on. I sat on the porch with everyone, waited a while, no one spoke to me or included me into the conversation (I don't like butting in), so I pulled out a book and started to read. My family immediately jumped me and called me snob and started to rant, because I was reading (Yes, it pissed me off, I guess they should have been talking to me instead, but I put the book away and obliged them.). And I thought this was what writers were supposed to do when they weren't perfecting their craft? My dad's side of the family doesn't quite get the whole "writing business". They still think it's just a phase or a fad of mine I'll grow out of. I hate to break it to them, but I've been doing this since grade school and it's not going away. I'll hold onto my computer, my notebooks, my scraps of paper and scream "Mine! Mine! Mine!" like a four year old child if I have to. God, I hope it never comes to that. I hope the people I'm related to get the hint before I have to be that drastic.

I started this blog to help map out what it is that I do know. I may talk about a memory and then rewrite it from a charcter's point of veiw. Maybe I'll find I have more to offer my characters and the story that's desperately trying to come to the surface. I may even throw in a book review or two. Right now I'm reading The Good Guy by Dean Koontz. Maybe this way I can keep the muse from playing hooky so much!

Most tubes you see on the blog were obtained from a membership I have at http://www.butterflywebgraphics.com/