Z? Really?

Z is giving me problems. Zebras? Zip ties? Zippers? Zzzzzzzzzz? 

Z is an end, the last letter of the alphabet. This is the last A to Z post for April. As much as it's an ending, it's a beginning for me. 

Is gotten pretty lazy about my blog, only posting when the mood struck or my muse spoke or I had a massive rant about something. Or, or, or...This exercise has forced me to be disciplined and write posts. And I've surprised myself by DOING it!  Go me!!

May is coming up. I'm not sure what I'll write about, but I will write. Now that I've gotten in the habit, I can't stop! I have a massive migraine right now and still, I write. 

Thank you for coming on the journey with me through through this challenge. I hope I've entertained you, touched your heart, made you think. I wonder where we're headed next? 

Happy reading! 

Yarn

This post is about Great Grandmother. Yes ma'am, not Great Grandma or anything like that. She was Great Grandmother. She was full-blooded German and she, her mom, and sisters  came over to the United States just ahead of Hitler's regime. As I remember the story, her father didn't make it over here and no one knows what happened. All of the records were destroyed in Germany during the war and no trace of him was found in either country. 

She was a very proper lady. She wouldn't come put of her bedroom without being fully dressed and made up. She had her way of doing things. She was strict, very strict. And she could crochet like you wouldn't believe. She taught me how. 

She taught me basic stitches and then started me on an afghan. I was around 10-12 years old at the time. I worked on it for several weeks and took it back for her to see. I'd gotten about a fourth of the way through the afghan. She inspected my work, while I beamed with pride. Then she saw a skipped stitch. It was in the second or third row, way at the beginning. 

"Did you see this?" She asked. 

"Yes, Ma'am."

"When?"

"When I was about two rows past it."

She very calmly ripped out every stitch until she came to the mistake. She looked me in the eye and ripped out a few more stitches. 

"Anything worth doing, is worth doing right.  We don't cover up mistakes. We don't make excuses. We don't make mistakes."

I never finished that afghan. And I still, to this day, get angry with myself for making mistakes. 

X Marks the Spot

When my dad was growing up, he saved a jar of pennies--in those days, that was a small fortune. He decided to bury them in the woods and carefully drew a map so he could find those pennies. 

My grandma had a painting of an old ship hanging in their house. My dad removed the backing just enough to hide the map behind the ship. When he tried to get the map out many years later, he found that time, age, and the elements had fused the backing to the painting and he was unable to remove that map. 

I have the painting with the map still hidden behind it. It's a treasure for me because of the story behind the painting. The jar of pennies is long gone, I'm sure, the map no longer useful since he has died and no one else knows what it says. But that treasure map leads to a much larger treasure for me. A look into my dad's childhood that was full of work around the home place, odd jobs to make ends meet, and tragedy when his dad died early in his life. That he could still be a little boy, with dreams of buried treasure and hidden maps was a a testament to the resilience of a child. 

And the painting? It's an old ship. Looks like one a pirate might have captained. That makes me smile. 

Count to Ten

They say you should count to ten to calm down when you're angry. Ha! Doesn't work for me. I say the alphabet backwards.

Yep, say the alphabet backwards. I tried counting backwards, but that only made me feel like a rocket ready to blast off. 

Saying the alphabet backwards makes you focus on something other than your anger. Try it. I'll wait. (Humming annoying gameshow tunes.) No, really, go ahead, I can wait. Sigh. Done? No? Oh, okay. (Tapping foot and humming louder.)  How long does this take?! Angry? Me? Oh, no, really,  I'm not angry. I SAID I'm fine. 

Z, Y, X, W,...

Write What You Know

We've all heard repeatedly "write what you know".  If everyone out there literally writes what they know, then some people scare the hell out of me!  

Of course, most of my blog topics are about things that I do know something about. 

In fiction, write what you know means (to me) take a real situation and "what if" it until you have a story. Nobody wants to hear about little Suzy going to the corner store for ice cream. But if little Suzy goes to the store for ice cream and walks in on a crime or a giant cockroach convention --that might just catch our interest. Reality plus embellishment equals fiction.

Research on your topic equals knowing also. I wrote a piece where two children heard a noise and went to investigate a few hours later. They found the dead body of a man who'd terrorized them on the floor, with flies buzzing around. A reader pointed out that flies wouldn't have gathered that quickly indoors, with no open windows, etc. She had researched it. Write what you know. 

Venom

Self-doubt is like venom pulsing through your body. It takes over the healthy psyche, much like venom breaks down healthy tissues.  Self-doubt can kill your desire to try and it can destroy who you are. 

My circle helps counteract venomous self-doubt. My circle consists of family, friends and followers. They are each supportive in their own way. They offer encouragement, praise, constructive criticism and experience. Thank you! 

My advice to you? Find a circle of people to learn from, to support and who are supportive--no matter what your drive, your passion, your calling. Counteract  venomous self-doubt because if not, it will eat away at your creativity. 

Ugly Truths

While out for a walk, my mind started wandering. This isn't unusual for me. (The mind wandering, not the walking.) I often people watch and wonder what goes on in their lives, the part that is for their eyes only. 

Most of us put on some kind of mask when we're in social situations. The ones who don't are usually the ones who stand out, and not necessarily in a good way. 

I wonder who lives in these houses. Do they have children? Are they happy? Is someone dying? Is someone angry? 

What are the truths hidden behind those walls? Are they pretty, ugly or a combination of the two?