I have plenty of Faith. It’s men that I don’t believe in.
This book helped me to pack and move. If ever there was a modern story worth reading, it’s this. In bookstores I find much fluff. This is especially true with modern writers. Fluff. Happening happenstance concerning nothing of value. In this most impressive story, the author puts the writers of fluff, to shame. Jeanette writes without compromise. She is strong. Her writing is strong. Read this book.
I think Hemingway would be proud.
I cried. I cried so hard that vessels burst around my eyes. I sobbed and broke silence with my soul. I know I have a soul because of the hurt. The floor came fast and I lie crying. I don’t care that this is happening. I held this off for a lifetimes and now I’m here. We met on a blurred line. The light was bright and I covered my eyes, but I saw. You were there and then you left. We don’t know why you needed to leave, that’s not up to us. We loved you anyway. We still do.
You ran from. Something followed. I wasn’t sure which it was. I looked and saw you. I asked, Why are we here? You said because I lied. I asked why you lied. You told me to save. I wasn’t sure what save meant and spilled. -M. Taggart
One talks with anger
The other with Cheer
Take your Pick-
The Child looks on
This doesn’t belong here-
These memories aren’t mine.
From time to time I’ll mention a short story I wrote for my cousin. He was in a tough situation and the only item left for me to give was to write. And I did. I wrote from the heart. He read the story and loved it. His mother read the story and his life was changed. She no longer enabled him to drink. Cutting him off, he became homeless.
Fast forwarding to the now, he’s employed and doing well having just hit his one year mark. He called to talk about that, life, our family. I love my cousin.
After I wrote the story, Megan, self published it for me. It’s called Don’t Be A Sally- Based on true events. I make mention of this story in my ‘About’ and haven’t a clue if any of you have read it. It’s not perfect and it’s not professionally edited.
Megan is the reason I write. She found a box in the closet. I had printed a few short stories I’d written while in College and placed them in the box, forgotten. College was a decade ago. I wasn’t sure I could write. I wasn’t sure I ever could. I wasn’t an English major. I know very little about the proper usage of anything. Oddly enough, I don’t want to know. I know that words land on the page and somehow they came from me. That’s all I want. I don’t wish to be perfect, only perfectly me.
Now these words chase me. I can’t make them stop. I can’t ignore my past and I won’t. Eventually I’ll write about that too. But, not yet. For now, I’ll finish ‘Colby and the Ravine’ a novel about a child’s innocence lost, written for adults. The ravine is the ravine I grew up in. I might as well have been a stick lying at the bottom of the ravine. I fit well there.
I didn’t mean to sit down and write this post. Now, here it is. It’s December 7th and I have to publish this post. 7 is my favorite number. It’s a number I feel thankful for.
You with the bearded log lead me to nothing. I wondered why a bearded log might try and lead. Ask. This pulse never stops.
Love hard. Either you want to or you don’t. There’s a boy on a swing and he’s watching the others play ball. He asks a rock why he can’t play with them. The rock replied, “It’s not up to me.”
I awoke myself remembering to be free. -M. Taggart