Sure, they may say "But mom! We should all follow our dreams, and I'm super passionate about it", but don't let them. They may say they're passionate about it, but if they were they would at least finish one story instead of collecting endless piles of blank pages with nothing but a single line of a vague idea on each one. These vague ideas will rot with time like the old tales with barbaric morals, and they're going to do nothing but distract your child from focusing on the pointless schoolwork that infinitely bores them, causing them to daydream all day and remain stuck in their own head. This career will cause them endless pain, as one little piece of common sense may derail hours upon hours and lines upon lines of their hard work. They're going to eternally hate themselves as they contemplate all of the life choices they made just because of one little fable, ever-scared because they can't do their could-be masterpiece justice in the writing process. They're going to cry their heart out in the middle of the night as the harsh cruelties of the world reject the moral ideologies they put forth just because they're children stuck all day behind the damning computer screen, teaching them again and again and again what rejection feels like, and that the tears only come back stronger each and every time. And the computer screen. Oh. It's going to rot their eyes till they wear literal telescopes on a daily basis just because they wanted to get that one slang phrase from an indigenous language just right, so they sacrificed their sleep and pushed aside their schoolwork leaving them to flunk just so they could get exactly that. They ought to learn that life's unfair and that they can't just magically run away to someplace far away from the looming work deadlines. In school, they're going to be failing all their classes because of that unchallenged dedication, except maybe English class because they're the only ones who know what and regularly use the all—mighty—em—dash. Then they're going to start arguing with their teachers about where commas go, and they're going to disrespect their elders. They're going to run, rejecting old traditions just because they think having the research and knowledge that goes against old superstitions could do anyone any good. They're going to stand up for the disgusting outcasts of society and villainized people in the media, and they're suddenly going to care about women's rights, animal rights, rights of tiny ethnic and religious groups and even basic human rights, all from that writing the perspectives and points-of-views of different characters had them consider the vastly different experiences of the other side. Writing made them develop a more complex sense of empathy, and perhaps even a heart. A heart? Everyone knows that thing's good for nothing in the modern world on the verge of war. The school playground should've taught them that ages ago. They're going to experience colourfully beautiful experiences first-hand and really understand what pure joy, anger, malcontent, sadness, fear, and grief really is. Everyone knows that the other feelings are bad, should not be acknowledged, and pushed deep down for them to cause more psychological problems in the long run. Psychological problems aren't real anyways, they just worsen most physical health problems. Children who write dare to think anything but a fake, wide smile is worth seeing; they think they should appreciate the things that make life so unpredictable and worth living. They're going to make unnecessary noise when they scream and jump for joy upon seeing that the publisher of their favourite book is going to have their logo in the corner of the cover of their little fairytale. They're going to write with all their heart pouring into their work and seriously lay their emotions bare for the whole world to see. They're going to annoy people they actually care about with another hundreds-of-pages-long remix of the same 26 letters. They cried with joy while holding a wood-pulp manifestation of their manipulation of 21 consonants and 5 vowels. Absolutely pathetic. How dare they feel anything for imaginary people who understand and help them process their emotions better than any real person could? They must be going clinically insane. On top of that, they giggle maniacally whilst the person they're writing about gives the reader a hard time? Only insane people can process the emotions of so many diverse and different people within one lifetime. What's more, they rally people and hypnotise them into getting obsessed with these fake people. They help even more people manage the stress of the real world and properly address their emotions and experiences? It makes them feel that all the hard work they put into their beloved stories was worth it and has been exonerated? Sounds fake. Stress is fake. They're probably actually starting a cult with their tall tales and fancy words. It's a dangerous pursuit.
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It's the month of poetry and I'd like to share this poem with you. On Love: When I sought love I knew It smelled of roses Fragrant and sweet When I followed its scent I found you. On Life: A flower sprouted within the cracks of a sidewalk Not many noticed it But it withstood its ground Just like me it fought for survival Not the rain nor the blistering sun could destroy its resolve to find the strength to stand upright and live. For it knew the day it showed its weakness and let the rain drown or the sun desiccate and if it drooped to the ground the will to fight will end. Through its resilience a bee did find the sweet nectar and the cracked form of the ground radiate beauty. That gorgeous flower that sprang from the cracks one day caught the eye of a photographer and was soon acclaimed As the formidable Flowered pawn. Have a great month of April. Live & Let Live! shobana
Here's a video of my first therapy dog, Bella. She was recused from Dead Dog Beach in Puerto Rico and we adopted her when she was four months old. She was super active and my vet suggested that she needed a job. We tried agility but it wasn't the right fit. But when she became a therapy dog at age five, we were all set. Bella was intuitive and curious and knew just what to do whether working with students or visiting patients in the hospital. This volunteer work provided the perfect balance to writing, and I'm still at it, now with my second therapy dog, Rudy. My book about Bella is titled "Joy Unleashed: The Story of Bella, the Unlikely Therapy Dog." It's done really well and is in its third printing. Enjoy!
A few months after Mabel's 16th birthday, her parents died in a tragic accident and now a blind Mabel was a ward of Aunty Kay. In her absence, Mabel would fall prey to her cousins' incessant bullying and tricks. One day, they had put peanut butter in Mabel's favourite sneakers. A fuming Mabel rushed into Troy's room and delivered a stinging slap with the one sneaker in hand to his face. I told you she was a blind psychopath Troy shouted. Sensing Mabel's distress, the guy introduced himself as Leo but an embarrassed Mabel scurried away. For the next few months, whenever Troy had his friends over, Leo and Mabel would secretly meet in the kitchen. He was 18, fascinated with cars and her first crush. Reality rudely intruded on their secret meeting spot by Troy whose shouts brought his sisters rushing in. An angry Adele, who was liked Leo viciously slapped Mabel d as she let loose angry words and barbs at Mabel's ploys. Mabel, immensely hurt rushed to the safety of her small room. After what seemed like hours, the door creaked open and Leo called out. Mabel flung her pillow at him and told him to go. Leo persisted and pressed a soft kiss to her lips telling her that she was a breath of fresh air in this hell-hole. He continued to caress her neck and shoulders. Kisses turned heated, caresses became more frantic and clothes discarded as Mabel's heart and innocence were offered up and consumed in the lusty atmosphere. In the dawn, after kissing a clinging Mabel, Leo left. Mabel blurted out her love when her cousins barged into her room unannounced. Troy and Adele laughed as they boasted of the bet Leo was a part of or else he would never look at a blind nerd. In the coming weeks, Leo was MIA! One Saturday after dinner, Mabel overheard Aunty Kay on the phone talking about the Johns moving to another state. This hurt Mabel to the quick who vouched to never fall for such a ploy! In the 5 years since that fateful day, Mabel blossomed into an intelligent, caring and capable young woman. Despite her disability, she successfully pursued her passion of cooking with the upcoming release of her first cookbook. That heart wrenching summer with Leo was pivotal for Mabel. Lost in her happy thoughts, she nearly missed her beeping phone signalling that her publicist and best friend, Maria had arrived to give her a lift to the venue but then encountered a slowly deflating tire. Luckily, the service guy Zack, was nearby to pick up the call. With both ladies safely ensconced in the truck, and their vehicle in tow, they made their way to the garage. Mabel smiled as she overheard Maria flirting with Zack. Before long, they arrived at the garage. The door creaked open signalling someone's entrance. After a shuffling of papers, a masculine voice called out Maria's name. Mabel froze in disbelief as her friend went about her business. She could never forget that husky baritone. It was LEO! As Maria concluded her paperwork and payments she hollered to Mabel which grabbed Leo's eagle gaze. The air was tight with tension as Leo stumbled over Mabel's name. As Mabel hurriedly nudged her friend to go ahead, a strong, calloused hand grabbed Mabel's wrist. Mabel was having not of that and delivered a stinging slap to an unshaven but hewn jaw. She was overwhelmed by repressed hurt. Maria tried to calm the situation down with the ladies hurriedly escaping after a few attempts. Zack met a stunned Leo standing in the same position, weary lines on his face. After some consideration, he held up a business card with a naughty smirk. Mabel refused to talk on her way back to the hotel but lying in bed that night, her memories came to the forefront. After a sleepless night she called Maria to confirm her schedule. A barrage of questions of Mabel's well-being were fired by Maria, which Mabel answered quietly. Seven o' clock sharp, the doorbell rang with a sombre trip to the restaurant. When the meals arrived, a frizzle of awareness ran up Mabel's spine. A voice which haunted her dreams announced Leo's presence. Crossing her hands across her chest, Mabel sat back without a word. As soon as Leo broached the topic of the first time they had made love, Mabel lost it and flung her plate of spaghetti at him. He made light of the attack and pleaded that he was threatened by Adele the morning after their sweet night. She had maliciously filmed them entwined asleep and would share a copy with the entire school. He had stayed away to protect Mabel's reputation. Troy had lied to the Coach which got him kicked off the team. His dad had gotten a job transfer out of state which was a clean break. Leo continuously professed his love whilst raining kisses along Mabel's face, hands and wrists. She softly returned her love enveloped in those strong arms that were imprinted in her memory forever and a day.
Three days. THREE DAYS. Of silence. C'mon, guys. I've been writing your story for six months, know you all like childhood best friends, and now you won't talk to me. I thought we had something, but no, now it's all “writer's block” this and “writer's block” that. Ugh, the things I do for love. I'm tired of all this quiet. I hate it. Why won't anyone tell me what's going on? That's your job, isn't it? To give answers when needed? Well, I need answers, and I need them as soon as they can be supplied. Writing is my sustenance, my SOUL, don't you see? To leave me so empty like this… you might as well starve me. And still your voices are silent, silent as a closed book. So I just have to wait. And wait again. And probably again. Yep. You are all so indifferent to my necessities, so uncaring! Or are you simply oblivious, truly and honestly oblivious? Wouldn't that be ironic? All the effort I put into making you who you are, and you can't even give me a straight answer. I thought you were supposed to be strong, well-developed! My writer's group says you are, and so do my roommates—but then, what do we really know? None of us have published anything yet. I'm sorry; I'm deviating again. If you'd just give me something to work with, though, we wouldn't have this problem. What's that line… “Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die”? Yeah, that's you. Come on, just a little idea? A change of scenery, a snippet of dialogue? Maybe one of you is willing to be the sacrifice for the greater good? I promise your capture will be heroic, tragic, leaving all the readers with broken hearts. Well, unless it's you, Zulen. Sorry, man… OH COME ON! DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG I'VE BEEN STUCK ON THIS ONE FREAKING SCENE? IT'S EMBARRASSING! Sorry, I'm sorry, really—I had to get that out. I just feel so useless right now, y'know? And I guess these three days haven't been all bad; it's been kind of like a vacation side quest with you guys. But I DO need to write to pay rent, so… back to business. Let me make myself clear. I am the Author. You are the Characters. Your scene is at a standstill. I. Am. Not. Happy. Comprende? Good. Now, any ideas? (Except yours, Hayden; yours suck. And no, I am still not going to consider your hairspray-chainsaw proposal.) It needs to have some pizazz, something spicy to really get the story moving, you know? Preferably something that will lead smoothly into Idora's death scene so—NO, IT IS ABSOLUTELY STAYING, YOU UNGRATEFUL BLOB OF INK. NOBODY REALLY LIKED YOU ANYWAY. You know what, guys? I'm done with this chicanery. (Whoa, that's a cool word: chicanery. Haven't used that in a while.) You're really messing with my stuff. I think it's time to write a haiku or something, clear my head a bit with a different style. Sun goes slowly down Characters will not help me Getting very ticked Well, that was just depressing. I was GOING to focus on the sunset, the velvet hues, the molten light filtering through my water-stained kitchen window… Gosh, I really need to clean that…. What was I saying? I wonder if there's a god of writing, like Poseidon is the god of water. Some robed figure with ink-black eyes and parchment-colored clothes, her train filled with the ever-changing words of her humble scribe followers. Ooh, or instead of a train (cuz that's weird), they're tattoos on her skin—scribbles and ink blots and half-finished notes that appear and disappear as time goes by. And maybe she just has a thing against mortals, so she imposes blocks on our minds whenever we get too close to perfection. Yeah, that's totally it. That makes me feel much better. You may worship me now, Hayden. What? No, I don't have inky eyes, I just… You know what, forget it. I'm not gonna explain myself to a four-thousand-year-old toddler. ‘K, but dude. DUDE. I have an idea, cuz that description was lowkey epic. Buckle up, Idora—you're about to get stabbed with a godly quill pen. And it's gonna be AWESOME. Vacay over, people. Pack up the beach towels, and somebody get me a snack. We've got work to do. And you know what? Maybe this break was kinda good for me.
She was abruptly awakened from a rare sleep by what sounded like a crash under her bed. She hid under the covers, which provided a warm, protected feeling, as she froze in fear. She was still curious as to what caused such a bang despite the intense fear coursing through her. It didn't help that she'd been having terrible nightmares lately about monsters under her bed. Childish, she realised. She felt a bolt of courage strike through her like a flurry of lightning, and she nudged her covers—her safety—away and set her feet on the chilly wooden floor. Her double bed was spacious enough for people to sleep underneath it; a large monster could easily do the same. She quickly ducked and peered under the bed after taking a deep breath. She backed away, breathing deeply, sliding under her duvet covers. She shook and shivered under the sheets. Meredith whimpered as her mother flicked the light switch; darkness consuming the room. Meredith turned her head to see a shadow when a large hand grabbed her mouth. No one will hear you scream, and nobody can help you right now, a muffled cry rang out throughout the spotless space. It resembled a hospital ward the most. Her knees were hit in the back by a chair. Under the large hand, she barricaded her teeth in an effort to free herself from their hold. When Meredith unintentionally fell into it, it laughed menacingly. She made no attempt to stand because she knew she would lose this battle. She was thrown to the ground, her eyes welling up with tears. Finally, with fists raised, the shadow moved to step into the light. Meredith woke up with a yelp and a jump. The worst part was probably that. To her mother, Meredith exclaimed. "The dream always comes to an abrupt end!" Meredith became irritated with her mother's lack of interest and stormed back to her bedroom as she simply nodded and busied herself around the office. She sighed as she sat on the bed. The monster's laughter. She is positive that she just heard it next to her. She clenched her hair in agony and cried, "I'm not crazy, am I? She mumbled. It responded, "certainly not," as a giggle broke out. Meredith spun around in surprise to find nothing there. Even as months passed, Meredith's "insanity" only grew worse. She even missed weeks of school because it was so frustrating. Her mother expressed surprise and even concern. Meredith murmured to herself as she held her dry lips in front of her coffee mug. She sighed as the mug became empty. Her head shook and her eyes fluttered shut, disrupting her sleep. The TV's glowing light illuminated the tiny space as she fumbled with her fingers and nibbled at the couch. Meredith slipped into a deep sleep and a nightmare in less than a minute. Meredith was bound to a chair by a rope around her back and her legs were fastened to the chair's feet. The thing said with amusement, "You're back." Meredith's lips quivered with a sob. “don't …. I beg you not to hurt me. Meredith pushed herself further into the back of the seat as the monster began to claw her. Her abdomen was freed when the monster's claws tore the ropes holding her body together. In the light next to her, a knife shone. She picked up the blade after covertly lowering her hand. The monster was preoccupied looking in the opposite direction, muttering quietly to themselves. She slowly pushed the knife against the monsters back, the tip slightly grazing their clothing. A whimper escaped the monster's mouth, “don't please don't.. Hurt me” it sounded like herself, she thought. Meredith had had enough with this madness and insanity. Although she has never considered herself to be a murderer, this situation could influence anyone. The monster's knees were thrown to the ground when she kicked the backs of them. She turned the monster over so that, but for the darkness of the space, she could see the monster's face. Meredith inserted the knife into their chest because it was too dark for her to see anything other than the outline of the body. The monster's muscles tightened around the blade, making it difficult for her to pull the knife out again. She kept slicing and stabbing the body. The stomach, legs, face, chest, and throat were completely dismembered. As she stood over the lifeless body below her, Meredith trembled in terror. The shaky breathing had stopped, and the squelching of the blade being pressed through her skin had also stopped. She gasped and woke up only to witness the end of her own life. She lay motionless, nearly dead, with a knife next to her and identical cuts and gashes all over her body. Her surroundings were covered in blood, and the metallic smell made her feel even queasy. She tried moving and screaming. She had no chance. All this time, she was the monster. She knew she would lose the battle.
A couple of weeks ago, I went on a holiday to France. Apart from doing some writing there, I wanted to visit the breathtaking and miraculous Lourdes. It was one of the most memorable moments of my life. I went alone and so, not only was it an overwhelming experience, but it also grew into a learning expedition. I stayed there for 13 days. Life is never predictable I can tell you. Even with all the careful planning, there will be a surprise or two in store for you. So, I guess we must always be ready to face all kinds of consequences and situations, take it within our stride and pray that in the end, all goes well, just as it did for me. I am putting together a series of videos about my visit to iconic France and I hope you will join me by subscribing to my channel to be updated on my journey there. Here's the link to my latest video: St.Bernadette and Me. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ezh3zoPKm-0 Christmas is coming around really fast too. It is always a beautiful, magical month and somehow there is always the light of advent to take you through the season with smiles and extra love. Wishing you a great month of advent. Shobana
On March 17, sooner than I expected, my paperback is also on Amazon. Three days before my eBook launch day on March 20, when you can download it and read it! Here are the links of English-speaking marketplaces where you can order Postcards From Beyond Reality: The Selected Poems of Michael Daniels and/or leave your honest review. Please don't forget that, because your reviews not only help Postcards to find its way to new readers but also help other readers to get value from your reading experience and honest thoughts and decide if my poetry book is the right book for them. Amazon.com paperback and eBook Amazon Australia paperback and eBook Amazon Canada paperback and eBook Amazon UK paperback and eBook Goodreads paperback and eBook BookBub eBook Jessica Bell designed an eBook and a paperback cover for my YA poetry book I wrote in character as the hero from my novel Cruel Summer, Michael Daniels. They look spectacular and reflect Michael's inner mind, which was teeming with the stark contrast of darkness and light. I will enroll Postcards From Beyond Reality: The Selected Poems of Michael Daniels eBook in KDP Select where you can read it for free, so don't miss that opportunity. Thank you all who helped me bring Michael's poetry book to life. I cannot mention all of you here, but you have my gratitude and sincere thanks in the Acknowledgements section in the book. If you are a representative of the media, please click here for the press release. Postcards From Beyond Reality: The Selected Poems of Michael Daniels and I are available for reviews, book tours, interviews. BJ Subscribe to my mailing list. Follow me on Twitter. Original post at https://www.bernardjan.com/post/postcards-from-beyond-reality-paperback-and-launch-days
Today is a Brand New day as I will soon become class president elect and I hope that I start my day off right with a nice healthy breakfast all the time