My Bucket List

Yes, it's cliche by now, but those living social things on Facebook made me think about things I want to do/accomplish in my lifetime.



Number one is, of course, to get published. I think my current book, Mending Fences, has a shot. However, it needs a rewrite, which I will probably start on soon. sigh.



Number two, I have always wanted to dye my hair black, and think I will after next pay day. Trying to convince my husband it's just for fun and not to hide the gray has been a difficult task, but seriously, it's true. I've been wanting to do this since my late teens. I'm going to do it.



I would love to go back to Rome. I love Rome, everything about it. The history, the people, the food. I love that I can go to Rome and eat anything I want and not gain any weight because I walk everywhere. I love the fact that there is still a cheese shop that is seperate from the produce shop, seperate from the butcher.



I've always wanted to see Australia.



Meeting the friends I've made in ABNA. I mean for realsies, in the flesh. It's so hard to have these friends, some of the best friends I've ever had, and not be able to have coffee or lunch with them.

To excercise daily and get into the best shape of my life.

Most importantly, to leave my mark, be it as a writer, mother, friend. I want to be remembered, at least for awhile, as someone who made a difference, no matter how small that difference may be.

An excerpt from my novel Mending Fences.

There we stand, looking toward the sky, up to the grand tower above us. “You sure you want to do this?” Kaylee asks concerned.
“Uh, yeah, I think, I mean, yes, definitely,” I say looking up at the most frightening thing at the Puyallup Fair, The Extreme Scream, the ultimate experience in speed and height, the latter of which I’m terrified.
The line is long. It always is. This ride alone costs ten dollars, a small price to pay to face your greatest fear, get past it, move forward. Twenty stories high, thrusting at three g’s on the way up, negative one on the way down, this ride has haunted me for years. Friends have stood in this very line every year, teasing me, begging me to ride with them, me, always too scared to join them, not this year, not anymore.
Kaylee grabs my shaking hand and lays her head on my arm in comfort. My heart races, a result of both the anticipation of the ride, and Kaylee’s warmth beside me. She smells like cherry, not the real fruit cherry smell, but that processed cherry scent you find in shampoo, and lip balm, and Lifesavers. I’d like to kiss her lips right now and see if they taste like cherry too, but I’m so nervous already, the thought makes me want to throw up.
The line moves painstakingly slow, mocking me, challenging me, tempting me to give up, to leave. I refuse. I watch as the riders before me shoot up into the air, hair flying, screaming, and know I will be screaming like a girl as well when it’s my turn.
We finally arrive at the front of the line. I set my camera to video and ask a nice looking motherly type if she will film our ascent for me. She agrees. Kaylee and I then remove our shoes and put them in the proper receptacle, find two empty seats next to each other, and strap ourselves in. Kaylee grabs my hand again, encouraging me that I won’t die, right here, on the Extreme Scream. The ride attendants come by and check everyone’s harnesses, belts, and buckles to make sure they are secure. Like that’s going to help if my seat flies up and off the tracks, shoots into the air, out over the ride, and then plummets down onto the pavement beneath, killing me instantly. I try to push the thought out of my mind.
The countdown begins, Kaylee lets go of my hand and grabs on to her harness, I follow suit. I close my eyes, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in. We shoot up the tower at what feels like breakneck speed. I feel like a rag doll, dangling, with no control of my limbs. I’m screaming, flailing, I pray to God I don’t pee my pants. The ride stops as suddenly as it started, at the top of the tower. I open my eyes, take in the view of the fairgrounds below me, trying desperately not to have a panic attack. We’re jolted back down, my stomach drops, mouth goes dry. Up and down again, up and down, slowing with each phase, until we finally hit the ground. I’m finally able to breathe out again.
When my feet hit the ground I nearly collapse, Kaylee, and one of the attendants grab me, hold me up.
“You okay, man?” the attendant asks. He looks just like a fair attendant should, big, bald, missing some teeth. I’m sure if he were to bend over, he would expose some butt crack as well. He reeks of cigarettes and whiskey. A disconcerting thought for someone who has just put their life in his hands. The stench makes me nauseous. I run to a nearby garbage can and vomit, a horrible waste of cookies.
Kaylee looks at me and can’t help but laugh at my expense. I wipe my mouth and laugh with her.
“Is it everything you thought it would be?” she asks.
“And more,” I answer. “Let’s get lunch,” I offer.
“Lunch?” she chuckles, “You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m starved; I just lost my breakfast and cookies all in one shot.” She laughs again. I love making her laugh. Her dimples emerge, cheeks redden, eyes twinkle. Just a second of her laughter can get me through my darkest day. I grab my camera and we head toward the food court.

A bit of writing

Chapter One of an untitled dystopian novel set in the near future. Completely unedited as of yet, so keep that in mind. Just throwing it out there. You can tell me what you think if you want. I would call it rated PG-13 at the least. :)

Chapter One
“Come here girls, I’ll show you how to butcher a chicken,” the man said. A year ago, my children would have run away screaming at the thought. Now, it seems like a perfectly normal skill to learn.
“First thing is to cut the head off,” he says, using an ax and a tree stump to help in his task.
“Ew,” Lily, the younger of my two says at the sight of blood spurting from the neck and the chicken’s head falling to the ground. The man laughs at her revulsion.
He takes the chicken and hangs it by the feet on a fence post. “Next you want to cut the skin away. He proceeds to show the girls this new talent while they pretend to be eager to learn, in actuality hoping they will never have to perform this repulsive task.
I have known the man for approximately three months now, though I have yet to learn his name. He came to our rescue when The Scavengers came for my daughters. I couldn’t tell you what city we were in, but I know we had been there awhile, enjoying the new home we had come across with a well-stocked cupboard and swimming pool. It was always nice to find a house with a water source, be it a pool, a pond, or even a creek, water across the lands shut off for close to six months now.
Usually you hear them coming. They travel in packs of threes, honking horns, peeling out, screaming, raising a ruckus. They must have learned that stealth rather than intimidation makes for easier prey. We were sleeping, together, as we always do. I awoke to a filthy, hand smelling of a combination of nicotine, gasoline, and Vaseline covering my mouth. The girls screamed. The other two grabbed them and started hauling them off. I don’t know what they do to their prisoners, enslave them, rape them, eat them, but I was not going to let them take my girls without a fight.
I clamped down hard with my teeth; my assailant let out a howl and released his grip. I punched him in the balls, as he doubled over I used the palm of my hand to shove his nose into his brain as my husband had taught me ages ago. He collapsed, I don’t know if out of pain or death, but I was not going to stick around to find out. I grabbed my gun from the nightstand drawer, and ran outside.
The other two were almost to their vehicle with my girls, who continued to scream and struggle for liberation. I aimed my gun, but did not have a clear shot. One of them pulled out his own gun. I don’t know what kind, because I really know very little about firearms, having to teach myself to shoot. I just knew his was bigger than mine, and pointed at my head. I closed my eyes, awaiting the blast, praying to a God that I didn’t really believe in anymore, to let them kill my kids quickly. I refused to think of the alternative.
I heard the discharge and waited. I felt nothing. Perhaps there is a God after all. Another discharge. I opened my eyes. My children were running toward me, the two remaining Scavengers on the ground, tops of their heads missing, brains scattered everywhere. I scanned the area trying to locate our savior. He was climbing into a vehicle, a Hummer to be exact, about a block away. He pulled up right behind the Scavenger’s Jeep and began searching its contents, pulling out the things he found useful, loading them into the back of his car.
Wanting to express my thanks, I moved toward him, slowly. Although he saved us, I was still leery of his intentions. These days you can’t be too careful. I took a good look at him. He wore a plain green t-shirt, khaki cargo shorts, wool socks and hiking boots. He had a crazed countenance about him, hair a wild tangled mess, unshaven, dirty. He didn’t stop what he was doing. I practically had to run to keep up as I spoke. “I just wanted to thank you for that. I don’t know what would have happened to us had you not come along.”
He stopped, looked me in the eye. His eyes contradict his appearance. They’re soft, soulful, knowing, yet there are layers of pain and rage that lurk just beyond their deep blue beauty. They give away his age. At first glance I would have thought him ten to fifteen years older than myself, now I would say around the same age, if not a little younger.
He spoke, his voice firm yet understanding. “They would have raped and killed you, and because of the age and sex of your children, they would have used them as breeders.” I shuddered; he continued unpacking the Scavenger’s car, packing his own. I watched.
“Why wouldn’t they have taken me?”
He looked me up and down, and said, “You’re pushing too old to be a breeder, they only take men and boys to work, and you’re much too skinny and muscley to eat.”
“Why would they not want me for their queen,” I said smirking.
“Their queen!” he exclaimed, and then upon realizing I was joking gave a hearty laugh, causing his face to crack, making it seem like he hadn’t laughed in ages. There isn’t much to laugh at anymore.
He finished loading his car, hopped into the driver’s seat, started it up, and rolled the window down. “Bye,” he said, “Thanks for the laugh.”
“Wait, you’re just going to leave? You’re the first person aside from the Scavengers that we’ve seen in months. Let us come with you.”
“No,” he said simply.
I grabbed onto the side of his car and began to cry. “Please,” I said. I did my best, but my girls needed more protection than I could offer. And although I loved them dearly, I craved some adult companionship, someone to talk to about books, music, old movies, or how things were before the world ended. I wanted to hear his story, where he came from, where he’s going, who he’s run into, who he’s lost along the way.
“I’d take you, but the children are too much of a liability. The Scavengers would keep coming.”
“They’re strong; they’ve been through a lot. They know how to shoot a gun. Their dad taught them to fish, if you don’t mind baiting the hooks, they’re still a little squeamish of worms. My older daughter, Sarah, she tells great stories, very entertaining. And Lily, the younger one, she loves to sing, and has the voice of an angel. I’ll cook and clean for you. I’m strong too. I can gather and split wood, and garden, I’m a great gardener.”
He eyed me long and hard, up and down. I’m sure he was pondering what else I would be good for. It gets lonely out here. I can’t say the idea didn’t cross my mind either.
“Fine,” he said, shutting off the Hummer. “Let’s go get you packed.”

Dedication To My Mother

My mother is one of the most beautiful people in the world. Everyone says that, right? Yeah, but I'm serious. She's beat adversity and come a long way to become the person she is.

She was born in Oklahoma, the daughter of an unwed teenager, and though her mother told her who her father was, she was never sure, nor did she ever have a relationship with the man.

She grew up in an abusive household, mostly raising her three younger brothers. Four kids, three different fathers.

She married young, more than likely to escape, and ended up having to escape that as well, which I thank her for. For if she hadn't, she would not have met my dad. I do thank her though for the daughter she brought from that marriage, who I have never thought of as a half sister.

After divorcing, she still watched out for her brothers, raised her daughter, and worked hard to survive.

She met my father waiting tables at the New Yorker.

There are so many things about my mother that I love. I always loved her warm hugs. She was and still is a great consoler whenever I am physically or emotionally hurt. She has such a generous heart, she gives until there is nothing left, to whoever needs it. She is a great philanthropist, having always donated her time and money to charity.

So Happy Mother's Day Mom I hope that I have turned out to be half the mom you have proven to be.

To all the moms out there, have a joyous weekend, you deserve it. Motherhood, although one of the most rewarding, is of course, one of the most difficult jobs out there.

Defined by Writing

I'm getting a lot of fuel from some other blogs out there. Agent Nathan Bransford wrote a blog about how writers should not let themselves be defined by their writing.

Read it here

My friend Mary Walters comments

on her blog the Militant Writer

I want to share how important writing is to me.

I have been writing my whole life, poems, songs, short stories, mostly just for me. Even did a couple articles for the college paper and yearbook at my sister's urging. Never wrote a novel until I was thirty-three, in 2002.

From 1999 to 2002 I ran an in-home daycare. It was a lucrative business. I never had to advertise, all my business came from word of mouth. Living in a nice area, I had great families, and was able to charge fees that allowed me to earn a decent wage, and hire employees to improve my business.

Late in 2001 my mother-in-law was diagnosed with late stage cancer. My husband and I, not wanting her to go into a nursing home, closed the daycare and cared for her in our home with the help of hospice. This was March 2002. It was a full time job as not only did she need nurting and medication, but she also did not have the use of her tongue after her last stroke, so I was also in charge of tube feedings, along with Rusty's sister. I also stayed and talked with her (I talked, she wrote) and sang to her (her favorite was Eight Days a Week). She died 2 1/2 weeks later.

After arrangements had been made and the funeral was held, everyone went back to work and school and I was left alone and grieving, with nothing but time on my hands. That's when I began writing, to bide my time, to help me forget. What started out as a couple pages turned into a few, then many. Driven by mother-in-law and inspired by my children my first novel Dena Powers: Superhero? was born.

Does my writing define me? Not back then. I think the words mold and develop would be more appropriate, for I was just beginning to become the person I am now.

Today I am a writer. Am I now defined by my writing? I would say yes. For me, writing has always been very personal. I put every ounce of energy and emotion into it, so much that it drains me. Much of what I write is based on personal experiences, funny, desperate, tragic, joyous. This makes it very intimate, I could almost equate it to a love affair.

I think this is why so many of us take rejection so hard. We feel we've created something beautiful out of love and passion, and to have someone tell us "it's not good enough" is heartbreaking to say the least.

So for me, as trite as it may sound, writing IS like oxygen. It's something I need to get through, to survive. It's like love and therapy all wrapped up together. So, yes, since my writing comes from that deep, personal part of my being, it is defined by who I am, and I am in turn defined by it as well.