As the last page is turned on The Sacrificing Mother, by S.M. Bjarnson

As the last page is written on 

The Sacrificing Mother

S.M. Bjarnson

As I sum up my first actual Novel, not novella, The Sacrificing Mother, I am almost at a loss. All my words have been spoken and yet there is more to be said about this journey, about this experience to the readers of young adult novels. 

One day, I remind myself, yesterday neglected to falter and tomorrow you shall rise again! One day I tell myself there will be plenty of days when one cannot concoct happiness into the pages she/he has written. One day I confirm there are plenty more just like this one coming my way. Wouldn't I engage to say that I would suffer this writer's depression of those many days for the decades of success that await me? I plead with myself I need this victory this win I have to claim as mine.

With every word flowing out as a chaotic struggle to sound a bit above water, yet remaining under the brink of solitude. IT bites at you and swiftly there is a quiet comforting voice in the background whispering to you that tomorrow is another day and you will survive this one so you may endure and enjoy the next one. I let myself know you have become strong. Your weakness only make you exceed limits only you are aware of. There is a beauty in this battle. A welcoming tone as the chime of the fight begins, you are startled at first wondered where this potential victim came from, you are your opponent.

You close your timid eyes wondering how quickly it will be to take down that which is yourself, inevitably. Your stance in position for a fair fistful. Were you obligated to take over this mortal enemy? Was it possible to merely avoid the situation and forfeit the war that raged among the heart and mind? Were you wise in your steps that you could so carelessly shake hands and let that be it?

Did you take certain precautions that would allow you to have a pass here?

Welcome to the Writer's Realm, fight for your life, or rather your words!

Consisting of structures you wrote and once loved silhouettes of images you portrayed, betraying you at every inch. Bandages bleeding from the coursing in my veins I was a viper stinging in my own thoughts. Poisoning the very thoughts that caused such a perfectionist writer.

My vision of stories blank as blackboards. The wisdom of my elders vanished as I took my first blow. Where were the faults I tried to correct? I wanted to search in depth for the wise words I once lost.

There were mentions of talents long forgotten.

The talent in which one grew like a plant that you watered and fed daily of light and literature. I confessed to having that very plant grow inside me once and now it had sprouted and took over the very being I called home. I commenced the silence. It tries to steal the very soul I live in.

I followed in my own footsteps and alas won out among the blood and tears of the fore comings. My bravery was a mighty win. My courage rang clear as my words were set free. My mind finally at ease. My world at a calm humble peace.

I stood on the podium, the day had finished with a stream of cruelly words.

I was victorious.

Sneak Peek 11: The Circus in Me, S.M. Bjarnson

“My name and place are of no concern to you or the board members, you suppose I should confess my wills too. I am pure in thought and mind. My reputation or report does not fall into your hands. I send all undignified claims to God. You sir, my brother, elder, Ashlee’s padre, claim whatever name fits you best. Are in dire need of editing your remarks on the obligation others have to confide in you, for we are both made from His Divinity.”“No need to raise your tone, young lady. Do realize though physically we are made from similar materials, in spirit quite the opposite of ingredients. I will always float higher.”“You're confessing to me that I am below you as a human? Because you stand behind a desk and have Bishop in front of a calling? Does that make sense? Orate to me that I am lesser in God’s eyes because of a position?” Stricken with benevolent words, all of us equals.“Who are you to question Him?” Standing abruptly slamming down the mug of warm water.“Who are you not to question?” My spoken word soft and confident.

-S.M. BJARNSON

(Today is also my birthday! I wish I was in Las Vegas!) Yay :)  

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sneak Peek 10: The Circus in Me, S.M. Bjarnson

His smile was quiet. Stare struck into my blue eyes. Something he saw every day and somehow he was seeing it now; guilt.
“Unless Jazz is bad too, then none of that whatsoever.” Gladly giving into odd ideas of my strange personality.
“Miss Livingston, there is an Honor Code set in place at BYU. Every student abides by the rules.” In my hands he placed another copy of the guidelines I abided.
“I embrace that you have proof of these actions Mr. Branch President?” Eager to understand what proof was evidence enough to lead me to his office. I glance down at his last name, Bleu. Calculations being precise. All facts and folklore coming into perfect harmony.
“Did your daughter make these complaints contrary to me? She is my roommate.” He gleams acceptance of the things I profess.“Such a beautiful name Tracey Aliza. You should go by that instead of this Trae Lae business.” What an awful name; Tracey Aliza. I was one of many. Born into the prototype of human beings.“I do follow the rules.” In his hands I laid the copy back. I had done nothing wrong, I corrected.“My daughter’s middle name is Tracey.” Ignoring absolute honesty.“Is she the 4^th or 5^th child in the line of kin? I am the 2^nd in my generation. I will tell you this because obviously you don’t understand the meaning of names.” My gut bulging with pride and power. His vision changed. More nervous than wearing a skirt four inches above knee length.
 “I am named Tracey because in a male dominate society, who think little of the female race, it deemed inevitable to confirm my father wanted a 2^nd son.” His silence spoke for itself. Ruled by souls and soldiers of generational men he acted as the rest did. I feared my gumption. 

S.M. BJARNSON

Beliefs or Barriers? - S.M. Bjarnson

Beliefs or Barriers?

S.M. Bjarnson 

As writer, bloggers, authors, readers, all of the above, we have restrictions on our minds we may not even realize. Our belief system put into place at a very young age brought up to believe and orientate one certain function or way. I have read many books, books that lie, cheat, steal, kill, swear, sweat, you know real life story books. It seems highly unnecessary to grant the submission of banning a book when the great writers of today were moved if not inspired by these works of literature. 

Rowell was, according to her blog, absolutely devastated by this treatment. She wrote “When these people call Eleanor & Park an obscene story, I feel like they’re saying that rising above your situation isn’t possible. That if you grow up in an ugly situation, your story isn’t even fit for good people’s ears. That ugly things cancel out everything beautiful.” 

Not necessarily a negative aspect, but also may not be a positive one. You limit yourself to read things because you are advised not too! Just so you know this may get a little philosophical so beware! I recently saw a picture of books that have now since been banned from libraries and school media centers, why, because they have to far out ideas. I mean we grew up with these books people! Winnie the pooh-My all time favorite as a kid. Was taken away from young readers minds because talking animals offend God. By the way I have found a perfect explain of the list of banned books! Here on this website! http://www.pajiba.com/station_agents/30-banned-and-challenged-kids-books-that-will-make-you-feel-terrible-about-humanity.php#.U3EeJPldUZw

Also on this undermined list of books, there is the historical, if not educational autobiography by none other than Anne Franks. Anne Frank: The Diary Of A Girl: This year (THIS YEAR) in New Hampshire, the Holocaust classic was challenged in Michigan for the following reasons: “It’s pretty graphic, and it’s pretty pornographic for seventh-grade boys and girls to be reading. It’s inappropriate for a teacher to be giving this material out to the kids when its really the parents’ job to give the students this information.” Though the book wasn’t banned in Michigan, it was briefly banned in Virginia in, wait for it, 2010. 

I just would like to ask one question about this and I will move right along to other charades of enterprise; are we idiots? Let's talk about this Anne Frank was a key role in one of the biggest monumental times, for her diary we are engulfed in the Holocaust. If it were not for her being there and writing those journal entries we would have veered off into someone else words, maybe not the right words. I am saying is that she was alive and her book was published for a reason, to teach us if not educate us. 

The Giving Tree: Because the tree is overly compliant and, yes, giving and the boy is demanding and selfish this book has been called sexist. 

Tell me are we that bored with reality we have to ruin the childhood of young adults everywhere to prove some mythical point of beliefs brand new. You can not please everyone, but I wonder, if these people ever get tired of themselves, these individuals that fight everyone on every little detail. 

What is a world we are not able to read freely? What is a planet without books? Our imaginations dried and starving for literature. What makes others think they can choose and pick the ideas we want to believe in or expose ourselves too?

His Dark Materials: Much like Harry Potter, the objection here is a religious one. Though I strongly disagree with the complaint, it is, in this instance, far more justified. Phillip Pullman’s beautiful trilogy does, yes yes, involve some kids on a mission to kill God (aka The Authority). So I can see how that might make some parents look askance. Though Pullman is vocally, frankly anti-organized religion, I don’t think he’s anti-faith. He’s said: “[I]n my view, belief in God seems to be a very good excuse, on the part of those who claim to believe, for doing many wicked things that they wouldn’t feel justified in doing without such a belief.”

Tell me are we fools?

Harriet The Spy: This book was challenged in the 1980s in Ohio for teaching “children to lie, spy, back-talk and curse.”

 Are they our beliefs 

or are they barriers? 

All quotes on books banning are from this blog: http://www.pajiba.com/station_agents/30-banned-and-challenged-kids-books-that-will-make-you-feel-terrible-about-humanity.php#.U3EeJPldUZw

Photo Credit: http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http%3A%2F%2Foakconsult.co.uk%2Fwp%2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2F2012%2F11%2Fmind-barriers.jpg&imgrefurl=http%3A%2F%2Foakconsult.co.uk%2Fwhy-not-or-why-not-removing-personal-barriers-to-success%2F&h=350&w=318&tbnid=F7-iogPRdLvDdM%3A&zoom=1&docid=oqCjGPoq8WsL-M&ei=dxxxU5fCCYL3oASajoDwAQ&tbm=isch&ved=0CIsBEDMoLjAu&iact=rc&uact=3&dur=481&page=2&start=30&ndsp=35

Different Courses to Maneuver, By S.M. Bjarnson

I'm so filthy tired, but I'll write the words on the page anyway.

Spoken here, uttered there.

You heard the words, I talked the rhythms.

We had different paths to cross, different journeys to overcome.

That's how we got here, it’s how you got to me and I got to you.

Feeling each other’s breaths we eat away the nervous flutter in the bellies of our minds.

Biting our lips for the temptations of lure to come to life.

It's what you want, what they bring?

Holding hands, coursing through the veins of time, we are all what we are meant to be.

Aren't we, to see that?

You want to run to the shore, search through all the old memories of places and times.

I'm gonna rush into the open waves, disappear into the empty swirls of yesterday.

All I want to do is swim into the horizon.

After all it was just one night, just one time.

It's all we ever were most of time, most of the day.

Nothing, but moments clashed together by the untangling air.

A goodbye look in your eyes, a quick see ya later kiss to the cheek, we both scattered in different ways.

Never to be caught again, in each other’s nets of time and whispering moments.

-S.M. Bjarnson

Photo Credit: Phone App Background Settings

Sneak Peek 9: The Circus in Me, S.M. Bjarnson

Ashlee set me up! I know she did! Was all I could think as I entered that office. Called in to meet with who declared leadership. Titles called to him as the Bishop or in this very case Branch President.
Escorted into the square office.
“Tracey Aliza it’s come to my attention that you’ve been having inappropriate relations with a fellow male student.” He waited for my response. As if there was a sign on his forehead that read please confess weaknesses and every imperfection.“Excuse me sir?” Confused is this how it works? Were we supposed to confess everything bad ever thought?
“There have been rumors.” His knuckles white crisscrossed over one another.
“Rumors? Sir?” Baffled as I was, I began to understand that it was not tolerated to have relations with the opposite sex. True to my nation, I understood this was just like the rules I’d grown to know.“Speculations you are acting unworthy, my dear.” I am most certain I have never been anyone’s so called dear. Let alone a man I have just made as an acquaintance.“Speculations? I assume following up on gossip? Are those corrections in order?” A rough patch growing in my throat.
“Gossip. We do not listen to such tall tales. Here on provable facts here.” Soon I would find out what sin I would plead forgiveness.
“I assure you sir, I am not involved with any male figures. I know not to speak to the boy students and all that Jazz.” My hands began to shake. I slapped them together tucking between the kneecaps. 

S.M. BJARNSON

WHAT DOES A GREAT LIFE LOOK LIKE? -S.M. Bjarnson

I have this book! Right there! In this book holds key components of motivation, technical lessons of life we all should remember! So today for the Wednesday Wisdom I am going to share with you a very important message this book explains or rather elaborates in all ways possible to each and every individual in a particular way! :) enjoy!

WHAT DOES  A GREAT LIFE LOOK LIKE?

"Ask a hundred people what a great life looks like and you'll probably get a hundred different answers-but certain answers will always make everyone's list. Most people would agree, for example, that a great life includes something worth living for, maybe even worth dying for. A portion of a great life would be devoted to something bigger, greater, grander, than yourself. Something that inspires you, energizes you, pulls you forward. Something that responds to your unique talent or touch and, ultimately, makes a difference in the world around you. A great life, of course, is not something we experience, it's something we create. That's what this book is all about." - A section from above book!

So what makes a life worth living? Is it the satisfaction of a job well done, money, laughter? Everyday we are experienced with challenges and trials that try very hard to bring down that goal of having a great life. How do we persevere? What makes us push through all the negative all the bad and betrayals for that light at the end of the tunnel? Is it the glory at the end that inspires you to be determined and monitor what negativity you allow to dwell on your homestead? Can you be a gladiator and motivate yourself beyond words and exercise them into actions? Find it in yourself to look upon a brighter day, ask yourself what do you think a great life looks like? :) To me all things are possible and I realize when the lessons are learned you move quickly along to the next chapter or reward. -S.M. Bjarnson

 http://www.amazon.com/Many-People-Does-Take-Difference/dp/1932319727/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1399501887&sr=8-1&keywords=one+dan+zadra

Sneak Peek: The Tangled Tears 2nd Edition S.M. Bjarnson

Voices lingering around town. The school halted scheduled hours. Everyone in disarray, no one safe from being taken. If Winter was the first, who would be the next? If bad things came in threes, shouldn't I have been the first to make the sequence complete?

She was classical. I was more modern pop. I replayed the lyrics to my favorite song expiration for the beauty. Honest to only wanting to follow her spirit into the absence of light. Picking through dresses as many as I collected shorts. Her make up in perfect order, obtuse to the chaos lived inside my room.

My father figure gave disgrace on my absolute questions on morality and chances of survival. He looked not down upon me, but beyond. Through the vanishing wisdom I so eagerly earned. For everyday was a chance to teach and learn about the alphabet of the livelihood, she escaped from.

S.M. Bjarnson

Slippery Rooftops, by S.M. Bjarnson

The rain was misty, the rooftop was a clean white, puddles of raindrops covered the ground which I stood on.

The most amazing magical feeling becomes embedded into your heart.

A feeling of wholeness.

I stumbled towards the edge, the surroundings of the top of the building.

I stared downward at the cemented ground.

I slipped my molly Mormon purple white flowered shoes off, stepped on the wet blocked wall.

I glimpsed above me the sun was shining as the raindrops trickled down my face, I smiled.

Turned and faced the door and fell back into the air and clouds.

If I could be anything I would be the rain.

I laid down on the wet grass, as the hail beat upon my dampened rained on clothes.

The raindrops on my face became tears trickling down my face and for the first time I felt I should cry and it would be okay.

Cold and wet my body laid in confusion and sadness.

Rain came down in bullets/pellets.

I felt clean and new.

My skin became frozen cold.

Time ran out to many times before.

 S.M. Bjarnson

Whispers of the Wall, by S.M. Bjarnson

They heard my cries, but did they whisper to one another about my pains, my belonged sorrows of fear. There I stood upon which I would call shivering waves of tempting tides of love and hate; both exotic and fundamentally underdeveloped to the extent they can become. Much is known about the things I wish to share with you; here I am lying in a bed of memories.

The only ones I have of you.

I pull fragments of each second I got to spend with you, the touches underneath each breath I was able to take around you. The one that always seems to live on inside my darkest corner, the way you didn’t kiss me or thrill the premonition I had always wished for, between me and you.

Bloody mirrors, paint the way of what honestly could have been, definitely still could be. I fear, as many times before me in making a choice. To taking that chance, here I will live with you, always in an infatuating romance of love and desire.

Those are things you always wish for, times you go back to.

Recalling memories you always wish to step through and become again. Relive the fantasy of living in such a moment of you and I. If I cover my eyes will you become the person I have longed for and so desired? Will we speak of unending times of running away to once lived romance, to somewhere alive inside of us?

Blindness covers me and still you make me keel over in a torture pain in my gut, I have to see you. The rush of what could be secretly wants me to let it take over, devour every good intention I ever existed in. But, it would never work. Things such as fantasy never seem too, so I’ll live out my last desires with you, upon this wrinkled page of thoughts and somewhat begot feelings; I once loved to reminisce in.

Now I am searching for a destiny, a reality that I don’t have to keep putting in quarters in the slot machine to live over, again, and again. You’d be there right alongside of each nightmare, holding my touch with such fragrant fiction that you would kiss away any pain I had in me, I loved you, then and there in the twilight of my dreams. You were always there in the back of my pocket, waiting to become reacquainted with my imagination.

I will take you anywhere you want, my dreams are fading and suddenly I want more out of you, the more I had not really ever gotten the chance to be a part of. Looking back upon everything I had, everything I wanted to have with you, with myself, I am sick with envy. Most of us, wishing to live as we did, in the moment of times we can remember.

I wish for, I live everyday to be that way. Living in each memory as if I will remember them all, because they are all that elastically brilliant to you, to me.

Truly that is really the only place you have ever really, breathed a free atmosphere, inside of my own free atmosphere, in the world of imagination. Creative spurts of happiness overflow to your part of the haven I have given up to you.

My time spent fantasizing about what could-be, I want to touch basis with hormones, undiscovered.

In the end, we are just like that a faded memory made up into a story created by a lust, or desire I am not being fulfilled by, an hour of your time and here I stand oblivious to reality. Maybe, I never wanted it to be true.  Dreaming on an open dream. Wish, a little?

S.M. Bjarnson

Acephalous, by S.M. Bjarnson

The rain never seized that day. The rain pitter pattered long beyond what anyone thought was possible for rain in this drought, I searched for answers as well as much of words as I possibly could. The fact was it wasn't the rain we feared so much but the after fact of it all.

He woke in the sudden of the night, my son. Turning in circles in his little boy mind, searching for the answers no one seemed to give to us. But, there he was scouring the neighborhood and the outskirts of remote wire fencing, to let us know.

You would turn a corner and you would turn right back around, there was no place for you if the found out about you. He awoke in a stutter of words and fears, communications of his kind were unbearable to most folk around these parts. We are salvaged beings commanding retribution to the commander who pities us senseless where we had gone before.

Chances are they weren't looking for us, chances are they were looking beyond us, for what we couldn't possibly bear. A new frontier that was already linked to us, in a way we were the way, but possibly more in the line of direct connections.

I went searching for him, I rounded every corner if I would see him, knowing he would not be there. Frustration broke out, to panicked fear and an ongoing curriculum of doubt ran throughout my blood stream, at last I had spotted his hide away, in plain sight he stood, watching the beckoning war outside our own door front. He was calm letting me pick him up and chase away with him to a safety. Running home, flagrant bombs exploding around us, whose war was this again? No sound, but silent movie subtitles saying we are almost surviving.

I held him so close and dear, his eyes wide open to all the explosions, he never once began to blink or tear down his barriers.

We did have men on the inside, trying to detour all the bullets and ammo aimed our way, they were ombudsman, but the most good any of them had done was prolong the enchantment, they had not lasted long. Hung upside down by their feet in sycamore trees. Ornaments, of betrayal.

They had come. Bursting through our doors, rampaging through our loose luggage. Animals, deviating by the storm. Taking the women, using them for their games, we were all recusant beings. His little bed, train tracks circled around it, books standing upright in all directions, I wanted so badly to lay him down to quiet my own fears of the night. But, we were boxed in; a small kitchen punctured 45 women and their babies to the white ceramic counter tops and floors. Who knows where the men had gone. Who knows if there were any left, anymore?

We shuffled and bustled every which comfortable way we could afford too, Thomas Coy in my arms and I felt alone. I sat him down, he stood on my toes in front of me, and I couldn't help but to notice that none of these bodies around me were any I knew, were any I had ever known. I was trapped in a crowded room, my son and I were alone in, he knew the very same. We were the last ones to be pushed outside in a line, fire barrels burning bright around our corridor, and then he spoke to us. He called us by name in which we responded with lacuna eyes. The words were a heavy tone we once knew as children, he smiled and laughed engulfing our fear, along with our rage.

His words somersaulted over each other as if it were a big charade. We were all going to die today.

The dream came to me in the middle of the night, halting all relief for an escape.

He ran from as children do. Like it was some sort of hide and seek game.

Towers and barriers running in a maze we were all wondering where to go.

He led the way and I played follow the young leader. I was fearful, even mortified if I lost this begotten son of mine.

He saw no danger or death in his path, body after body they carried them away. His sight clear of all misfortune, his mind at ease from all troubling ailments ahead. It would be quite a while until I could tell him about the visions I began to have the night before the invasion. One day he will ask if I knew and it will require me to answer yes.

He ran too fast in the dream, he was gone out of sight. He glanced back merely waving to me to hurry along, but I could not and arrived in a vacant field with no one in sight.

He is gone my young son.

Has he disappeared? Has he been taken by another? Or did I make his life a secret?

There is a belief that we have changed. That somewhere down the winding road we are capable of redirecting a new path for mankind.

 If that is to be accurate and true, why are we all suffering and damned?

Was it yours or mine own fault?

Did we cease to make a big enough impression on our thought patterns to change the outcome from yet another disaster?

There will be a time I am reminded when he will choose to come back to me, to see his mother as I truly am.

To a time much better than this one is. To a world that is created far more mature than we may ever understand.

Until then I shall wait and watch as the sailors and soldiers tied to the bottoms of boats; drowning in such misery and despair they forget, no they convince themselves otherwise they indeed are dying from a natural substance; chaos. 

S.M. Bjarnson

Shifting Your Belief - S.M. Bjarnson

"Simply changing your belief can shift your internal conversation from thinking of your dream as impossible to seeing it's possibilities." -Unknown

I am greatly inspired today! Hopefully I can get April's blogging chaos out of the way and am determined to edit at least to page 120 in The Circus in Me. Definite hard work, struggling with characters and all that melancholy drama. So here is a quote I found along with other clever spurts of wisdom as I missed out on Wednesday! :) SO there you go!

S.M. Bjarnson

"If you can guess what is in my pocket you can have it." -S.M. Bjarnson

                “If you can guess what I have in my pocket, you can have it?” The pocket was as empty as the old man’s soul.

“This is a childish game, papa. Can you just simply give me the items you so secretly hide in your trousers?” The young lady folded her arms neatly behind her back.

“Now child, where would you find your sense of adventure, your sense of prideful imagination if there wasn't a guess to be given?” Twiddling his fingers about, he struck no key or compass.

“Is it a key to my new flat? You've promised me something grand, shall that be the answer you are searching for?” Sweet as her smile was, grandfather new all too well where it had gotten her, and most days he underfed the idea of where it had gotten him.

“Surely, nonsense if you suppose there is a building hiding in these old slacks.” They shared a controversial laugh; the park had become vacant.

The morning was all they took together. This man and his granddaughter, stole their morning bread and ate it by the rivers bend. Sunlight streaming beneath the open branches of the sycamore trees. Thievery was a sport. Entitled to quite more than any necessary needs, they were shoplifting for the thrill. His age was solemnly deteriorating. Her beautiful young age was blossoming like a lotus in spring, awing.

Lessons and teachings were performed and then vastly inadequate. The young woman’s intelligence came not from the text in books, rather the predicament of precarious occasions. The grandfather her supposed protector suspected his last breaths early on.

Huffing her breath in the cool of the crisp air. She shuffled her boots about, making squeaks in all the curves. There were rumors, she was a part of that he had been involved with. Both ending their social status lives.

“A sweet or two. The moon. The stars, the secrets to the universe, all of the above?” Reaching over to caress his rosy cheek, a quiet chill had come over him.

“Papa?” His cheek frigid with embarrassment.

“My darling, continue with your speculations please.” The vibrations rang out upon the paved pathway. He heard her began to hum a tune he knew all too well. It gravitated toward him, aching in his bones.

“A marble? A jewel, a ring of sorts? Is it my inheritance early on?” This girl used to be a child once, he thought. He saw her skipping in his memories in her tights and dress’.

“Part of it, maybe.” Visions became blurry. Hearts began to slow, one day they would all stop.

“The family business? Your lake house?” Her guesses began to weigh on him as he looked around at all he was leaving behind.

Were they the things he had worked so hard for, for so long for? Were they inevitably worth his family’s lives, especially that life of his only granddaughter? Questions hung around his head like a noose being dangled in front of his exhausted eyes.

Whisking away the static in her hair, she knelt down at his knee. Standing by his side when all others chose to flee. Her palm open to his honesty. His heart open to the mercy she provided.

Guilt swallowed the man whole, and he gladly let it gobble his being. Crumbs of bellowing hope long washed away. Characters of influential all bashing your truly good name. No longer his name, he realized it was now hers and he had squandered it in vain. Times were rough, no excuses had been made. The knowledge of the crimes committed were cast away. Far from recollection, far from someone’s paperwork, the secrets were deep in now some Joe’s swimming hole. 

He fumbled with his large fists exiting the pouches. Letting one hand fall open he began to speak.

“An apology.” The wrinkles lining every accountability of his mournful life. “An apology is in my pocket. I have been holding it in that cloth outlet for quite some time, for a number of years. It is now my gift I wish to give you, my one ultimate gift. It is for you. I have given you many things, a wealthy life and a bothersome existence.” His voice began to grovel. His hands began to shake.

“So, I am sorry.” The fists were laid open, unwilling to take back the present he had exposed.

S.M. Bjarnson

Circus in Me: Sneak Peek 4

She was taken back beneath excitement to something of gleam or gallant. They gravitated toward her, wanting to accept her, partake of her journey. She shivered in her conforming seat, contemplating these lifestyles almost in a judging manner but not quite.

Her hand was never raised in disapproving motions. She merely volunteered to be a rescue. As you would a lost dog, a homeless cat or any other pathetic animal you couldn’t help find but adorable.

They like her, they pulled at her. Bringing her into an embrace she had never experienced. Doc, the ringmaster placed a comforting hand on her shoulder welcoming her into his family of misunderstood individuals. He lead her down the line of performers. First the Bearded Lady, Mona, then Doc the manager and caretaker of the animals, Katarina, the tattooed beauty. The triplet acrobats near her age eyeing her shape and figure. She walked amongst these odd individuals; her fear unbearable now. She came to the conclusion she must shout out for some sort of help, but what kind of assistance was she asking for? A departure? A rescue from these odd fools, who she seemed to belong too, or maybe just maybe a helping hand. The mystic, Arunia, smiled at her as she lent an open hand, her voice was simple, but pretty. She hushed Trae Lai’s fears; she was home.

S.M. Bjarnson 

Tim Ferriss: On The Creative Process and Getting Your Work Noticed

Books

Tim Ferriss: On The Creative Process And Getting Your Work Noticed

by Ariston Anderson

It’s not an easy feat to stay on the New York TimesBestsellers List for four-and-a-half years straight, but Tim Ferriss is used to pushing limits.In 2007, Ferriss transformed the world of book marketing with a grassroots campaign that gave his first book, The 4-Hour Work Week, mass appeal — all while detailing his adventures as a champion kickboxer, world record holder, entrepreneur, and more.

But there was one mountain that Ferriss still hadn’t climbed: how to find his way around a kitchen. The author couldn’t tell his basil from his parsley when he began writing his latest book, The 4-Hour Chef: The Simple Path to Cooking Like a Pro, Learning Anything, and Living the Good Life.  But in typical Ferriss fashion, he traversed the globe interviewing top chefs. In the process he found a new model for efficient learning: pinpointing the best, copying their craft, and skipping all the unnecessary filler lessons that most courses begin with.

Your first book was about escaping the workaholic lifestyle to “find your muse.” Do you think it’s better making a living doing what you love, or to make a living that allows you to spend time doing what you love?

If you wake up on Saturday morning and go surfing to decompress for the week, that is different from having to wake up at six every morning Monday to Friday and take investment bankers out to surf. One is elective and one is mandatory.  Adults and three-years-olds are very similar, in that as soon as we have to do something, we start to resent it.

For instance with me, I don’t like to do a lot of speaking engagements like a lot of authors do. I just find it really boring.  I now only do two types: it’s either top price or free. If you realize that income is intended to ultimately improve your quality of life in some fashion, then it makes it easier to forgo some the fleeting, high-maintenance opportunities.

Adults and three-years-olds are very similar, in that as soon as we have to do something, we start to resent it.

How much real world experience do you need before you kind of go off on your own and create your own lifestyle?

I don’t think you need any real world experience. It’s a question of whether you want to learn the trial and error lessons on someone else’s dime or on your own dime. If you get used to a cushy corporate job and automatic money, it’s pretty tough to say: “I have to sell the car and get a smaller apartment because I’m going off on my own.”

How would you describe your writing process?

I do my best writing between 10 p.m. and 5 a.m.. Almost every friend I have who is a consistently productive writer, does their best writing between 10 p.m. and 8 a.m. My quota is two crappy pages per day. I keep it really low so I’m not so intimidated that I never get started. I will do the gathering of interviews and research throughout the day. I’ll get all my notes and materials together and then I’ll do the synthesis between 10 p.m. to bed, which is usually 4 or 5 a.m.

I will have a station on Pandora, and I will put a movie on and mute it in the background so I don’t feel like I’m in isolation. Then I jam. It takes me an hour and a half to get my brain into the flow of doing anything writing related. So once I’m in that flow, I will bleed the stone for as long as I can. If things are going well, I’m not going to stop until I nose dive. But if it goes for an hour-and-a-half and it’s like pulling teeth, then it might be time to go to bed.

My quota is two crappy pages per day.

It’s easy to say “don’t read a million blogs, don’t do this don’t do that” but it’s often really difficult to shut off and focus. What have you found that actually works?

Use RescueTime and trial it for a week, and try a low-information diet. Get a really cheap laptop that doesn’t have Internet connectivity and do as much work on that as possible. As odd as it sounds, go back to pen and paper. Because once you’re on the computer and distraction is a click away, you’re just like a rat with a cocaine dispenser. You’re going to get toasted.

You’re known for your grassroots marketing style. Do artists today have a responsibility to market themselves?

It’s 100% their responsibility. If you want to be a tremendous artist, and then expect people to beat a path to your door, you can try that. The fact of the matter is, it’s not going to happen unless you meet someone who makes that happen.

So you can make it accidental or you can grease the wheels of the universe and try to encourage those things to happen. In that case, guess what? You’re marketing. When people think marketing, they think of a cheesy sales guy. Marketing is knowing exactly who your customers are, and trying to get your product, your art to them. If you are creating art for yourself, well great, go live in a cave and do it. But if you’re doing it commercially and you have bills to pay, it’s not selling out to get your work to the people who most appreciate it.

http://99u.com/articles/7252/tim-ferriss-on-the-creative-process-and-getting-your-work-noticed#comments 

Quote it! Fear

If you didn't know fear, 

would it exist? 

Think about it.

Inspiring Quotes for us Writers!

"Believe in yourself and in your own voice, because there will be
times in this business when you will be the only one who does. Take
heart from the knowledge that an author with a strong voice will
often have trouble at the start of his or her career because strong,
distinctive voices sometimes make editors nervous. But in the end,
only the strong survive."

- Jayne Ann Krentz

"I've got a folder full of rejection slips that I keep. Know why? Because those same editors are now calling my agent hoping I'll write a book or novella for them. Things change. A rejection slip today might mean a frantic call to your agent in six months."

- MaryJanice Davidson 

 "If you've FINISHED writing a novel you are amongst the elite!!! You ARE NOT A FAILURE IF YOU CANNOT LIVE OFF YOUR BOOKS. You only fail by NOT TRYING."

- Nadia Cornier

"This is for writers yet to be published who think the uphill climb will never end. Keep believing. This is also for published writers grown jaded by the process. Remember how lucky you are."

- Terry Brooks

"You must keep sending work out; you must never let a manuscript do nothing but eat its head off in a drawer. You send that work out again and again, while you're working on another one. If you have talent, you will receive some measure of success - but only if you persist."

- Isaac Asimov

"Dig until you hit rock. Then take out that jackhammer and go a little deeper."

- Allison Brennan

"The heights by great men reached and kept were not obtained by sudden flight. But they, while their companions slept, were toiling upward in the night."

- Thomas S. Monson

"It's never too late to be what you might have been."

- George Eliot

“If you are hungry, you should eat. If there is a hunger
in your soul, you must dream.

- unknown

http://www.writeattitude.net/quotes.php