Weight first.
I had been mulling over the idea that if I continue to put bad stuff into my body that I am drawing myself one day closer to my death. Well every day that I live I am moving closer to my death, but the death will come quicker if my body gives out sooner that it normally would. If I was a drinker or smoker or take drugs, I would feel the same way. So I had been looking at that concept for a few days.
I decided to go on the strict diet again. I have succeeded for a few days, and feel comfortable, until today at work when I smell the fried food at the little restaurant across the street. They serve nothing but fried, greasy, hot dog, hamburgers, chili cheese fries, chicken sandwiches and breakfasts. They do not serve any kind of salads or good for you food. There is a corner store two blocks over that also serve fried greasy food. Neither place I can go to receive anything of value in the food department.
So when I smell that delicious fried food, I want so badly to go and get some. I am trying to be strong. I’ve eaten my favorite breakfast, strawberries, cottage cheese and half a bagel. But two hours later I am hungry again. (Pulling out the slices of oranges I brought from home now and munching on those. Maybe those will quench my taste for not eating that fried stuff.)
Writing Update:
In a prior posting I explained what happened at a creative writing class I attended. I was accused of using the class as a therapy group, which wasn’t true at all. I used the class to explore my writing. One person in the class who happened to be the friend of the editor who put the group on was indeed in therapy and at one point stated she spend some time in lockdown at a mental hospital.
I was using my work to help other young children who may be in or could be in the same situation that I was. The trauma was great when I was young and did considerable damage to me. If hearing my story can help other to see what is happening or could happen to them, then maybe it can be prevented.
I am talking about incest. Incest is insidious, it happens to both boys and girls. My story can stop the abuse for another. If they can know that they are not to blame and that they have control. Control by simply telling someone.
I have heard other people who have had tragedy in their lives write about there experiences and be rewarded for it. But for me when I try to help others, I get some stupid girl who is in therapy herself and thinks its cool to tell everyone she was in lockdown in a mental hospital for a week and on meds. (Shaking head here)
Can you understand why she would wrongly accuse me of using the writing group as a form of therapy? When in actuality I am using my writing to help others.
Even though the creative class turned out the way that it did, I choose to take the good that I got from it. The learning exercises, the friends that I met and still stay in contact with. The things in my writing that I need to work on.
Back to the writing group:
The good news is I found another creative writing group. The group is really a reading group, because we won’t be doing any kind of writing exercises, but reading our work and critique with discussion time.
The group is a fine group of writers; we belong to another group together but want to have the smaller group for further discussion. We gathered at a meeting room at the library and all went well until time ran out and we scrambled out before it closed at 9:00pm. Otherwise we would have been locked in for the evening. Then we all decided to further discuss our books at a local cafe. The cafe had a two man band playing really bad music, while we read the one persons work that we didn’t get to during the meeting, after a time the band went on break, and we did more discussion.
It was nice to find others who struggle with writing a book the same as me. There was one man there, his name is Ryan.
Before I tell you what happened I want to explain. Writers approach writing differently, some have ideas jot them down and then write what their ideas are and see if it can be put into a manuscript. Some writers write a word count each day and see if the plot forms out of it. Some writers write a plot then write as the plot develops. There are other ways to write, but the point I want to make is Ryan is a writer who writes a word count each day. So when we went to the cafe afterwards Ryan gave us copies to read during the bands loud noise and I gave only Ryan my first chapter, so he could have something to read.
After a while Ryan turns to me and starts picking apart my first chapter. Before I get into what Ryan asked me. I read what he wrote. It read as if it was a jumble of thoughts with no plot; I couldn’t distinguish anything about the hero, no name, age, what he looks like. I couldn’t even finish, but because others were reading I felt I needed to press on. But when Ryan started questioning my chapter; this line doesn’t make sense. This paragraph is kind of cheesy. I was shocked.
See, a first chapter is to introduce you to the characters, what they look like, a little bit of their motivations, and a little bit of a drama playing our to hook you into reading the story. The first chapter needs to have many mysteries and things to pique the interest of the reader and cause them to turn the next page.
When Ryan started to pump me for more information as to why this line read like this, I explained that I know the characters background, I know what he or she is thinking and feeling and to understand more he would need to read my book. He didn’t say much after that.
My book is completely plotted out from beginning to end. I don’t have endless rambling of nothing writing, leading nowhere. Ryan portrays himself as being an artist. (That last word said with a flourish.) But after reading his work, the first draft by the way, same as mine, which cannot be considered a finished product until it is revised many time and edited by a professional and looked over by an agent. So how can this man talk about my work like that? I really wanted to say something to him, but didn’t, because I didn’t want to squash him, or his work. (Anyway)
By the way the orange slices worked. I am not interested in the greasy food now. Whew!!!
So Share your own story here, grow with us and bond with other women. Hopefully my life will let you see that other lives are not any different than yours and that we are all connected. We can be a cohesive group support in times of struggle and need. Please feel free to comment and join the discussion.
Share, laugh, grow, cry, and bond with other women. Until next time.
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