A story without a title is a child without a name…

Here’s my dilemma (well it’s not technically a dilemma because the literal definition of dilemma is having to make a decision between two [di!] or more choices…and well, just keep reading): I have a story that’s about a third of the way written, and it is still nameless. (see, not technically a dilemma because there are no options I have to choose between)—I digress.

The real reason I’m so worried about this is because I usually come up with names first and stories after. This is the first time I’ve ever had a story (plot, characters, the whole shabang) and no title.

I guess it’s really no big deal, but I’ve been writing this story for a while, and I just kept thinking (and still am thinking) “Well, eventually the title will just come to you.” …But here I am, 51 pages later and still up a story without a title. I’m not looking for suggestions (because that means I’d have to share my plotline—which still isn’t worked out completely—with you so you could help me find an appropriate title); I guess I’m on here to just vent about it. I guess…I guess…seems like the older you get the more life becomes guesswork. :)

I think I’m going to snuggle up in bed, and see if I can get a couple more pages out today.

There’s no place like home…

well there is—for me, at least. I pretty much grew up in Hawaii. Now, most people think white Christmas; I don’t—I think wet Christmas. Now, this is the part when there joins here. In Eastern Oregon we do not have an ocean, but i can tell you what we do have: rain. and i love it. I recognize rain. i remember rain. I think it’s because of the rain I feel like it’s still December—instead of practically February.

Don’t get me wrong; I like snow—it’s not my favorite (i mean after warm beaches who can say “nah, I prefer ice to this mess”?) but I still like it. I think I just prefer rain. It’s closer to familiar. Oregon is really starting to grow on me. It’s got its own kind of pretty. There have even been days when I’ve walked outside and said “It’s a really nice day today.” (And then my mom calls to complain about how hot Hawaii is…thanks, Mom) :P

The truth is, as much as I miss Hawaii, and as much as I miss the ocean,
I’m home wherever Jake is. :D

 

Here’s a shot of the pretty rain of Oregon that makes me feel so at home:

God comforts man through his dreams

Jake told me this the day we had to put Bigotes down. I told him that I had had dreams all the night before of all of us standing in a room, crying and saying good-bye. I had dismissed it as negative thinking—in retrospect, I think it was God trying to prepare me for what was to come.

Last night I had another dream. Somehow Bigotes had come back to us. (I’ve been dreaming about him a lot lately). In this dream, I was holding him, and crying. We were going though it all over again. We had to put him down, again. Except, this time he could talk to me. Well—communicate his thoughts. He assured me everything would be okay, and everything would work out. He told me not to worry. I asked him if he’d watch over me, and he promised he would. i felt him leave me physically and join me spiritually.

i know what some of you must be thinking: He’s a cat. It was a dream.

Yes, he was a cat. In his physical form here on earth, he was a cat. A long-hair domestic. Spiritually, he was always more of a lion. He had what one of my best friends would call “little [cat] syndrome” He believed he was a lot bigger than he was (and he was pretty big). Yes, it was a dream. But many prophets were communicated to in dreams—why not a common girl by her common cat? Jake and I aren’t having the easiest time with no money and no jobs. Needless to say, i’ve been worried about the whole situation, perhaps this dream is just God’s way of comforting me. He gave me that sweet cat to comfort me in life, why not allow his comfort to continue even after he has moved on? Whether it was God or it was—as Scrooge would say—“a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, [or] a fragment of an underdone potato,” the dream gave me comfort.

This picture—a surprise for me concocted by Jake and executed by his wonderful Grandma Hibbert—hangs over our bed. I really feel that he watches over me. He’s my little guardian angel…with paws :)

“And I just played ‘til my fingers bled”

That’s what all the greats say. “One day I picked up the guitar, and I loved it so much I just played until my fingers bled.” We all want to be one of the greats. Recently I’ve discovered why I’m not. Let’s put it this way, my fingers aren’t bleeding but they are incredibly sore…so sore that they can’t push my steel strings down and if I kept playing it would sound awful. I love my guitar. It’s a Big Baby Taylor that I got from a boyfriend who got it from an uncle who got it for $20 at a yard sale. (the boyfriend was musically-inept; so he gave it to me. There aren’t many things that I kept after we broke up, but boyfriend or not that guitar has become my friend). She’s been with me through a lot. And we’ve sung our hearts out (she has a much better voice than I do).

I want to play til my fingers bleed, until i can’t feel them anymore, until i become so good Hendrix will recommend me, but let’s face it. My range is poor and my attention is short. I know i’ll play guitar until my dying day, but I’m also pretty confident it won’t ever be on a stage with Taylor Swift or Bruce Springsteen (or both), or even on a stage in a lonely bar with only a barmaid listening. and i’m ok with that (mostly). when i was a kid, i dreamed of becoming a professional singer. I wanted to stand on a stage in front of thousands of people and sing the songs that came from my heart, but the truth is i don’t think people would listen. They’d hear a song about starfruit and miss it for what its message is.

For now i’ll keep writing music, and playing in my room. I’ll keep playing until my fingers hurt so bad they should be bleeding…but aren’t. :) I’ll keep writing my stories (if i can ever find my thumbdrive) and I’ll keep dreaming, because that is what this blog is for: to keep record of all the dreams i hope will come true, as well as the ones that will stay just that: hopes of dreams.

I've become aware...

Recently I’ve noticed that no one actually reads this blog…except for me. And really, that’s fine. I don’t write it for you. I write it for me. That’s the point, right? So while I will continue to keep everyone updated on my Contor blog, this blog remains reserved for my innermost musings. I think that this is why no one reads them. I don’t think they make as much sense to anyone else as they do to me. And that’s ok too.
Here is my latest musing:
Last night I finished reading The Haunted Bookshop by Christopher Morley (I highly recommend it). It’s basically about a little old man (Mr. Mifflin) and his bookshop. There are characters who are rich and a narrator who is hilarious, but this is not the point—I believe—of this book. One thing I’ve always firmly believed (and still, to a degree, do) is that there is a vivid difference between books for entertainment and ‘literature.’ (yes, I’m one of those). This is where Morley and Mifflin got together to teach me. Does it matter? Does it matter if I’m reading Dickens or Meyer? To a degree, yes. One is considered canon and the other is not. But in today’s world where books take too long to satisfy us compared to the rest of life’s instant gratifications, I don’t think it matters what is being read, as long as reading is being done. I thank Rowling and Meyer; while I still think Rowling has power and complexities that far outshine Meyer’s overly adverb-ed and adjective-fied writing, both achieved the same goal: they caused kids to read. That’s the point. That’s the lesson. Mifflin says “The world has been printing books for 450 years, and yet gunpowder still has a wider circulation. Never Mind! Printer’s ink is the greater explosive: it will win.” How true. The pen is mightier than the sword. It has not only the power to destroy, but the power to create; and therein lies the true power to everything. If you disagree, or you think books are a waste of time, I suggest following one other tidbit of Mifflin’s advice: “It’s a good thing to turn your mind upside down now and then, like an hour glass, to let the particles run the other way.”