Have you missed me?

diary writing

I want to think that I’ve been missed. I want to suppose someone has wondered why I haven’t posted in a while. I need to believe someone, anyone, has asked himself or herself where I am.

The truth is, I’ve been held hostage. Or more accurately, I’ve held myself hostage. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this. Readers who follow my blog can attest to the fact that my going AWAL has become rather habitual; that my rants have become fewer and far between.

But like I said, I’ve been in self imposed captivity.

How? In thinking the only time I can write is when circumstances are right; when all my ducks are in a row; when everything else has been handled. Only then, can I set my imagination free so as to give birth to creativity.

However, I’ve come to realize that I am never going to have enough time. My ducks are never going to be aligned and something will always have to be handled.

That’s life; the way things are. It is not going to change.

So after much pondering, I’ve concluded that if I don’t take action, this blog is going to die. My virtual friends are going to disappear, and if I wait longer, no one is going to wonder where I’ve gone.

Some time ago, I read the following phrase: “A true writer is unable to stop writing. For a true writer, it is easier to stop breathing than to stop writing.” Don’t ask me where I read that. I’m afraid I don’t remember. Nevertheless, the message stayed with me.

I thought of those words today, and while I agree there are times writers are unable to stop writing, I disagree that only those capable of doing so are true writers.

Which leads me to ask myself, am I truly a writer?

This question is what prompted me to think about what direction this blog should take; before it dies; before you forget about me.

And I’ve decided that more than a writer, I am a communicator. It is vital to my existence for me to communicate; to share with others what touches my life. As such, no longer will I wait for the perfect time to crank out what I believe to be a writing piece worth reading. Instead, I am going to communicate more.

At times, it might only be through a photo of something that caught my eye. Or an anecdote of someone or something that infuriated, impressed, or shocked me. Other times, it might simply be a haiku.

I truly hope you will continue to accompany me on this journey. I promise to try and make it an interesting one.

Who calls shotgun?


One shot, two stories

cc licensed ( BY ) flickr photo shared by Keoni Cabral

Hello everyone,

With Valentine’s Day right around the corner, I’ve decided to “shake things up.”

Does this mean I’m in the mood for love, or that we’re going to try something new?

I’d say a little of both.

I’m joining Monica, from Monica’s Tangled Web, on a project we’re calling, “One shot, two stories,” and the best thing is that you, dear readers, get to run the show!

The rules are simple.

Have a look at the photograph, provided to us courtesy of Keoni Cabral, a talented photographer and colleague of Monica’s, read the first line, and add a sentence.

The purpose to this exercise is to create a story; the story behind the photograph.

In the meantime, Monica’s blog will feature the same photograph, but a different first line.

Thus, we hope to end up with two very unique stories.

At the end of the week, I’ll post the story created at Monica’s blog and she’ll post the one created here, at One Sister’s Rant.

The person behind this fun concept is writer friend, Cathy Kozak, from While the Dervish Dances.

So lets recap:
1) Take a look at the photograph.
2) Read the first sentence (provided by me).
3) Read the previous sentences, so as to ensure logical flow.
4) Number your sentence and add it in the comments section.

That’s it!

You can participate as many times as you want but remember, only one sentence at a time.

Moreover, we have two stories taking place simultaneously.

Monica and I would love it if you participated in both.

Now, without further ado, let’s get this party started!

Here’s the first sentence:

1. Olivia looked at the sprawled cat on the bench; the same bench where Ethan had proposed ten years ago.