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My Books With Links update 12/11/12

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Fiction Based on Reality

I’m writing quite different with this one. Adding journal entries at the beginning of each part. These are the real parts. The dark parts that were true enough of how I felt in those days that turned out to be the beginning of 6 years of lies. This is all hindsight, which lends to a bit of self-loathing as can be noted at the end. Maybe people will heed the warnings: don’t piss a writer or you may get killed in her book.

In the days of knowing I was losing Andy I felt like I was losing myself too. There was a dynamic about Andy, something that out shadowed me in every way. My name was lost at marriage. My days ahead I was known as Andy’s wife, and where I should’ve delighted instead I became abhorrent. If I ever I needed the proverbial knight in shining armor, the time had come. Desperate times and desperate situations also meant loss of reasoning and the ability to see clearly. Eddie Sinolach was just what I needed, when I needed someone, so much that the world around me faded to all things Eddie. Nobody should ever close their eyes so tight.

perfect man

Tania L Ramos RN BSN, author

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Of Suns and Moons

I said I would do it. The story is written as fiction. So many aspects changed. But the story writes its self. My favorite lines from chapter one.

One baby, four years, and a million arguments later, we found ourselves caught up in a very bitter divorce. He tried in his way to make it work, but we were opposites, like the sun trying to marry the moon. Sure, we could occupy the same universe, but we would never occupy the same space all the time. The moon would always be jealous of the brilliance of the sun. He was the sun. I was the moon. I pale beside him, and every day I lost myself just a little more until I disappeared. Those eclipses though, those times we were as one…those were amazing.

sun moon

The Darkness Paved my Road

What a wild ride this summer has been. Turns out a little love triangle was actually a love octagon … fitting given the octagon is a battle arena. My son asked how I was doing, and I casually responded, “It’s not all bad. I mean, the gray skies have changed to silver, so there’s some glimmer and shine to the dull.”

All-in-all, I won’t be held down. But, my feet are in this running motion now. Every few years I get the itch to hit foot to ground and see how far I can get. That feeling has been coming in waves so high I may drown. Lately these memes keep popping up around me; these opportunities consistently present themselves, and for one who believes in divine signs, I gotta listen to the world around me.

The world will not change; only I can change my world. So i’m doing it. Taking the plunge and running away to a fresh new start. New city. New home. New life. New love. The evil, the darkness, the madness, the psychotics will all be left behind to figure themselves out and wallow in the shallow misery they created for themselves; one they will never escape unless they never look in a mirror again. One day I’ll look back at that one picture I saved, and only because my daughter was so darn cute in it, and I’ll know that five years of my life was a lie. What a wild ride. A ride that drove me to a peaceful plot of land overlooking vast mountains and a tiny sleepy city below. Maybe, just maybe, the psychotic darkness paved the road for my happily ever after.

Maybe, I have a best seller.

Fiction Based Loosely on Reality

Much of what is written is stolen from life. Stories often mimic the adage that “Necessity is the mother of invention.” The need to get words and truths onto paper for others to know and understand is at the heart of every writer. And though many of my stories have pulled a few excerpts, thoughts, or locations from my real life, none has hit as close to home as the story of a woman scorned … who discovered there was another woman scorned … and another woman who will soon be scorned and tortmented to know the truth. A story of decades of deceit, mounds that turned into volcanic eruptions of lies, followed by the need to prey on women and their families so one man could satisfy some sick pathological desire to fulfill an egocentric hero complex. At this moment I am grateful at my talent to recall even the vaguest of details, to turn a real life story into the opus of my collection of fiction; to eradicate and expose a predator in what can only be described as “fiction based loosely on reality.” Finally, the writer’s block is over and bad guys never win.

Things in life to know:

  • Don’t ever hurt a woman’s children.
  • Don’t ever hurt the children of a writer.
  • Know your adversary.

 

Tania L Ramos

My Eyes

​Sometimes the writing is on the wall, we choose not to see it. sometimes there’s that one great friend that holds your hand through your own self inflicted blindness. And when you can finally see the writing on the wall, they don’t say I told you so, they say I’m still here for you. And they listen to you cry, even though it hurts them too, because they walked it with you. They hurt for you long before you knew you would hurt. And when the mud and the tears and the hurt are removed from your eyes, you can see clearly, that the one who truly loved you, was the one who was your eyes when you chose not to see.

Now, I see.

Lost Song

Lost Song

Sitting in night contemplating days, the music in my head
Running through madness, this beat found dead
Listen to the song of our life, hear the memories we left behind
An inspiring melody we drew
Fantasy poem as simple as you

In one beat your mine, in one note I’m yours
Memory fades, in what verse did we close the doors
Afraid in this song, alone too soon
Drowning in meaning, singing a different tune

Sweet lyrics tell me goodbye
Beautiful words say you aren’t mine
In a lost song the words become you or me
Love forgotten, in an unloved melody

Running between the music, grasping the lie
Tempted to sing, I try and I try
Under the stars, lost in words
Tear up our song
…In lyrics I don’t belong

lost song

 
© Tania L Ramos

Alter Egos get a Pen name

When I first started writing semi-professionally, I was in the 9th grade. I’ve told the story before, so I won’t rehash it in this post. In 9th grade I knew nothing of love, nothing east of the 605 Fwy or west of the 710 fwy. I was bound in an inner city with little knowledge of anything beyond my ten square miles. That was my world, what little there was, and I had no doubt in my mind that my geographical knowledge was little.

So when a wise teacher discovered an introvert roaming the halls talking to herself, she opened a whole new world. My imagination basically encompassed steamy kisses with Han Solo, and idealistic snippits of stolen romance with Indiana Jones … okay, I had a thing for a young Harrison Ford. But when Ms. Ruben penned me behind an old green screened computer, my ten square miles of life grew into an infinite world that only ended where I told it to.

My first stories were built up around the unknown, around falling through mirrors into deserts where other students had mysteriously disappeared into. The winds spoke of being the Alpha and the Omega, leaving young teenagers to survive in a world of horror. My first stories delved into the unknown, because in 9th grade the unknown was the only tangible thing I could write about. By the end of middle school, I had written five full length horror stories, and my mom tended to pray over me a lot more, though she always supported my talent.

a2As I grew older, my horizons broadened and I dipped into the world of romance, but I never found particular accomplishment in the genre. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a sucker for a tragic romance; boy meets girl, boy loses girl, girl finds new guy but secretly hopes her true love will return. The sappy stuff. Where I found my true talent was in subjective fiction, or speculative fiction as it is also called. In the Benjamin Button stories of “what if.” I’ve made a name for myself in my genre of the dark story with the light at the end of the tunnel, but along the way I missed those good horror stories, the ability to invent terror and shock.

A few months ago, I entered a horror story contest to be placed into an anthology. The reviews were magnificent, however I was graciously asked to change the perspective of the story to third person omniscient, and the story would be published, in which I respectfully declined. After talking among family and friends, I decided to publish this short story on my own. And with that grew a new dilemma. My name is my brand, and hopefully synonymous with subjective fiction. But what happens when I publish in a different genre all together? Should my name and brand follow me into the new genre?

In the end, I have decided to use a pen name. I feel it is important to separate subjective fiction me from horror story me, and to keep the brands and identities apart. The way I see it, if I enjoyed reading Jane Smith’s historical romance, then blindly purchased a Jane Smith book based solely on the knowledge that I like her genre, only to start reading and discover it is extreme erotica … well I might be upset. So in the spirit of creative writing and fiction, I will invent my own persona, and thusly birth a new alter ego.

Congratulations, it’s a girl!

Think it’s difficult to come up with a character name? Try coming up with a name you’ll have to live with. By the way, there is a process, and I will further explore this in my next post. Please chime in on your thoughts of using pen names for different writing styles.

Tania L Ramos, RN, BSN, Author
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