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My Books With Links update 12/11/12

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Life is Longing For You

I still say I’m not much for being a poet. That being said, this song came to me in a dream. One of those vivid dreams where even when you wake you’re left to wonder if it was real; some kind of deja vu. I was walking through an alley on a rainy afternoon, everything was tinged under a blue filter. A soft, almost jazz like sound filled the air, and I was inclined to find the source. The tune was romantic, yet heartbreaking, reminiscent of a lover in sorrow. I wasn’t running, yet I moved quickly to find the music. As I grew closer, the sound of words became clear and the alley ways shifted from blue to subtle red. Not an eerie kind of red, but red like the sunset and soft. Finally, the words became clear and resounded so beautifully that I stopped in place and closed my eyes to sway in the painful loss of the lyrics. A moment later I stepped out of the alley to find traffic speeding by on a busy street, with a woman standing in the middle of the road, singing without a care as delicate droplet of rain drenched her body. I caught the very end of her song, and watched in aw. When her song ended, she looked up at me and I could decipher the tears from the rain. I couldn’t help but begin to sing the words, and she smiled, happy that someone heard her.

When I opened my eyes the song was still playing in my ears. I grabbed my cell phone and quickly jotted down the only lyrics I could remember. To this day, I hear that song as clear as drops of rain.

Life is Longing For Youlife is longing for you

My life is longing for kisses

Longing for misses

My life is for seeing us through

Bring back your smile

Bring back your style

Bring back the silvery moon

Then shower my heart

It’s yours from the start

And tell me I’ll see you real soon

Because life is for kissing

You’re all that I’m missing

My life is longing for you

Fueling the Writer

I don’t know what to do. Life, as it does, managed to throw a wrench in my plans again. My entire, albeit, short writing career, I vowed not to fall into the stereotypical idea of what drives a writer. We all know the widely held theories of writer’s fueling off anger, angst, Absynthe, and depression. What makes a writer great? Loss, despair?

Thomas Wolfe posed great discussions of his novel, You Can’t Go Home Again. Many writer’s struggle in a conflict of early life and later learn you can’t go home again. F. Scott Fitzgerald, as with many other authors, leave a legacy of alcoholism shadowing their genius. Tennesse Williams, a playwright prodigy, said he could only write of what he knew. Reading A Street Car Named Desire was almost a mirror reflection into his struggle with family.

How many writers and artists fall by the wayside of the stereotype? If there was one thing I was ever able to claim it was that I never fit neatly into the category of pained writers. Now, surrounded by loss, grief, and sometimes guilt, I find that my writing suffers. My words and thoughts were never propelled by anger, angst, despair, or alcohol, yet readers who have read my writings might be inclined to think otherwise. My words are dark, sometimes lost in sorrow, but always seeking out the light. They are in no way a reflection of my life.

Now, sitting in the dark at 3am, suffering from a raging fever, weighed down by a million my words are not a reflection of lifestressors, I find that my writing is not any better. If the loss of a parent brought me anything more than just a hole in my life and silence in my home, I had hoped it would make me a better writer. How’s that for selfish? Fortunately for me, I don’t struggle with conflicts of my childhood, parents, family, alcoholism, loss, or depression. I know we only live to someday die. And that the in between is where the stories are. Life hasn’t thrown a wrench in my plans to ruin my life. . . it’s only allowed me to pause and evaluate what I have. I have stories. Sometimes a wrench in your plans is the best plan.

I still don’t know what to do. Well, that’s a start.

Tania L Ramos, BSN RN

Petals on a Rose

The poem my mom asked for only days before her passing. She said, “You need to write a poem about not being able to fix petals falling off a rose.” Maybe she knew her time was short. I never got the chance to read it to her.

Petals on a Rose

moms roses2

Rose petals from mom’s casket spray in her favorite green vase

If you were here with me you would see
A million memories of us drifting free

The days we laughed and days we cried
The years we spent together side by side

Those days are now remnants on weary dreams
And yet I hear your voice in all I see

Your scent has left, but your smile not lost
Those days we owned were worth the cost

I want you back, but my heart now knows
You can’t put petals back on a rose

 

Tania L Ramos, BSN RN

Mom Knew

Since the time I put two paragraphs together my mother was always there coaching me on. I can’t remember a single time she wasn’t bragging about even the tiniest of my achievements. There is a lot to be said of a mother’s pride. No matter the venture, no matter the crazy idea, mom was always there to be the ultimate cheerleader.

January 12, 2016 at 0200 in Victorville, CA, my cheerleader left the game. The event was sudden and without warning, though part of me looks back and feels that she knew all along. As a nurse I’ve heard stories of patients who could pinpoint the date of their death; some seemed fairly healthy and would simply exclaim, “I’m going to die tonight.” And they would.

Though mom did not make a big announcement of her impending doom, I’m still convinced she knew. The signs were there, I just didn’t see them. On her Facebook page, only two days before, she posted a link on how women perceive heart attacks differently than men; the biggest clue was women said they have heart burn. Well guess what mom complained of the next two days? She begged and begged and begged me to write a story about The Girl Who Danced for the Man on the Moon. Of course I complained that the title was too damn long. But I asked her why she was so emphatic about that story and she replied, “I envision a woman who just regained her strength, dancing for a man who is on the moon. She knows he’s there, and he watches her from a large telescope, but she doesn’t know he’s watching.” I asked if there was religious implications, given mom was one the best Christian women I knew, and she said, “I see myself dancing for God, and I know he’s there, but I don’t always know if he’s watching.” Unfortunately, I never got around to writing that story for her.

However, mom asked for a poem, and I explained that I wasn’t much of a poet. Three days before her passing she said, “Write a poem about not being able to put the rose petals back on a rose.” Weary of her constant requests I told her I would give it a try, but not to expect miracles. As I looked at my phone today, I realized I had written that poem for her only hours before she had passed. I was going to have it printed out on a picture and frame it for her . . .  that time will never come, but mom got her poem out of me. I’ll post it as a stand alone blog. Again, I looked at the words behind the poem, about the loss, the memories, and about beautiful things in life that cannot fixed, and I think of mom. I think how she loved everything I did even when I hated them. I think how her own death has given me the opportunity to write about loss in my fiction, and be able to pour my heart and soul into the words.

The end has not found my mother yet. She will continue to live on so long as I write. My experience in saying goodbye will be her legacy in print.

mom

Tania L Ramos, BSN RN

Do Text Messages Count?

NaNo Date 24
Time 1013 PST
Location: Breezy California desert oasis
Companions: Felines, Voices in my head

Nano, the final frontier. These are the voyages of the USS Have I Lost My Damn Mind. My mission: To create conflict and resolution while integrating plausible story lines and fulfilling character development. My nemesis: the romance genre, combined with the wicked forces of cruel daily word counts. Together, with voices in my head and furry feline companions, we boldly go where my word count has never gone before. 50,000 words in 30 days!

My journey began strong 24 NaNo days ago. Hope filled the tips of my fingers as they plucked at the back lit letters on my Sony Vaio keyboard. We were hopeful. We were bright-eyed with ideas, even though we only knew the beginning and the end. We strove for success one word at a time.

We were naive.

NaNo date 24. We are exhausted, fingers calloused, wrists aching. Our once bright eyes now scream out for daily doses of Visine, searching blindly for reading glasses tucked away last Christmas. The beginning has passed, while the middle is seemingly endless in its pursuit of a climax. One plot twist!!! The voices in my head scream for one miserable plot twist. They bicker now and conspire to side with a lesser word count.

Why did I take on this task? I was naive.

But I plow forward, wondering if I could somehow fit this blog into my story to increase my word count. Does that signature I wrote on my check count? How about text messages? I write a lot of those. Facebook updates? Tweets? So many words wasted away from my daily goal. Alas, there are only 6 NaNo days left in this journey. I beg my characters to stay with me, to keep the journey just six more days. Together we will carve our way passed the middle, run to the top of the climax, and dance around the plot twist, sprinting through bubbles and rainbows toward the end.

Until then, send words … I am afraid we are losing hope.

hemingway

Picking up the Pieces

I realize how much I miss writing after a severe hiatus to pursue an advancement in my career. People have asked why I don’t pursue writing full time. My answer is always the same: when writing supports my family is when I can write full time. My status in life has changed little in the year I have been away, save for a few different things: I now covet a Baccalaureate in Nursing from Grand Canyon University and I am single. I’ve learned a few things on my journey to this day: I am stronger than I think I am. I can only multitask so much. And when life happens my true passion suffers.
After being away from my craft for so long I found just how easy it was to walk away. With a manuscript collecting dust for two years, and ideas dwindling, I was okay with being out of the game. In fact, it was comfortable. Without my head buried in a computer, fingers growing callous, and wrists feeling the strain of carpal tunnel, I found more time to do much of nothing.
Once school was completed in July my time became wide open and I vowed to tinker with some ideas. That never happened. Writing is comparable to getting in shape; it’s hard to get into a routine, but once in a routine each day is easier. Falling out of the routine means starting from scratch. Starting from scratch is painful, but I vowed to do it.
For the first year in my life, I jumped on the NaNoWriMo wagon. If I’m going to get back in shape might as well go all out. The last novel I completed was in 2012, it sat in editing limbo falling victim to the time constraints of higher education. My first exercise at hand was to get that off my desk. Second was to run through many ideas I had jottedd down over the years and pick one. Third was to create a NaNo account. Fourth was to open my computer back up on November first. I’m back! I’m back and I’m loving every minute. Here’s to writing a novel before I head back into the education system for 18 more months.

image

Lessons in Writing Fear & Love

In helping a young author learn to write emotions, I gave a simple assignment: write the emotions of a woman who just saw the love of her life walk through the door. Next, write the emotions of the same woman who just saw a stranger with a gun walk through the door. In neither description can you say “love” or “hate/fear,” and you must show without telling.

To be a good teacher, I also participated in this little lesson. We both had the same outcome: writing the emotion of love was almost exact to writing the feeling of fear. I found that quite interesting. It certainly is a fine line.

if u can write

 

 

 

 

 

Tania L Ramos, RN and Author

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