I Couldn’t Do It

I wasn’t supposed to start writing until the end of summer.  I blogged it! I wrote it on my phone notes! I sticky posted it on my desk! I’m a LIAR!!!! I couldn’t do it.  I sat at the computer and said if the story with the character that is driving me mad doesn’t flow effortlessly, then she would have to wait until September.  Twenty-ones minutes (I timed it)and 1,098 words at the computer and this is what she had to say:

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ONE

 

Watching him watch me causes my heart to race and bound so loud I want to cup my ears.  But I have to stand strong; he can’t see me falter or sense one moment’s hesitation.  This is my choice, though the sweat beading warm at the back of my neck is starting to cause me doubt.  No.  I clench my eyes tight and face away from him.  I must remain stubborn and resolved to finish what I started.  There is no life for me here, and deep down I’m certain he understands that.  I hope he understands that.

“You’ve hardly packed a thing,” he says, the slight sigh barely audible as he pushes a finger at the navy blue and white striped duffle bag strapped across my shoulder.  I don’t want to look at him for fear that I’ll expose the yellow cowardness of my soul and show the weakness that’s striking my knees.  He hasn’t asked me not to leave yet—not in so many words, but it’s there, in the dimness of his hazel eyes.  Because of that, I look away and say it’s better to pack light.  Only the necessities, I tell him.  There’s that pained sigh again, and it strikes me like a cow prod deep between my eyes as he replies, “I’ll miss you, you know?”

“I know.” It’s all I can muster between black dragging heart beats, and I know the words strike him like a blunt blow to the head.  The words I love you haven’t escaped my lips in days, but not because I don’t—because I do.  I love Tom with all my eighteen year old heart could possibly love another person.  His name is on my lips when my eyes first open, and sometimes even before they do.  It is him who occupies my deepest thoughts and sends my mind racing in swirls, causing many nights of insomnia.  And for all those reasons, the words—the pretty words—can no longer be spoken lest his heart be trampled a little more each time they are said.  Mine is darkened at the mere thought.

A tear is lost as I brush it behind my ear, out of his line of vision.  The spongy sound of the mattress tells me he’s sat on the edge of the bed.  I’m surprised he has stayed as long as he has, but Tom made a promise, and he is a man of his word no matter how much it eats at him.  Good souls like him are lost on the world, at least that’s what Mendy, my dad’s pretty awesome girlfriend, says.  I know she’s right, and I can’t help but replay the words, “nice guys finish . . .”  No.  I shake my head of the thought.  Tom doesn’t deserve to be some worn out, old cliché.  He sure doesn’t deserve the likes of me; some despondent, stubborn, misguided, loser of a girlfriend.  Hell, the world deserves better, but my heart aches for Tom.

“Do you know where you’re going?” he asks for the millionth time.  Through the reflection of the glass on a picture frame, it is easy to see him looking down, palm brushing heavy on the sandy blond hair I loved to mess up.  He never complained.  Not once.

“Yes,” I answer as vague as possible—for the millionth time.  I have no idea where I’m going.

He catches a glimpse of me in the reflection of the frame and I quickly turn away.  “You still won’t tell me?”

I suck down so much air it feels my lungs are going to explode.  It makes no sense that he would put himself through this over and over knowing the response would be the same.  Crazy.  I close my eyes and channel the fading courage to shake my head.  It makes no difference, I say through defiant exasperation.

The warmth of his breath lingers at my neck now.  It’s not fair.  All I want to do is fall in his arms and runaway to the place his pretty words can always take me.  He alone knows me and how to bring me out to be the person I truly am; how to take me beyond this world with nothing more than the expressions of beauty which slips passed his thin pale lips so easily.  Once he learned of my special attribute—hearing in color—he embraced it as a form of uniqueness and ran with the appealing words, forming linguistic prisms of color from his lips to my eyes every chance he had.  It was nothing short of magic, only shared before with my mother before she passed away.

“I love you, Raven.” He cheated.  The words floated on the air like a symphony of yellow ribbons increasing in radiance until the last word disappeared behind my eyes.  I want to melt into his touch and hit him all at once, but he said the words again and so, I close my eyes to not see them in all their eloquence of flight.

“Stop saying them!” I shout.

“But I mean them,” he says, his breath tickling the soft spot behind my ear.  “I want to tell you all the pretty words every day.  I want to take you away to the places you get lost in when we talk.” He pauses, and I know there’s more.  “Stay with me, Raven.”

There were rules to my leaving, and in his panic, Tom is breaking them.  I pull away.  Not because I want to, because I have to.  This isn’t about Tom, it never has been.

My father doesn’t understand it—this lovely, miserable element that is me.  In the ugly world of fame and power built up like a sable fortress around his life, I am a challenge.  My gift of hearing words in color is a burden, once dismissed to friends as a possible brain tumor, is a disgrace; no more than an adolescent plea for attention from a daughter resembling nothing of what a prominent lawyer’s daughter should be.  I’ll never be free under his vice.  Worse yet, I’ll never see the pretty words in his world.

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Looks like I’m writing again!

By the way, the reason I had such a hard time with thinking of writing this, is that I’ll be adding in graphics so readers can see what Raven sees.  Example: she sees the words I Love you floating from his lips to her eyes like a radiant yellow ribbon.  (for this purpose I just copied something off the net for effect).  I’ll add in a graphic of what this might look like, hence, I’ll need a graphic artist and know that this will never be an e-book and with full color will be a pricey physical book.  Oye vay! Somebody stop me now.

Tania L Ramos, Author Who Hears in Color (Synesthesia)

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The New Voices: 3 a.m.

When I start nearing the end of a book, I clutch my chest and start bracing for the palpitations: do I have another story in me? I recall always having some story lined up, always having something to write, but since I started seriously writing it seems the brilliant award winning ideas have derailed into the vastness of my endless thoughts.

Do I have another story? This plagues me into insomnia. What if I never have another creative thought in my life? What if there is nothing beyond this? What if all i’ll ever be is a nurse who wrote a few things? Ugh, hello 3 a.m. and hopeless thoughts of being a has-been writer.

 

Alas, the clouds break and the rain goes away and smack dab near the end of writing this current book a new set of voices break through. Bad timing, I tell them . . . but hold that thought.  The longer it takes me to finish this book the louder the new voices get.  Hello 3 a.m.! Hello new characters that wake me from a dead sleep with their incessant muttering about art and music. Damn, their teenagers! Nooooooo, not a teenage book. You aren’t my genre, I tell them.

“Then why are you already creating a plot line?” She says.

Crap! I can’t escape this. I let her play out the beginning and end of the story, somewhere along the lines of teenage angst at a crossroads of you can never go home again, mixed with some synethesia (hearing words in color) and the cute ruffian kid rebelling against the machine and I tell her, “A cross between Juno, Lars and the Real Girl, and Scott Pilgrim Versus the World mixed in with some Blake Shelton music? 

She claps and jumps up and down with joy.  Obviously, I get it. *sigh*

“Bet you have a title?” I ask

” The Pretty Words,” she says

I think about the implication and how it ties in with hearing words in color.  Great, this is about as indie as it gets.  I give a reluctant nod.

She replies, “When can we get started?”

 

 

Tania L Ramos, Author Who Talks to Herself

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Current writings found at BeStillNovel.com

Be Still: It’s not your ordinary romance, the main character is in a coma

This is Me. No Really. This is Me.

Ever run out of things to say? Yeah, I’m there. I’m hoping it comes to me as I partake in this semi-strange web blog.  So what shall I say? Complain about work? Talk about my book club speaking event? Explain why I shouldn’t play football against high school kids (still hurts)? Sing you some Justin Bieber karaoke? Hehe, I’ll spare you that part … but if you’d like to do some Rock Band competitions then its on.

Guess I’ll just tell you more about me.  Some may be repetitive, but some of you are new, and its me, which means it’s worth repeating. Right? Okay, so who is Tania L Ramos? I’m going on forty this year and pretty happy about it. My thirties weren’t as awesome as I thought they would be, and more over, when I hit forty I get to attend the “Cougar Convention” in Las Vegas. Such a thing would make any woman long to be forty, I think.

I was born and raised in Los Angeles, CA where I was the only child for twelve years. Then came my brother … he’s grown on me since then.  I made a series of moves and eventually made it to the High Desert.  I’ve run the gambit of jobs from the Domino’s Pizza phone girl, a taxi cab company secretary, the See’s Candy girl, a temp, EMT, and now a nurse … oh yeah, and I worked at the Gap a spell, “Hello, welcome to the Gap, can I show you our sales items today.” Yep, that was me; only one word away from being the WalMart greeter, don’t you think?

I was a swimmer in high school; breast stroke and backstroke. Played powder puff football and failed miserably at trying out for the high school mascot: GO BULLDOGS! I was in drama, was 9th grade class treasurer, participated in the Leadership program, started a lunch time DJ program, and was the youngest student to attend the USC Young Writers Program for a summer. I played softball and managed a softball team in my twenties, and was known as DJ Babs for a while (played alternative music like The Cure, Depeche Mode, and Morrisey).

I was in journalism, creative writing, and some other writing program that I can’t remember. Yet, I failed every English class. I used to write sad, depressing, morbid poetry, then moved into horror stories that made my mom worried. Now, I write INDIE!! I love words. I love people who can hold intelligent conversations.

I don’t speak Spanish. I can use American Sign Language when I really put my mind to it. I hear words in color, which so many people still don’t understand, but it’s called Synesthesia and it really does exist.  So when someone talks and the words hit my ears, I see colors.  Kinda neat, sometimes a nuisance, makes me wonderful.

I speak with a slight lisp. Was teased about it most my life, don’t realize I have it until someone points it out, but tend to reaffirm it with this, “If I didn’t have a lisp then I’d be perfect and the world would hate me.” It’s my own way of coping. 🙂

I have three cats, two dogs, a turtle, and a partridge in a pear tree (A.K.A. a parakeet). Three kids: one in college, one trying to drop out of high school, and the 5 yr old prodigy. I love them all! Still, would like one quiet day out of the year.  Married twice, divorced twice, and it pretty much ends there. No more rings on this finger.  No. No. No. Well, unless a new guy comes bearing cookies, ice cream, and writes like Sparks.  Then we’ll start the negotiations. I’m a wallflower, usually get lost in the crowd, but back me against a wall and man-oh-man watch out– I may just get strongly worded and throw a cat at you.

I lived for X-Files, attended more than one Star Trek convention, and once watched an episode of Jersey Shore. I hate mashed potatoes, eggs, milk, vegetables, pork chops, pork products (except bacon), and orange cheese. I love pizza, spaghetti, pizza, spaghetti, pizza with spaghetti, and bread.  I talk to my animals as a form of therapy, because they listen, rarely judge, and seem to get it.

I hate taking pictures! I love taking pictures! Yeah, try and figure that one out. I tend to be more active in spring, then bury my head in the ground from Summer through Winter. I live in my denim jeans. Love my baggy college sweater. Wear crazy socks and wish my job would let me put pink streaks in my hair (I tried, I was caught). Miss my Doc Martens. Own ONE skirt, and said skirt is black plaid with several buckles on the side and has hanging suspenders (I lost). I love anything with skulls on it!! Cute skulls, girlie skulls.

I don’t talk much, but if I get to talking then you may never shut me up. And apparently, once I start rambling you can’t shut me up. Obvious? Should be! Any questions?

Not me

Tania L Ramos, Author with Nothing to Say

I hear in color and see in music. It’s called Synethesia

     In my last post I wrote about how I hear in color and see in music and Sally told me I should write about it.   What a fabulous suggestion! Well, first I had to figure out what this was, and thanks to the power of Google, it only took two tries to find it.  I searched, “hear in color,” and up popped a few links to something called “synesthesia.” Please read the brief fun facts at Wikipedia.  I found many other links and learned there is an actual organization for people with this. . . this. . . hmmmm, I don’t know what it is. Disease? Genetic mutation? Phenomenon? Whatever it is, now that I know what it is I don’t mind talking about it.

     I was about fifteen when I realized not everybody heard in color and saw things in music.  All my notes were written in every color known to man, and my side notes would read, “think of (insert song).” When someone asked what I was doing, they gave me a weird look after i told them I was writing in the colors I saw.  And thus I realized I was odd and mostly kept that fact to myself.  To clarify, I do not see letters in colors…except the letter “A.”  If it is in caps I see it in red, but lower case is kind of a cross between violet and crimson.  So I see things in various shades.  For the most part I see entire words in color, not usually individual letters, but there are a few exceptions.  And i do not see every word in color.  It is a bit difficult to explain, but I’ll try…

Glenn=hunter green

Glen (one “n”)= neon green

     See how one letter can change the color.  Well maybe you can’t see it, but I can.  So this is how it works for me.  The most recent conversation I had-had this sentence from the person I was talking to, “I know, but sometimes it is hard to get out of your on head.”  In that sentence I only see one word in color: head and its color is navy blue.  I used to think it was a word-color association, but I’m not sure how head and navy blue equate.  Or how Glenn and hunter green relate.  years ago my ex-husband asked me something and I said I couldn’t remember the word but it was on the tip of my tongue and it was orange.  He looked at me strange as I explained myself (most people chalk this up to being a writer/creative).   Later I remembered the place I was trying to remember was, “Georgia.” How does Georgia=bright orange? I don’t know, ask my brain.  My head picks out certain words from a conversation and displays them on a marquee in my head, so i visually see these words as clear as day, and they are in color.  Like I said, only some words.  It’s like a  mental highlighter.

     This phenomenon doesn’t interfere with my life in any way.  It’s not like I stop to see the word or color, its just flashes and they move on.  Oh, and i only see this when people are talking, not so much in print unless I am really studying something in depth, then words tend to light up, but its rare.  I won’t complain, though.  This little niche has helped me through several exams and was a God send in nursing school.  I owned every color pen and highlighter known to exist.  So when I tested I would see the color of the word and the rest of the text sorta followed with it.  Mega bonus! (By the way, it does nothing to help with comprehension of the material. 😦  )

     Okay, so I also see in sound.  This is very rare, but when I am in full concentration mode I hear music.  Not always a specific song so much as a beat.  somethings are kind of blues jazzy while others are insane rocked out electric guitars that hurt my eyes.  Yep, I said the sound hurts my eyes.  I’m not even going to try and explain that.  On an average day this hardly ever happens.  I attributed that to my world moving so fast, but when I slow down and stop to smell the roses or “people Watch,” then it happens.  I assume this is why I must play low, background music when I write.

     the final quirk I have and the one that is most prominate, I think, is personification.  I give words, letters, and numbers personalities.  How does that work? The letter “A” is very proud and stands high above everything else, but lower case “a” is timid and shy and tends to sneak away.  My favorite letter is lowercase “c” because it is always ready to attack and devour something when called to action, but loves to cuddle. 0-6-8-9 are the round numbers and how I remember dates.  My boyfriend’s birthday I can not recall exactly but I know it is one of the fun round numbers. 1-7 are stubborn numbers.  2-3-5 are full of confusion and are various shades of red.  The number 4 stands alone and is very arrogant.  I also do this with full words such as, “brilliant,” which is shiny silver and stands in an ivory tower, or “arrogant” which is shocking pink and tends to scowl… And yes these colors have changed over time, which I just chalked up to age and experience. 

     My day of research has proved that there are variations of this experience.  Not everybody sees “A” as red and not everyone thinks a cute older couple talking is pastel yellow and Etta James.  It’s just me.  I will be honest, I spent years thinking I was crazy or had some gene mutation, and lately wrote it off to side effects of constant migraine headaches.  All I knew is it wasn’t common and so I automatically presumed it was a defect.   Now I know it is a wonderful neurological condition that has helped me for years and not some premonition into degenerative brain dysfunction.  It may sound funny to read, but these are all things I thought.  Not to mention there were clinical trials on tv years ago and so my only deduction was this was some form of a brain disorder.  I immediately tried to turn it off, but it never went away.  I just stopped talking about it so people wouldn’t think I was weird.  My boyfriend says my mind is as amazing as the person I am.  Awe…… Oh, and for those who remember this guy, Billy Joel has the same condition as do many composers.  It seems many people with this are labeled, “creative.” When my book comes out you’ll see just how much I need to use color in description, because I try to get people to see what is in my head more than simply using descriptive words.  But it’s all a far cry from what I really see when I talk to people.  Imagine telling people when they talk I see a blue cat or green dog. 

     Well now that I know what it is and that it doesn’t mean I am going to die from brain melt I will learn to embrace this and not be afraid to say, “It’s on the tip of my tongue…something to do with the color teal.” Thanks for indulging in my senses.  And may you all have wonderful lemon-merangue colored day.