Archive for June, 2014

Sorry for the delay with my posts. We’ve been moving and are finally getting settled in. Anyone on here who has moved before knows what a damper it puts onto your creativity… not to mention the face that my writing desk isn’t set up… and I don’t actually have proper internet connection until tomorrow xD  I’ll probably do multiple creative writing challenges tomorrow to make up for the days I’ve lost!



Day Four of the Thirty Day Creative Writing Challenge. Can’t say it’s something that I’ve done in a while!


Day 4: A poem using the words: blue, mistrust, half, twang

Poetry. Hrm. Specified poetry. Even more hmmm. Okay. Here goes?


Cerulean blue

That is the color of her gaze

A wanton gaze that has learned mistrust

From half truths


And promises broken

That Cerulean gaze

Does not realize

The ache in my heart

That twang of self doubt

That I have


And only when she looks at me

Ahem. Very short. Very much about a novel I’m editing. I don’t do poetry often, especially directed poetry with key words. Maybe I should more often – poetry is a great expression of the soul!

Until next time, keep reading and writing!

Author Amanda McCormick

It’s a need that burns bright through me – I’ll watch countless movies and see two lips press to one another. On that rare occasion, a film or television show will get that spark, that essence of emotion that I desire… but even then, I want to press pause and crawl into the minds of the people on the screen. It’s not enough to simply watch – I want to know what they are feeling, what they taste, what they think. I want the story behind the emotion, the thoughts behind the passion.

I crave the story.

Even reading a novel, I feel the same. I see things from the perspective of one person, and I wonder so deeply, “What is the other thinking?” I am granted satisfaction, at least, of knowing what one party in a novel thinks. Sometimes authors even grant us the privilege of seeing a scene from the mind of both characters. That is probably the only moment when I get intense fulfillment of a scene. I crave, so very much, the story; the thoughts, the emotions… I want those. I want that spark that happens when people kiss, when they see one another for the first time, when they brush hands, brush with death. I want those emotions – I want to lock them up in my mind and keep them forever.

I think it’s a huge reason that I write. I can’t always attain the story that I want; books don’t always give it to me, shows so often tease at it, movies brush over it. But when I write? When I write, that story is mine, it’s coming from my fingers, from my thoughts, I can close my eyes and let myself think, feel, touch, taste… imagine it all as my characters are seeing it. It’s the story that I crave, and in the moments when I am writing, it’s mine.

Just a little stint here, one of the thousands of reasons that I write. Late night musings 🙂 Question? Do you, as a writer, have that same, intense need?


Until next time, keep reading and writing!

Author Amanda McCormick

So, as part of my Thirty Day Creative Writing Challenge I need to write the following:

Day 3: A story that takes place pre-1950

Now xD What I need to do is gather myself up from my exhaustion so that I can actually get the writing done. I think that an important thing about trying to establish a daily writing habit is to make sure that… even when you’re wiped, you get your words, some words, any words out. So, I do apologize if this isn’t as good as my other stuff. I’m just so tired from packing all day long!

It was watching me… I could always feel it watching. I’ve felt it from the moment that I was born. It happens at night, when I’ve blown the candles out and the Darkness penetrates to every corner of the room. It happens when I close my eyes, and suddenly there is a gentle cadence of breathing in my ear, beside my bed.

I live alone.

I used to notice it when I was a young girl; I would cry out to my mother, who would hush me, tell me that there was nothing there but the wind creeping and blowing outside of our door. I noticed it for a week before the worst occurrence of my life took place; my younger brother died in his sleep, apparently swept away by an illness that we thought was nothing more than a flu. When my parents passed away a few years later from fever, I kept the cabin that we lived in, surrounded by the wood. I kept it and I thought that I was lucky to still have a home when I knew there were those who went without. I continued to tend the garden, I hunted just as my Papa had taught me… and every single night, there would be that soft breath against my ear, and that gentle whisper.


It was as though the very Darkness knew my name.

I could hear that same whisper now, my name over and over again in a dark voice that wraps around my skull like death lined in velvet… and a soft gasp escapes me as I felt something caress against my cheek. A trembling pulse of cold passed through my entire frame, as though that caress eeked into my very veins and pumped my blood icy through my heart.

“What do you want!?” I couldn’t help it as the words spilled out from my throat, a terrified cry that sent my eyes wrenching open, looking around for something that had never been there. There was a difference, however… there was something there. A shape. A man standing beside my bed, his eyes glowing a wicked sheen in the pitch of the room.

“I want what I’ve always wanted… I’ve called out for you a thousand times, and you’ve never answered me.” He loomed forward, and in the darkness of the room, I could still see his face perfectly. Cherub-like lips, dark brows that came down to a point… high cheek bones, wicked slanted eyes. His hair was covered with a cloak that seemed to be made from shadows themselves, but as he looked down at me, I couldn’t help but to breathe out a soft sentence.

“You’re beautiful…”

A smile lilted those lips, though the warmth of it didn’t reach his silvery eyes. “I’ve often heard that Death is.” He shrugged moving into a sitting position on my bed. “But I’ve never heard the words from the lips of an angel such as yourself. Diana…” His voice crooned out my name, “I’ve been waiting for you for so long.”

I sat up, drawing my sheets over my chest to cover myself – after all, I didn’t want this man seeing me in my night things. “What do you mean, you’ve waited for so long?” There was an aching sensation in my stomach, worry, dread… and yet I couldn’t look away from this handsome man as he sat on my bedside. That alone should have told me something was wrong.

“Since I took your brother, Eli… I saw you there, so sweet and innocent, your hair like spun moonlight, your eyes bluer than the depths of any ocean.” The man leaned forward one pale, slender finger grabbing a strand of my hair and letting it run through those long digits. He let out a shuddering sigh as though just that touch was more pleasure that he had ever had before. I pulled back, worrying my lower lip.

“My brother died from the sickness. What do you mean, you took him?” And yet I knew the answer – I thought that perhaps I’d known it all along, since I was a little girl, hearing those whispers.

Those whispers that had started right before death came and took my little brother.

A knowing grin slipped across his full lips, and he let his eyes cast down so that long lashes of black made half crescents across his pale cheeks. “I think we both know the answer to that.” And then his gaze flickered up, and I saw his eyes again reflect silver in the darkness, “Who am I, Diana?”

“I don’t-” My voice was trembling… and I found that I didn’t want to answer him. I wanted to get up, to run away… to light a candle and hope that the light would chase away the shadows and him along with it. And yet I was compelled – looking into his beautiful face, I felt frozen. He leaned closer, so that I could feel his breath cold against my cheek.

“Who am I?”

“Please, don’t…” A whimper escaped me, and his hand came up, cupping my cheek as he leaned closer still, so that I could feel his breath against my mouth, the scent of it infiltrating my nostrils and making me want to recoil – it smelled of the night, of graveyard dirt.

“Who.” He leaned in closer still, “Am…” His lips were mere inches from mine. “I?”

I knew the answer. I’d known it all along. With him hovering there, inches away from my lips, I couldn’t deny it anymore. “Death,” I whispered softly, my eyes slipping shut as his full lips pressed against my own.

That coldness shot through my entire body and I felt myself falling inward – I felt a sensation as though my body were falling back, but his arms around me kept me upright, kept me pressed tightly to him. His kiss was like a living thing, creeping through every nerve that I possessed, his tongue a soft petal that stroked along my own, coaxing a moan from me as I trembled. I wasn’t cold anymore. I was warm and aching as I pulled closer to his frame; a passion was ignited within me, something that I’d never felt before.

A wild whimper escaped my throat and he actually had to pull away from me, chuckling. I didn’t question why I could suddenly see perfectly in the Darkness, nor why I was no longer chilled with the night air. “Why?”

“You’ve always been so beautiful, Diana… I have loved you since the first moment I saw you. And now…” His smile was of pure satisfaction as he held me tight to him, brushing his lips against my own once more so that I trembled in his embrace. “Now you’re mine.”

“But I can’t, I-” Have responsibilities, am I living being, must take care of my cabin… all thoughts trickled away as he stood with me still in his arms and I saw what was left on the bed.

My body – my dead body, eyes closed in sweet peace, lips still parted as though for another kiss…

Death’s kiss.

I had been swept away from the living world in death’s embrace, and now he held me tight, his arms clasping to me… and I knew that he would never let me go.

Ahem. So. Yeah. There’s more to that in my head, but there we go. A story that certainly happened before the 1950’s. When did it happen? I have no idea. But it was before then xD I hope it wasn’t too terrible a read, I really am very tired, and I have to get back to more packing! I think that it’s so important to write, even if you don’t exactly enjoy what you put to the page! I hope that you guys get your writing done for today!

Until next time, keep reading and writing!

Author Amanda McCormick


Phew, so! Camp NaNoWriMo is just around the corner. What are you doing to prepare? I especially feel that scramble, what with the fact that we are moving into a new house starting the 27th. I have to manage to get everything moved, the internet properly hooked up, my work station back in order, my room near and organized… and everything else that comes with a new house completed BEFORE the beginning of July. Throw into that the fact that I need to get at least an equal amount of words written for work as I do NaNo, the fact that it’s my Birthday month (whee!) and that I’m going to be going to a concert for the first time?

That makes for one pretty complicated month.

I think that’s why I scaled my word count back to a rather conservative 20,000 (though I’m thinking of upping it to 25,000). I figured that I could get that many words done on my novel alone, then I could get another 20,000 done for work. Technically I’ll have a total word count to do of at least 40,000 for the month! I’m only hoping that the chaos of what is going on in my life isn’t going to stop me from doing NaNo… it’s something that I really enjoy!

So, what do you do to prepare for NaNo? For me, I have a bit of a checklist.

First of all, idea plotted out on Scrivener, at least in part! Check!

Notebooks, fresh clean paper, charged laptop, pens! Pens! Highlighters! Check!

The ability to stay off of the internet for at least 2 hours a day to write. Ummm, I’ll get back to that later >_>.

Candy. CHECK! Minicandybarsaremylove.

LOTS of Coffee! That’s a huge check! I have my Keurig stocked with Frappe mixes and ready to go.

And last but not least… creativity, drive, CHECK!! The ready and willing anticipation that NaNoWriMo brings me. There is something so exciting about having a word goal, a group of friends to write with. I’m planning on doing word wars and actually starting a Vlog for Camp! I’m super excited… and even more excited for November when the real and official NaNoWriMo takes place again!

I think the excitement and eagerness to get the month started is one of the most important things. Something that gets you that pumped about writing is always an amazing thing, after all! So, if you have your coffee and your anxiousness to begin writing ready, who wants to come to camp with me?

Until then – let me know what YOU do to prepare for NaNoWriMo!

Keep reading and writing, y’all!

Author Amanda McCormick

(An update! When I found and reposted the document from the scrapped draft that I had… it posted it before this. It took the picture out, but… hey, at least it posted, right? Still, the advice from below still applies!!!!)


>_> So… I posted my writing challenge for day 2 on here… and somehow, it’s managed to disappear. I looked in my drafts… not there. I looked on my page… not there. I looked in my trash? Nuthin. I can’t help but to be curious as to where it might have tottered off to, because I’m quite certain that I put it up. I saw the picture load.

I think, as authors, this is one of the big issues that we have to face. We have all lost our work at some point or another… and we’ve all made the fatal mistake that I made – I wrote a fanfiction… and I didn’t save a backup. So, the post is gone; the idea thief came in and ate it, apparently… it was just too good? Ha ha ha.

Now, I’ve certainly gone through this before when it infuriated me to the point that I simply didn’t write any more that day. However, I think I’ve grown as a writer over the years. Sometimes bad things happen – it’s traumatic, it’s awful, it’s saddening… but I’ve noticed that when I lose writing, sometimes the thing that I write in my rewrite is a thousand times better.

Here is hoping that is the case in this situation. Either way, I won’t let this get me down. I will redo my 30 Day Writing Challenge post again… just not at this very moment. Instead, I’ll lay down, take a nap, and do it when I wake up. But the lesson that I take from this is…

A: Back up your work. Even your blog posts. Noted.

B: Don’t let it get you down.


If something like this happens to you xD I hope you take the same advice. So… until my second attempt at the Writing Challenge comes up, keep reading and writing guys!

Author Amanda McCormick

So, day two of the Thirty Day Writing Challenge.

I have to say I’m having fun with this, and I’m trying to use it as a venue to make sure I write at least once a day. I hope you guys will enjoy as I keep working on it! So… for day, two!!!

Day 2: Write a fanfiction

So… take two on this. I actually found the story still opened in a tab on my computer – where I’d opened the blog post to make sure that it was okay. So… yay! See, previous post still stands. Things always find a way to work themselves out!

(Fourth Fanfiction that I finally chose to write)



They say to be unmade is the most painful thing that one can experience… honestly though, it wasn’t all that bad. There was pain – I’m not trying to tell you that there wasn’t. However, there was a peaceful feeling that poured through me, a thought that perhaps… just perhaps, the pain that I had felt during my existence was over. There was, also, the fact that Jenny… my sweet Jenny… was looking at me with eyes full of regret for my death, was promising to dream me into a world full of light.

It was a funny thought for a Shadowman.

Of course, soon all thoughts slipped away, and for a while I imagined that I was nothing, a nothingness, a shadow that floated through the endless reaches of space and time without a true purpose. Perhaps I was even in that land of light that Jenny spoke of. I couldn’t tell you.

What I can tell you is that it isn’t dying that is agonizing. It isn’t being unmade. No, the true pain is elicited when you are brought back into this world. It was as though I could feel each letter of my name being carved back onto the staff.


Thoughts and memories flooded back to me – Jenny’s green eyes, the way that she stared at me so defiant, so demanding, so passionate… so sorrowful of my death. Pain rocked through my body, as though every nerve ending that I no longer possessed was on fire.


My body was pooling around me like a candle melting in reverse. Bone covered with muscle, with tendon, with blood, with flesh.


My entire frame began to rock and shake as that blood began to pulse through my veins again. Though I’d heard our kind often described as beings without hearts… I could feel my heart struggling to beat once more… one sick, wet thud… and then another, another, another.


With each pulse of blood pushing through my body, that pain circulated more and more – I couldn’t open my eyes, I couldn’t open my mouth to scream. It took everything that I had to inhale a deep, sharp breath of air. I wondered then, was I in Hell? Did my good deed at the end of my life do nothing to make up for all of my transgressions prior? I would have deserved it. I knew I would have deserved it… and yet I couldn’t make myself believe it. No… hadn’t Jenny promised me light?


Light… a world with no shadows. There was light spilling through my closed lids now. I finally managed to open my mouth, letting out a ragged gasp of painful agony – the blood pulsed quicker through my veins, the pain fading away as I realized… what I was feeling was my body knitting back together, my very form existing once more. What I was feeling was new lungs pulling in oxygen that burned, a heart that hadn’t beat in such a long time struggling to remember how to do its job. I was feeling the reality of… existence. And I was remembering, suddenly, how harsh that reality was. I could feel my hair now, tickling soft against my closed lids.


Those lids opened, and eyes as blue as the deepest of glaciers flashed in the darkness, dilated pupils going to pinpricks as light flooded my senses. I could see myself, for just a moment, in my minds eyes… hair as white as fresh fallen snow sticking to my sweating forehead… a lean, muscular frame curled nude against the floor. Dark brows knit together in confusion, full mouth twisted as the last of the pain faded away.

Julian… I was reborn. I was Julian once more. And beside me laid the Runestave. Where the jagged gash of my name had once been, the runes were carved smooth and perfect. More shocking, however… was the fact that my elders, each and every one of them, had their names carved out violently.

I was the only one left…

I sat up, my body quivering, muscles unused to any kind of movement. My eyes swept the darkness of the room slowly. I didn’t know where I was… and more important, I had no idea how I had come to be here, or who had brought me back from that floating nothingness… who had killed my elders and literally saved me from a fate that had been carved in stone.

Who had brought me back to life?


There we go! Random musings from The Forbidden Game, by L.J. Smith.

I could not, for the life of me, figure out what to write a fanfiction about. I think it’s because I’m a fan of so many different things now that I was like… oh, this! No! This! NO THIS THIS THIS! My brain was at war… so I defaulted to the thing that I love, something that I obsessed over when I was younger… and something that I want to reread now! So, enjoy!

Until next time, keep reading and writing!

Author Amanda McCormick



I’ve decided that I would like to do the 30 Day Creative Writing Challenge that I found while randomly scrolling around. I thought that it would be a great thing for a morning warm up, and it would be fun if I could get some of you guys to join in with me! I’ll happily link your blogs with mine! Anyway, let’s get to Day One!

Day 1: Re-write a classic fairy tale

I had loved her from the first moment that I saw her. There was no other word for it, really – it was irrevocable, irrefutable… and infuriating. I’d seen her leave her mother’s house hundreds of times to walk the winding path that lead to her Grandfather’s house. I’d seen her carrying her little bag that she had filled so lovingly with food. From my silent post in the woods, I had seen the way that her Grandfather grew more and more frail with each week that passed… and I knew that he was not long for this world. Every day when he greeted her, he would affectionately call her Red. I’d seen the day that he’d given her the red cloak that had once belonged to her Grandmother…

It felt like I’d been watching her through her entire life. She’d grown from a small girl with an adoring father… to a young woman with a mother who wasn’t always careful of where she left her bruises. I knew that Red sometimes cut herself – I could see it by the red gashes half hidden beneath her cloak. I saw it all, and yet I never braved to walk from the woods to speak to her, to call out to her… to tell her that she wasn’t all alone in this world; she hid her pain from her Grandfather. I could tell by the way that she put a smile across her countenance as she approached the door, even when she’d had a haunted look in her hues only moments prior…

My sweet little Red.

There were times when I thought to approach her, times when I thought she noticed my eyes gleaming from the darkness of the woods. I’d always hoped that she would be brave enough to step food into my domain, that she would allow herself to enter the forest. I would have approached her then, spoken with her – I would have done so many things. However, though her gaze strayed often, though I saw her approach a few times… she’d never actually taken that last step forward.

I suppose she was afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.

I knew the tale that circulated, about the creature who lived in the woods, who killed men far larger than my sweet little Red. I knew the whispers… and I knew that those whispers were spoken about me. A man cursed to the shape of a beast on the full moon – the Big Bad Wolf just so happened to be a Big Bad Werewolf…

And he was a Big Bad Wolf who hadn’t left the shelter and safety of his forest since he’d first been cursed centuries ago.

Still, to see her with her eyes full of tears, to see the way that she held herself in pain, only to resurrect that smile as her Grandfather’s house grew near? I could hardly stand it.

It’s funny, it’s it… you’ve heard the tale so many times; Once upon a time, there was a little girl with a red cloak, taking a basket to her grandmother’s house… once upon a time, there was a big bad wolf, who was very, very hungry.

The tale is true enough, in a sense. Once Upon a Time, there was a Big Bad Wolf hungry for the sight of Little Red, hungry for how her pale flesh would taste as he kissed it… hungry for her embrace, her touch… hungry to take her pain away.

That pain was showing on her face as she walked along her path. She was making her way home from her Grandfather’s, and I could see the agony across her features. I knew it was because she could see just as clearly as I could that he was dying. Her eyes shifted up, the emerald hues burning bright in the moonlight – it wouldn’t be full for another week… it was still safe for me to stand vigilance over nightly walk. Biting her lower lip, her brows furrowed together, and I watched as her gaze slowly lowered down… down… down and to the treeline. Determination crossed her sweet face, and she took one step forward, and then another. Teetering on the edge of the treeline, a small tremble pulsed through her frame and she took that final step.

Elation soared through me, and a longing so intense that a low growl nearly slipped my throat. However, instead of allowing that to happen and frightening her off, I instead let my voice ring out gently.

“Ah, Little Red… so you’ve finally found yourself brave enough to venture into the woods?” Her eyes shot, wide and startled, to where she had heard my voice, and I stepped out of the shadows…

This story varies in its telling. Sometime, the wolf is triumphant and sometimes he is thwarted by a woodsman, and Little Red is saved— but it always holds true in two very important factors. The Wolf is always big, and always very bad… And Red is always innocent, sweet, and so unsuspecting.
Never once, however, has the story begun as this one will: Once upon a time, a girl fell in love with a Big Bad Wolf…


Ta da! Okay, so that’s the beginning of a retelling of Little Red Riding Hood. I actually have a novel entitled Red that I’m working on/finished with/still editing/you know the drill. It’s told in a third person perspective, so I thought that it would be fun to take the first chapter, their very first encounter, and rewrite it from Wolfe’s point of view. I hope you enjoyed!

Until next time (tomorrow even, what with the 30 day challenge and all!) keep reading and writing!

Author Amanda McCormick


So… I live with quite a few people who don’t understand the complete and utter joy of getting books. I’ve recently taken up with an Amazon Wish List as a way for some of my clients to pay me for my writing commissions, as well as a link to instantly throw people who purchase me gifts. 

Anyway, I’ve been getting quite a few orders off of there in the last two months, and I can’t even begin to describe the joy that I feel when the mailman knocks on the door and I am presented with an amazon box. I think that only people who really like to read could possibly understand – there’s such a thrill! What did I get? What am I going to get to read? Which world am I going to disappear into? Reading gives me an amazing rush, gives me insight into the business that I want to go into, and takes me away from any stress that I might be feeling at the time. There’s nothing better than doing it, to me. I love gaming… but there’s just a deep satisfaction from curling up in a chair with a bottle of water and escaping into a book for a few hours. 

My husband says to me, “Amanda, you  have too many books. Why do you need more?”

And the answer is, “There are never enough. I will always want something new to read, a new world to escape into. Shhhhh.” And then I quickly run away to read more books.

I’m just wondering, my dear readers, do you suffer the same problem? Do you have people who don’t understand the magic of books telling you that you have too many? 

What is funny is that when I moved from Kentucky to California, I was forced to leave my books behind. I had soooooooo many – it was painful and awful, but worth it in the end. Still, I am just not starting to get some books back. If he could have seen my old collection…

So, yes, posing that question to you! Do you suffer the same problem? And what do books mean to you? As writers, we have to read every day, we have to keep ourselves fresh, current and inspired!


Until next time! Keep reading and writing!

Author Amanda McCormick



I was browsing around in some of my old writing (I have a folder that makes me cringe) and I came along something that I wrote while in an emotionally abusive relationship. I’d thought I’d tossed all of those documents away… but apparently this one clung to existence because it still had a point to prove. While reading it elicited the emotions that I was feeling when I wrote it, almost to a perfect point… at the same time, it showed me just how very lucky I am to be in the position that I am in now. Still, this post isn’t one for me raving about how great my romantic situation is (it is great though :3), it’s for me to talk about writing your emotions. I’ve met quite a few people who spill their words out like blood on paper with poetry – hell, I’ve had a few morose poems myself. However, I’ve noticed that sometimes who write short stories, full stories, whatever kind of stories… sometimes allow pain to become a writer’s block. Just looking back over that short little story that I wrote, it’s quite obvious that getting those words to document was cathartic for me. I can remember the feeling after I wrote it, like an entire wave of emotion was just released.

I think that for us, as writers, sometimes the best way that we can covey our emotions (whether they are sad, happy, bored, miserable, in love, in pain) is through writing it out. It’s more than that, I think that we put a stamp in time, a stamp on our lives, for how we were feeling at that very moment. Though that story had nothing to do with my actual situation – it was about a vampire in love with someone – I can read it and remember to a second how I was feeling and why. So… perhaps, instead of writing a journal that is just… diatribe about what happened in our day (not that there is anything wrong with a daily journal… I’ve just never been able to do it, and looking back on it, it doesn’t elicit emotion for me), as writers we can document our days through the emotions of our stories. We can record for a frozen moment in eternity how we were feeling through the telling of another’s tale.

I think that makes us pretty cool, huh?

For those curious, I’ll post the story below. I’m not editing it, or anything of the sort. This was written well over four years ago. To you, you may see nothing… but to me, it’s a window to the past. Take a moment and read through some of your old things today – see what memories you can recall.

Of course I pretend that it does not hurt-when one has led the life that I have, the only thing that you can do is hold on to the things that are most dear to you… to the things that make you feel alive. I haven’t felt life running through my body in centuries-I hadn’t held hope for centuries… not until I met him. It’s strange to think on it that the one person who makes me feel alive is the one person who can remind me that I am nothing more than a corpse animated by some demonic magic from long ago. I am nothing. I am worthless…

So how could I be enough?

If you were to look at me now, you would not be able to tell that these thoughts flow through my mind like some flame licking along every nerve that has come to life in my existence. You would not be able to tell that I am dying inside.

Take, for a moment, the clouds. I sit upon the porch of our home while I have these thoughts. I sit and I watch them flow through the air like smoke from a fire… dark, fast-the birds sing their tune and fly by my vision in quick blurs of black. The light has far since been covered by these clouds… the eternal embrace of the sun stolen from me as though it knew that I would have these thoughts… these feelings-knew that there would be a part of me that felt so dead, so ripped inside that I would seek it’s fiery embrace. The Heavens do not want me dead-the Heavens were the one who sent me my sweet Angel-my savior… my destroyer. He breathes life into me with each word that he says… but with each time that his eyes stray, that life is stolen and ripped from me, like the sun was ripped from the sky by these gray clouds that obscure everything. They obscure the purity of the blue that should be overhead, and replace it with some cynical form of shade-of doubt…. Of pain.

I suppose that gray is the color of pain then-funny, I always thought that it would be crimson… like blood. But blood… no-blood is so much more simplistic. Blood cannot lie.

Is that what this is? A lie? Some false hope that I’ve allowed myself to have because of the torment that I’ve suffered for so long? I would accept it-I would walk through it and live in it… and I would embrace the parts that still make me feel whole… if only I knew… what parts were the truth?

The birds are louder now, as though they can taste the lament in the air-as though they want to sing a requiem for these thoughts so that I’ll hush and go back to the bliss that exists inside of the door that presses so harsh to my back. They want me to turn away from the sun before it breaks through the clouds-before it singes away this pain, this agony… before it gives me a release from my doubt, from the thickness that lives inside of these walls with every passing second.

The gray sky moves above-the birds chirp louder… and there is no sun. No escape-no release. No answers….

Oh, yes… I am nothing.




So, yes… That’s a bit depressive (both to read and to stop myself from correcting grammatically) but I can read that and I can remember the exact moment that I wrote it. I was up on a cloudy day, and I was feeling distraught. From my room, I could hear the birds singing, and I went outside because I wanted to see the sun. Of course, it wasn’t there because of the clouds. I can remember the smell of rain in the air and the way that the leaves in my front yard blew in the gentle breeze. And I can remember going to my room and grabbing my laptop and writing this.

I think that the sensory memory that a story can elicit for a writer is one of the singular most amazing things that we can do. Like I said before… pretty cool, huh?

Sorry for the random blog… just some late night musings from this lady author!


Until next time, keep reading and writing!

Author Amanda McCormick