No one could ever say it is simple, or easy, obtaining those things in life that we desire

But I’ve found that it’s generally the complicated and difficult things that are the ones worth striving for. And some things, regardless of how fate seems to step in the way and try to muck it up, are worth fighting for. Even if every day is spent on a battlefield, and every night you spend recovering from your wounds.

There is always the possibility that one day the war will be over, and all those nights of pain will coalesce into everything you ever wanted.

If you only have the strength to tie that bandage and get back to your feet, never knowing, but always hoping, that this would be the last time.

For some people their lives begin the day that they are born, developing and growing into a lifetime of experiences as they themselves grow and learn. And in the end they have lived a satisfying and worthwhile life.
Yet for some others it takes a little bit longer, they too grow up and learn what it means to be an adult, but rather than living life they just coast along waiting for life to find them.

These are people who are not so easily satisfied, and while that sounds like a good thing because it means they have perhaps a more dignified or refined taste, really isn’t. These are the people who take each day for granted. They do not care to acknowledge each start and end for the present is never quite good enough and the future is always more appealing.

Some die early, getting so lost in the past they forget the present, a present that cannot improve without a little intention. For the now in every life is as a beautiful flower garden, a little water, a little weeding and it will flourish, but neglect it for too long and all you have left are the dried and shriveled remains of a beauty that once was. Even if the life continues, all that is valuable is gone, and an empty husk cannot hope to experience what life really is.

Some realize somewhere down the line that regardless of how many years have passed they haven’t yet begun life, and those are the ones who can change, who can see the present anew and are given a second chance to be born.

And sadly, some will wait forever, and their lives will end without meaning because they have run out of future and never once really looked at the present.

I’ve wondered about the phrase “to hell in a handbasket” since reading one of Piers Anthony’s Xanth books.

… and in this case Wikipedia was surprisingly unhelpful. oh dear.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/To_hell_in_a_handbasket

If you have anything to add to this… inquiring minds would like to know.

There are a great many people who cannot appreciate the prairies for what they really have to offer. I was one of those people, and I admit that sometimes it is easy to forget what I have learned over the years of living here.

I think here you learn to appreciate the little things just that much more. There isn’t constant beauty surrounding you. There is no majestic forests with the sun filtering through the leaves and dappling the ground in shade. No gurgling brooks whispering past, no towering mountains peaked in snow all year round. No beaches and palm trees and fruity drinks being sold in stands outdoors.

Here it is so easy to only see the grass that is never fully green, or the land that seems to stretch on for mile after flat mile. But doesn’t that make the beauty that is hidden, just that much more valuable. After all, what is it that makes something worth more if it is not its rarity?

Today an amazing idea came to me. One that not only allows me to develop the plot of my story more fully, but make the writing of it just that much more interesting. It also allows me to connect the two facets which until now seemed almost to be two different stories. This basically makes me happy. But it also makes for a somewhat more complicated read.

I have to wonder. How much faith should I put in the readers. At what point does a story transcend from complicated but good to… “What zee ef iz going on ‘ere?”
I don’t want it to end up something that only the author can make heads or tails of. Where is the fun in that?

Hmm.

Life is full of quirks. I realised this pretty much straight away, but just how devious it can be is something I didn’t fully understand until recently.

I’ve always been a firm believer in choices. That the choices you make are the reasons your life follows the path that it does. That there is no such thing as true fate or destiny because life is what we make it. Sometimes life doesn’t work out the way we really want it to. And when it doesn’t we can either choose to pick ourselves up and continue on or we can let it beat us into submission. There is always a choice.

There are of course always events that are out of our control. And recently I often wondered why they occurred, why we would be given choices where neither option would seem like the right one.

Until I realised that you can never see into the future, and would never know the future choices that await you. So even a choice that appears to be a sacrifice or in some way against what you want for your life, it is simply a pathway leading to yet more choices.
Choices that can take your breath away.

I’ve been thinking. Yes, always a dangerous occupation, but it is bound to happen once in a while. I realized while deep in the ticking time bomb of thought that I haven’t once written another edition of: My Random Little Articles. Let alone one every week. Such a terrible disappointment to all my avid readers I’m sure, but regardless I’ve decided not to make anymore silly little promises. Instead. I’ll just do one, when I think of it. And I’ll be posting them here rather than on facebook.

Flowers.

It is customary in society for a man to give a woman flowers when:
a) he is trying to win her over
b) he wished to apologize for his actions
c) he wants to make her smile
and I’m sure a man could think of several more reasons.

Now, I have nothing against the giving of flowers, and enjoy receiving them. But when you really think about it, the tradition itself is a little bit bizarre.
As my biology teacher once delightfully pointed out, flowers are nothing more than the reproductive organs of plants.
And yet somehow I think a man handing a woman a box and saying, “I’m sorry for being an ass, please accept this donkey ovary as my apology.” Wouldn’t have quite the same effect. For some reason.

The second function of flowers is generally to attract small creeping critters that we lovingly call insects. And which most women despise with a passion. Yet we love flowers almost as much as they do. Tell me, honestly, what does that say about us?

There is also the point that flowers are one of the most unimaginative ways to treat a lady. Finding out her favorite flower is very simple, and getting your hands on it, unless by some chance it just happens to be a Rafflesia, is really quite simple. Yet regardless they are enjoyed and bragged about as though they were gathered up from the jungle and brought back amidst the most harrowing of circumstances. The monkeys! The snakes! The chance that his mates might see him with the incriminating evidence!
“Oh my darling, Thank you for these delightful dandelions! How ever did you survive the journey!”

And yet men insist that we are so difficult to please. All most women ask for are flowers, chocolates, and some shiny lumps of rock.

I’ll be a little daring. Change the pace up a bit. I’ll ask for your heart.

Questions to help direct my writing –

Is it the outcome or the method of getting to the end result that has the most significance?
If you achieve something good with a bad deed, have you done something evil?
If you allow something bad to happen and you could have done something to prevent it, are you to blame?
Can you truly ever be forgiven if you do not forgive yourself?

Questions help give me focus…Feel free to answer, opinions other than my own are always welcome.

And here’s one that has nothing to do with writing =P just my own boredom…
since the world curves, can you ever really walk in a straight line? >_-pulls out calculus book to give clever answer- heaven forbid that evil subject should ever have a use in my life.

1) Holding tight my hand,
In another place,
Different time and space.

If I close my eyes,
And dream of might have been,
I feel the hand in mine,
Not just another line.

The pressure of another,
A pulse beside my own,
It pulls me in,
It draws me deep,
Calling me home.

Just have to wait until,
Time and space collide,
Waiting for the phantom,
To wake me up inside.

.. it would appear that I’ve begun writing poetry again. I didn’t expect that to happen… hem. what do you know.

2)Never meant to be, For me
This foolish thing is just an end
which no true form of desire mend
Another lost amidst the game
though winner finds not fortune nor fame
See it now as footsteps fade
Of long forgotten lovers made

Writing the ending of a story first is something that I do on a very regular basis. I think it stems partially from the fact that getting to an unknown ending is what I love about books. Sometimes the perfect ending is the predictable one, sometimes it’s better with a twist, sometimes even with a twist and a cherry. But the not knowing until you actually get there what it is going to be, is what I love. Which is why I abhor the people who read the ending of a book first to see if they actually want to read the book. If you’re one of those people, don’t eeeven try to defend yourself to me. I’ve heard every argument out there and I will never agree with it. It destroys all the hard work that the writers put in to get to that ending. It is my ultimate pet peeve.
So for me, dreaming up what I would love to get to at the end of a book, is the best feeling in the world. I have lists of crazy, twisted, unexpected and even simple endings that I would love to be able to write the stories to. Of course it makes it complicated because then before you even know who the characters really are you have to set them down a certain path to arrive there. Figuring out the plot that will get you to that ending is not always easy. Believe me.

Now something I have always wanted to do is write a tragedy. Simply because it goes against everything that I am. I like reading happy endings, getting to and thinking, whew, that’s good. I’m glad it turned out that way. But I have always acknowledged the potency of a tragedy.
Any way my dilemma is thus; I am working on a story, the ending to which I wrote quite some time ago, and I’ve been working very hard to get to this ending that I wanted very much. I’m about 1/4 the way through the story, which is quite good progress for me, and suddenly today, I have written another ending for it. A sad tragic ending that I never thought I could actually create.
I want this story to end the way I had originally planned, but part of me wants to put in the alternate ending just to prove that I can.
It’s a real humdinger.Of course I probably won’t decide until the day I finish the rest of it…
What to do… what to do…