Untitled Poem

Do you know what today is? Most likely not. We remember our past presidents, the brave military boys that died for us, we remember heroes, tragedies and victories. We celebrate them by giving them a day and we mark it on the calendar. We drink to them, we feast to them, we remember them. But today? It’s not even a blip on your radar, is it?

May Fifteenth was designated as National Law Enforcement Memorial Day by President Kennedy in 1962 and this is how I feel about it.

Is it quiet in the locker room? Is their friendly banter?

Do they think of their wives? Do they look at pictures of their children?

Or do they hum the tune to their favorite song?

Do they know if tonight is the night they will pull the trigger as the gun sinks on their hips?

When they don the uniform that binds them as brothers, do you know the weight they feel?

It's not the undershirts that keeps the sweat away, or the ballistics vests the keep their hearts safe.

It's not the blues, greens, and black

Colors that signifies unending bond. Or the belts with their tools of the day.

Their guns, tasers, capsicum spray. The handcuffs, the back ups, the magazines that keep others bullets at bay. The batons, the knives, the gloves.

Even with all that, all that they carry, do they feel the weight?

It's when they button their shirts, straiten their badge does the weight fall.

It's their life they feel so heavy.

You spit, you spray.

You shout, you scream.

You accuse, and point.

You cuss, you threaten, you kill them with your eyes.

It's their fault you got pulled over. It's their fault you disobeyed. It's their fault that you were caught.

You blame them, you fight them.

You take their lives away.

And when the true evil touches your lives, when it grazes the cheeks of your sleeping child

You pick up the phone and call

Beg them to save your precious possessions, and your expensive things.

You forget the threats, you forget the dead.

You just want them there. With their badges, their guns, their lives.

How easily you forget the sacrifice they make. Not one day, not ten, not a thousand days, but every day, They come.

They come when we want them, they come when we need them,

These hero's of the night.

When you cry out for help, and when no one is brave to aid, they will come.

When fear makes you run, they will come.

When you shoot at them, when you throw bottles, knives, bats alike, they will come.

They run to your side, and not away. Protect you with their bodies.

Do you really know who they are? Do you really know what they do?

They foot pursue down the dark dangerous ally. They creep along, heavy wooded lines looking for what they cant find.

Into drug filled houses, with what the dogs and cats leave behind. Children sitting in their filth for a time.

Into fire fights, into domestic fights, into bar fights.

Into the world of the rich right down to the poor.

Don't judge the ones that will stand without fear for you.

You drive by them, ignore them. You tell them what to do.

When will you be ready to take their place? When will you stand for needles to the face?

Will you spill your blood? Will your spouse's blood?

Will you stand in the way?

They are thousands strong, yet losing every day.

Do you care? Do you stop, take a moment and feel the loss

of a father, mother, brother, sister?

How certain are you that the one you love will come home tonight?

How certain are you they wont be shot at? Knifed? Or Spat at?

How certain are you that drunks with diseases wont bleed all over them when they get into a fight?

What horrors does the one you love see when they go to work?

Do they see children without a chance?

Do they see lives devoted to drugs?

What would you do?

Would you go and protect the one I love? Into a house stuffed with guns?

As my lover walks away from me each and every day. A small voice inside asks me,

Will today be the day? Will I get the call? Will there be a knock on my door?

Will I lose my partner, my friend, my husband?

Will I lose him to a drug deal gone bad? Or a shooter gone mad? Will I lose him for his badge? Or will it be he was just standing there?

Oh, blessed relief when I get the call. "I'm headed home."

"I love you." I say, biting the tears away.

"I love you too." He'll say.

He kisses me when he comes home, and I know

We survived another day.

ã Kyla Kristine, 2011

It's like getting sand kicked in your face.

How absolutely horrifying!
Imagine, you have a story that is unique amongst all the millions of stories told and your perusing Amazon.com trying to find a new book to download onto your kindle. (Yes I love the kindle. Bite me purists! I live on the dark side and I love it. **A** That is just for you!) And you come across a synopsis that is strikingly similar to the one you have been pouring your heart over. The character even has the same NAME! Oh, how awful. Imagine the cuss words that came to my mind! I was pissed. I am unique, I am special. Why is some one else in my head??
So what do you do when you come across the same plot line?
You buy the damn book.
I did. For a dollar.
I am so glad I did. It has become such a learning experience.
First and foremost. I was relieved that there were only two similarities with the story and One is easily changed and gave my novel a bit richer feel, the other isn’t important. Oh so happy. The cuss words are still flying in my head though.
First lesson: Change my characters name. Why? It is a common name and every strong male hero has the same name. I didn’t like that. Even though he will always be that name to me, I realized that I needed a name change. After a few hours of reading names I found one that is unique and fitting. Lesson learned and change made.
Second lesson: Recognizing my own writing style in the published one. As I am reading the book, that shall remain nameless, I see many things that I do.
For example: Using the same descriptive words over and over again. Such as, softly, or gaze. I need to make sure I expand my vocabulary and be conscience of my word choices. Lesson learned and change made.
Third lesson: Useless information. The author includes a lot of useless information. If two characters are having the same feeling, say that. Not this character is feeling this, then move to the other character and explain the same feeling. Or perhaps all of the characters are doing the same thing, say that instead of explaining each individual characters actions. Or over hammering home points constantly. There was also a lot of cheek chewing. All the characters did it. It was annoying. If one character did it then that is a good character trait. But if all of them do it, the act loses its meaning. So I need to make sure that I am being more effective with the information that I am sharing about my characters. Lesson learned and changes made.
Forth lesson: Important development. There are two main characters. The heroin is a life loving, tree hugging, hybrid driving, recycler. The hero kills people for a living. There is a brief passage about the heroin discovering the hero’s big secret, her accepting him and that’s it. No explanation, no reasons, no emotion about what happened and how she learned to live and accept the hero. Not okay. That is huge for the heroin to accept. Why isn’t there more about this? Why cant we visit the day she discovered the truth and what her thought process was. How did he feel about it? That is an important development, why was it so brief?
I need to make sure that things that are particularly important to the development in the characters in the story is clearly told so that my readers understand the decisions that are made and they are easy to accept. Lesson learned and changes made.
Fifth lesson: Delivery. Characters were telling other characters ‘secrets’ because it was ‘okay.’ I understand the authors need to deliver the information but do it in a probable situation. The heroin was terrified of flying. Absolutely terrified. Okay I can understand that. However, later in the book there was an entire conversation about her brother dying in a plane, after it had crashed. That was in no way tied to the irrational fear of planes until the end. So I need to make sure as my characters develop I deliver the emotions, decisions and actions in a way that flows and is believable. Lesson learned and changes made.
Sixth lesson: The end. Suddenly at the end of the book the heroin is an assassin, cause she made a couple of lucky shots under ridiculous conditions. If the delivery and development of the character had been better I could believe that. But there was one mention of the heroin going to the range and firing five rounds. Hardly makes anyone an assassin unless they are unbelievably talented, but that was never developed and the delivery sucked. So I need to make sure that I end my book in a believable way. (My sister hates the end of my book. Actually she wouldn’t talk to me for a few days. That is only because it was a cliffhanger and there was no closure. That is because there is a second book.)
This is the only place I feel that I have succeeded. (When considering the above lessons.) I love my ending, it’s a great ending. Does it need work? Yes, but it ends exactly the way it needs to in a believable yet *Gasp*Shock*Awe* way.
This last lesson is one that is not learned from the book that I am reading, but one I learned in school. How bizarre is that? I swore I would never use anything I learned in school in the real world. Now here I am publicly announcing that I am using something.
Reading aloud.
Stupid teachers and being right. Yes, that is dripping in bitterness and sarcasm.
I started reading aloud to find errors and improper wordings. And the stupid thing is, it works.
Damn it. My mom is going to love this.
I have cleared up so many problems, simply by hiding in a dark corner, so that no one can hear me, and reading aloud to myself.
Since deciding to write adult I need to make some subtle changes in the beginning of my story. Reading aloud is helping me identify where those changes can be made.
I need to be careful though. Not only do I NOT want to look like the crazy person in the corner, (Shit, I think I may have already failed that one.) I want the beginning of my story to stay innocent and young since that is the place my character is at in her life. Sadly for her she goes off the deep end. That is where I want the writing to get darker and grown up.
So here’s to reading aloud. Clink. Gulp. Burn.
There it is. I am learning, developing and growing myself. I am admitting my weaknesses and getting stronger.
Okay in writing only. I have no weaknesses anywhere else…(yeah that was sarcasm too.)
If you think I am being overly critical with my critique your right, I am. Not because I am judging the PUBLISHED author, when I am not. But I am taking those lessons and applying them to my own writing. I am being far more sever on myself than I am on her. This can only make me better…right?

Love, Passion and Writing...

Yesterday I posted my latest dilemma and I am sitting here wondering why this is so important to me. I have not expressed in words why writing frees me.
Why is writing my novel important to me? Why is it important that I write it?

There are things in my life that I love.
I love my husband. I love waking up and seeing my husband next to me. Many people I know have thought of marriage as a scary adventure. Promising themselves to one person for the rest of their lives and making that commitment permanent. I found marrying my husband calming, a peace that I needed so badly. Knowing that he would be with me through everything, through my imperfections, my mistakes, my pain was the most exhilarating feeling in the world. I know that I will stand with him where ever our lives take us. He is mine and I am his. It hasn't been easy. We are two strong, stubborn and different people. We argue, we fight, but at the end of the day I love him and he loves me.
It's like riding a see saw. We are two ends of a board, different sides, different opinions but connected and balanced.
I love my baby. What a thrill she is. What a terror she is. I didn't get the model that sits and plays quietly. I got the model that tears trim off the wall and is proud of herself. She is smart, clever, and at nineteen months she knows exactly what she is doing.  She never stops, she laughs more than she cries. I admire her. My baby girl explores, investigates and has the desire to discover everything. The world is new and fresh to her. Watching her learn teaches me. Shows me that things small and simple are fascinating and hold more than first glance will give credit for.
She shows me everyday that there is so much more beneath the surface. So much more to me. I value the time I spend with her and I will not trade it for anything, so don't offer.

I love coffee. I might change my drink every few weeks or months but certain standards stay the same. I love my coffee hot. Not really warm, not just hot enough. I love it hot, hot, hot. I love the first sip. I love the way the heat starts on my tongue, burns down my throat and ends up in my core. Not my stomach or my tummy. But my soul. The right cup off coffee and the first sip will set my world right. If I am exhausted it awakens me inside. If I am sad that first sip gives me the moment to think about my emotions. If I am lost it lets me find myself. It is more than a liquid in a cup. It is a drug just for me. Catered to my needs, designed specifically for my body and soul.

There is a difference between love and passion.
People pass through my drive through everyday and I ask every time. "Are you up to anything exciting today?"
It is rare that the answer is "Yes!" Most of the time I get "Eh, work." Eyes drooping, shoulders sagging as they drive off to their dreaded routine. They have loves in their lives, but no passion.
Nothing that lights the fire within them.
Writing is my fire. My computer is my fuel, my mind is lighter fluid, my fingers my kindling. And when I sit down and let my mind connect to my hands, I ignite the fire and it roars.
I write to create. I write to investigate, to learn, to free myself.
On bad days, the days that I feel trapped and tethered, I write and a whole new world is open to me. One that I influence, one that I command. Giving me wings to fly. I feel the air rushing past me, the sun supplying my energy. Breaking though the barriers that confine me, and snapping the tether keeping me to the ground.
On good days I flow like a river, tumbling and cascading over rocks and boulders. Nothing can stop me. Like water, I meet a dam with force and break through it shooting out on the other side.
I want to write every day. Page after page or word after word. I have story to tell. I think about my story. I think about how to tell it. I think about how my world around my influences my writing and the directions I take. I have such a passion for it I will burst if I cant write it down. If I don't tell it I will regret it for the rest of my life. Will it take me years to completed it? Perhaps. I have no timeline set. I will take exactly as long as I need to complete it.
My passion drives me. I make an effort to constantly search for new writers to learn from, new inspiration to draw from. My story follows me around. Like the little devil on my shoulder whispering in my ear. He's an inappropriate little devil and I love it.

So that's why I do it. That is why I write.
Does that bring me closer to making a decision? Maybe.
I am exploring many emotions that I am uncomfortable with, it distances me from my story. Maybe to reconnect me and continue to explore and investigate I need to write more like me, that would mean taking my age group from Young Adult to Adult. This would also mean I would be writing a fine line. Teetering on my butte. Making sure I don't lose sight of my story, making my characters cliche or drenching my story in overdeveloped emotions.
This is one avenue I have not travelled with my story. Maybe I should at least go down that road and see where it takes me.
Hmmm...interesting...

Standing on a Butte

I feel like such a fence sitter.
Actually I feel like I am standing on a great butte in the south west.With blinding sun, scorching desert, winds whipping at my hair and sheer drop offs. Like in the movies when the main character is alone, abandoned and isn't sure what to do next and in a beautifully played cinematic move the character is suddenly flashing to a desert to symbolize solitude and the strength it will take to survive.
Okay, maybe I am not that bad. So I guess I am back to being a fence sitter.
Indecision...an awful place to be when writing a three, potential four, part series.
In my life I don't sit the fence. I make a decision and I live with it good or bad. I have been lucky in my life to have mostly made the right decision. But as a human I am fallible. (Yes, I know. I just admitted I am not perfect. Don't be too harsh on me.) I make mistakes. I don't want this to be one of them.
I am not sure what to do next. My dilemma? 
Do I stick with the Young Adult genre or go for the full on Adult?
Does this mean I make it one of those sex books? No.
Maybe I will write one of those when I am old. Wouldn't that be a kicker?
But there is a deep dark path I can take my novel. Really let my characters stretch and grow. Investigate feelings that are complicated, difficult and dangerous.
I love it when a book goes dark. It means there is light on the other end. Happy ending or no, it always ends in light.
It's been a lingering question for a while.
There are pros and cons to both sides. So how do I choose?
Young Adult: The book already has a young adult feel but I don't feel as connected to it.
Adult: The book is more open to intense situations, it can get darker, grittier. I can entertain darker emotions and dilemmas.  But in doing that do I lose sight of the story I want to tell?
How do I decide? Which will be the more interesting story?
I am only twenty seven pages into my latest rewrite. I feel that I need to make the decision and run with it.
This is by far the best rewrite I have done. I know that my new beginning, my new point of view is what I have been striving for. Two crucial points have been met. Now I must decide the last.
Flip the coin? Might as well.
When I say I am sitting on the fence I mean it. I'm not even leaning from one side to another.  Both pulling equally.
And so the adventure continues. I feel like those books I used to read as a kid. I cant remember what they are called, but at the end of the chapter there is a question.
"To follow Mark into the cave go to page seven. To follow Mark down the path turn to page forty eight." Yada, yada, yada...
I decide the fate of my book. So, page seven? Or page forty eight?

Henery Higgens is stuck in my head

My Fair Lady is one of my favorite movies, ever. I am prone to the classics.
I know all the songs and I sing along in bad tunes. But recently Rex Harrison has been singing one song in my head.
Right now he's chanting in my head. "By Joe, I think she's got it!" Over and over. But I have been watching Family Guy for too long and Rex Harrison looks like Stewie Griffin in my head. That alone brings up so many issues about my sanity.

Evolution has happened again, and I think I got it right this time. That's why Stewie is screaming at me with Rex Harrison's voice and Audrey Hepburn is staring at me as if I stole her show.
After my Bikini post I began to seriously think about my plot and what was wrong with it. And then this crazy idea popped into my head, as many of my ideas are.

Writing a novel is a funny thing.
I had never really understood about books and documents being a living thing.
But the bible and other religious writings speak to the people that are devoted to them. We are told in school that the Constitution is a living document, it changes, adapts and supports our country and foundations with it's words so elegantly scripted.
My novel evolves. It lives in a Frankensteinish sort of way. Even though I know what direction I want it to go, the writing dictates how it gets there. Things I desperately want to happen, and things I want my characters to say just don't work. They wouldn't do that or they wouldn't say that so a different direction I go. I follow my characters, they lead and I just write in their wake.
My story wants to survive, it hasn't given up on me and I am not about to give up on it.

And boy did I really go a different direction.
I started a whole new rewrite, a whole new perspective, a whole new beginning in a completely different part of the story line.
For the first time I love it. It feels right. That all the crap that I have written before was just clarifying back story. Setting tone and direction. Giving me the foundation to write the story that is interesting and cryptic adding a whole different element I had never thought about including before. Now there is intensity and purpose. The adventure starts right away. And then this really weird thing happened. I'm not sure how I feel about it.
I actually wrote a romantic scene and it was good, better than good. It was great. My sister even liked it. (That is saying something. She was so stinking cute. I gave her one version and asked for an opinion and she didn't really like it and she totally felt bad about it. I told her an honest critic gets books published. Telling me what I want to hear doesn't. So I rewrote the version and let her read that one and she liked it a whole lot better.)
Is it perfect no? Not yet. Is it a whole hell of alot better than anything else I have written? Bet your bottom dollar it is.
I no longer feel trapped by my stupid brain and my small computer. (Which needs a new battery. My power cord is my life line right now.)
I feel an evil laugh coming on, but I will spare you.
Some day soon I will shut Stewie up in my head and have a manuscript to send out and then maybe, just maybe I will walk into a book store and there it will be, my book.

So...lets talk

I am not a complicated girl. And when things get complicated I get bitchy.
Knowing that, how do you think my conversation with Comcast went? Bout as well as a rabbit trying to explain vegetarianism to a fox.
My husband and I discussed getting rid of most of our services with Comcast, because they suck, and just sticking with Internet. So I called them several weeks ago to find out when our promotion was ending. The woman on the phone told me April 23. I said great and hung up.
Now I am not a stupid girl either. I have been dealing with Comcast for years.The truth is as elusive to them as the Giant Squid is to biologists. I promptly redialed the number and hit all their stupid buttons and got to another young girl and asked the same question and low and behold she gave me the same answer.
Weird right?
Getting the same answer out of two people! I was floored and gave myself a good old pat on the back for good work. Same answer twice, no need to call back. The stars aligned, the wolves were calling to the moon, time to buy a lottery ticket. So I put it in my phone to call April 22 to cancel the services we would no longer require.
Monday night my husband asks me why Comcast withdrew $210 out of our account. My jaw actually hit the ground. I had no idea. The little bastards lied to me. Both of them.
First thing Tuesday morning I called their customer service "Home of the Customer Service Guarantee." Yeah right, they can kiss my rosy white Irish ass.
The first guy I talked to listened to my story and looked through my account,  verified my information asked me a million questions that have nothing to do with the reason why I called then apologized about the mix up but our promotion ended MARCH 23!
I said no, no, no. I told him I called. I told him twice.
He apologized again and said that there was no record of me calling, once or twice and there was no record of me calling for six months.
Well how the hell did that happen? How is it that I called twice and neither of the little jerks accessed my information and BOTH of them giving me the same date?
I demanded as much from the guy and he apologized again (they think that makes it better. It doesn't.) and tells me that he has no idea. Jerk.
I ask him to credit our account since we were told that it was April 23, not the month before. You'll never guess what he did.
He apologized AGAIN! And told me no. I asked for a supervisor. He said sure, I think he wanted to get rid of me.
So I started all over again. I have the new guy my story, then the same million stupid questions that have nothing to do with anything and I a m no better off.
The only thing this guy knew how to do was repeat everything back to me that I already said and finished every sentence with 'there.' I am not kidding. I couldn't concentrate on anything he said. (Not like it mattered he was just saying what I had said.) In the end I stopped listening and started counting how many 'theres' he said. I stopped counting at 35. No joke.
This guy also refused to help me. Probably because it was outside of his vocabulary. He refused to credit my account, he refused to offer any help. But the 'there's kept rolling in. Anyone higher on the food chain was going to call back in a few hours. Already bit that worm once and got dragged out of the river, not going to do that again.
Would I change Internet providers if there was someone, anyone else that provided out where I live? You bet your last dollar and the lint in your pocket I would. But alas we are stuck with them.
Will someone please provide Internet out here so that I can lose Comcast?
I hate calling them. I hate talking to them. I hate getting five different stories every time I call. I work in customer service. I could out customer service them any day of the week and twice on Sunday.
Actually lets make a challenge.
I bet Comcast cant beat me!
Any takers?

The trees have bikinis!

So I was mowing my lawn today and I got to thinking. How? You ask. Well I don't have a gas guzzling, air polluting, energy sucking lawn mower. My mower is me powered. I push, blades rotate, grass lies dead at my feet.
Sorry, let me get off my evil soap box.
There. Now since there is no motor it's a quiet affair when I mow my lawn and it affords me the time to let my brain wander. Which is a dangerous thing, who knows what I will come up with.
I started making lists in my head. And then this image popped in my head.
The Starbucks that I frequent to write and take some me time has two trees outside that someone so kindly dress up with bikinis. One is pink and orange and the other is yellow.
How ridiculous is that? But is it? We dress our pets, (well I do) We dress our houses, lawns, lives. A tree wearing bikini isn't so odd.
Believe it or not, that whole conversation led me to this.
Categorizing my writing and taking note of what I have learned about me. Because what I am about to do is both ridiculous and odd.

Problem: I have learned that the two stories I have been working on that are in the first person are way more interesting than my third person. (Two of you out there want to know two? Haven't told ya bout the other one yet...moohoohaaa haaa haaa! okay evil laugh gone.)

Solution: Consider writing my third person in the first person. This thought makes me feel like I am leaning over the edge of the Grand Canyon without a sign to stop me. My third person story is the one that I have been working on the longest, that I have agaonized over and rewritten so many times. Now facing another rewrite is depressing, yet oddly settling.

Problem: I can not write young adult. I cant do it. I cant do it so that it is interesting, funny, emotional or suspenseful, at least not in the way I want.

Solution:  I am losing the Young Adult audience and speaking to my me audience. This decision is the most freeing. I can write the way I want to and not feeling like I am been shackled to the floor.

Problem: I suffer from TMI. Not in the way where you find out more about me than you ever wanted to know, but from a readers perspective. I, for some ungodforsaken reason, feel the need to tell my readers everything about every character. How they get places, all the subtle things they do, every single detail.

Solution: You don't need to know. Well okay, some things you do need to know, but the rest if fluff. It's too much it holds the story down, makes it boring. So weed out the TMI.

Problem: Going hand in hand with TMI I have a transition issue. I cant just leave my story in one spot then promptly pick it up at a later time. For example. My character is going to leave, drive home, make a few turns, has a few thoughts then get home go to bed and wake up the next morning.

Solution: 'Waking up the next morning she had a thought.' Look fluff gone. Do that more.

So where does this leave me?
Another rewrite. Sad but true. I recently read an article titled 'A Million Words of Crap' and I feel I am nearing the end of my crap and verging on the real story.
What am I going to do?
Well some of you are just going to wait to find out.

Look at that I was suspenseful!