Curls and Sass

There is a little girl with long blonde curls. Her chubby cheeks have dimples when she smiles and her bright eyes crinkle just like her nose. I love this little girl.

She is light in a tired world.

Her spunk keeps me on my toes and her sass, although it occasionally gets her into trouble, more often is another giggle bubbling up inside me.

Her peanut butter and jelly kisses delight my heart and her smothering hugs gives me bunches of joy. She is wild, silly and beautiful.

She is a horrible tantrum and a tearful I’m sorry.

She is a sweetheart and a picture on the fridge with every color totally not in the lines.

She leaves bare footprints on the blacktop outside my house from her cute, wet feet after playing in the sprinkler.

This little cookie monster is an animal lover and she has the scar on her cheek to prove it.

She is a sun-kissed cutie pie and a hyper mess-maker.

My little mud-puddle warrior loves to sing at the top of her lungs. No matter if the song makes sense, she sings with all she has and it is wonderful to hear.

I pray she doesn’t change her pure perspective, which sees beauty in everything. I long for her to stay this age, but am also excited for her to battle this journey called life. She has touched my life with her lovable nature.

One day my precious little girl with long blonde curls will grow up, but I hope her silliness will remain. It is the silly people who have the most fun.

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Am I Emotional Or Is It The Rain?

I love the sounds of rain. Rain can ting, ping and swish. It splashes on the road when a car drives through a puddle. The different sounds of rain can be beautiful,filled with emotion. Of course, rain isn’t full of feelings, but its many sounds impact us in innumerable ways.

For example, when it is raining and I am in the barn, it tings and sometimes even sounds like rocks are falling from the sky. It makes me feel excited. The rhythm sends my heart sailing high and, I have to admit, I often want to dance or, at least, sway.

When I’m home and it’s raining hard, I wish I was asleep in my bed, listening to the rain tell its story with every ping and ting.

A gentle rain puts me in a soft mood. I want to curl up on a pile of pillows and blankets, surrounding myself with words, books and music, which, in my opinion is perfection. It can also make me gloomy. Forcing me to look back on life and ask myself, “What the heck were you thinking Abigail?” Maybe I’m stressed and then it starts raining and I ask, “Really?” It adds one more miserable thing to my momentarily wretched life.

Thunderstorms are wonderful. I am suffused with excitement, but also wonder. Stormy rain wakes me up and my mind expands. Everything becomes interesting. I want to explore, maybe discover a fossil of some unknown creature. I want to shock people like a storm shocks me. In my opinion, storms are incredible because of their ferocity and wild allure. I begin to think and question, “How is everything possible?”

Rain is unique and divine. I love each and every sound it makes. It allows me to experience emotions on all kinds of levels, whether I am in the barn or at home, whether I am happy or sad.

Muddy

I stand in the middle of a muddy field. It rained yesterday and my boots are already covered ankle deep in wet dirt. I am trudging to my horse. I take a step. The mud swallows my foot and makes an angry sucking sound when I pull my leg up, taking my foot away from its slimy grip. Even though I am filthy, I don’t mind. I’ve always loved a mess. Besides, I get to put my arms around my beautiful beast after I’ve conquered the field.

There is nothing like the bond between me and my horse. His name is Gray, and he is utterly amazing. If you think I’m too muddy, you should see my horse. He likes to roll. His white coat is barely visible. Patches peek out from the caked on remains of a recent dirt bath. His beautiful silver mane has blotches of grime, sticking the hairs together. Clumps of brown grass and twigs are tangled in his tail, which swishes around swatting the flies off his sides and legs.

Have you ever been in the presence of a stubborn kid? Or, maybe you are the stubborn kid. Sometimes children will do something over and over again no matter what you say and it is totally worth it to them. Well my Gray likes to be dirty. Every single time I brush him and work super hard to get all the grossness off his lovely and majestic self, he goes and rolls in the dirtiest part of his field as soon as I let him go. I laugh at it now because he just can’t help it.

My big, stubborn horse is a sweetheart, but sometimes he just refuses to agree with my choices. Silly thing, doesn’t he know that a women is never wrong? (Well, almost never.) Thankfully, we both love the muck. It doesn’t bother us one bit, and, to me, it’s worth the dirt as long as I get to rub my boy down. Then he can go get filthy again.

Laughter

I don’t know about you but I just adore laughter. It can change a grumpy attitude to wonderful joy. And there are so many kinds of laughter: small giggles, stifled chortles, belly laughter and so many more. Laughter is genuine delight that flows through us.

Giggles are adorable. I am not sure I have ever come across someone’s giggle and not loved it. They are cute and warm, filled with gentle peace even if just for that moment. We giggle for so many different reasons. Whether it’s flirtatious or simply because of a funny joke. I guess girls giggle more than men; men probably prefer a more manly term such as “chuckle.”

Stifled laughter cracks me up because it often occurs when someone is attempting to not laugh in an inappropriate moment. This happens to me often. I can make a fool out of myself pretty easily with my stifled laughter, because if I stifle, I snort. Embarrassed after my pig-like snigger, I usually consider running away forever or getting a job on a farm.

Oh, glorious belly laughter, you are my favorite. I fall for the uncontrollable happiness. When someone is outrageously happy, it warms my heart. I listen to each person’s laughter, none sounding the same. And I laugh too, because someone’s laugh is awful. Oh wait, that’s just mine.

Well, at least I can laugh at my laugh. Man, that sounds sad. Anyway, love laughing. Enjoy the outburst of fun and elation. Live your laughs to the fullest.

A Covenant in The Pages

There is a beautiful promise in written words. Not just in fictional books, but in any piece of work an author takes the time to fashion. A written letter is a wonderful way to express ones feelings, the inked words display emotions of all types. A book is more formal. It is often typed up and printed but the promise is still there in wonderful ways. So, what is this promise?

What do you want to feel when you read a book? When you pick a book to read, you will already begin to realize what feelings will occur inside you. You see, readers have that option. A reader picks the book, right? That reader reveals what they want to feel or not feel by which books they choose to read. The back of the book is the promise. When you read the back of a book, you understand that your emotions will be tangled, like a plate of spaghetti. Yes, I am telling you to break the rule and judge a book by its cover.

How unfair it is. Of course, I know life is not fair, but books are supposed to be little pieces of one’s heart, and those pieces paint pictures and tell tales. They lavish you with comforting love and laughter or shocking battles scenes and gruesome heartache. The author’s heart is typed into whatever book or paper they write. It’s that covenant in the pages that says you’re are safe with what you have chosen to read. When you are attacked with disappointment in the author for breaking those promises emotions, it is almost like they’re saying, “I am breaking your heart and you can not do anything about it.”

Us readers trust our books, because words and stories are important to us. We need to feel that familiar thrill when we read. It is our safe place.

Tick Tock, I’m Back

     Writers block is completely disheartening. As a writer, it is natural for words to pour out of my fingertips, forming paragraphs of which I can be proud. Writing is comforting and refreshing. It is my passion. When it doesn’t come to me, it’s as if a piece of my heart has been ripped out of my chest, torn from its place, and hidden far away. For those who don’t write, trust me writers block is a wretched feeling.

     Writing is a piece of me, something that helps me breathe. I can process my thoughts on paper or type them on my MacBook. Writing helps my restless nature, letting me live my wild dreams without moving from my couch. So when I sit down, open my laptop, and stare at a blank screen, I expect my fingers to move in the familiar motions. Yet my hands hover over the keys. Frozen in place, having no intention of moving, they are much like me when my alarm wakes me up each morning.

     I stare at a blank laptop screen and start the beginning stages of going mad. All at once, unexpectedly it’s all gone. No thoughts of wonderful stories, not even blunt or emotional opinions come to my mind. My way of loosening up, letting my hair down, giving anything a chance, is missing out of the blue.

     When I write I feel daring, unrestrained, as if I can be whatever I want to be with no restrictions. I feel like I can be irresponsible and get away with it. Having a right to speak my own opinion and having a voice is so incredible because I don’t have to actually voice the words, I can type them instead. Talking in front of people is not a strength of mine. So, having all those feelings swirling inside me and that lovely way to “speak” suddenly ripped away is devastating. It is shredded from my very being, taken— gone.

     Because of my powerless fingers, I beg my mind to work. I plead. Still, nothing.

     I decided to ask for help from my writing teacher and she told me to write about writer’s block. Sitting down on my couch, I turn off my phone and begin to type not caring what came. Snap! It came back. My mind and fingers began to turn again, like an old clock’s gears that no one had been able to fix but suddenly you hear that chime when the clock strikes 12. Tick, Tock, I’m back.

Late Night Attacks

     My mind comes alive at night. Stories, a little on the wild side, take me prisoner. Ideas for new short papers bubble up in my brain and bounce around with possibilities. I become more daring.

     There is something about the dark hours that influences me to think deeper, harder and wider. Maybe it is the fact that I can’t sleep. When I am exhausted my brain forces me to put letters together until they finally form a complete conclusion. I do my best evaluation of life when the moon is up, the stars are shining and slothfulness seeps into me.

     My head fills with propositions. Promises of silly dreams and wonderful things flow into me. Wretched emotions and tired heartaches attack me. As a teenager my brain tends to wander to impossible wishes and the calamities of my life. My thoughts become a vase filled with endless wants.

     The danger is that I relive memories. The past can take over. Painful pictures take me back and pressure me to remember how things used to be. The thoughts form in my head like a worm trying to eat away an apple. No matter how hard I fight, sometimes shadows and vivid recollections invade still. That worm drills itself in one way or another.

     I am often “drunk on no sleep,” as my wonderful friend Sarah says. During the night my mind’s process ranges from trying to get out of my own brain by shrinking into my pillows, to coming up with brilliant inventions that I will never make and probably laugh about when the sun finally rises. By morning I am ready to face the day…after I get a cup of coffee, of course.


     My best work comes with sleepless nights. When all is quiet, God speaks. I thank Him for the ability to wake up with a new perspective on life.

The Ocean’s Staggering Beauty

     Most people describe the ocean and beach with simplicity, but I refuse to encourage that mortifying lie. The ocean is anything but simple. Each wave is unlike the other, every grain of sand is unique, and not one seashell is the same. One minute it is calm and soothing, the next it is wild and fierce. The waves crash with such intensity I am in awe of their vigorous strength. Yet, at other times, the water seems endlessly peaceful.

     At least once every year I go to the beach with either a friend or my family. The first moment my feet imprint the sand, I can’t help but smile. Standing there, I examine this staggering beauty .

     The ocean’s colors are never constant; they change with the waves. Each blue is a new shade and each green refuses to stay in one place. Purple pops up randomly and I see gray frequently. The colors swish and swirl. With every surge of energy running through the water like lightning, the colors claim a new position to display the ocean’s splendor.

     What a luxurious view I behold. What an astounding image my eyes have the pleasure to see. How truly blessed I am to to submerse myself in this gorgeous part of earth. The grandeur surprises me every time. From the sand in between my toes to the graceful waves that splash against my shins the flawless picture boggles my mind. What a perfect vision.

A Cold Kind of Cozy

Winter is my favorite season. If you had asked me a while back, I would have chosen Summer, but the beauty of winter has stolen the prize of my heart. Icicles form and hang from the edge of the roof, like stalactites inside a cave. Everyday I watch to see how long they’ll get before they are broken off by the brisk wind.

Winter brings me warmth. As strange as that sounds, its true. It’s not the physical kind of warmth; It’s the soothing feeling my heart captures as I wrap myself in my favorite quilt, which is about the size of a whale, and step outside on our porch for some morning coffee and a nice long talk with my Heavenly Father.

A gentle delight surrounds me even when I am inside. Our maroon couch is right in front of the divine fire, my amazing father graciously kept up to ensure his family stays warm. I let the heat caress my face and permeate my clothes. Looking over at my mom, who is reading her kindle beside me, amusement floods my mind. A smile takes control of my lips as I watch my mother’s different facial expressions display themselves while she reads her book.

The snow season is a joyful time of hot drinks, sledding down hills and, of course, the celebration of Jesus’s birthday. Family come together with gifts and christmas songs buzzing through their minds. Its beautiful to watch transpire. There is something about this particular holiday season that puts a smile on everyones face. A simple “Happy Holidays” will brighten anyone’s day.
So as Winter enters this year, a cozy kind of cold envelops me.

Dear Authors who write fictional series,

     Would you please stop writing so many books and then giving them terrible endings? You lead us readers on like a teenage boy would a teenage girl.

     Book one is written and it’s fantastic! It’s Filled with love, laughter, and thrilling moments. We teenager readers fall in love with every character in our own way. We turn our imaginations on and create our own pictures of what you’ve written in each of our young minds. We throw our hearts into the unknown pages we haven’t even read yet, dreaming of what will happen. Emotions swirling, feelings attacking every part of our hearts, we finish book one.

     Then you write book two, which is never as good as the first, but us readers just have to know what happens. We push through every aggravating chapter, yelling at the pages. Some of us, who really get into it, get so irritated we throw the entire book across the room, from the irritation we feel. Hatred is not too strong of a feeling for these agonizing moments we endure while reading your book two.

     Done with the distressing feelings of book two, we begin book three. Now we are incredibly annoyed and are begging you to stop already! Some of you do. It’s brilliant. You either give it a sad or happy ending and we love you for either.

     Trilogies are incredible because they are allowed to tear apart our teenage hearts and we still love them.

     Those of you who continue with a fourth book: STOP! Rethink this please. If you write another, start thinking how this is truly going to end.

     Remember, writing a series should be about the joy of each reader as they open up the book and feel the familiar cozy and warm happiness seeping into them. We become attached to your characters. We feel we are written into the story. Our hearts are always screaming to have a voice in each make-believe person’s life, even though we know it isn’t real.

     If you are writing book four, you need to decide where your story is going. To be quite frank you no longer have a choice. You will never be able to write this many books and get away with a sad ending. Book four is a symbol that you are promising this series will end happily or somewhat satisfactory.

     Take J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter for example, it is a fantastic series. It has seven books, but it ends happy. Yes we lost many of our favorite characters along the way, but in the end we were all satisfied. That is what made these books truly incredible. Also Susan Collin’s Hunger Games, which is an incredible trilogy because it was exactly that, a trilogy. Her series had an equally sad ending as it was happy and she got away with it because her story ended at the third book.

     So if you are going to write a series make sure you know how to write a series. Keep your readers happy. Don’t be like a teenage boy leading on a girl. Make sure you think about your story and how it is going to end.

                                                                                                                                                                 Sincerely,                                                                                                                                                                  Just My Teenage Opinion