These are the first two chapter of this short story I intended on finishing, but I gave up on it. Things just got busy, summer rolled around and I was flying across the country to New York and Atlanta. That’s the thing about writing. Most people think all you really need is motivation and a good idea, but what’s most important is having the time to get it done.

The reason I have time to write at this present moment is because I have no one to eat lunch with. No, I’m not a loner. I just am very picky about the sorts of people I want to spend my time with. You only have so much time here on the earth…might as well spend it with people you actually want to eat lunch with. Also, I’m extremely irritated by noise and the girls here are obnoxiously loud. Loud to the point of pure insanity where I just want to ram my text book into their mouths. It’s too hot to be sitting outside anyway…

So here I am in the dark, cold, annex of the library typing and thinking about this new novel I am working on presently. Wow does that even make any sense. I’m tempted to just spill everything and tell you exactly what its about, but I don’t think its gonna be about anything in particular.

Crashing, falling, sinking
To depths that are unknown
In this world of changes
I do feel quite alone

Looking for a foothold
Praying for a rope
But all the waters rushing in
With each decent I choke

Attached to fading objects
And people in the mist
Because my sight is clouded
There’s so much I might miss

I question, want, I reach
For this concept, for this growth
Some vague idea of spirit
So many claim to know

Spinning in the spiral
That structures our whole world
Hating me, for being me
Just some worthless girl

But when I grasp my foothold
When I let go of lies
Find my goal
Make myself whole
Break through the cords that bind

And hinder me from reaching
My deep down spirit mind
I’ll learn what is important
My spirit grows with time

This poem is titled Spiral Path. I wrote it last week in some desperate attempt to find my poetic self again. See I hadn’t written anything, nothing at all, in over 6 months. I mean that’s just ridiculous. My inspiration well had dried up. This poem is the product of a very long drought that finally ended with a hurricane.

Probably shouldn’t talk about hurricanes right now. I feel so badly for those poor people in Florida who are suffering because of Charlie and Frances and Ingrid or something. I’ve never actually witnessed a hurricane or seen the after math first hand, but I’m assuming its pretty awful. If I were still catholic I would pray for those people.

Don’t get me wrong, the spiritual world is amazing, but in my opinion spirit has little to do with Catholicism. Go on argue with me all you want. Just don’t forget that this is my book and I can say whatever I want. Right?

When the pencil reaches my fingers
I become the god,
I become the creator,
The master,
The carpenter.
When the pencil hits the paper,
I become the artist.
My pencil becomes the paints,
Becomes the brush.
And I have all the power
All the glory
I feel the rush.
I can choose the beginning
I can choose the end,
I decide the climax
And I can do it all again.
Yes, I can create the people.
I decide is they live or die,
I can make them happy
Or beat them as they cry.
When the pencil lifts off the paper
And I look down at my masterpiece
I can be the first to see;
The first one to critique.
I can destroy my creation
Or cherish it forever more.
I am the one who decides
If it gets to leave these doors.
Cause I am the creator!
The artist, the god, the maker,
I am the devil, the undertaker.
I make all the choices
I can write whatever I choose.
Yes, I am the god
No one tells me what to do.
I hold my pages up
The lights on it grow brighter,
Look at my creation!
Kneel down before your writer!

Ok so I had a little power trip episode there with that poem. But so what! Writing is the only place I can be in control. Well except in relationships but that’s a whole nother chapter. I’m not even sure yet if this book will have chapters. Chapters are so old school. Maybe I wont even have page numbers and make things real confusing.

I stared, smiling at the little piece of paper in my hand. Jackie had written it. The torn out note book paper had been folded way too many times making it difficult to read.

I didn’t have my contacts in and my youngest sister had broken my glasses two days before. I also had to squint because the soft glow from my fish tank was the only light shinning in my room. Even still, I could still make out the words.

Her handwriting was distinct and sincere; every word picked perfectly to mean exactly what she meant. I knew Jackie and I knew how she worked. When she wanted something she would go for it.

I had waited till now to open the note from her. Nervous, but excited about what it might say, I quickly refolded and unfolded it. I rarely get notes so I had expected this one to be important. Once again I re-read the ending…infatuation isn’t always bad.

Sitting on my bed with my back against the wall I thought about Friday. The Friday Jackie had referred to in the damp and soft note folded in my hand. All the feelings of pure bliss poured into my memory and I sighed wishing I could have it all back again. Memories of the not too distant past all came back to me as I sat daydreaming and holding her words in my hand.

“You know I’ve been thinking,