I had a fairly lengthy list of goals for last week and I believe I did a phenomenal job of not getting them accomplished. Let’s go over them:
- Completing the final few pages of the original Paulonious Punk notebook so that I have to start writing in the new book this weekend. Ok I actually completed this goal as of a few minutes ago. (word count – approximately 1,000 untyped words)
- Completing the organization of The Way We Were – hahahaha I’ve had that on my goals list for a few weeks now and I’ve gotten a little done on it but, on the whole, I’ve been focusing Paulonious and short stories.
- Reading over The Wishbone Tree and working on that story – Ok, I did read it again and make a few notes so I’m going to count that as completed goal!
- Donna Tart’s The Goldfinch – I decided to give up on reading this book for the moment. I am still incredibly interested in it, but I just haven’t gotten into it this time around.
- Sara J. Maas Crown of Midnight – I completed this book yesterday and OH MY GOODNESS! I rated this a 5 star on Goodreads because there aren’t half-star options. In reality, I’ve placed this somewhere around 4.5 stars, there were a few slower places but I’ll discuss that more in the actual book review.
1. Coloring – I finished one color sheet last! That’s not much, really, but it made me happy!
2. Catching up on shows – I got addicted to the Great British Baking Show and somehow have not watched any of my other list! I’ll do better next week 😉
Now that you’ve slogged through my weekly wrap up, here is a reward! The following short piece is one I originally wrote in February of 2014 as one of my first Short Story Sunday pieces (I wrote one short story a week for the entire year) and find that I enjoy it more now than I did when I originally posted it. SO…here it is,
It was just a stream, really. A sometimes babbling, sometimes rushing section of water that crashed over, around, and between the moss covered stones.
The bank was slippery, treacherous to climb most days that he went, the water much too cold to swim in unless during the height of summer, and the woods surrounding the clearing became terrifyingly spookier as twilight neared.
So why was he drawn here, day after day? He had not played here in his youth. He hadn’t even known of the nearby town’s existence until moving to Maine from New Mexico two years before, armed with a brand new teaching license and an offer to teach eighth grade math.
Quite frankly, the enveloping verdance and frequent rain showers unnerved the poor fellow. Yet day after day her left his classroom, drove to his ‘historical’ farmhouse one town over, grabbed his bag and bottled water, and, occasionally accompanied by the cat, made his way through the field and down the path to a large, almost hollowed out stone. Here he would sit during all but the worst weather, protected by overhanging vegetation as he graded papers, wrote lesson plans, or just sat.
Little thoughts and one liners were jotted down. Characters and plot ideas were placed on note cards, and all of it was unceremoniously shoved into an ever growing binder. The time passed, though his twilight unease did not, and the young man began to hear the wind’s whispers and see the flitting wings in his surroundings.
Though he was offered better paying jobs elsewhere throughout the years, he would always stay in that same small school, with his ever changing stream.
Years later, with numerous best-sellers under his belt, the now older and much more famous man took the stand as a commencement speaker at that same small school.
“Life,” he said, “Does not always do what you think it should. Do not be afraid to face your fears, to do your best no matter what, and to go where you must. And always remember that sometimes all you have to do is sit down, shut up, and listen.”
He then walked down the silent aisle, drove to his ‘historical’ farmhouse in the next town over, grabbed his notebook and bottle of water, and made his way home.