70 Life Interrupted

MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA Three weeks ago, I started to write a post.  Originally I thought I would post it on tumblr, I changed my mind several times but kept on typing.  Then Life interrupted things got complicated and although I would love to post that entry, I can’t.   I lost the feel of the post and for the life of me I can’t get it back.   Four hundred words that are basically dead to me.  I didn’t even mention the personal challenge. I was free and keeping the commitment.  It was a great transition because it meant that the exercise was working.  I would soon be able to write at two pages or more of new material a day with creative ease.  Aiming for a specific word count had me writing above it all the time.  I was getting out of my latest setback with minimal damage.    Around this time, I had plans of writing about the conclusion of Lucky Thirteen.  Complication in life made that so much harder.  I don’t even know where I can start to complain.  One of my many convictions is that a  person’s whole life should not be on the internet.  Some things sure but every iota should be avoided.   I try to limit my information.  It may be a futile attempt of privacy but I am good with it.

My latest epiphany is that the unforeseen in actually my worst enemy.  I thought it was me but I am actually a pawn to the mastermind of the unknown.   My greatest fault is that I don’t prepare and  the consequences are fierce.   bful-mess_logo3My writing and other creative projects are effected.  I have mentioned this before the pity, worthless spiral that often takes a good amount time to get over. Once I am able to devise a new strategy to kick its butt.  There is probably an eloquent word group that means the same thing but I am feeling low brow today.

I am typing myself into a positive attitude and from there I want to find my missing creative threads; they were lost in the setback.   Unfortunately Lucky Thirteen’s part two is on hiatus until next year.    I haven’t even looked at  the novel Hybrid.  There is the holiday stuff I have to get through and New Year resolutions to make then break.  There will be obligations and priorities demanding to be at the top of my list.  There is also the reflections – good, bad, ugly, and horrible.  In the next few weeks, there will be three hundred words of best wishes and hopes of the next year.  The best holiday pictures I can borrow from the web. I don’t know what Somer’s teenage life is looking like,  I think I could get nostalgic about 1999.   Research will have to be involved.  I had no idea a short story can take so much work.  It is the price I pay for goodness not perfection that is in the eye of the beholder.   Worthiness to be read is a goal I strive for.  I want to be able to mesmerize my audience with the magic of my words.   I want to entertain and inspire eventually  I want to make a living off of my writing.  So that I an no longer need a day job.   That is the dream.  I know that my reality will always include a daily grind.  I dream like the thousands of dream writers out there in the world.

In conclusion, if anyone is wondering where is part two of Lucky Thirteen or where is all the fiction of this fiction writer.  This is what has been going on.  I think I write it a better positive light on the JoEx.  Read them and by all means like it and leave a comment.  I mean even if you hate this post.  I think I need to read it.

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I voted today.  I hope I made the right choice for my city and state.  It seems like an odd hope but sometimes people do wrong because the had the right persuasion.  I have been voting for over 20 years now.  I have missed few and I feel guilty when I do. I feel that if I didn’t vote I didn’t have the right to complain. Since I have my duty, be prepared for a future post of outrage about politics.   I just have to get the facts and the “truth” together.

This blog wasn’t even suppose to be a political rant but it sounds like it.  Sad part is that I haven’t been paying enough attention to politics.  Not the way  a proud voting US citizen should.  This is flower break, while I change my mind-set.


I began this entry with the idea that I would write about something important to me as a writer. Reader may  find it interesting.  I like reading what other writers/authors are doing with their work.  I follow a couple and I comment and like their posts.  My tags says life, writing and random.  I got distracted by writing about voting. The inspiring thought is fleeting and I was a little distraught.  It was smart that I also tagged random too, just for kicks.

I gave myself the personal  challenge of typing 300 or more words a post on every blog account I opened, for a year.  The rule are that these words have to make up sentences that  can be understood.  An easy solution would be to write out my thoughts before typing.  I do that sometimes.  I am plantser.  Which is a writer that semi plots but also writes by the seat of her pants.  I heard another writer call it instinctual writing or pantsing.  I like to call it free writing.  Sometimes my free write post come out really good.  Sometimes they get snagged at the ending.  Conclusions have always been a problem for me since high school. It looks like I will be looking up old essay notes about endings.   A writer who habitually plots and outlines are called plotters.  I like to think of myself as a mixed of the two, hence planster.  The compare and contrast of that is a post for another blog, the Jo Experiment Blog to exact.

I will be writing about the 300+word challenge until I am writing 300+words without difficulty.  I used to be able to do so without thinking.  Now the words are coming to me painstakingly slow.  I call myself a writer,  I aspire to be a publish author.  My creativity can’t be lagging.  I am not critically known.  I think the reminders, help as a prompt.  Yes I like to use reverse psychology and trick on myself.  I am stubborn and my own worst enemy.

Octavia Butler said “First forget inspiration.  Habit is more dependable.  Habit will sustain you whether you are inspired or not.

I can’t give up on inspiration yet, but I am real close.  I want to create and write stories out of habit.







I am writing this just to let my few readers know that I am still writing. I do plan to post something but I don’t have a timeline.  I was nervous about not producing  and posting.  Then I made the mistake of joining tumblr.  At the constant, endorsement of another friend.  I really have no idea what to do with six blog/websites.  800px-WaterLily-BlackPrincess  There will be a lot of reblogging I think.   Then there is the wattpad, where I am attempting to get constructive comments and notoriety of course.   I know that  I don’t want to be a celebrity author.  Some of my personal opinions will get me in trouble.   I want to be a recognized author.  If someone sees my book or reads my name,  I want them to say I know that writer.   What they say after that is up to them.  I do know that not everyone is going to like what I write or read it.

Now I have to get back to my real life.  I think this is the last entry I post under 300 words.  I noticed that I am getting lazy with my post.  This might be my yearly challenge.  Write 300 words and up on every entry from November 2014 to November 2015.  black hand writingTo anyone else that blogs this might seem low in the difficulty scale  but since I have been reading less, I believe I have also been writing less as well.  I also have six blog websites, I will also  It was very distressing to realize.   I also have to consider how to end post.  I  never end these things well.

67 update

There is not much to say. After months of deliberating and apologizing, I posted a story.   The working title is Lucky 13.  rainbow 3 I also attached this account to Twitter so every time I post here, there is a post advertising on Twitter.  Connectivity, you have to love it.

The weeks following my big post have been a little disappointing.  I need to work on promotion.  I also need to work on the part 2 of Lucky Thirteen.  What have I done.  I watched some author’s talk about their books and urban fantasy. I bought books of some that I didn’t know b/c they were really compelling.  I have also printed things excerpts from soon to be released books and articles on writing.  I also have looked through my nook and put the must read books at the top of my list.  But I haven’t been reading as I would like.  I know what my read page says, it is actually a listen page.  A majority of the books I have been listing as read have been listened too.


I have been feeling adrift.  I know where I need to be but I am still floating.  It is not a good or bad float just a blah.  I always say that once I recognize a problem. I should be able to fix it or change course.  I will let you all know in a week how that is working for me.

Please leave a comment for Lucky Thirteen and this post.

Lucky Thirteen part one

 Part One

Somer GreyLocke gave up having a manifest will on the 9th of February 1999, it was also a Thursday, an ordinary day.

She woke up in her dorm room at The Willows, second floor, early Wednesday morning two a ssL13hours before the official bell woke the three-story building for the day. Somer liked a 10-minute showers and soaping up twice.  After the bell, time in the showers was monitored and decreased by the Matron’s Aide.

In the shower, she discovered her period had begun.  HER VERY FIRST!!  Relieved that it had finally come.  She was a woman before her roommate.   Somer jumped up and down in the shower stall.  She almost fell, she steadied herself and choked back the scream of joy that would alert a monitor, Aide or worse the Matron.  Her first period was supposed to change her life forever and for the better.  Somer a daughter of a high witch and a grand mage, Aurora Locke and Sebastian Grey were powerful people well established in the hierarchies of the world covens and universal cabals.

The manifest will was the most important thing for any supernatural, it was the proof of your power.  Somer had never been able to show her ability.  All of her six siblings had done so before their fifth birthday.  They were all prodigies. Somer was the only dud, a mundane prodigy. The polite term was adept, a vague title that meant anything.   All supernatural children were adept until they expressed their will. Most children showed fledgling abilities between the ages of 8- 11.  As they entered adolescence and puberty their abilities became stronger, defined and normally followed the paths of their families.  A child that manifested no spark of ability may be blessed and improve with the onset of puberty.  A child that remained an adept into adulthood left the supernatural world for the mundane one.  A fate worse than death for many.     For Somer it never crossed her mind, her period meant she would no longer be an adept but a novitiate.    As a result of her discovery, after making sure the important parts were clean, Somer left the dorm floor shower room.  It was her first less than 10-minutes shower.

She hurried back to her room in her green terry cloth robe and green flip flops with a matching towel and toiletry basket.  Somer’s room was the width of a railway car. On the right, behind the door were two closets with a hatch space that reach the ceiling. On the left were two built-in desk with a 2-row book shelf above and 2 hardwood chairs under. The beds were two skinny built-into the wall twin beds.  The bed on the right was occupied by the second adept girl at the Willows.  Septima Lancaster, called Tima by her friends, was covered from head to toe, under 2 blankets and 3 comforters.  She didn’t believe in early mornings.  She slept like the dead until the bell clanged in her head, courtesy of the malicious matron.  A witch that should have literally just used a hammer to wake her charges.

Somer could barely contain her excitement.  She had wanted to scream that her period was here then cackle like wicked witch of the Willows.  Not only was she a woman but a witch-mage too, a feared and powerful supernatural hybrid, just like her six siblings.  But first she had to do one thing. Everyone would want to see this, it was the proof.  Somer had to make light, show her manifest will.  It is one of the many first spells a novitiate could do. Prodigies like her siblings produced light inherently, the first time they were left alone in the dark.  Her mother had put Somer alone in a dark room every night for three months, when Somer had been two years old.  Most children don’t remember that stage of their early lives, Somer did. It may have sounded like abuse but it wasn’t the darkroom was the nursery apart of her parents master bedroom suite.  They had just moved out her three older siblings to their own rooms in the house.  Somer had hated being alone then. Once she realized crying would not get her what she wanted. Somer left her room as soon as she could. No one knew how she did it.   She was a toddler in a crib.  It was a secret, Somer would never tell.   Her father asked her many times. He travelled a lot but when he was home, Somer remembered having the most fascinating conversations with him, at night, instead of sleeping in her room or making light.  Actually he talked Somer listened, the Grey Mage, his professional name, spoke about magic all kinds at every level.

Most of Somer’s time spent at Grosvenor Academy, a prestigious institution for young witchesL13 grovsnor in New England, was connecting magic she knew with people, books and grimoires light and dark.  Her father spoke to her about making light for a week one winter.  Somer knew the spells, charms and the constructs.

All her thirteen years of life Somer wanted to do magic.  Now she can finally produce light.  She dressed quickly, cotton underwear, the just-in-case sanitary napkin, she packed with her every year since age 11, thick charcoal tights, and wool gray pleated skirt, crisp white long sleeve oxford shirt.  She took off all the lights in the small room, it was still dark outside.  She ignored the vomiting turtle in the hamster cage on her book shelf, sat on her unmade bed in the classic lotus position and concentrated.  In her mind she visualized a spark that slowly grew into a palm size globe of electric blue light. Blue because despite her excitement, Somer had thought about this for a long time.

Nothing happened.

Somer put her right hand out and attempted an evocation.

Nothing Happened, again.

Next she chanted a spell in a whisper.



Disgusted she jumped off her bed, stomped to her desk to retrieve a pen from her desk draw.  In the dark, she wrote in her hand first a rune, murmured the words, waited ten minutes, wiped away the rune and then drew a sigil.

The small room remained dark until a sliver of light cut under the blackout shades at the single window. Failure was a dry horse pill to swallow, Somer refused to give up.  She decided to try something else, this was too important.

The Notre Dame Cathedral bells began clanging in her head.  Somer dropped the pen in her hand and tried to hold her head in place.

Tima screamed sprung out of her bed, got caught in her bedding and fell to the floor.

“What the fuck,” she groaned,

“You know, wakey wakey eggs n’ bakey,” Somer told her, moving slowly to her desk to retrieve her black doc marten boots underneath.

“But I’m vegan,” Tima groaned.

The church bells would ring in their minds of every girl in the building until they were awake, out of bed and moving.  Somer preferred a hammer to this torture.  She tied up her boots laces, stomped to the door opened it angrily and yelled into the growing crowded hallway.

“We’re all awake you evil sadist!”

The bells became a low hum, a collective sigh of relief filled the halls of the Willows dormitory. It was cut short as a disembodied evil laugh ran though the building, the Matron, the Witch of the Willows.  Somer rolled her eyes and slammed her door.  The blackout shades flew opened on its own. The morning sun blazed into the room, negating Somer’s purpose.  Tima stood up, rubbed her temples and walked to her closet.

“You shouldn’t say that,” she admonished Somer.  “She likes it entirely too much.” Tima gathered her toiletries, changed from flannel pink bunny print pajamas, to a lavender robe and flip flops.

“Do you want to hear, ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ until you leave this building?” Somer asked.

Tima shrugged at the door, “Better than ‘Faith of our Fathers’,” She left the room then.

Alone Somer got her books and school bag, everything was near her desk.  A capuchin monkey let itself out of the hamster cage and jumped down to her desk.  It squeaked and grunted at Somer, then touch the back of her right hand.  Somer felt the pull of magic and a slight burn in her palm.  Somer turned her hand up two palm-size blue lights rose up. The monkey was normally a cat.  He was a gift from her godfather. A familiar to activate the magic, Somer couldn’t do without her manifest will.   She sucked her teeth and grabbed the nearest cloth a t-shirt and hand sanitizer.  She squirted the solution in her hand and rubbed the sigil off her hand. She took a small pump bottle of lavender water and sprayed the room.  The mist blanketed the room giving it a pleasant smell and disrupting any residual magic, Somer made while she was attempting to cast.

Somer glared at the monkey.  “I didn’t asked for your help Rhaze.”

The familiar monkey/cat screeched and gestured at her some more.  It was always cranky after it attempted to be a reptile.   Somer sighed wearily.

“I have classes don’t break Tima’s stuff.”  She ordered and left the room without hearing the monkey/cat’s reply.



I am posting this picture and breaking the rule of objectivity for two reasons.  One, I am really angry.   I don’t have a target.  So am going to rant right here or write here.  I have been goading myself to post a story for a while.  I apologized, complained and explained on previous entries.  All the reasons on why I haven’t posted any of my work.  I have many reasons.  Fear was the biggest.  However I was getting over it.  In fact, I tweaked part one of a story and made the decision to post it, Today. I would advertise on twitter.  Cringe and hope that it was well received.   I have Microsoft one drive.  It is supposed to be a fail safe so that my work will always be somewhere nothing would ever be lost.  Unless one drive  ask you if you want to keep your revision and since it has been 3 hours after you have tweaked your  part one.  You don’t think and say yes or no.  I don’t even know what I clicked on.  All I know is that everything I typed 3 hours ago is gone.   My fury knows no bounds.  I can’t even post the story anymore.  The mood the apprehensive feeling of a new state of being is gone.  Swallowed by fury.   The worst is that I have nothing to put my wrath upon.

The second reason is that the Lotus is supposed healing and cleansing.  blue lotus 1  I collect pictures of them, thank you photographers, artist and wikipedia.   I am a black thumb, I can barely keep the plants in my house alive, so maintaining a garden it out of the question.

The flower which is also a water lily grows in really dirty water.  People who notices this was able  to attach sentiment to it.  The world is dirty, faith or enlightenment is the budding lotus or lily.  Initially it was because of a story idea I was attempting to develop.  That story got lost.  But I still kept the flowers.   Some of the flower here are my favorites.  They don’t really have an significance except that they are pretty and one day I will write a story with a lotus or lily theme.   Tomorrow I will post part one of the story I have been promising to put out.  I am looking for comments likes or dislikes on this entry and the one coming soon.  800px-WaterLily-BlackPrincess

Update 63b

JC planned to post a story at the end of August.   Lost her nerve, then got slapped with an unforeseen broken puzzlecircumstances that cut her off the internet.  The  meager courage she gathered to finally post  her story was lost.

She thought that once things got back to normal she would start back where she left off, without the momentous day (her birthday) to mark the momentous event.  Real life came in and she had to take her kid to school, help her mom with the doctor appointments, plan meals, clean, do laundry etc. etc. etc.

The confidence was gone and she felt lost.  Where does she go from here?  Is the universe telling her not to write?  Should she give the universe the finger? It is better to laugh or cry?  The debate continues but the post will happen.  Writing is a big part of JC’s life.  She tells that to everyone she knows  and she writes in her head all the time.  That may sound crazy but actually makes sense to artistic types.  She can’t give it up.  No offense universe.