I created this blog to essentially meet people similar to myself and have something that shows my track to success in writing. Granted, neither of these have really happened yet. The hope is still there.

But, since I created this blog one thing has changed. It’s a very important thing too. I have a major.

I keep calling it a major anyway. To me, it’s more like a future. Something I can do with my life. Something I can use to put food on my table and support my ever growing book habit. Calling it major doesn’t seem to be correct. I essentially have 3 majors. 6 years of school. AS in general studies/I can’t use this for really anything but more school, BA in English (meh) with an emphasis on writing/Well, at least it has writing in it, then my masters in creative writing. This is the exact degree I’ve wanted to get since I found out it existed. But this time, my family can’t harass me for getting a degree that I can’t use.

I can be a college professor! I can teach creative writing. It’s something I CAN do. I know I can! I can use my schooling both to get a job and work on my writing. I can teach other people who are passionate about what I love instead of forcing them to write an essay over some cause they really don’t care about.

Now that makes me excited. What doesn’t make me excited is that I still don’t qualify for financial aid (parents are nurses). I will be living on my own eventually. Paying all of my own bills. Everything. I will be my own person. However, I don’t qualify for financial aid until I am either 24 (I’ll hopefully be done in four years, when I’m 23) or married.

I’m still excited. Just afraid of how a teaching position won’t pay for student loans very quickly.

Scholarships, here I come!


I Can’t Cook

“Can’t can’t do anything!”

My mother used to tell me this whenever I complained about something as a child. I still think of it every time the word pops into my brain. However, as I’ve gotten older I’ve learned that the word applies to some things.







Feed the animals

Awkwardly entertain children





I almost fit the perfect housewife profile. Almost. Except for the fact that I have burned boiled eggs, screwed up ‘just add water’ pizza mixes, and even made my microwave explode. It’s bad…

One day, the man in my life was standing in the kitchen, watching me try extremely hard to make him cookies. This was not much longer after we had met, and I was trying to impress him. After all, I had made cookies before. They weren’t hard! Right?


I couldn’t get the butter to mix in with the flour. It refused. It just became clumpy and completely problematic. It was bad enough that my dear cowboy took it from me.

He took the butter out and melted it. Unsurprisingly, it mixed in much better after that. He then proceeded to finish the cookies for me. Now, I must say I’m a little smug about one thing; he burned them. They were still edible, but ha! I win. Well… on the lack of burning things list.

I’m so glad he enjoys cooking, otherwise I’d live a completely fast food lifestyle.

However, I’m still tempted to take culinary classes. Just to learn to cook. I feel as though it’s required.

I will do my best to feed myself and my family (whenever I have one), whether I will die trying or not!

Debating on Scrap

Scrap (n)

1. An old, discarded, or rejected item or substance for use in reprocessing or as raw material, as old metal that can be melted and reworked.

Scrap sounds like a curse word to me. One of those words that pretty much means to throw away something that had plenty of potential. It feels like something that the grandparents of the 1800s would shake fingers at and say that the world was coming to and end.

When I eat at a friend’s house, I feel bad if I leave any bits of food on the plate. Of course, if any of the food was touching there will be a thin line left. But I still feel bad. It makes me feel ungrateful and I feel like I need to assure them that it was actually good.

I despise leaving books unfinished. I force myself to read a single book at a time, and I will fight my way through it no matter how bad it actually is. Someone spent an incredible amount of time, effort, and pure stress on that and I might as well have signed a contract stating that I would finish it. I never regret finishing them either, it means I really tried to appreciate the work they put into the piece.

I’m the same way with my writing. I’m a slow writer, sadly. I’d love to be like Robert Patterson or Stephen King in the bookstore I work at. They each take up an entire shelf. But I’m a slow writer, so that won’t happen for quite a long time. Because I’m so slow at it though, I tend to get bored with the stories. I end up with all kinds of new ideas and am afraid of starting them in case I loose the fire for the one I’m actively working on.

Sometimes though, the fire completely disappears for a story anyway. The one I’m working on now is like that. I love the plot, it’s sweet and very individual. I actually think it has a chance. The problem is, I feel bored when writing it. I’ve been working on it for so long it’s become boring. I sometimes don’t even write enough that I spend a week and a half writing one scene – it’s no wonder it went stale.

I’ve been debating on putting it on the back burner for a while, essentially scrapping it. So I don’t spend forever writing a book that my mind wasn’t in to. That my writing style decreased on because I didn’t want to do it.

Every time I think of doing this though, I feel like I failed. Not only myself, but my friends who keep hounding me to let them read it, my boyfriend because I’m not getting my future on the right path, and my family because I’ve tried so hard to prove that I could do it, only to be set back at square one.

Those aren’t the worst ones though. Those are doable. After all, the people don’t even know I’ve been trying so hard to do these in a timely fashion for their approval. I have this approval regardless.

The most painful thing I see in my head are the faces of the characters. They are sad, lost, and being pushed into a dark basement while my back is turned to them. This is the place they will stay indefinitely. It’s not a happy basement. No food, no water. Just darkness and the inability to escape.

It makes me so glad I don’t have the power to make whatever I write come to life… Imagine all the lives I would destroy! All the people shoved in my nonexistent basement.

I think this is why I wanted to write every day so badly. So that maybe I could get a book completed in a way I was happy with before it went stale.

What do you think? Should I just scrap it for now and write like a maniac on something I currently enjoy writing, or stick with this story even though I’ve lost the excitement over it?

SNOW! – Excuse the Oklahoman, She’s Beyond Thrilled

When I woke up this morning, I knew there was going to be a chance for snow. I just didn’t expect really anything. I figured the panhandle would get some flurries  maybe a few patches of ice, but my part of Oklahoma would be left with nothing.

Boy, was I wrong!

ImageWe got this much in probably two hours. For Oklahoma, this is pretty good. We usually get ice. Fluffy stuff? What’s that? We only pretend the stuff we get is nice snow. I’m figuring that by the end of all this, we will get around 7 inches. I don’t think we’ve had even this much in three or four years.

This is my favorite weather ever. Cold, white, cloudy, slightly on the dreary side, and not 120 degrees. I would survive in a world like this quite well… At least I think so.

My cat on the other hand…


This is Sophie. My terrified black cat. She despises any kind of cold. She’ll walk outside, freeze and puff up to twice her size, then run back in. She was alright in my arms since I was still warm. However, when I set her down… That cat went crazy and tried to get inside.


This picture is several hours old and outside looks nothing like this now. I’ll be sure to take pictures when it’s all said and done, because I’m just that excited.


Update: It started melting not long after that and was all gone by the next morning.

Writing Mondays

Tomorrow is Monday. At least in my part of the world. For most people, Mondays involve a lot of terrifying thoughts. After all, you have to get out of bed with an alarm, get ready, put on something other then sweat pants, go to work and guard everything you do or say until you are back home when the day is pretty much over. I admit, putting a Monday in that way does not sound good at all. It makes me terrified for adult hood, in fact. But that’s not the point of this post.

Considering I still have the word teen in my age and work at a store that’s open 7 days a week, what I consider to be my Mondays (the monotonous days of immanent boredom and doom ultimately leading up to my death in the far future.) could be on any day of the week. Nothing really causes them except for pure laziness and an extreme urge to play the sims in bed all day long.

However, the actual Mondays of the week for me make me happy. I even look forward to them. At first glance, it makes no sense. I’m up at 6, I have to get ready, drive an hour to take my brother to school, sit at Starbucks to wait for the store to open, head to work, get off, pick up my brother, then head home and do homework, exercise, and do anything else that needed to be done. It’s a very busy day that makes the things I would do on lazy days impossible.

The reason I look forward to the day is Starbucks. I usually get to sit in a corner there for a good 30 minutes to an hour. Not much really, but it adds up. I make sure my computer is charged through the night so I don’t have to mess with cords Once I’m there, I don’t connect to the internet. All I do is sit there with an alarm set for when I need to head to work and write.

If the week is filled with laziness or hectic death causing monkeys of some kind, I at least get some writing done on Mondays. The writing time is set in stone and nothing can change it. It makes the entire day go well. It’s like drinking a cup of coffee or taking a shower. It refreshes me and makes everything better. It makes the day easy and enjoyable right off the bat.

Now, if only I could come up with guaranteed times to write on the other days…


Because I am an odd person who doesn’t watch the news, I check my weather and anything else TV related online. While doing that today, weather.com kindly told me there were some statistics on the snowiest city in the country. Of course, I had to click it.

I got the answer I had been sure I would. My dear Oklahoma doesn’t have any cities that make it onto the list. Instead, the list contained Chicago, and other places up north. At least some state is having a winter of some kind…

Okie land has some crazy weather. We get some part of every natural disaster I can think of except for Typhoons. We get blizzards that have more ice than snow, ice storms, earthquakes, the tail ends of hurricanes, and tornados. Many, many tornados. After all, we are Tornado Alley.

Crazy weather or not, the past two winters have been completely irritating. If I can go outside without a jacket in January, I’m not so happy. The past few summers have also been awful. 125 degrees? NO. Just… no. When people are dying because their innards get too hot, it’s just plain too hot.

I like the cold. Not just my Okie version of cold, I like decent colds. Like Minnesota’s. Even though it’s been a while since I’ve been up there for hunting season. I love the tornados I experience every year and the quaint atmosphere OKC has, but I would move someplace colder in a heart beat.

Because what winter we get here is almost over, I’m beginning to get nervous again. Walmart is already selling swimwear and the air conditioning is frequently used in my car.

I don’t think I could survive another record breaking, drought bringing, freakishly hot summer. Regardless, I’m stuck here for a while longer.

Whatever summer we are destined to get, it will be here soon.