Hey ok… So here I am writing this blog.  Please, please let me vent!!

You know, the craziest things happen when you’re an artist.  Some artists are very very sensitive toward their creations.  I am one of these.  I love to share my work with the World – especially my friends, family & my MySpace Peeps.  I don’t care who reads it, I love comments and critiques.  Constructive criticism is always welcome regarding my work.

Also, if you all like what you read, I’d adore it if you would recommend it to your friends.  My blogs are Friends Only, but they’re more than welcome to join my Friends List to read the stuff or go through your account.

But, here’s the deal, and this is not regarding my MySpace Peeps because I know you all are good folks and I’ve never had trouble with my writing at MySpace.  Also, I know I have some awesome writers on my MySpace Friends who can reiterate the fears of being plagiarized or not being given proper credit – next thing you know, someone else owns your work & you may never even know it!!

Here’s the bottom line: Someone has once again borrowed my work without my permission.  No No! – this person is not among my MySpace Friends.  Ok.  While yes, it’s great that someone liked it so well that they posted on their site and attempted to give me the proper credit (they misspelled my name!!!!), but here’s the thing… permission is important especially for unpublished authors.  Having our stuff strewn about the Web in places where we did not personally put it, can be dangerous.  People can plagiarize it and make it their own.  Or copy it from this unknown site and paste it somewhere else without giving credit to the proper author.  Also, having stuff published all over the Web can hurt chances for publication of that particular piece later on.

I have taken my work down from some sites that I’ve had it published on, because now I have this fear of plagiarism, or of someone posting the stuff without my permission or not crediting me correctly.  Some of you might remember, I have already been plagiarized in the past.  Please, it's not that good!!

This writer’s fear is legit also in that I write using pennames.  If someone borrows my work from one of my pennames and doesn’t credit us correctly, things can happen.  I am all over the web under my real name, and it wouldn’t take long for a fan of my work to find me to get the ok to post something.  I know people think that posting another’s stuff without permission is ok, as long as the copyright is shown, but you know, I am not Stephen King and I would appreciate people not borrowing my stuff for their website or printing it out to share without telling me first.

Oh, my dear Peeps, I just had to vent.  Thanks for your ears…LOL… or in this case, your eyes.

Also, if you ever spot my work on another site please let me know in case I did not give permission so I can check it out.  Here are the names I write under, not all have been made public on the Web, but there are people who know: Wanda S. Paryla, W.S. Paryla, Virginia P. Hatfield, Edward Cline Hatfield, and Winter NightTiger.  If you see stuff lying around somewhere on another site – MySpace or not, especially another writer’s site, please let me know.

I love you guys!!!  Thanks!!

~Wanda

*For those of you interested in Tale #1, you'll have to look further back in my blogs.*

MY WEEKEND IN THE WOODS WITH OWEN ELIJAH BAKER, HIS STUPID COUSINS AND THEIR GIRLFRIENDS:....

A RURAL ..CENTRAL TEXAS.. TALE 2....

By: Virginia P. Hatfield

....

....

            Okay, what are y'all doin' back here?  You must love my stories.  Well at least you liked my Buford tale.  Oh, I have a whole bunch of stories; just you keep on readin'.  Why do you think I've subtitled these here stories "A Rural Central Texas Tale"?  Well, because I have so many of these stupid anecdotes that I figured I might as well make some use of them.

            This is a tale of one terribly hot ..Central Texas.. summer weekend in the woods.  Yes, I got so tired of waitin' for that damned Owen Elijah Baker to pay some attention to me that I just figured, what the hell…if you can't beat em', join em'.  Yeah, my stupid ass went out into the woods with Owen Elijah Baker and his two dumb-ass hillbilly cousins from ....Louisiana.....  Wait!... I don't think ....Louisiana.... folk are hillbillies, are they?  Well, I certainly wouldn't consider them rednecks.  They must be like those country folk in some of those ..Alabama.. or ....Florida.... wetlands…  Yeah, swampbillies.  Hell yes!  That's what they are - livin' out on the edge of swamps around those alligators, running around barefoot like fools…not to mention all that Voodoo that goes on out there.

            Okay, I don't know about Voodoo, but we don't usually go barefoot in ....Texas.... – well, not where I'm from.  You know, it's not all Bluebonnets and sweet grass in the whole of ....Texas.....  Damned fire ants will eat your ass up.  If not, those pointy-ass grass burs are sure to end up poking holes into your feet!  Hell, with all that goin' on, we sure in the hell don't need any Voodoo happenin'.

            Although, there are a few people I know whose asses need pins stuck in 'em – that darned Owen Elijan Baker, to name one.  Oh, yeah…and I actually have a tale or two of good magick gone bad.  But, you'll have to wait until later for those tales.

....

***

            Note:  I bet you don't believe me about the swamp.  I'll have you to know that I have a friend, Agnes – yes, she has all her teeth - who lives in Alabama and her cabin is on stilts and she has a rowboat tied up to the porch by a long rope.  Why? is what you must be asking.  Well, that story is for another day; however, I assure you there is a very, very good reason why her house is on stilts and she has a boat tied up out there.  Even though my stories are supposed to be ..Texas.. tales, I assure you that I will get around to writing about my experience at her cabin in rural ....Alabama.... and the tale will explain why her home needs to be on stilts and why she needs a rowboat nearby.  Yeah it has to do with alligators and rising waters, indeed it does.

            And, as I mentioned before, as for that Voodoo, I've got a tale about witchcraft in ....Texas.... that'll knock your socks right off.  A story about a red-headed Witch and a hairless cat.  But, that story's for another day.

***

            Anyway, those two idiots, Red and Edgar Ennis - Owen Elijah's cousins - are two fools like none other I have seen to date.  And what's even worse than them is the company they keep!  Edgar brought along his girlfriend Allie Jamison, and Red brought along his girlfriend Ruby Lynn McCoy.  Yes, you heard right - McCoy.

            Okay, here's a note to readers:  If any of y'all are thinkin' about puttin' a Hatfield in the deep woods with a McCoy, you need to think twice.  Now that's all I'm gonna say about that.

            Now at first I thought that Allie Jamison wasn't so bad, but I would soon find out Allie had her own secrets – really, really strange secrets; nonetheless, we got along fairly well.  Now that damned hair-dyed and powder-puffed Ruby Lynn McCoy, well, let's just say I didn't take to her too damned well.  No sir.  We ended up not likin' each other too much in the end.  Who the hell goes out to the woods with damned high heels on, wearing more make-up than Tammy Fay Baker?  Who?  Would you tell me?  Well, I'll sure tell you…a damned McCoy woman, that's who.

            See, us Hatfield girls are naturally good lookin'.  We don't need caked on eye shadow, burnt-orange lip color and cheap dime store perfume.  Gag me, why don't ya?  Why didn't Red Ennis tell that girl not to be wearin' any scents out in the woods where there's bears and bees and such?       Besides that, what is that girl doin' wearin' that shade of blue eye shadow for anyway?...Just doesn't match her damned complexion or that orange lipstick, and besides, you don't see her first, you see that damned eye shadow shinin' like a neon bar sign from a half mile away.

            Well, I must not fail to tell you that I am sure that eye shadow scared away much of the wild game; however, her cheap honeysuckle perfume did attract an unwelcome visitor.  Ha, ha, ha.  Oh, I love my own damned sense of humor.  Now Red says that her damned flowery perfume did not attract that bear, no matter what I said.  Well, okay, maybe it didn't.  You'll have to read on to find out.

            Okay, so here's the story of me, Allie, that foolish McCoy woman and our silly actin' men on a hot summer weekend in the woods.

***....

            Owen Elijah and me left my house around four-forty-five on a 99-degree-day-in-the-shade Friday afternoon in late July to meet Red and Edgar and their goofy-ass women back in the woods at my granddaddy's old huntin' cabin.  This damned cabin was so deep in the woods, it didn't matter what season it was, you could hunt anything out there and no one would ever know.  I was dreadin' the cabin since I knew it was dread full of Texas-sized spiders.  Oh, I hate those creepy things.

            The cabin was usually about a three-hour drive from my house, but this time around it seemed like it was takin' forever to get there.  It was hotter than a firefly's ass on that damned highway we were drivin'.  I could see the heat rising off the black top for miles ahead of us.  I'm tellin' you, I bet we could've cooked supper right there on the highway.  Owen Elijah made the statement that "if you'd piss on the road, the devil would sigh with relief."

            Well, don't mind Owen Elijah, he's just silly.

            Anyway, I had a bad feelin' about the weekend before me.  I just knew things were not gonna go swell.  It all started with the classic flat tire that occurred while we were headin' out to the cabin.  Just an hour and a half away from home, the front passenger tire blew out – from the heat, Owen Elijah noted – and it put us on the shoulder for about twenty minutes as he changed the tire.

            ~TO BE CONTINUED~

A Light Has Gone Out

There's a pain I feel with every breath

I am feeling another loss to a great depth

Another light has gone out

Gone another route

Friend of mine,

We thought, until the end of time

But another light has gone out

Gone another route

It happens, they say

Goes on every day

Another light goes out

Gone another route

It's a pain I hate to have to endure

And many years ago, I knew I was sure

That another light would not go out

No, not this one, taking another route

But friendships grow and wane

Regardless of pain

And another light goes out

Gone another route

Though we should not have been parted by circumstances and differences

The tide has turned against us and erected have been the fences

And another light went out

Gone another route

Go, my friend, with good ease

For no longer one another can we please

Since our light has gone out

Gone another route

Remember the good and do not savor the bad

For together a grand friendship we had

Another light has gone out

Gone another route

Copyright 2008 Wanda S. Paryla

BUFORD:

A RURAL ....CENTRAL TEXAS TALE 1

By: Virginia P. Hatfield

            Note to readers:  Buford would like for y'all  to know that his name is not pronounced "Buf-ford" or "Boo-ford" or Bubba or Buddy or Bluebird, or whatever stupid thing you can come up with – the "bu" is said like the "bu" in the word "bugle"– yeah, dummy... like the instrument (i.e. bue-gle).  Good Lord!  Anyway, Buford is pronounced "bue-ford".  He thanks y'all for your understanding.  Sorry, but he really hates it when people mispronounce his name.

Location: Deep in rural ....Central Texas, off a damned fire ant-infested dirt road, where we live.

            I think rural Texas is stranger than most rural areas in other states that I've visited - okay, well, except for Arkansas, Kentucky; maybe Alabama, where I've noticed a lot of people with missing teeth.  But I find that ........Texas men look great in cowboy boots and tight jeans more so than the backwoods rednecks and hillbillies of the rural areas of other states.  ........Texas men…yeah.

            Never mind about tight pants right now.  I got distracted.  Y'all sure can be distracting.  I forgot my point.  I don't know what it had to do with Buford anyway.  Screw it.  Let's move on.

            Wait, here's a little tune I made up when I was laid out drunk in Uncle Pete's hay field one night back in 1989; '89 was a good year.  Anyway, it's to the tune of "Home on the Range."  Here goes:  "Home, home, home down in ....Central Texas, where cowboys and big-haired girls roam, where seldom is heard a proper word and the beer kegs are empty by dawn."

            You liked that didn't you?  Come on, tell the truth.  Okay, on to the story.

            Well, I'd like to also share…Never mind, a promise is a promise.

            No, really, this time I'll tell y'all Buford's story.

            Seven days ago, I, Virginia P. Hatfield, got drunk on pineapple wine and accidentally ran over Buford with the tractor.  Now, nobody will talk to me until I make it right.

            While he was in no way an intended victim, honestly, I can't say I was sorry.  He shouldn't have been lurkin' out there in the darkness anyway.  We live just off of a dirt road – well away from any beaten path - and there are no lights shining over there on the watermelon patch.  Buford knows that.

            While, yes, the moon was full, I swear I didn't see a damned thing and while I do remember feeling my wild oats, I don't recall hearin' a word come from Buford's mouth.  He should have screamed or something.  He should have moved; ran out of the way of my speeding tractor.  No, not Buford.  He stood there like a frightened ninny - and got plowed.  Besides, he knows he doesn't belong out in the watermelons anyway; it's not his usual hideout.  Why the hell was he out in the watermelons to begin with?

            At first, I didn't think it was that big of a deal, but everyone in the family seems to like the old fellow and berated me for drivin' a tractor while under the influence of pineapple wine.  Now they won't give me the time of day until I fix what I've broken.  Hell, as far as I am concerned…too bad I wasn't drivin' a Mack truck – attached to a flatbed, hauling hundreds of hay bales.  Now, that would've been somethin' to witness.  (For those of you wondering what that might be like, watch the movies Joy Ride and Maximum Overdrive.)

            Well, okay, daddy's positively upset that I destroyed more than half of his watermelon crop, which was doing quite well, I might add.  Okay, well, yeah, I feel bad about the melons.  I really enjoy eatin' those in the summer, and now we won't have the usual large harvest so what's left will end up at the market, and now I'll have none - none to make wine with is especially what I'm thinkin'.

            Back to Buford.

            Well, I think Buford's an ugly old mess and not much good for anything.  Besides, I had a good reason to be drunk - his name is Owen Elijah Baker.  He's as hard headed and as juvenile as a man can come – well, our story is for another day – yeah…okay, that Owen Elijah Baker…that no-good-for-nothin'-runnin'-around-in-the-woods-shootin'-squirrels-and drinkin'-beer fool.  One of these days, I'm gonna do something about him.

            Anyway, back to the story.  All Buford does is loaf around, eatin' straw, watching the cattle roam and listenin' to the damned corn grow, but I am sure he never listens to me with any intent.  When I talk to him, all he does is stare at me with a stupid grin on his face.  I don't know what he's smilin' about; I never have anything humorous to say to him – especially when I'm sober.  I think he's an idiot who does nothin' but hang about the farm all day and night, with few skills to offer, no insight to share, and no brain.

            My brother, Willie, insists that I pay for the damage I done and do my best to help Buford in any way I can.  I told him I wouldn't pay a dime nor waste my time due to that Buford would never again be his old stupid self, and, therefore, he'll be even more worthless than he ever was before he was run over.  I told Willie that he'd be best advised to find another farm hand – one who actually does work - and leave Buford to his retirement.

            Willie, of course, like the rest of the family, didn't like the idea of letting Buford go.  They're rather fond of the fool.  He's been hangin' around the farm for about 20 years and has stood by the family through rain and shine - and birds, bugs, and drought.  They don't have the heart, especially since I ran him over, to push him to the side and away from the farm that Buford has known as home for the last 2 decades of his quiet life. 

            In a sense, my family is right…I guess.  After much thinkin' on it, I realized I should show a little kindness for runnin' over Buford - whether I like him or not.  What could I do?  I had to help the old fool out and make amends, if for anything, to keep peace around the farm.  I mean, even the damned chickens are lookin' at me funny these past few days.

            So I went to a second-hand clothing shop in town and bought old Buford some better clothes - since the tractor shredded his other ones.  I knew he'd appreciate the garments no matter what.

            In the evening, I went out to the barn where Buford usually stays when he's not out in the field.  I presented him with the clothing and, as always, he had nothing to say but accepted the clothes with his usual stupid smile.  It actually humbled me a bit.

            I helped Buford get dressed and become more presentable.

            "Oh, Buford," I said.  "Look at you.  You look good as new.  These here new duds are all you needed."

            Buford didn't say a thing; he just smiled at me with eyes twinkling.

            "Now, don't you feel much better?"

            Buford stared at me, smiling.

            "Well, if you're not going to talk, then I'm leavin'."

            Buford smiled.

            I began to make my exit but turned back around.  I had to say something of an apology.  I knew that.  It was the right thing to do.

            "I promised daddy and Willie that I won't be drivin' the tractor no more after I've had too much pineapple wine…watermelon wine…uhh, gin…or, well, that shittin' corn moonshine Uncle Tennis sends down from West Virginia," I hesitated.  "Anyway, well, even if I do drink wine or whatever and get on the tractor again, I promise I'll do my best not to run over you anymore."

            Buford stared at me; smile upon his face.  I'm not sure if he even understood a word I ever said.

            "Okay, okay, I promise not to drink any alcohol and drive the tractor again.  Not ever.  Really, I do, Buford.  Don't look at me like you don't believe me," I sighed.  "Well, I won't know what to do without that pineapple wine, Buford.  You know that silly-actin', Gizzly Adams wanna-be, Owen Elijah Baker, drives me to drink."

            I waited for Buford to issue some words of encouragement, or even defend Owen Elijah Baker, but he just stared at me, shit-eatin' grin on his face.

            "What is it with y'all men anyway?"  I pondered.  "Men are just…just silly actin', is all," I hesitated.  "All men around here do is drink beer, eat fried chicken, bale hay and hunt stupid animals.  That's dumb.  What men need to be doing is takin' care of business with their women – buyin' flowers, repairin' rooftops, killin' spiders, and showin' a little attention – not runnin' around in the woods stuffin' their mouths with chewin' tobacco, spittin' like fools, peein' behind trees and hidin' in the bushes with binoculars.  Good Lord, Buford!"  I was breathless at the ridiculousness of it all.  "You know, if the cops in the big city caught someone doing that there, they'd arrest him because there's somethin' not right about grown men hidin' out in bushes with binoculars.  Not to mention it's illegal to pee in the bushes in ........Dallas!  You know it's true, Buford."

            I shook my head in protest of the whole childish thing, but Buford didn't say a word in return.  He just smiled.

            "What the hell are you smilin' for Buford?  Well, I just don't know what to do about that Owen Elijah Baker.  Spittin' and-a huntin', silly actin' fool!"

            He made no reply.

            "That Owen Elijah Baker better get himself together, Buford, if expects to be marryin' me.  That boy needs a good ass whippin' maybe.  Oh yeah, he's busy comin' over for Sunday's chicken dinner, wastin' away evenings on our porch, wantin' a little somethin', somethin' – if you know what I mean – but when it comes to attention, it's all about catfish, deer, squirrels, and how many damned pecans he can eat while restin' in the shade of a pecan tree.  I can't take much more, Buford."

            Buford watched me intently, smiling.

            "Oh, hell, I'm going back up to the house.  You're of absolutely no help on these matters, Buford."

            After dinner, momma and me cleaned up the kitchen while Willie and daddy went outside to take care of some chores before retiring for the night.

            Later, when I went up to my bedroom, I looked out my window and there he was, bathed in moonlight - old Buford.  Yes, there he was, back out in the field already with his new clothes on, donning a straw hat, arms outstretched.

            "Good to have you back on duty, Buford," I said.  "Damned old scarecrow!"

Copyright 2008 Wanda S. Paryla

*The following poem may contain language unsuitable for readers under 18 years of age.

THAT GOVERNMENT CHEESE

..

Before I knew it,

I was standing in line.

I had to get to work

Lest by my employer I be fined.

He already thinks my employment is a quirk

And I don't want to take another pay hit.

Oh, I'd like to kill that fucking jerk.

....

Why must I come here,

The first of every month?

I guess my family is just too dear

To leave with an empty mouth.

....

So I wait anxiously in line,

Behind hundreds of others,

To see what is earned by my wasted time,

Standing in line behind all these other fathers and mothers.

....

For handouts, I sleep standing up,

But I have to stay here.

Exhausted, I can't give up,

No matter how much my employer I fear.

....

I am at the front now, waiting on failing legs.

Oh…it's about time, geeze!

I check my rations box,

Yes, new stuff!  There's Hamburger Helper, gravy mix, margarine and eggs,

But, oh shit, there it is - that dreaded government cheese!

....

But, I shall not worry, I do have bread at home,

And I will whip up some grilled government-cheese sandwiches

And be thankful that I have some -

-Some of that government cheese.  Delicious!

....

As I walk home,

I am freaked out…

Oh my god.  Where am I?

I am not at home,

This is not my home.

.. .... ..

Are these my filthy streets?

As I enter my apartment,

I am positive this is a dream.

It has to be as I have a fine and fancy house,

Not an apartment in the projects that I share with some cockroaches and a mouse!

....

I do believe this is ....Russia....,

Or maybe ....Ukraine.....

It's not possible for me to be here,

I live in the U.S. of A.

....

I am an executive.

Why the hell do I need government cheese?

Oh, please,

Go screw yourself.

....

I put the box down on the counter, then put on a pot of tea.

As the tea kettle's whistle blows,

I reach over and turn off my alarm

Holy shit, it really was a dream.

....

I take a shower and I get dressed.

To my doctor's appointment I must run.

I grab my wallet and trifle through it

Looking for that card

That says Blue Cross.

I know it's in here somewhere.

....

To my dismay-

I took it hard,

The card had expired

As from my company, I retired.

....

I have no kids to feed,

No line to stand in for them,

Only for me,

As they are all dead,

Who is this screwing with my head?

....

I just couldn't believe it.

I walked to the fridge to get a Bud Light,

But opened the door and found a big fright.

I had no beer, oh geeze!

And there it was, that damned government cheese.

....

I ran to the front door.

As I stepped out, I rubbed my head,

And realized I should have stayed in bed.

Hell, no, I am not poor…I slammed that fucking door.

....

I don't live in ....Ukraine....,

I live in ....Maine.....

I ran to the phone to place a call,

But there was no dial tone coming from that damned thing on the wall.

....

After a few hours,

I realized that I had no power.

I made lunch out of that government cheese,

And threw out the milk because it was sour.

....

I went to a payphone and called Blue Cross

To double check.

And yep, they reassured me

That I was of no importance to them

And should not call there again.

....

Next thing I knew,

The alarm went off,

Yep, I am indeed

In need and deep in poverty.

....

This can't be possible,

I used to be an executive.

I am supposed to have social security

And a pension off which to live.

....

I had a fine house

And health insurance.

Now I live with a mouse,

And from Blue Cross I have that uninsured reassurance.

....

I am retired.

I live alone.

I am forgotten.

And now, I feel quite rotten.

....

These are my golden years,

Those that I worked so hard for.

And I should be able to live without fears.

To my government, I implore,

Give me what I deserve.

Give me what I have earned.

....

Certainly they will,

If I bend on my shaky knees,

At the steps of Capital Hill,

And beg, please, please.

....

I went there,

To Capital Hill,

I told them I had no fear,

But, indeed, I showed them I have no will.

....

And help me they did -

By handing me another package of that damned government cheese.

....

Copyright 2008 Wanda S. Paryla

....

....

Hi, Kids.

I had some questions that needed answering, so attacked a closet full of boxes.  Yes, as some of you know, I am staying with mom for a bit - a bit too long, actually- and so everything I own is in boxes.  Gods!  A writer without her reference books is like a chef without her cookware.

Alas, I dug out my screenplay writing books, some I've read, some not.  And going through them, I was astonished - & relieved - to find a few of my favorites which I have been looking for for quite sometime now.  Oh...Lew Hunter... I luv your book.

My 1 all-time favorite book and top on my recommendation list is:

-Screenwriting 434, by Lew Hunter.  
(Screenwriting 434 is an actual class that was taught at UCLA by Hunter.)  From book: "The industry's premiere teacher reveals the secrets of the successful screenplay."

This was the first book I ever read on screenwriting and the best so far.  I don't know what newbie screenwriter could live without this.  When I told my screenplay writing professor that I read it, he highly recommended it to the class as a top choice.  That was back in 1998, and it's still one of the most highly recommended books on the subject by many professionals.

When I wrote my first screenplay, Hunter's book was my bible.  I don't know how any wanna-be screenwriter could even attempt to write without reading Hunter first.  I am thinking about looking to see if this book has a new addition.

Next in line:

-Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting, by Syd Field.

This is my 2nd favorite, and also recommended to me by writing professionals.  I think this is an absolute must for any screenwriter's bookshelf.

3rd, and one I find interesting is:

-How NOT To Write a Screenplay: 101 Common Mistakes Most Screenwriters Make, by Denny Martin Flinn.

The title speaks for itself.  We read so many "how to" books, and when I read this, I remember thinking, "But, that's how I have been doing because of those how-to books."  Indeed.  Read this and be surprised.  We're always told how to do writing, but never told how NOT to do it.

Another must-have book:

-Elements of Style for Screenwriters: The Essential Manual for Writers of Screenplays, by Paul Argentini.

I have only the 1st Edition of this book, but there is probably an updated version.  This is a great book that focuses on only screenplay formatting (complete with extensive explanation of shots and terms, etc.), format terms, format submissions, stage play formatting, listing of literary agents that represent screenwriters.

And, another nice one, which I am reading on and off now:

-The Everything Screenwriting Book, by Robert Pollock

Happy reading, my friends.  I am off to reread Hunter's book.

You know, I may as well face the facts.  Those facts are this... There is nothing else in this world for me to do.  Nothing.  I could go to school or search for "careers" all I want, but it's not going to change one thing.  That thing is that I am a writer.

Okay, so some of you may have read my stuff here on my blogs or on the Writer's Cafe, and maybe you think it's shitty - that's okay, I do too.  Then again, some of you more misguided, psychotic individuals may actually think the stuff is good or at least okay.  Anyway, we're all entitled to our opinions.

The point is, I should stop trying to run from my writing.  I know you always hear from me that I am working on my writing, and yes, I am.  Every now and then I write something - it comes and goes like a bolt of lightening, and usually leaves me burned up like an old tree trunk.

But mostly, I am NOT writing.  Yes, you read correctly...NOT. 

I am constantly doing whatever it takes to avoid writing.  This is why I have so many damned projects.  Do you know how many open projects I have?  Well, "Someday Always Comes", the book I've been placing up chapters about, is finished and edited completely, except I am going through and totally removing junk that doesn't need to be in it.  All the other editing of it, for formatting, spelling and grammer has all been done.  This book has been finished for a couple years.

I do write poetry on a near normal basis.  Probably because it's the safest outlet for my craziness without my having to write chapters or scenes.  It's quick and easy, and I can ususally pen completely & edit most modest size poetry works in a couple of days to a couple of weeks, to a month.  Yes, I can overdo it when it comes to perfection.  However, some poems, such as "For the Defenders" or "The Eagle's Tear", took months and months.  Actually, "For the Defenders" took years to write and edit.

Then there's "The Adams", "The Manuscript"' a book about a detective...it's not named yet; a screenplay - which I feel would be better as a book - it's called "I Would Have Loved You Anyway."  There's also a comedy called "Screwed Again", which was started a few years back and is still sitting on index cards instead of paper in screenplay format where it belongs.  I also have a poem, with a title and an idea, but no words.  That's unusual for my poetry though.

And, there's other works, some are novels some sceenplays, and among them titles such as "A Man Holding On", "Supernal Warcraft"; a finished screenplay called "The First American Prince" which should have been rewritten as a book 10 years ago.  Oh, yeah, then there's the Wendy Wytch series.  Never mind.

Look, I don't want to get off track, but my point is, yes, I dabble in writing and I have several projects going... I just don't complete things anymore the way I did even 5 years ago.

I am too busy being frustrated with other things, or by other people, that I let it get in the way of my creativity and instead of using it as an outlet, I hide it and deny it.  My gift of the ability to write, that is.  That's what I am denying.

I am not truly happy with myself unless I am writing.  And I feel that when I am not happy it causes chaos in all other parts of my life.

I keep wanting to do other things.  Like go to school to learn skills I am really not interested in.  Always going, doing, looking, searching.  Doing everything I can to keep the writing tiger in the den.

Geesh, why is it that I wish to not do this thing?  Why is it that I wish to remain in denial and find other things to do?  While yes, I must work to make money in order to fund my writing, and this is what I have done my whole life.  Or rather, it's what I have been convincing myself that I have been doing.

When in reality, I work for a living and then watch TV or read a book instead of doing my writing.  How can I just sit around and ignore my pleasure?...When those characters are screaming at me to move on?

Every now and then my Muse awakens and screams terrible things at me.  Uses some of my most frightening imaginings against me, to frighten the heck out of me and scare me into writing.

Just a while ago, this is what happened to me concerning Sydney & Ray.  Sydney & Ray are two characters from a story.  I have been working on a synopsis for a book called "The Manuscript."

Some of you have heard me speak of or saw me writing about this novel before.  I have been trying to write the synopsis and opening chapter of a book.  Now I am considering it for screenplay format.  Which sadly, would be hard to share with you all since many folks might think that screenplay reading is a bit dreary and confusing.

Anyway, I get scared into writing by crazies like Sydney & Ray, and then I'll write or brainstorm ideas and then just walk away.

Why? you're probably asking.  Well, some are old cliches - that I am not good enough, that the idea is not good enough or it's old and outdated.  Others center around guilt.  I should not be writing.  I can't find a job, and should not write.  It's wrong to do it.

Other times, I get upset because I've done some really good work.  I've written an entire novel of over 600 pages and not one of my family members have ever asked to see it.  I have written many chapters for other works and my family is not interested.  It's sad that my family doesn't support me.

Why don't they support me?... I can't imagine why not.  But, I have been told by outsiders that some of my family members don't support me for certain reasons (there's 2 in particular).  It was suggested that one is just jealous of me (that's just crazy, why?), the other just has no interest.

These things take a toll on me.  I feel like I should not write because they're not interested in me.  Even a few of my closest friends who used to show interest does not really anymore.  Maybe it's just because I don't entice them anymore or bring up the subject.  I feel like I am intruding, and I don't like to make people feel like they have to talk about it or read it.

Then there's the other poeple, the ones who show their interest.  I have people read and hate what I write, or read and love what I write.  Someone called one of my poems "astounding."

A person told me that my story idea, that I lovingly refer to as "The Adams" would definately take cable television by storm as a movie mini-series, if not as a film series.

Well, you get my drift.  Anyway, I am just trying to express that my writing ability (or maybe lack thereof - I'm not sure) causes me as much harm as good.  But, I know I am okay, at the least, at what I do.

My ultimate dream is to write that great piece, whether a poem or novel or screenplay, and I guess that's what most writers dream of.  However, I bet you all don't know how many talented people there our out there who dream of the same things, but never ever put pen to paper or fingers to keys?  Not everyone who can write does write, not everyone who writes is good at it, and not everyone who writes and is good or not good ever publishes a book or sees their film on the screen.

My problem is that whether I write or not, writing consumes my life.  If I am awake for 18 hrs a day, I think about writing - even if I am not writing - for about 4 of those hours.  This is when I am working.  When I am not employed, or on my off days, I can think about writing 10+ hours a day - even if I am not actually writing. 

Writing controls my life, and I guess I need to learn to harnass that monster, and write no matter what.  No matter what others think or don't think, I should do it for me because I love it.

I should write even when I am working a "job".  Yes, job.  I could be mayor of Chicago, and it'd be just  a worthless job to me.  I could be Oprah, and it'd just be another job to me.  Most of us would think those types of "jobs" are careers.  No, I don't.  I could have been the creator of Microsoft and that, too, would be just a job.  I could be a lawyer, psychologist, geologist, pilot, cowgirl, and nothing would matter.  I could have a BA, MA, Phd, and so, who cares?

I guess I am just destined to write whether anyone else, but me, cares or not.  I guess I have to write for me. 

I must do it for the characters because they need to be heard.  And if one day, I can claim this "dream job", this obsession, as a career, then I will no longer have to work anymore jobs that I hate.

Okay, I am not sure what I actually wanted this blog to be about.  I think I had an agenda, but now all is lost to a rant about my stupid feelings and what I percieve as work or as a career.

Thanks for reading, and have a good day.

Monday, February 04, 2008

Sometimes forgiveness is born of tragedy.  I wrote this for my niece before she was ever born.

***********************************

A LESSON LEARNED

            (A poem for Baby - dedicated to William J. Green)

A lesson learned
Is forgiveness earned.

I hope this time we will get it right.
I hope this time we'll notice the Angel in flight
Across the Earth with eyes wide and bright
As if a Fairy Tale were in sight.

If we look on high,
We'll see the Sun, the Moon and the Stars
As they chase each other across the Sky.
Can you see that?  It's the cow…abandoning the Moon for Mars!

And the Heavens know -
For they have seen it before -
How many times we adults have reaped what we sow.
But, blind we shall be no more.

Not forgotten are our hideous deeds
But, forgiven, are we really, by our lost Seed?
Never again shall we neglect a child with needs.
Never again misled by our greed.

A lesson learned
Is forgiveness earned.

New days are now arriving.
But old days are not to be forgotten.
And now, here we are striving
To keep things from once again going rotten.

Love will be a knowledge that we shall share.
The words "I love you" will never run bare.
The voice of compliment will never be scarce.
Joy and happiness will be what this family shares.

Be joyful, Angel, and never cry tears
For your Brother has already borne your every burden.
So rest your head, have no fears
And sleep tight until the mornin'.

I hope this time we will get it right.
I hope this time we'll notice the Angel in flight
Across the Earth with eyes wide and bright
As if a Fairy Tale were in sight.

A lesson learned
Is forgiveness earned.

     Copyright 2008 Wanda S. Paryla

Okay, this is just  a rant and not geared toward my MySpace Friends - it's for those guys whom I do not know. 

Even though my profile says that I am here for "networking" and "friends" I keep getting guys PM-ing me sending me their phone numbers and email addresses.  And guess what?  Many of these are legitimate and real people.  Which scares me... I mean, I could be a psycho. (I mean, it could be a given from all my funny, happy bunny graphics on my page!) 

I will cut to the chase.  I am NOT on MySpace for dating or romantic relationships. 

I started my MySpace page to hook up with my real-life friends, former job and college associates and buddies, to have a place to unite with people I am familiar with from other websites such as DearJoaquin or the VeggieBoards.  Importantly, I am using my page to place my creative writing on the web, on my own terms, where my Friends and the public can read it in my blogs, bulletins, or on my page.

Anyone who's interested can request to join my Friends list.  If anyone in the public - male or female - who feels we have something in common, like writing, or movies, or vegetarianism, or is a Hillary Clinton or Joaquin Phoenix fan, if you like my writing, or we're on another website together, etc, just request to be added to my Friends and let me know why you'd like to be on my Friends list.  Or let me know where I know you from, or if you're a Friend of one of my Friends.

I'm cool with that.  However, I am not interested in a romantic relationship with some stranger, some person I do not know or whom I have not met first in person, or via a friend.  I am not on MySpace for dates and would never call, or go on a blind date with a stranger from MySpace. 

I once hooked up with a nice fellow from e-Harmony.  He was wonderful, but I think I got lucky.  That doesn't always work out.  That said, I do not have trouble getting dates in the real world, and I don't need cyberspace to hook up.  For some reason, many types of people find me quite attractive inspite of me.

Also, the pic I have up includes my niece in it.  She is a little girl, and I wonder how many perves are interested in her instead of me.  Hey - that's asking for some asses to get lit on fire - or in most cases some d*cks to get chopped off!    Oh, boy, we won't even go there in this blog.

I am not very trusting of men I meet on the web... sorry boys.  Many of my MySpace friends whom I have never met in person, have gained my trust over years.  I have a MySpace friend that I met on another website and have communicated with for years.  Most are women I know from my past, and from other websites and I trust them.

I don't wish to hurt the feelings of the well-intentioned fellow who may actually think I am not half bad looking, or think we have things in common, who lives near me, or who thinks my profile professes my intelligence level or whatever (yes, someone wrote that to me).  I am sure there's a lot of eligible nice guys out there my age, in my area, who I have things in common with, but I am just not on the market. 

Thanks fellas! - but no, thanks!  Good luck.