Category Creative Writing Tidbits

I Trust You

“I trust you.” I never knew how important those three words were.

…I trust you.

More important than saying I love you is knowing that in a relationship there is trust.

The only thing missing from some of my past relationships was that one crucial ingredient.


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What is Making Love, Really?

Contrary to popular belief, making love really has very little to do with sex.

No, in fact, making love doesn’t really require sex at all. Although, adding sex to making love can really bring two powerful parts of loving together into a relationship, and that is the ultimate goal when in love with someone.

But right now, I want to talk about ‘making love’ and what exactly that is, at least, what it is to me.


Making love is a ...

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Yes, We Dance

(*Originally written in 2006. Well worth revisiting this one.)

The dance was nice. The music was great, but a little loud. It was very hot on the dance floor, but we found a personal wind tunnel near the entrance where we sat to cool us down.

And there on the dance floor was this early to mid-20s woman, wearing jeans and a white shirt, with what appeared to be her husband and two children.

They were dancing together as a family. At one point, she even got on her knees to dance with her less than three-year-old son while dad swung the daughter around and around.

I watched, entranced by the love and fun in this little family unit. They made me smile, filled my heart with joy.

Then, while I was sitting at this table watching them, this song comes on, this Natural Woman song.

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Do you lurk in the shadows watching me?

I am so exposed.

I put everything out there, hoping you will see, will read me, will view me—will watch me and know how I feel, how I still feel.

Open, my life is a book, written on pages before you, and everyone can read it, read me. Part of me hopes you are watching and part of me is so afraid of what you might see.

You are invisible to me. All traces of a connection that was once so real and strong to me—gone. I seek for it; I yearn for it. I reach out and can almost touch it, almost feel it, and then it vanishes like smoke before my eyes.

I don’t cry. I don’t get angry. I’m not sad. I’m just barely breathing, barely holding on to that thin string that is sanity and dangerously close to stepping over the line into the realm of fantasy forevermore—drifting into fitful sleep each night.

Even in my dreams, I ca...

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Beating the Odds

The odds of winning the last mega-millions big lottery that was all over the news were something like 1 in 176 million chances of winning. That’s pretty long odds, right there. Yet, ever hopeful, people buy tickets to the lottery every day. Why? Because human beings seem to like playing the odds. One of the reasons hang-gliding and mountain climbing and even something as simple as roller coasters are so adrenaline pumping and exciting to people is because there is a risk of death (or at least serious injury), however small, that comes with the rush. If there were nothing to fear, there would be nothing exciting about it. You get excited because you faced risk and death, and you win… you survive. You beat the odds while staring them in the face.

We play the odds all the time: every time we get behind the wheel of the car (sober or not, driving or not), we risk death. Every time we take a new medication from a doctor that we’ve never taken before, we risk death. Every time we walk out our door, we risk death, and just staying in and doing nothing risks death in a different way. After all, did you know that more people die from accidents and injuries or illnesses that happened in their home than all other crimes and causes of death combined? Most of us, if we die, are going to start that process in the relative safety of our own homes.

The point is, we are constantly at risk of death, every one of us, and yet somehow we function every day in spite of it. We are gamblers, human beings are… yes, we are. We play the odds. We hope for the best, even though we know the odds are stacked in favor of the house, because we know, deep down, that someone is going to beat the odds. We believe, with prayer and fantasy, that we will be that someone.

And sometimes… we are. Or as my uncle said to my mom once–and you’ve probably very likely said it before yourself: Someone has to win the lottery. Might as well be me.

And yet, in the end, we all die. Every last one of us is going to die. We can’t escape that eventuality. But some of us die sooner than others. There are reasons for that. We don’t all get to live a good, long life and slip into the next plane of existence quietly in our sleep. Blessed are those who do.


I’ve been doing a lot of reading ...

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What If?

Since becoming a writer, many have asked me the source of my inspiration, what it is that compels me to write. The answer is always different, depending on my mood, what’s foremost in my mind that day, or what is currently inspiring me. Though the answers are almost always different, they are all true. If I had to pin point the reason I write to just one thing, just one impetus that moves my fingers, I’d have to say it’s the ‘what ifs’.

When I was a child, what ifs got me into trouble with daddy. He would tell me to do something a certain way, and I’d asked, “What if I did it this way instead?”

I mean, I didn’t think it; I would actually ask...

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Downward Slide, Hopping on One Foot

The rays of the sun reflected off the lake surface, in shimmering, brilliant strands. The group of girls stood near the pond, changing into swim clothing after the long hike and horse ride down the path through the woods.

The lake was not swimmable, for the water was too murky, too dirty. Not from pollution though, just a natural murky, mud filled lake-hole. While the sun shone brightly on it, and the reflection of the surrounding trees was gorgeous, the water itself stank of fish and dirt and sludge.

However, just a few feet from the lake was a gorgeous natural hot-water spring. The girls from the scout troop were preparing to soak their tired, wearied bodies in the hot springs.

Each girl slipped in, one by one, to the warmth of the crystal clear water...

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I’d Rather Be Writing

I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I don’t do illegal drugs. I don’t party. I don’t sleep around. I’m faithful and true to those I love. I don’t tell lies unless the truth would needlessly hurt someone, and ‘needlessly’ is the operative word there.

A few years ago, my little brother–who isn’t really my little brother, but that’s a story for another post–he told me that I should get out of the house more often. He said, “Normal people go out and do things.”

I said, “I”d rather be writing.”

There is no truer statement for me than that: I’d rather be writing.

He said, “But that’s not normal.”

I replied, “I never claimed to be normal.”

I went on to tell him, “If I’m happy, love what I do, and am making a living doing it, and being ‘normal’ means giving all that up… I’d rather ...

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Meet ‘Me’

(Excerpted from The Path, by Michelle Devon, Copyright 2006)

While at the grocery store, in line in front of me was a very attractive woman, who looked as though she had been crying, and on the conveyor belt in front of her was a 1/2 gallon of ice cream, Soap Opera Digest and TV Guide. She reached over and picked up a pack of gum as an afterthought and that’s when I could see how very sad she appeared. I overhead her talking on her cell phone to a friend about how she and her boyfriend had just broken up.

I have a friend who cannot find anything in her life to bring her pleasure unless she has a love interest in her life, but then none of them ever seem to work out quite the way she wants. She gets very down on herself when each new relationship fails.

In fact, most of my single friends se...

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Instant Batification

(Just a little something I wrote a while back for a quick impromptu contest that I did not win. It was written to a theme… just thought I’d share it here, for no reason whatsoever.)

“Mandy, put your bag there on the couch,” Sheila said. “Let’s get the stuff ready while we wait for Leeza. This is going to be so cool!”

The girls giggled and walked to the kitchen. Just when they made it to the table, the doorbell rang. “That’s Leeza,” Sheila squealed. “You get the stuff, and I’ll go let her in.”

After their greetings, Mandy said to Leeza, “So… did you bring the book?”

Leeza giggled and patted her backpack. “Right here.”

“Dig it out!” Sheila exclaimed.

From her backpack, Leeza retrieved a well-worn, large, obviously old leather-bound book...

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