It's a Bangkok Theme Park!

Sitting in my living room, getting a little bored with the football game that's on TV, I decide to go along with today's writing prompt. I pick up the nearest book and laugh as I count the first ten words and end up on the word Bangkok. I laugh because I have the sense of humor of a five year old.

This is the first image I found when I google imaged the word Bangkok. My five year old self was totally disappointed. 

After studying the photo for a while, I find myself thinking about Disneyland. I feel like this could be an image straight out of the theme park. I wonder how shallow and westernized that makes me that this gorgeous, far off place brings to mind a theme park. 

Shoulder shrug. 

It also brings to mind thoughts of something magical and mysterious, the type of things dreams are made of. Once more, my five year old self rears her nappy head and I start to laugh again because I associate all those things with Disneyland, too. 

Toys are overrated

September 12, Toy story: What was your favorite plaything as a child? Do you see any connection between your life now, and your favorite childhood toy?

I don't recall having any particular toy that I loved more than the others. I had several baby dolls that I spent a great deal of time playing with. I had some artsy drawing and painting notebooks that I liked. I also had several hand me down items from my older three siblings. Books were always a favorite, I think. 

I was particularly fond of the doll head I got one year. You were supposed to be able to style her hair and all that. I was never any good at styling hair, on the doll or otherwise. I'm still not great at it. I suppose that would be one correlation. 

My childhood was not particularly focused on things. I guess you could say that's a big connection to my life now. I have never really focused on accumulating fancy things. I tend to value the few things I have and feel a little too indulgent when I start buying a lot of nicer things. 

A Story with a Twist

Her high school creative writing teacher told her she had a good radio voice.

"Great," she thought, "I can do radio news when my book flops."

It wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to her though, seeing as how she never wrote that novel anyway. Sure, she wrote a little here and there, submitting a couple pieces along the way. She had a blog where she haphazardly posted random rants over the years. 

Moving along in life, she ended up selling insurance and settling down in a small coastal town. There wasn't much going on besides the twice weekly newspaper she picked up now and then. Her writing became more and more spiratic. 

As the drought moved north from California, she found her well dry one day. With loads of dirty laundry, she stumbled into the only laundry mat in town. She brought her lap top with her to pass the time and as she checked her email found another Writers Digest daily writing prompt.

She thought for a while, typed and deleted, typed and deleted every idea she had. 

"Whatcha doin there?" asked a high pitched country twang of a voice.

She looked up and saw Sandra Jensen, the local girl gone big country and tried not to be too star struck. 

"Nothing really, just trying to pass the time and come up with a good story. Something with a twist." 

Sandra looked around for a moment and said, "Well, you can tell my story."

Four hour, six loads of laundry and two coffees later, she had a rough draft of the most amazing heart warming story she's ever written. The two exchanged contact information and she promised to let Sandra read the final draft before she sent it to the publisher.

Three weeks later she picked up the phone to call Sandra, excited about how the final draft turned out. After a few rings, an unfamiliar voice answered the phone. "Hello?"

"Hi, can I talk to Sandra please?!" 

The person on the other line broke into wild sobs, eventually handing the phone to someone else who explained to her that Sandra had died a few weeks ago in a tragic car accident.

"What?! No, that's impossible! We were working on..."

"I'm sorry ma'am. She was driving home from the laundry mat and was hit by a drunk driver. I have to now. Good bye."

She couldn't believe what she heard. The phone dropped from her hands as she realized that she was the last person to talk to Sandra that night and now she had her story, written down, and didn't know what to do with it all. 

Ten years later.....

She had taken a creative writing teaching position at the local high school and was welcoming her first class to school. The first assignment she handed out was one she herself had to do in high school: write about someone who has had the greatest impact on you.

That night she settled into her living room couch with stacks of essays, a red pen (her favorite) and a mug a hot tea. She picked up the first paper and noticed it was written by a student named Michelle Jensen. 

Her mind shot back to Sandra Jensen all those years ago. She shook her head as if to rid herself of the memory. Looking back at the paper she began to read: "The person who has had the greatest impact on my life is my mom, Sandra Jensen."

She couldn't believe it. This was the six year old daughter Sandra had told her all about that night at the laundry mat. With tears streaming, she read the essay and knew what she had to do.

She went out to the garage and pulled out a dusty box and brought it back inside. The next day at school she waited for Michelle to get to class. With tearful eyes and a smile, she handed Michelle the only copy of a novel she burried ten years ago, titled "My Whole Life, a story for my daughter Michelle".

She's a Sleeper

My bed is my most favorite luxury. I'm in it right now, actually. I think I'll go back to sleep. Happy Labor Day! 

Rock Steady

September 4 - Writing Prompt - I am a rock.
Is it easy for you to ask for help when you need it, or do you prefer to rely only on yourself? Why?


It's never easy. I have always felt like I have to be super responsible for myself and the things I wanted or needed to do. Asking for help feels like weakness and being vulnerable is something I have had to learn how to do the hard way. To admit the need for help was embarrassing. It was like admitting failure, which I have always viewed as being unacceptable.


It could be viewed as stubbornness or pride or both. But looking back I see now that it was mostly fear and insecurity. In the few times I had to ask for help with legitimate things like rent, transportation or education, I felt utterly defeated. I literally wanted to crawl into a hole and die.


The more I am able to base my self worth on my character, on who I actually am as a person, the less I am affected in such detrimental ways by things like asking for help or admitting I can't do it all. I'm working on letting go of the idea that I should be able to handle everything alone, that I can be an island, and that I have to do everything perfectly in order to be worth anything.


I think this is why the concept of grace has always struck such a deep chord for me. Undeserved favor.


Human beings are broken, we are frail, we need more than ourselves in order to maintain. We need each other. It's always been easier for me to say that while standing alone, looking out over the masses. The struggle came when I had to walk into the midst of the brokenness and admit that I was just like everyone else.


My best days come when I am able to connect to that brokenness and just let go of the struggle. For me, it is a conscious decision I have to make every day. When I am able to get up and decide to let go of fear, I am able to embrace my life in a whole new way. It helps me manage anxiety, to be more positive, to love those around me freely, and to love myself for who I am.


It is a journey I am learning to sit back and enjoy more and more.

Beyond the 9 to 5

Social Justice issues tend to tug on my heart strings the most. Hunger. Poverty. Racism. Prejudice. 

Maybe it's because I was the only little white girl in my school growing up. Maybe it's the things I saw and the kids I met in the urban cities of Southern California as an adult. Maybe it was the struggle of finding my own way through negative bank accounts and meager meals. 

Sometimes I think we find ourselves in particular places so that we can eventually turn our own pain into passion, to fight for those who don't have the means or the platform on which they can stand up for themselves. 

I see my past as something that fuels my desire to affect change. It's not just my own experiences but also the experiences of others around me at the time, most whose circumstances were worse than my own, that weigh on my heart and begs me to do more than this nine to five. 

Say My Name

September 2 Writing Prompt: Name that…you!

Do you know the meaning of your name, and why your parents chose it? Do you think it suits you?

 

My name doesn’t have any deep family connection or meaning, which used to bother me when I was younger. I always thought it would be cool to be named after some amazing great grandmother who brought all ten of her children over from Italy and worked 18 hours a day to keep food on the table and shelter over their heads. We aren’t from Italy though, so my mom just picked a name she liked and I ended up being Amy Lynn.

 

Now that I’m older, I love the fact that my mom just picked a name she thought sounded cool (although I’m sure my mom never thought it sounded “cool”, maybe pretty or nice or lovely). If she hadn’t named me Amy Lynn she was going to name me Amanda Joy. I love her for not naming me Amanda Joy. No offense to anyone named Amanda Joy, but I much prefer to end up with a mid-level corporate job in Oregon and not on a rusted stripper pole in Kentucky.  

 

Amy means “beloved”. A name is a powerful thing, isn’t it? I have spent my whole life trying to figure out how to embrace who I am. Being able to accept love wasn’t something I could handle. That didn’t take away from the fact that I was surrounded by love, but to see myself as loveable was different. It’s why I stayed with people who didn’t care about me and treated me poorly. It’s what blinded me and kept me from seeing my own worth.

 

I look back on all those years of struggle and loneliness and wandering and know that at the core of my being I was beloved and didn’t know it. But it was in my name, it was there all along. My name suits my journey and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Take 2 of 365

If you have ever read any of my blog posts, you’ve heard me lamenting my lack of writing discipline and whining about how very much I want to BE a writer. It’s pathetic really but I’m at it again with, hopefully, a little less whining and a little more discipline.

 

I stumbled on this 365 days of writing prompts ebook and got the bright idea to write for 365 straight days. I know, brilliant. Also, not the first time (or person) to have this idea. I got about three posts into “Project 365” a few months back. You can guess what Project 365 was supposed to be. So this is take two (of an unnumbered amount of takes to come).

 

Who knows, maybe this will lead to a killer book deal and I’ll end up rich and famous. Or maybe I’ll struggle through all 365 days and finally just toss my lap top off the roof. Either way, here it goes. Feel free to check-in when you’re bored and see what’s happening on the blog front. Or if you’re really obsessed with me (I know who you are), feel free to follow along daily.

 

I make no promises of enjoyability or even use of legitimate words. So read at your own risk. You have been warned.