My life changed dramatically when I was 17.  A big huge event that altered the earths rotation 1/386ths of a degree.  Yeah, I'm that important.

Part of me stopped.  Right where it was.  And stayed behind. 
No wonder I'm always like, what did I come in this room for?
I need all of me to remember those things like, tape, scissors, a glass of water...

I think I want to go back and tell myself things.  Fix the broken parts.  Tell myself
that everything turns out beyond what I could've hoped for.  And that there actually
was hope.

But I know it's more than that.  Because I love, love, love teenagers.  And I never
really thought about it, because, doesn't everyone?  Doesn't everyone want to
scoop them up and say, "Don't worry about all the junk?"

Don't you want to say, what are you talking about, "Fat?"  You wanna see fat?  I'll
show you fat."  And that scares them straight for sure.

And don't you want to say, "Honey, you deserve so much better than him." 
And, "Dude, she's going to break your heart.  Dont' go there."

All I know is I love them.  And I write to say to myself and all of those who felt
the way I did, "There is so much more to you, and to life, and don't throw it away,
don't give up, cuz I'm standing.  I'm still standing.  I AM STILL STANDING."

Do you hear me?  You will.  

Author Ann Dee Ellis (Read her books) posted a few thoughts about the elderly woman in the news who kept her husband and her sisters dead bodies in her home. Odd situations like that bring us to ask questions about ourselves and our beliefs.  We wonder, what would we do? 

These thoughts triggered something in me.  And maybe it was that I read this at 2 in the morning, but this was my response, edited slightly.

I remember when I was young, hearing the words, “We all bleed red.” I thought about that a lot. Thought about blood and different cultures and races.
I tasted my own blood a lot as a child. Scrapes, cuts, and other ways. Ways that children should never have to taste their own blood.
And I made others bleed. A tom-boy with tar in her guts should not be pushed.

And I’ve seen when the blood stops. When there is nothing pulsing underneath cold skin.
I’ve seen blood flow unrestricted, leaving its lifeless host behind.

I’ve seen blood wiped from my newborn babies faces.

It’s always red. The blood. I see mine everyday, wait for it to be calculated to understand why I feel the way I do.

It does weird things, blood. Too much of this, or too little of that can mean life or death. My blood decides everything for me. How I feel. How I think. If I can think. How long I will live. What parts of me will live as long as the rest of me.

Death, loss, pain. It’s part of every one of us. All made of the same elements. All dependant on the shell we’ve been given. But for me, it’s enough. I have loved deeply. I have walked to that edge, and taken a step past it. The hardest pain I have ever felt was in those last moments, when the eyes go black, when every cell in the body screams for mercy, begs to live. Fingernails in a cement cliff.

My thoughts were for my children, without a mother. For my husband, for whom I begged God, would not blame himself when he found my body. But he did. Before the last breath.

And that was before Lisa Hale and Ann Cannon, Ann Dee Ellis, Alane Ferguson, Carol Lynch Williams and her daughters. Before… writing.  We all deal with death differently, but death has taught me not to wait. To speak, to tell, to write, to share, to love. I’m not physically what I expected myself to be at this point in my life because of my health. But my muted body has given voice to the slumbered parts of me. 

******************************
Interesting that we all can't say what it's like to be filthy rich, or have a family that stayed together, or a happy childhood, or even a spouse that loves us.  But we can all say that we bleed, and that we suffer, and we have felt loss.  What in life would really bring us together as friends if not for a compassionate heart born out of our own grief?  Because of the pain, I know joy.

Is the truth.

The hard truth.

The buried truth.

You have to draw from the pain.

The embarassments.

The lost loves.

The best friends.

The broken friendships.

Family relationships.
Good and bad.

You have to see yourself
and those around you
with different eyes.

Which means as a writer
you think too much.
Over analyze.

But you can also
see the good.

The beautiful.

The things that should be
cherished.

You see the details in
faces that you love.

The mannerisms in a
friend that loves you.

Smells matter.  Movement
matters.  And it becomes
recorded.

Kept inside to become
immortalized in print.

To write is to see
feel
hear
experience.

And somehow put life
into letters
black on a page.

That's why writers
cry
feel exhilerated
want to quit
keep on going
believe they must write
doubt their abilities.

To be a writer
is a journey
across every
landscape.

BYUWIFYR  or - Brigham Young University Writing and Illustrating for Young Readers

Last year was my first experience with a writing conference.  I had no idea they existed.  The lovely Lisa Hale, English Professor at BYU, hooked me up with Ann Cannon's advanced novel group. 

Can we talk about life changing events?  Can we talk about life-changing friends?  There's something about opening up a very personal side of yourself and letting people rip it apart.  I love it.  I know, that sets my profile to psycho alert. 

There is a definite bond that occurs with those in your class.  But it doesn't end there.  Walking the halls, meeting people, going to lunch with friends of friends.  The writing was great, challenging and time consuming.  But the people...

For me this workshop is an emotional Disneyland.  So many people make it pleasant and happy.  And then there are those who take your heart for a serious ride.  And I feel forever affected.

Maybe it's the compilation of some of the most creative and generous writer's in the business.  There is no other conference like it.  The organizers and authors take financial hits to put it on.  To work tirelessly, give everything they have, and then still have enough to make you feel loved and appreciated.

I am a better writer because of people like Ann Cannon, Carol Lynch Williams, Lisa Hale, Ann Dee Ellis, Alane Ferguson, Cheri Pray Earl, and so many others, including those who will soon break out onto the published scene.
 
We all have stories within us.  This amazing conference is the place to go to learn how to get it out.

My personal thanks to all who worked so hard for my betterment.  I love you.

And p.s. Lady G. gots nothing on Carol Lynch Williams.  And my goodness, you want a book that will knock you over?  Read her, Glimpse.  I have 4+ times now.  Beautiful.

Since the inception of this idea that I would write a novel,(last year) I've felt conflict.  Not about writing, except on the days where I feel like a hack, but those aren't as often anymore. (thanks nice writing friends)  But about subject matter, swearing, difficult scenes, and simply things that for the most part of my reading life, I have not read.  Cuz there's other books.  And there are.  A lot of books.

So why am I writing a hard book right now?  I found a truth for myself.  And I've been through quite the emotional journey since last year.  Hard, terrible, great, and empowering.  My life has allowed experiences to shape my literary voice.  And being a character in the middle of hard comes naturally.

The thing with writing about hard is that it takes hard research.  I've conditioned myself to avoid hearing difficult things involving children and women.  A survival skill I guess you can call it.  It makes me physically ill, elicits a shutdown, and a need to find control pretty immediately.  But I've made it.

I've gone back and forth so many times on whether I'm inviting evil by reading hard things, or whether it's necessary, or is that justifying?  I'm talking serious whiplash.

But I finally figured it out.  For me.  That for me it's about the intention of reading.  And it's about breaking the pattern of silence and ignorance we have about what's really going on around us.  Addiction and abuse want to be left in the dark where they can fester.  Everyone will have a different opinion about how to handle these things.  And that's okay.

I'm just saying, for me, I have peace.  And I have a greater respect for everyone's choice of what they read and write.

The end.

I need to be outside.  The winter months gave opportunity to write.  And also wish, wish, wish for spring.  And also eat too much. 

I'm thinking I need a healthy re-introduction into true creativity.  Which.  Is outside.  Everything is green.  Not so long ago the yellow-tipped branches of the Willow brought hope.  It's coming, it's coming, it's coming.  Now I open my window and listen to the rushing river of Aspen leaves in the wind.  Many blossoms have come and gone and the signs of a mid-summer fruit harvest blanket my trees and bushes.

Still, it's not enough to watch it live.  Like exotic animals behind glass.  I remember walking to school on spring mornings.  The frosted dew on the ground and the sun at my back.  My fingers and toes may have been chilled, but the virgin sun spread through me like melting butter.

That's what I need.  To be a child.  To remember that dirt is for pies and castles and mud balls.  And not something that is merely to be scrubbed from the knees of little jeans, or mopped from floors. 

I sat in fields of grass and ate the leaves of buttercups.  I sucked the sweet pollen from lavender thistles.  Salmon Berries, Huckle Berries, Strawberries, Blackberries, Blueberries... The bee stings hurt, but how could you care with such a feast?

Those same bees would let me pet them when I was still.  They didn't really want to hurt me.  They just didn't like it when I stepped on them with my bare feet.

One time I swatted a bee in my windowsill.  I felt so bad I made him a puddle of honey with crushed aspirin.  Somehow, he did not make it. 

I want to go back there.  Where catching frogs, snakes, and tadpoles wasn't disgusting, but an adventure.  I guess, atleast I can feel something when I watch my children discover that kind of magic.

Time to go outside and refill my writing soul.

One time at recess, I think it was 6th grade, a boy kept annoying my friends.  We were all sitting in a little circle minding our own business.  He was calling one of them names or something like that.  Anyway - I told him to quit.  I'm sure I was very polite and not snotty or mean.  He did not desist.  Well, bad choice bucko.

I don't know how I did it.  But I jumped up and double slammed him in the chest with my two feeties.  Yes, I was a flying ninja.  A crouching tiger.  Not so hidden, but a dragon. 

After that he was very sorry that he didn't listen to me.  And I was very glad the recess monitor didn't see me.

My life has pretty much followed that pattern.  Do what you want to me, but don't mess with the people I love.   Except now I'm over 18.(Barely.)  And my double footie ninja jump would land me in la casa de bad guys.  And my kids would have to tell all their friends that their mamma was in jail and her cellmate gave her a freaky tattoo. 

Dang over 18.

So now I'm immersed in this world of literature and authors and agents and soon to be published authors.  And it's pretty difficult not to love these people.  They're crazy and weird and open, and so full of generosity.  Some I have become very close to.  Some that I wonder how I ever lived without knowing them.

Well, here's the thing about publishing a book, or article, or column.  You can't please everyone.  And everyone is so willing to post their opinions on the internet.  I ran into an amateur review today written about one of my friends books.  It was the most ridiculous review by someone obviously with NO CLUE!  The author wrote a book about her own life and the person called it "Highly Sensationalized".  What the huh?  At the same time, she gave Twilight great reviews.  Because THAT is NOT "Highly Sensationalized."  What the?

I grew up a fighter.  And it's hard to suppress that when the protective instinct hits red alert level.  So I'm left to vitriol rhetoric.  Which I write, and then most times erase.  Cuz the Bible told me to not be mean and to forgive and turn the other cheek.  Well yeah, but.  But, but, but, but, but, but.  Dang it.  Okay.

But I want to.  I want to say, hello my name is Lucinda Ann Felix, you mess with my friend, prepare to die.  With the accent and everything.  And possibly a sword.  And jumping around on tables and cutting through candle sticks.  But without the mustache.

So I'm just saying, don't mess.  And be a responsible reviewer.

Thank you very much.   

I've been thinking, we're moving a little too fast in this relationship.  I think we should date other people.  I've been interested in responsible, dutiful, and the antithesis of fear, love.  Oh no, it's not you, it's me.  My priorities have changed.  My dreams have changed.  And I think if we don't end it now, things could get ugly.

All we do is fight.  Our relationship isn't healthy.  At times you work your charms and I think I like you.  We hang out.  But then I feel guilty the next day.  I can't live like that.  And you don't want to stick around and feel my resentment.

There are plenty of others who love to date guys just like you.  But not me.  I'm looking for a long term serious relationship.  One without guilt or anxiety.  One that builds me up instead of tearing me down.

I know I've tried to break up before.  You followed me around.  Stalked me.  Tried to weezle your way back into my life.  And sometimes I was weak and let you in.  But I'm not taking your abuse anymore.  I'm pulling it all up.  Starting all over. 

You can try, you will try to be with me again.  That is, if you can find me.  I'm gone.

Sincerely,
Lucinda Ann Felix

to heck with it this weekend.  We're going camping, and fishing, and boating, and most imporantly, roasting marshmallows.  I'm very aware that the only reason for camping is marshmallow roasting.  That's always the first question from my kids.

Me: Listen you rascals, we're going camping.
Logan: Do we get to roast marshmallows?
Dallin: And make smores?
Nathan: I love everything what has sugar in it.
Madelyn: Can I bring a book?

I've been waiting all these depressive cold months to do this again.  Because outdoors is my favorite of all.  And fishing.  And driving the boat.  I'm telling you, it's pretty dang fun to drive a fast boat.

So enjoy your cooling session on the back-burner, my little manuscript.  I love you and all, but I'm outta here!

Yippee Skippee!

 I found such an one yesterday.  Through revision, my bestest writing friend. 

I'm nearing the end of my manuscript.  I realized one of my earlier scenes tied my hands a little.  So to heck with that, I cut it.  And found a gem.  The elementary school cafeteria.  Such an awkward place.

Were you ever embarrassed that your mom packed tuna fish?  Or something leaked all over your lunch box?  Did you worry about who to sit by?  Or if people would make fun of what you ate? 

Were you ever in the middle of scarfing the cafeteria food when a number of people said, "That's the grossest lunch ever."  What do you do?  Agree?  Stop eating?  Dare to say, I like it?

Ever forget your lunch money?  I remember the frozen pb&j on styrofoam. It was the worst peanut butter, ever. 

Did you have the friend who's mom was Martha Stewart?  Her homemade lunch could've won prizes for beauty, clean lines, and tastiness.  And somehow you felt unworthy without squarely cut carrots and celery.  And for sure you didn't have the tiny tupperware that held the ranch dip.

How about the friend who ate everything on their tray, and then proceeded to yours?  Sometimes I wished I had no shame.  I never asked anyone for anything.  THAT would be embarrassing.

I just thought of middle school cafeteria.  Ugh.  That's a whole nother post, for a whole different book.

So anyway, my point is that revision is something to look forward to.  It begs a keener eye,  An attention to detail, purpose, and meaning.  Today I have to take a line from my Ann and say, I love it so much I want to marry it.

Now someone tell me to quit blogging and get back to revising.