Post by Catie on Sept 19, 2007 0:14:09 GMT -5
Aside from the fact that this is the first thing I have written since I graduated from high school in 2003 (aside from rp character profiles, which don't really count), this is also the first time I have attempted to write something that is reality based and serious. I used to keep it to the fantasy and sci-fi. Who knows, maybe that's why I've never completed anything before.
I think that my biggest hurdles when writing are keeping the tone and style consistant, detail (sometimes I give waaaay to much and sometimes, not enough), and going on tangents. No writter can fairly critique their own writing, that's why I am here. I want any honest critique you can give. I know it's all in good nature, so dont worry about just saying it.
Thanks!
The following is only part of the first chapter. It's all I got at the moment. Just as a warning there is content which is considered adult, mostly dealing with drugs and the use of foul language. It's not too bad, but I wanted to throw that in there so no one was too surprised by it.
Chapter One
I remember when I was little, my mother always used to tell me that it was okay to be different, it was okay to step outside the norm and be myself. She had done it. She has survived and even been happy. I used to believe the things she told me. I used to believe that I could coexist with my peers without having to hide myself from them. I used to believe that the world was a wonderful, magickal place. Sometimes, more and more often lately it would seem, I feel deceived.
I’ve always thought my mother to be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. It’s not just me either. Growing up I remember being so proud when I got to walk with her down the street because people would always watch her. She was tall and thin, so elegant yet free. Her long strawberry blond hair was always messy, even when it was freshly brushed. It fell straight down to her waist, with long bangs that she was constantly tossing out of her clear, blue eyes. Her pale skin was always clear and freckled and her long neck gave her an air of grace to match her slow walk and rolling hips. My mother always smiled and laughed. She had such a beautiful smile. The best way to describe the way Mom looked was to say that she was a hippie, a flower child that didn’t quite get the memo about the end of an era. Embroidered bell-bottoms and revealing white peasant tops, leather vests and headbands, bangles and rings, sandals and henna tattoos. All these things made my mother who she was. It didn’t bother her one bit that it was 1985 and she was pregnant at nineteen. It didn’t bother her when it was 1986 and her daughter was one year old. It didn’t bother her, at all, knowing that she had a child and was not married.
She used tell me often about how she used to behave with me. She doesn’t believe in lying or masking the truth. Like all hippies, stereotypically, my mother used drugs. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment with her then boyfriend and my father. She never tells me about him. I don’t even have a picture. All I know about my father is that he, like her, spent most of his time and money getting high. Pot was always in the house, on stand-by for the times that there wasn’t enough money to get the ‘better shit’ as my mother would say. She preferred LSD and Mescaline.
“When you were about one and a half,” my mother would tell me in her soft, southern accented voice, “your father and I were in really bad shape. It was the middle of November, and it was a cold November. He didn’t have a job and I was only working part time as a temp in a doctor’s office. Our gas was turned off and we didn’t have a fireplace so we piled on the clothes and kept up with the usual. Drink, get high, fuck, sleep. Wake up and do it all over again. If I had been a good mother, I would have spent more energy taking care of you. I remember, just before everything peaked, your father was tripping out and he was laughing and talking about how you were blue. I was so drunk and I spent a lot of time ignoring you because all you did was cry and cry all the time. But when I looked, you really were blue.”
My mother always started to cry a little when she reached this part of the story. When she finally realized that I was blue, and crying because I was so cold, she grabbed me up, rolled me in a blanket, and headed off to the free clinic. Turned out I was crying because I had pneumonia and not because I was trying to interrupt ‘high time’. Social Services were called in and I was, technically, taken away from my mother. She would tell me about how she cried and begged for her little baby girl back. She would come to the hospital everyday and look at me through the glass window. Pretty soon all the drugs and booze took their toll and her apartment was seized and she and my father were thrown out onto the streets. I believe the most common phrase would be ‘Rock Bottom”. My mother had finally managed to reach it. She never failed to mention that she didn’t know why she was never arrested when she came to visit me in the hospital. There was never a time when she wasn’t wasted on one thing or another.
“I’d been living on the street with your father for about two months, when everything went black,” she would explain. “Too much drugs and booze all at once. I was rushed to the hospital and once my stomach was pumped I was arrested and, after a long few days that I don’t remember, I was sent into a rehab. If there was ever anything more unbearable then childbirth, it has to be detox. That right there was more than enough of a reason for me never to pick up another drug again. One thing I did come to realize while I was in rehab, and thank the Gods for it, was that you were more important to me, Rainie, than all the drugs and booze”
Mom finished her story the same way every time. If it hadn’t been for Skywolfe, she would never have had the courage or the conviction to follow through with her rehabilitation and I would be living a very, very different life with some strange family in some strange home, in some strange town. That wasn’t my lot in life, however, because my mother had met a strange woman names Skywolfe, and my world was changed, for the better or the worse. I still can’t quite decide.
Skywolfe was a nurse in the rehabilitation center that my mother was at. I’m not sure what her real name was, but I think I remember hearing my Mom call her Linda once. I’d want to change my name, too, if it was Linda. Skywolfe was an amazing woman, a nurturer by nature with a healing hand. Within a few months she had my mother clean in mind and body. Three days after my second birthday, I was back in my mothers’ custody and we moved into Skywolfes home.
I was just learning to talk. The first year and a half of my life had, apparently, stunted my physical and metal growth. Where most infants start learning to walk and make noises resembling words around the one-year mark, I didn’t even know how to crawl. I had spent almost all of the time in my pram. My parents were always so high that they never even bothered to get a crib. Apparently it was a miracle that I was still alive. My mother always expressed her bewilderment that they let her have me back after her rehab. She thinks it was all Skywolfes doing. By two and a half I was finally doing the things that most toddlers do, and, thank the Gods for it, I was ‘normal’ by the time I was three.
Mom had found the perfect path for herself with Skywolfe. It was while she was in rehab that Skywolfe introduced the concept of Wicca to my mother. I guess it was an easier concept to understand and embrace coming from her hippie background. My mother clung to the concept of a God and a Goddess, and soon she was learning about all the different Gods and Goddesses. She chose to devote herself to the Celtic pantheon. Skywolfe practiced a strange combination of Native American Shamanism and Celtic Wicca. Skywolfe had received training from some person or other and my mother received training from Skywolfe. I, in turn, received training from both.
When I turned three, and could talk and understand everything that was going on around me, my mother started my training unofficially. I was taught how to thank the Earth and the Gods for all my meals. I learned to appreciate nature and to make offerings to the Fae, the Gods, the Earth, and to the Ancestors. I was even allowed to participate in rituals. I usually played the role of calling the coven members to circle by ringing the bell. It didn’t matter to me what role I was given. I was beyond thrilled that the adults were allowing me to join in the fun.
Once a week, the coven members would gather at Skywolfes house. There were fifteen or sixteen members at the time, all of whom I knew by their coven names. I don’t remember any of them now, but they were all similar to Skywolfe. Mom had a coven name too. She gave herself the name of Nimue. It is a Welsh name that means ‘memory’. She explained that she chose the name to mean that she would hold the memory of her past out to the Gods to protect her fellow man from her mistakes. I’m not sure what she was thinking, but the name suited her, even if I believe the reason was a little on the far-fetched side. I never told her that, though.
I was oblivious, at the time, to the fact that the members of the coven were not as happy and carefree about loving the Earth and the Gods as they seemed while at Skywolfes place. She had created a sanctuary in her home and the large, private wooded backyard. We danced around a bonfire to raise energy, and cheered and threw flower petals in the air during Ostara, but outside of this wonderful place, none of the coven members felt free to even disclose their religious preferences to others. Bigotry and persecution, concepts I could hardly begin to grasp, kept the whole coven quite.
Nonetheless, I remember my very early years being very happy ones. [/pre]
Yup, so that's what I got so far. I think I might add a proloue or a quick intro that explains what wicca is in general detail for any reader who doesn't already know, but it will be explained little by little as the story progresses, so I'm not sure yet. Ya. That's all. Thanks for reading and for any comments.. in advance... ;D
I think that my biggest hurdles when writing are keeping the tone and style consistant, detail (sometimes I give waaaay to much and sometimes, not enough), and going on tangents. No writter can fairly critique their own writing, that's why I am here. I want any honest critique you can give. I know it's all in good nature, so dont worry about just saying it.
Thanks!
--------________________________--------
The following is only part of the first chapter. It's all I got at the moment. Just as a warning there is content which is considered adult, mostly dealing with drugs and the use of foul language. It's not too bad, but I wanted to throw that in there so no one was too surprised by it.
Chapter One
I remember when I was little, my mother always used to tell me that it was okay to be different, it was okay to step outside the norm and be myself. She had done it. She has survived and even been happy. I used to believe the things she told me. I used to believe that I could coexist with my peers without having to hide myself from them. I used to believe that the world was a wonderful, magickal place. Sometimes, more and more often lately it would seem, I feel deceived.
I’ve always thought my mother to be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. It’s not just me either. Growing up I remember being so proud when I got to walk with her down the street because people would always watch her. She was tall and thin, so elegant yet free. Her long strawberry blond hair was always messy, even when it was freshly brushed. It fell straight down to her waist, with long bangs that she was constantly tossing out of her clear, blue eyes. Her pale skin was always clear and freckled and her long neck gave her an air of grace to match her slow walk and rolling hips. My mother always smiled and laughed. She had such a beautiful smile. The best way to describe the way Mom looked was to say that she was a hippie, a flower child that didn’t quite get the memo about the end of an era. Embroidered bell-bottoms and revealing white peasant tops, leather vests and headbands, bangles and rings, sandals and henna tattoos. All these things made my mother who she was. It didn’t bother her one bit that it was 1985 and she was pregnant at nineteen. It didn’t bother her when it was 1986 and her daughter was one year old. It didn’t bother her, at all, knowing that she had a child and was not married.
She used tell me often about how she used to behave with me. She doesn’t believe in lying or masking the truth. Like all hippies, stereotypically, my mother used drugs. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment with her then boyfriend and my father. She never tells me about him. I don’t even have a picture. All I know about my father is that he, like her, spent most of his time and money getting high. Pot was always in the house, on stand-by for the times that there wasn’t enough money to get the ‘better shit’ as my mother would say. She preferred LSD and Mescaline.
“When you were about one and a half,” my mother would tell me in her soft, southern accented voice, “your father and I were in really bad shape. It was the middle of November, and it was a cold November. He didn’t have a job and I was only working part time as a temp in a doctor’s office. Our gas was turned off and we didn’t have a fireplace so we piled on the clothes and kept up with the usual. Drink, get high, fuck, sleep. Wake up and do it all over again. If I had been a good mother, I would have spent more energy taking care of you. I remember, just before everything peaked, your father was tripping out and he was laughing and talking about how you were blue. I was so drunk and I spent a lot of time ignoring you because all you did was cry and cry all the time. But when I looked, you really were blue.”
My mother always started to cry a little when she reached this part of the story. When she finally realized that I was blue, and crying because I was so cold, she grabbed me up, rolled me in a blanket, and headed off to the free clinic. Turned out I was crying because I had pneumonia and not because I was trying to interrupt ‘high time’. Social Services were called in and I was, technically, taken away from my mother. She would tell me about how she cried and begged for her little baby girl back. She would come to the hospital everyday and look at me through the glass window. Pretty soon all the drugs and booze took their toll and her apartment was seized and she and my father were thrown out onto the streets. I believe the most common phrase would be ‘Rock Bottom”. My mother had finally managed to reach it. She never failed to mention that she didn’t know why she was never arrested when she came to visit me in the hospital. There was never a time when she wasn’t wasted on one thing or another.
“I’d been living on the street with your father for about two months, when everything went black,” she would explain. “Too much drugs and booze all at once. I was rushed to the hospital and once my stomach was pumped I was arrested and, after a long few days that I don’t remember, I was sent into a rehab. If there was ever anything more unbearable then childbirth, it has to be detox. That right there was more than enough of a reason for me never to pick up another drug again. One thing I did come to realize while I was in rehab, and thank the Gods for it, was that you were more important to me, Rainie, than all the drugs and booze”
Mom finished her story the same way every time. If it hadn’t been for Skywolfe, she would never have had the courage or the conviction to follow through with her rehabilitation and I would be living a very, very different life with some strange family in some strange home, in some strange town. That wasn’t my lot in life, however, because my mother had met a strange woman names Skywolfe, and my world was changed, for the better or the worse. I still can’t quite decide.
Skywolfe was a nurse in the rehabilitation center that my mother was at. I’m not sure what her real name was, but I think I remember hearing my Mom call her Linda once. I’d want to change my name, too, if it was Linda. Skywolfe was an amazing woman, a nurturer by nature with a healing hand. Within a few months she had my mother clean in mind and body. Three days after my second birthday, I was back in my mothers’ custody and we moved into Skywolfes home.
I was just learning to talk. The first year and a half of my life had, apparently, stunted my physical and metal growth. Where most infants start learning to walk and make noises resembling words around the one-year mark, I didn’t even know how to crawl. I had spent almost all of the time in my pram. My parents were always so high that they never even bothered to get a crib. Apparently it was a miracle that I was still alive. My mother always expressed her bewilderment that they let her have me back after her rehab. She thinks it was all Skywolfes doing. By two and a half I was finally doing the things that most toddlers do, and, thank the Gods for it, I was ‘normal’ by the time I was three.
Mom had found the perfect path for herself with Skywolfe. It was while she was in rehab that Skywolfe introduced the concept of Wicca to my mother. I guess it was an easier concept to understand and embrace coming from her hippie background. My mother clung to the concept of a God and a Goddess, and soon she was learning about all the different Gods and Goddesses. She chose to devote herself to the Celtic pantheon. Skywolfe practiced a strange combination of Native American Shamanism and Celtic Wicca. Skywolfe had received training from some person or other and my mother received training from Skywolfe. I, in turn, received training from both.
When I turned three, and could talk and understand everything that was going on around me, my mother started my training unofficially. I was taught how to thank the Earth and the Gods for all my meals. I learned to appreciate nature and to make offerings to the Fae, the Gods, the Earth, and to the Ancestors. I was even allowed to participate in rituals. I usually played the role of calling the coven members to circle by ringing the bell. It didn’t matter to me what role I was given. I was beyond thrilled that the adults were allowing me to join in the fun.
Once a week, the coven members would gather at Skywolfes house. There were fifteen or sixteen members at the time, all of whom I knew by their coven names. I don’t remember any of them now, but they were all similar to Skywolfe. Mom had a coven name too. She gave herself the name of Nimue. It is a Welsh name that means ‘memory’. She explained that she chose the name to mean that she would hold the memory of her past out to the Gods to protect her fellow man from her mistakes. I’m not sure what she was thinking, but the name suited her, even if I believe the reason was a little on the far-fetched side. I never told her that, though.
I was oblivious, at the time, to the fact that the members of the coven were not as happy and carefree about loving the Earth and the Gods as they seemed while at Skywolfes place. She had created a sanctuary in her home and the large, private wooded backyard. We danced around a bonfire to raise energy, and cheered and threw flower petals in the air during Ostara, but outside of this wonderful place, none of the coven members felt free to even disclose their religious preferences to others. Bigotry and persecution, concepts I could hardly begin to grasp, kept the whole coven quite.
Nonetheless, I remember my very early years being very happy ones. [/pre]
Yup, so that's what I got so far. I think I might add a proloue or a quick intro that explains what wicca is in general detail for any reader who doesn't already know, but it will be explained little by little as the story progresses, so I'm not sure yet. Ya. That's all. Thanks for reading and for any comments.. in advance... ;D