Hello all! I'd like to introduce you to Ana Lavinia.  Ana is an aspiring author and blogger whom I first had the pleasure of meeting at My Blog Guest.  

     After briefly corresponding with her and reading her blog, I found Ana to be a passionate writer, full of life, and wonderful stories.  So I was excited, to say the least, when she agreed to write a piece for my blog.    

     The following entitled "The Story of My Writing", is just that, a close personal look at her life growing up in Romania and how her love of writing effected her journey.

     I started reading when I was around five, and knowing how to read was my absolute freedom back then. I could finally enjoy my short story books when I wanted to, not just when my mother had time for it. A few years later reading was taking me on daily basis to magic lands where I was having marvelous adventures. I was always identifying myself with at least one of the characters, reading in a breath, without eating or sleeping until the last chapter was over.


      The only problem I encountered was that, until later on, I was not able to draw the thinnest line between fiction and reality and had the urge to do everything I was reading about. Of course, my parents never allowed me to go live on a deserted island like Robinson Crusoe or gather a bunch of kids and go explore a cave, like the heroes of a Romanian novel I used to read every summer until I went to high school. So I began writing about the adventures I would have liked to have. I was inventing characters, settings, and situations. I was describing countries I vaguely heard about, using nothing but my imagination and the little knowledge I got in the Geography class; Google was probably not even a glimmer of an idea in someone’s head back in those far away times.

     Apart from that, because I had this nerdy ability to write about the same topic in many different ways, I started a small business in junior high. I was writing the essays for the literature class to my less literary endowed classmates, in exchange for candies and chocolate bars. It was the only time I actually gained something out of writing and I truly deserved it. Writing ten different essays about autumn is not an easy job, especially if you are 12 and have a limited vocabulary.  But somehow I pulled it off. The teacher never suspected a thing, she was just happy of the pupils’ progress. 

     Later on, in my teenage years, I ceased dreaming of having great adventures, I closed my business and I turned to boys. Teenage crushes rarely go smoothly and almost never end well, but I found a way to make mine work. Every crush I had was a new short story in my notebook. To be clear, I wasn’t keeping a journal, I was actually telling the story of the crush the way I wanted it to unfold, from beginning to end. Even if in real life the guy didn’t know my name, in my notebook we were married with children eventually, but only after facing many obstacles to achieve happiness; my life wasn’t easy, not even in my imagination.

     I was a very troubled teenager. I recall mixed feelings from that dark time, mostly anger and sadness. I also remember how I turned all I felt into poems. I had two notebooks full of morbid lyrics by the end of high school.

     At one point, mad that Romanians are racist and judgmental, I wrote a novel about a white girl that had adopted the love child of a friend of hers and of a black student and raised him as a single mother. Back then, in Romania, being a single mother or adopting a child was a dare and trying to raise a black one was simply nuts. Of course, I kept my novel very well hidden. If my mother had found it, she would have thought I am one of the white girls in the story and I would have been grounded for life for attempting to ruin her reputation even by thinking of such things. Nobody ever read that novel. It was my silent manifesto against principles I couldn’t understand and against society rules I refused to obey.

     As a matter of fact, nobody ever laid eyes on any of the short stories, wannabe novels or poems I kept writing from maybe nine until my early twenties. Every single moment of writing was one moment of freedom for me, a moment when I was taking over, when I could be what I wanted to be and not what I was expected to be. Every moment of writing was a dream fulfilled. Dreams like traveling around the world became true for me, even before I had a passport, all my love stories with my dream boys had happy endings, and you have no idea how many times I lived happily ever after in my mind. When looking back, I realize that by writing, I was filling in the holes I had. Writing was my imaginary way out when there was no real way out, and allowed me to live the life I wasn’t allowed to live. In fact, I was imagining what I wanted to happen to me.

     In 2003, when I took my first full time job, I simply stopped writing without any particular reason. For many years, I thought that my muses had left me, due to the not very poetic lifestyle I was having: going to university, studying for exams and working in a computer store were not very inspiring activities. But in fact, the more I think about it, the more I believe I actually stopped writing because having a full time job made me financially independent. I was in my twenties and free to do whatever I wanted, as my parents couldn't decide for me anymore. The world was finally mine. I could travel, I could party, I could drink one too many drinks, and I could spend the nights over at my boyfriend's. I didn’t need to create a fantasy world anymore, as reality was exciting enough. 

     Many years have gone by since then and now I live like there was no tomorrow. I didn't taste life, I ate it with a big spoon. I did everything I once dreamed of, and began having more dreams, bigger dreams, and crazier dreams. One dream leads to another and I now know I will never take a moment to simply enjoy what I have, I will always keep running, craving for more.  It is a blessing and a curse, at the same time.

     In August 2010, I started writing again, out of the blue, just the way I stopped. One evening, I was having a funny talk with my sister. As usual, she was accusing me of having a stone cold heart because I don’t cry when watching romantic movies or when a boy dumps me. I seem to keep it together no matter the situation, because it is not easy for someone or something to impress me. So, when she left my apartment, I decided to have some fun with her. I wrote a very mushy piece, adorned with complicated metaphors and I sent it to her email, leaving blank the name of the author. She called me back, highly emotional:

     ”That was so beautiful. I almost cried. Who wrote that?”

     ”I did”, I said.

     ”No, you couldn’t have. You need to have a heart in order to be able to write something like that.” 

     On this note, I continued playing and I wrote some more. I was posting my writings on Face book, to see the impact they have my friends. After overcoming the people’s surprise and laughing at everybody’s question:

     ”Are you sure you wrote that?”

     Encouraged by the positive feedback, I decided to keep writing. I tried different styles looking for my voice. Among all the  fantasy stories, I found myself slipping again into ”escaping from reality” type of writing, by making some very sarcastic, mean descriptions of people that at one point, weren’t exactly nice to me. Every time I did it, I felt guilty for a while, but then I excused myself. After all, it is a decent revenge, way more elegant than actually fighting. I try to avoid conflicts but at the end of the day, I still need to get it off my chest. Apparently, this way works for me. It is artistic and very discreet as I don’t name any names.

     It is now the middle of 2012 and coming up on two years since I started writing again. I have two blogs, one in Romanian and one in English and a column on www.examiner.com. I have written about many things and the articles I like best are the ones in which I saved some moments of my life, happy or sad but with great impact on me; Articles containing bits of relationships, bits of traveling, and bits of random days of my existence. Stories that probably in time would have faded out, as memory can be such a cheating spouse. My blog posts are mostly highlights of the last two years of my life. It seems I don’t need to create my custom made reality anymore, like I needed when I was younger. Now, my reality is so overwhelming that I need to preserve it.

     I sometimes feel my mind is floating on an ocean of stories. I am full of my own stories and of other people’s stories and I would like to be able to tell them all. But I can’t find words for all of them just yet. Maybe each story has to be told when its time comes and I just have to wait for it. One thing I know for sure, I don’t want to die with all these stories in me. 

    For more information about Ana Lavinia and her hopes, dreams, and stories; you can find her blog at http://ana-lavinia.posterous.com/  

Also you can find her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/laviniawritingcorner 
Or on  Twitter at  https://twitter.com/#!/Lavinia_Vanilia

Hi all. You're stuck with me again today! I'm still on a bit of a break, but I thought I'd hop on and share another poem with you. This is the one that inspired my first novel. I hope you enjoy it. 

All are broken in these desperate days.
Demons all around,
They cut and clip and snip my soul.
Tears trickle down into my heart and try to make it whole,
And I lay here broken, in a pool of my own blood and misery.
The worse thing is, I've let them do this thing to me.


My soul threadbare and worn so thin,
I can feel it slipping; I can feel it giving in.
I cannot find your light in this overpowering dark.
So I lay here broken, in a pool of my own blood and misery;
As they cut and clip and snip at me.
Thinking to myself, the worst thing is, 
I’ve let them do this thing to me.

     Hello All.  I promised you something a little different.  This is a brief excerpt from Deanna Proach's debut book, Day of Revenge, published by Inkwater Press  in September of 2010.

                 (From the Back Cover)
     Military Captain Samuel La Font may be hot-tempered and headstrong, but he is certainly not about to flee his war-torn country without a fight. He is determined to stay in France and wage a war against the revolutionaries. For the greater part of the year, everything works in Samuel's favor. He has the love and support of his close-knit group of friends. His Corsica-based family has even recruited several skilled soldiers who are more than willing to die for Samuel's cause. But as autumn approaches, fate takes an unexpected and dangerous turn. Now Samuel is forced to make a choice-get his friends and himself out of France or die in battle against the revolutionaries.

     Emile gently pulls the reins, bringing Georges, his brown Stallion, to a slow trot.  He can feel Elle’s warm hands pressed tight against his lower torso.
     
     She whispers into his left ear, “Where are we, Emile?”

     Emile looks around.  Night has fallen over the Rhone-Valley.  Twinkling white stars appear in the dark sky and the last remains of daylight over the eastern horizon rapidly sink beneath the tall blue hills of the Rhone-Alps.  The gentle rolling hills shine almost as white as snow underneath the bright moonlight and the potent smell of lavender drifts from the fields nearby, and fills the air around the two lovers.  Elle and Emile are aware that they are all alone, but that does not frighten them.  In fact, the silence is rather comforting.

     “We must be at least ten miles south of my manor, if not more,” Emile says.  He carefully slides himself off his horse without kicking Elle.  Elle clings to his free arm while he leads Georges to the bank of the river.

     “I am enjoying this so much that I could stay here alone with you all night,” she says.

     Emile pats Georges on his back as the animal greedily drinks the water.  He then turns his attention away from the horse and slips his arms around Elle’s tiny waist.  He gently runs his fingers through her long, thick, black curls.

     “Elle, I could stay here all night and all day alone with you, but I fear what Robert Couchon would do to you when he finds you,” Emile says.

     The smile instantly fades from Elle’s face.  She tries desperately to hold back the tears that spring to her eyes.  “I do not want to spend another day at that horrid vineyard, and I certainly do not wish to endure another beating.”

     “Shh.” Emile places his index finger on her cherry lips.  “You will not be there for much longer.” He brushes his lips against the smooth skin of her forehead. Elle backs away from him. 

      “Emile, you have said that every night for the past five years.” Tears stream down her ashen cheeks.

     “Elle, look at me,” Emile says.  He takes her hand and holds it in a firm grip.  “I really want to enjoy this moment with you.”
    
     “Then, why don’t you take me back home with you?” 

     Emile lets out a deep sigh.  Just as he is about to explain himself to her, he hears the sound of men’s voices in the distance.  The forlorn look on his face is replaced by one of fear. 

     Elle, though, does not hear the voices as she is too caught up in her distress.  When she sees the horror-stricken expression on Emile’s face, she gives him a puzzled look.

     “What on earth is wrong, Emile?” she says. 

     Emile tightens his grip around her wrist.  “We must leave—now.” 

     By now she can hear the men’s voices—revolutionary soldiers—and they are headed in their direction.  They both can even hear the faint rumble of the wagon’s wheels on the dirt road and the jingle of the horses’ harness.  Without warning, Elle feels Emile’s strong arms around her back and upper thighs.  As if in a dream, her body is lifted up into the air and placed on the backside of Georges.  Within seconds Emile is seated in front of her.

     “Hold onto me tight, Elle.”  His whisper is loud enough for her to hear his words and to respond to his request. As Georges races over the vast landscape, the sound of the men’s voices rapidly disappear.  Before long, the lovers veer off the road and onto the dreaded lane that leads to Robert Couchon’s vineyard. 

     “Wow, that was a close call,” he says in a loud whisper. 

     Elle does not respond.  Her stomach churns when she peers up at the large stone manor before them.  The window near the top of the tower is the attic where she eats and sleeps.  The tiny, stuffy room has been her home for nine years.

So I decided to take a break for a few days, and just relax.  I need it. Not the I decided to be lazy type of I need it, but the exhausted to the very core type.

I'll be back in a few days, and hopefully with some brand-spanking new people for you to read.  I've been rummaging through various social media sites in the attempt to establish relationships with a few other writers for the purpose of guest blogging. I can only imagine that you get tired of reading only my points of view.  So, here's to fresh blood.  Now, as a preemptive thank you for not being upset that I'll be gone for a bit, here is one of my favorite poems...

The bleak and ancient shore, 
Wash me away today. 
Let my heart ache no more. 
Please let it wash the pain away. 

I am not alone here, 
Although I wish I were. 
At my side stands a demon, 
A cold and wretched cur. 

He is a thing of legend; 
A terror of the night. 
I should be hiding or running scared, 
All consumed in fright. 

But on this barren ancient shore, 
I feel terrible heartache; 
Nothing more. 

Let the sea air blow the pain away, 
Death just won't take me, 
Not today.  

I write this with my head hung low in shame - I'm not exactly sure if I should though.  I have to admit, I probably have an anger issue.  It's a constant thing that I hold in check, always.  Just below the surface of a calm cool exterior, there is a raging, boiling, and festering pool of white hot rage. I shove it down every chance I get. Partly from a nauseating fear of what it might do, and partly for a well justified aversion for jail. So I hold the beast inside of me by the tail, and constantly go round and round with it.  It is strong and escapes in little bursts; a scathing scowl, a hitching sigh, and the popping of knuckles is usually the extent of it's escape. 

It does afford me small favors though, having this thing inside me, it lets me write very well and with much ease for my antagonists.  I've read of other authors that have trouble writing for their antagonists.  I just do not; I simply think of what I would have to hold back and keep that beast from doing in any situation, and then let him go ahead and do it.  It's actually very therapeutic writing for my villains.  So, does that make me a bad guy?  I often ask myself that question.  I don't think so at all. Rather I am still the hero of my own story, because I hold that beast in check, always.  If anyone else out there has a similar beast that hold in check, this poem is for you my friend.

Oh the anger boils and broils,
It spills from deep within,
It burns my head and heart,
It fills my mind with sin.


Thoughts of murder slow and sweet,
To bleed you out, puddles at my feet.
Flashes of rage -primal- and white hot,
My damp basement; your grave plot.


Simply put, you poke the beast;
Oh so soon it will have to feast.
Nothing left but scraps and gore,
Stains that will never wash from the floor.


It already hunts you, can't you see?
Yet you don't even try to flee.
You just stand there with that stupid grin;
I'm so close to giving in.


Let the beast roar and pounce,
Eat you up, ounce by ounce.
Smack it's lips with a Cheshire's grin,
Stop oh, please stop, before I give in.

I felt like a little poetry again today.  This is for Arioch. The name has biblical origins, but that's not where I got it from.  I first found the name in one of my favorite childhood reads, Michael Moorcock's, Elric Saga.  He was a demon lord that embodied ultimate evil and beauty.  When I first got that adorable little guy you see on the sidebar to your right, he was the cutest little thing in the world.  He was also the meanest, wildest little bastard of a kitten that I'd ever run across, so naturally the name just fit.  After a brief explanation to my wife about the origins of the name we decided to change it from "Fatty" his former name from the people who gave him to us.  Now that he is so fat though, we might have been better off keeping the original name. He is 26 lbs of terror and bad temper; still cute as hell though.

You leap from your throne of a chair,
You soar like a small angry bear.
You snarl and you bite,
Then again you take flight,

You're a black and white terror,
To cross you an error,
Mouth open wide in a silent roar,
You stalk from couch and chair - to door.

Silent assassin; fat little ninja of fur.
You are a fickle cur.
Foot fetish frenzied lover of feet,
Wiggle my toes and you bound and you leap,

Your purr a mountain slide.
Then up to my lap you do glide.
Oof, you're not a kitten anymore!
You must be careful, I implore!

You do not listen and do not care,
Again you leap away like a small angry bear.
You flatten yourself and wiggle your rump,
Then tear after poor Nix with a whoosh and a thump.

You lumber and rage,
As if trapped in a cage,
She runs circles around you with ease.
She jumps and she dodges and swats with a tease.

Then you pounce with a roar and a rumble,
A crash and a tumble,
Too mighty for your prey; 
Somehow she slips away,
Run, and run, to live another day.

Fatigue the conqueror takes his toll,
Scratch on your scratching poll, 
Then you yawn a toothy grin,
and fall deep asleep, - fin.