“Where You Write” is just as important as what you write and to whom, but must we always share?
Perhaps, perhaps; yet there are some words only meant for the crisp, clean page that holds the coveted position in a comfortable room, only for you–Dear Diary; Dear Journal, “Hi, there!”
My eyes drift shut for just a moment; dawn has not yet arrived…
I inhale all my other senses in a deep breath–a taste of energy in total silence, a hint of chill, the heady smell of fresh shellac, easily survived…
The scent of raw, lightly treated wood beams, an arched ceiling, floors with a dab of shiny gloss, immaculate…
It calms my mind and thrills my spirit because I know I can write anything here or even write nothing at all, but the dilemma … to share or retract?
Is everything set up in order on the familiar desk? Yes…
Do I lift the proverbial quill or pen, tap softly on muted keys or simply rest?
But where will the story go if I don’t rush, rush, rush to complete the piece?
Will another writer jot down these stories and give it release?
To spread the full wings of creativity
Where stories are possible; the paranormal in true believability…
To dwell for a brief moment in a time continuum…
Deep poignant thoughts are challenged or read in awe or disgust, hardly humdrum…
If I can see, feel, visualize, live so very much in my own mind
Is it my duty to share my words with all humankind?
A conundrum, ta’ be sure, giving and receiving inspiration
Through rigorous thought, tears, laughter, perspiration…
But do I dare? My Journal, a constant companion; My Diary, dear old friend…
Will people understand my thoughts and or even care in the end?
by Deborah A Bowman
This book is now available on amazon.com in Large Print, too!
Click on the cover, at the bottom of the page on a tablet, or top of right sidebar if a desktop. All formats, including Kindle, available on amazon. I am going to be doing an auditory version as well. A sequel, I hope, by spring 2020.
If anyone would like a free Kindle copy to do a beta reading, contact me on firstname.lastname@example.org
A short taste of Annie’s story:
Annie lived a long time ago, the mid-17th century, in fact. Even though I didn’t become acquainted with her until late in the 20th century.
I was attending the Advanced Hypnotherapist Certification Course offered by The National Guild of Hypnotists. Annie came to me in a past-life regression, or rather I should say, I became Annie.
The class exercise began as something quite different, and the results were totally unexpected by the small, close-knit group I had been studying with for months. I’m sure the Professor was surprised as well; but then again, perhaps not. As a practicing Hypnotherapist for years, maybe he had seen this sort of thing many times before.
I had agreed to a class demonstration in “age” regression to help me cope with extreme claustrophobia. I had timidly admitted to my Professor and fellow classmates that my older brothers had locked me in closets as a child, especially the small wooden closet beneath the stairs where even a child could not stand upright. The darkness was oppressive, overwhelming—thick enough to take your breath away. Ah, the tribulations of a younger girl to two boys with active imaginations in an old restructured log house that lent itself well to ships’ brigs, castle dungeons, and secret passageways!
When the Professor attempted to take me back to these early memories under hypnosis, however, I flew right past them and WHAM!—like hitting a brick wall—I was in someone else’s body, crushed in a pitch-black hole, surrounded by wood and earth. At first, I thought I was buried alive in a coffin. Then I realized I was practically doubled in half with my knees pushing the air out of my lungs in a space half-again too small for me under rough wooden planks.
The seasoned Hypnotherapist handled it all so skillfully, so carefully, as he calmed me and allowed me to look beyond the enclosure to see what was happening. I was hidden beneath the floor of a tiny cabin for safekeeping from a group of soldiers (thumping boots above my head) by a Priest (Father Ian or was it Reverend John?) and his house-woman (housekeeper) Hannah.
My mind seemed to separate as I remained “Debbie” within the confines of my mental self, but I seemed to know these people intimately on some other plane of existence deeply embedded in my subconscious. Under hypnosis, this other self was surfacing and taking over. One part of my new self knew him as Reverend John; a more significant part called him Father Ian. Months later I would learn the reason for this duality—a little secret I shouldn’t have known.
I felt the rough homespun against my skin of a plain lace-up gown. It was tight around my neck with long sleeves and a heavy full skirt. I immediately sensed what I looked like—short in stature, stocky limbs, chubby cheeks, light eyes, and wispy reddish brown hair, so fine it barely covered my pale scalp. Not that it mattered since all women and girls wore white-trimmed caps that covered the entire head and tied neatly beneath the chin, but somehow the laces of my cap were always undone and that was frowned upon. Was I a woman or a child? It seemed I was both, but then again, neither. I was different.
My hands and feet were either oddly shaped or I had limited use of them. I stumbled and limped when I walked, especially in the ill-fitting shoes I wore, and I had to concentrate to use my hands and stubby fingers to grind herbs into poultices, salves, and medicinal teas as Granny had taught me. “Who was Granny?”
Granny told me I was a beautiful sprite like one of the faeries from our native Highlands. She described my eyes as filled with light and love for all creation. She said my special healing gift and my ability to communicate with animals and ethereal spirits came from the auld country.
People laughed at my dwarfed appearance and my sluggish way of talking. I laughed at myself too, except when wee bairns [Scottish Gaelic for “babies or children”] threw rocks and clods of dirt at me or the good-people of the village shielded themselves from the evil eye when I passed near them. They kept their distance when I entered one of the small hovels to help the sick and dying. I did not understand why everyone was afraid of me.
My conscious mind of the late-1990s, however, realized that Annie was mentally slow, stunted in growth, and lacking in social and emotional development. At first, I thought she had Down’s syndrome, a birth defect which retards growth and mental acuity, but I would soon learn the true story of Annie’s life.
She was so innocent and childlike. Surprisingly, from memory or perhaps precognition, she knew intricate rituals and formulae for medicines and potions using flowers, herbs, and roots, including the recognition, cultivation, and harvesting of the plants. She talked to the animals, creatures, and faeries of the forest, which she called “her friends or little people” and communed with the gods and goddesses of the spirit world. I was confused by Annie, but couldn’t help loving this precious soul who seemed to be me. I wondered, “Did Annie live in a fantasy world or suffer from hallucinations? Was she Schizophrenic?”
In reality, Annie couldn’t read or write, nor could she tie a simple bow, but the young woman/child was an incredible savant, reciting songs, rhymes, recipes, and medicinal incantations from her Granny’s Grimoire [Old French, but used globally for “Wise Woman’s Book.”] She was a natural healer, blessed with a special gift from the Spiritual Universe.
I instantly became protective of this little imp inside of me—for I was now a part of her; and she, a part of me. I may have come out of the hypnosis session with marked relief from claustrophobia—I could finally ride in an elevator—but more importantly I had been given a mission and crusade. I wanted to know why Annie was deformed and ridiculed. Mostly, I wanted to know if Annie had truly lived.
She seemed so real. Later, I verified facts through research that I had learned only through hypnosis, and many of these facts were 100-percent accurate. Spooky, yes, but oh so compelling!
Hence, began a quest that has spanned years and opened the floodgates of my repressed subconscious memories. I made amazing discoveries about a time in American history that many generations have tried to eradicate or conceal. I was fascinated, appalled, shocked!
This Foreword is my story; the book that follows is “Annie’s Story,” written from dreams, visions, online and textbook resources, travel to Massachusetts and Nova Scotia, research of the time period and the theory of past lives. I have given myself the freedom to tell the story as historical fiction, using as much factual information as is available. Some historic events and characters have been fictionalized to present the storyline as my imagination perceived it.
I never found conclusive evidence that Annie lived, but I did find evidence that she could have lived and an explanation for her existence being cleansed from all church and legal records. I also suspect that I may have discovered factual information that ties her lineage to one of the most disturbing and inhuman times associated with the British Colonies in North America.
Nameless, lonely graves are scattered throughout the empty fields and forests of New England. I believe I was once Annie, and she is in one of those unmarked burial plots. She lies hidden beneath the soil of an infamous hill. I shudder and will not pen its name.
This story of love and faith, coupled with the treatment of different people (now called “special” people) begs to be told. “Annie’s Story” is about an unusual girl coming-of-age in Colonial America, who is “Blessed with a Gift.”
Deborah A. Bowman, Author
Every one who comes to my blog, bowmanauthor, knows I write poetry from abstract to antiquity to the absurd. I write tips and tricks of the trade in publishing trends, and my passion: books of fiction, usually with a paranormal vein. I also try to post some book reviews, but not so often of late as I also do fiction editing, graphic design for business promo packages, and ghostwriting for nonfiction. My dance card has been a little full. Reading for pleasure has taken a backseat to the heartfelt world of mentoring other writers: the “Pick and Shovel Work” of plot and content development.
That’s where email@example.com comes in. The job everyone hates to tackle in their own writing where the “Elements of Style” meet English Composition. The not so creative necessities of making sure everything gels together in accuracy, clarity, and cohesiveness. The part that us creative authors hate to do! Pesky rules on punctuation, grammar, and verb tenses, word definition and choice, and flowing syntax. Yuck! Knowing the parts of speech and diagramming sentences. But it really does help your writing if the sentences really do make sense.
So you never know what you will find when you stumble into my blog. I just hope you’ll contact me when you need a little assistance with a manuscript that needs a little polishing. Picks and shovels also mine precious gems from congealed ore. Let me help you take your diamond in the rough and release its brilliance in all its multi-faceted glory.
Happy writing as well as creativity and polished editorially correct manuscripts to everyone!
Deborah A. Bowman, Publishing Advisor, Writer/Editor/Ghostwriter, Formatting and Critiques
The workweek is done.
Not all battles were won,
But it saves some challenges for next week too.
The weekend begins.
We’re all on the run
To get through traffic without coming undone.
Not enough time to do the things we want to do.
Got to find time to rest
And enjoy the weekend.
We want to do our best
For our family and friends.
So next week, we do it all over again!
HAPPY WEEKEND, MY FRIENDS!
My days of the week have come to an end . . .
by Deborah A. Bowman
Thursday is the little niggle
Of excitement, looking forward to the weekend.
“It is almost upon us,” you giggle…
Time for planning, invitations to send,
To do more than is possible, of course.
But it is light-hearted consideration,
Harming none and enjoying the sensation
Of looking forward with exhilaration
To Friday eve, Saturday, Sunday.
This is where the mind is at on Thursday… Enjoy!
Midweek for those who seek
A time to catch their breath.
Maybe a day to stop and smell the flowers?
A day to reach into your inner depths
To find a way to reach towers
In the skies and heartfelt spiritualism.
We must take a moment to ritualize
Our feelings of destiny and oneness
With all things of the earth and heaven above.
We must grasp onto all that we love…
Blessed greetings to all God’s souls
On a Wednesday, as it unfolds.