It's been far too long since I posted a blog. Sometimes, things in life can keep us away from certain things and certain people. However, if we remain true to our life's objective, our true intentions as I like to say, we will always come back to those things, those people. I could go more into this subject (i.e. U-Turns of life), but I will stick to what this post is all about - One Paragraph, One Dollar.
Since I last blogged, I have been poorly busy. What does that mean? Well, it means that I have been busy doing everything, yet earning nothing. I take that back, I have earned the richness of the experiences, but the one drawback at this moment is not earning the monetary support to keep my dreams alive. Why does that always seem to be the case? Constant struggle to live your dreams. I think maybe it's designed that way to fit into the story of living a purpose-driven life. All the stories that come with the struggle to be our authentic selves is what makes who we are authentic. What is the draw in settling or giving up? The bitterness that sometimes must be endured as we eat our way towards the sweetness of success is what makes that sweetness profound!
With that said, you all know that I am working towards my sweetness. However, I also have been seeking out work since dreaming that my bills will be paid has yet to work in actuality. To no avail, I haven't been able to secure a 9-5 and maybe that too is a part of His divine plan for my life. So, I had the idea of sharing my written work with you in exchange for your monetary support and encouragement, if you choose. I will post one paragraph of my upcoming novel (still rough draft), and if you read it, like it, think I have potential, and/or would like to see the next subsequent paragraph, you donate a least $1 to may cause (feel free to donate more :-). When I reach at least the $20 mark, I will post the next paragraph and so on.
I know that this doesn't sound like much, but it will help and will be encouraging. If you look to the right of my blog, I have added a donate button. Hey, I thought I would throw it out there and see what happens, what do I have to loose, right?!?! For this first post, I am sharing more than a paragraph...I am sharing the Intro and the first paragraph of the first chapter. I'm nervous about sharing my work in progress, but here goes:
I always felt that I was different, yet life in the small town of Hockensaw, Louisiana wasn’t much different than anyone’s life in small town America. Waking up at the crack of dawn, feeding animals, tending after runny-nosed children, working hard for little pay…that was pretty much everyone’s story. But somehow I knew that this life, at least my life was more than what most people saw through their sleep deprived eyes. My name is Annie Miller and I am currently 11 years old, I am the youngest girl out of four girls and two elder brothers with the only one to come after me, my baby brother Dale. I knew that I was different long before the lady in field, long before the incident. Our three room wooden house sat on nearly an acre at the corner of Marker and Hope. My daddy built it with his own two hands shortly after he and mama got married. Daddy always reminded us of this when we got lazy about doing our chores or took the small confines for granted. Three rooms served all of our needs just fine, a room for eatin’, a room for sleepin’ and a room for shitin’ is all we would ever need anyway, according to daddy. “Useless space serves for a useless mind,” he would say whenever I boasted about wanting my own room. I was never one to like to be cooped up. Even as a baby, mama said that I use to cry and cry and cry whenever I felt like I wasn’t free. Mama discovered this one night when nothing seemed to halt my tears or calm my wails. “I tried everything to get that gal to shut her mouth. Rocking, hugging, feeding, nothing worked,” mama would recall when telling the story. “I even woke poor Milli out of her sleep to help me. When we took off her pajamas to check to see if she needed a changing the crying stopped. We put the pajamas back on and she went back to wailin’. Off again, silence,” mama would laugh. “That gal didn’t want anything covering up her legs and feet. She wanted to be free to wiggle her toes and she’s been doing so ever since.” I often heard mama tell this story to friends that wondered why I spent most of my time barefoot and outdoors in the fields.
The fields that surrounded our wooden house were vast and calm. The breeze that swept over the long ficus grass on hot afternoons was constant and cool. I loved sitting amongst the tall grass because you could barely see the curl of my bang from a short distance. I would take mama’s Royal Crown grease and sit for hours braiding the blades of the grass until I was surrounded by a field-full of shiny, green plaits. The field provided me time to be alone and to dream, plus no one really liked coming out there so it was like having my own room. Sometimes I would drift off to sleep only to be awoken by the calls from mama to come in for supper. The field gave me a clear view of heaven (at least I thought) as I looked up at the blue sky sometimes filled with white clouds other times filled with just bright rays of sunshine. I was seven years old when my imaginary “Do Not Enter” sign was ignored and a visitor entered into my room.
Since I last blogged, I have been poorly busy. What does that mean? Well, it means that I have been busy doing everything, yet earning nothing. I take that back, I have earned the richness of the experiences, but the one drawback at this moment is not earning the monetary support to keep my dreams alive. Why does that always seem to be the case? Constant struggle to live your dreams. I think maybe it's designed that way to fit into the story of living a purpose-driven life. All the stories that come with the struggle to be our authentic selves is what makes who we are authentic. What is the draw in settling or giving up? The bitterness that sometimes must be endured as we eat our way towards the sweetness of success is what makes that sweetness profound!
With that said, you all know that I am working towards my sweetness. However, I also have been seeking out work since dreaming that my bills will be paid has yet to work in actuality. To no avail, I haven't been able to secure a 9-5 and maybe that too is a part of His divine plan for my life. So, I had the idea of sharing my written work with you in exchange for your monetary support and encouragement, if you choose. I will post one paragraph of my upcoming novel (still rough draft), and if you read it, like it, think I have potential, and/or would like to see the next subsequent paragraph, you donate a least $1 to may cause (feel free to donate more :-). When I reach at least the $20 mark, I will post the next paragraph and so on.
I know that this doesn't sound like much, but it will help and will be encouraging. If you look to the right of my blog, I have added a donate button. Hey, I thought I would throw it out there and see what happens, what do I have to loose, right?!?! For this first post, I am sharing more than a paragraph...I am sharing the Intro and the first paragraph of the first chapter. I'm nervous about sharing my work in progress, but here goes:
Introduction
I always felt that I was different, yet life in the small town of Hockensaw, Louisiana wasn’t much different than anyone’s life in small town America. Waking up at the crack of dawn, feeding animals, tending after runny-nosed children, working hard for little pay…that was pretty much everyone’s story. But somehow I knew that this life, at least my life was more than what most people saw through their sleep deprived eyes. My name is Annie Miller and I am currently 11 years old, I am the youngest girl out of four girls and two elder brothers with the only one to come after me, my baby brother Dale. I knew that I was different long before the lady in field, long before the incident. Our three room wooden house sat on nearly an acre at the corner of Marker and Hope. My daddy built it with his own two hands shortly after he and mama got married. Daddy always reminded us of this when we got lazy about doing our chores or took the small confines for granted. Three rooms served all of our needs just fine, a room for eatin’, a room for sleepin’ and a room for shitin’ is all we would ever need anyway, according to daddy. “Useless space serves for a useless mind,” he would say whenever I boasted about wanting my own room. I was never one to like to be cooped up. Even as a baby, mama said that I use to cry and cry and cry whenever I felt like I wasn’t free. Mama discovered this one night when nothing seemed to halt my tears or calm my wails. “I tried everything to get that gal to shut her mouth. Rocking, hugging, feeding, nothing worked,” mama would recall when telling the story. “I even woke poor Milli out of her sleep to help me. When we took off her pajamas to check to see if she needed a changing the crying stopped. We put the pajamas back on and she went back to wailin’. Off again, silence,” mama would laugh. “That gal didn’t want anything covering up her legs and feet. She wanted to be free to wiggle her toes and she’s been doing so ever since.” I often heard mama tell this story to friends that wondered why I spent most of my time barefoot and outdoors in the fields.
Chapter 1: The Lady in the Field
The fields that surrounded our wooden house were vast and calm. The breeze that swept over the long ficus grass on hot afternoons was constant and cool. I loved sitting amongst the tall grass because you could barely see the curl of my bang from a short distance. I would take mama’s Royal Crown grease and sit for hours braiding the blades of the grass until I was surrounded by a field-full of shiny, green plaits. The field provided me time to be alone and to dream, plus no one really liked coming out there so it was like having my own room. Sometimes I would drift off to sleep only to be awoken by the calls from mama to come in for supper. The field gave me a clear view of heaven (at least I thought) as I looked up at the blue sky sometimes filled with white clouds other times filled with just bright rays of sunshine. I was seven years old when my imaginary “Do Not Enter” sign was ignored and a visitor entered into my room.
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Hello. And Bye.
Hmmm, not sure what the Anonymous comment means.