BP Naturally

My Drug-Free Journey of Managing Bipolar Disorder


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Christmas Nostalgia & Other Convert Conundrums

http://goo.gl/nyqz89 – Chorus of Blue

I was blessed to discover and accept Islam when I was 19 years old. Up until that point, I had been a child, lazily exploring different faiths, but for the most part raised Christian. I dabbled in Buddhism, Wicca, Agnosticism, Atheism… I was trying to find my truth… but a sort of backdrop of my somewhat Christian upbringing was always there. (Side note: Never in my life do I recall my mother taking us to church, it was only when we lived with our grandmother, or later when I got involved in the whole Christian youth group thing in high school, that we took a more active role in actually practicing our faith.) Thus, it should be no surprise that Christianity was not really a factor in the celebrations of our holidays… I never, as a child, really understood what Easter was all about… for us it meant egg hunts, candy, mom’s delicious deviled eggs and, one year, apple bobbing and three-legged races put on by ten-year old yours truly. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Halloween… all just reasons to eat good food, have fun, and if you’re lucky, get presents. That was the gist of it.

It may be important to note here, that we were also very poor most of our lives… holidays were not always traditional. There were many years that there was nothing under the tree but what I made from junk Id found around the neighborhood, stuff I’d pilfered from the old abandoned house, one yard over, or the gifts we got from generous shelter/food bank giveaways. One year, I recall my sister and I were living with our dad and we stole Christmas gifts from our cousins because we didn’t have any. We got caught, of course, and with utter humiliation had to give it all back… but its safe to say, hard times were not unfamiliar to us and holidays were no exception.

Despite that, or perhaps because of it, Christmas became my favorite time of year. And no matter how dire our situation, I always strove to be festive and make the very best of the holiday… I was a hopeful, positive, kid… with tons of creativity and a desperate need to feel normal. And Christmas… with “Home Alone” and “Miracle on 34th Street” on the screen, “White Christmas” and “Silver Bells” looping over and over from library cassette tapes, the scent of pine trees and cinnamon, the warmth of wood crackling in a fireplace, white fluffy snow dusting your boots, and hot chocolate in a ceramic mug… all of this was the very epitome of normal. I love Christmas… with my whole heart and my family seemed to know that and accommodate.

No matter how poor we were, my mom almost always got a tree… it may have been small, but Id cry and beg and beg and she’d go out in front of the grocery store and get one to bring home… I would decorate it with makeshift baubles from keychains, fruit loops and popcorn (yes, I tried to eat it afterwards, yes it was stale and tasted like piney poison), then Id make little crafty gifts for everyone in the family… even my cats. And that was good enough. That was Christmas.

When I became Muslim, all of those holidays came to a very abrupt end. We have two holidays in Islam, Eid-ul-Fitr and Eid-ul-Adha… and while they are probably extremely festive in Muslim countries, where everyone is celebrating together… they are not very warm or festive when you are the minority and you live in the land of Christmas and Easter magic. I hang up lights, decorate, play nasheeds, we go out and eat and do various things… I try to establish traditions, and I’m still trying.. but it lacks that magic and it saddens me.

I love Christmas. The scent of wood burning, pine trees, cinnamon soaked pine cones, gingerbread and gift wrapping. Building snowmen and making snow angels, slipping and sliding over the ice… even the nasty black sludgy mud snow at the curbs side… I miss it all. Christmas lights, hot cocoa and Christmas songs, oh Christmas songs, I still sing them (changing the words occasionally), and they bring a warmth to my heart. Christmas was just never a religious thing for our family, it was just that one time of year when things were right. When no matter how hard times were, there was love and joy and happiness and laughter. Christmas holds some of the very best memories of my life… and not a single one of those memories is about the presents… it’s all about family.

Now, you see, I will never celebrate Christmas again. Because, despite my family not celebrating for religious reasons, it is a religious holiday… one whose core beliefs I completely disagree with. I have been Muslim for 13 years and never have you seen a Christmas tree in my home and you never will, insha’Allah (God-willing). I suppose a lot of converts might not admit that they miss those holidays. Or maybe there are some who still celebrate, though for religious reasons, they absolutely shouldn’t. And indeed, that’s a whole other article, about imitating the kuffaar, the pagan roots of Christmas traditions, and so on and so forth. But the feeling of it, I miss, and I am very comfortable with being open about that. Christmas was a special time for me as a child and I wish I could replicate that feeling for my own kids with our own holidays.

I know if we were in a Muslim country it would be different. I know having all the stores around you decked out with Eid decor, families decorating their homes and visiting one another with gifts and excitement. Everyone in their best clothes, children laughing and singing nasheeds, and the beautiful glow of generosity and joy from every hand and every smile. I imagine it’s beautiful in other places. But for now, I’m right here. In the middle of America. And I want my children to look forward to Eid like I looked forward to Christmas. I want familiar scents to bring back a warm nostalgia, I want it to be about more than just gifts. I’m not sure how to do this… what should be the signature scent of Eid? What should I focus on? Cooking? Craft activities? Family games? What will make the Eid season unique and special in a country where it’s really only celebrated privately in our own homes. Where there’s not a strong sense of community and unity? Where our neighbors really have no idea whats going on.

As a convert, you can feel a little guilty missing these holidays… but as a mother, you can feel guilty that your kids wont experience it like you did. At my core, in my heart, I have no desire for my children to ever experience non-Muslim holidays.  It may be hard for some people to understand, but I feel that I’m protecting them from a very glittery and irresistible path of misguidance. There’s more to Christmas than Santa Claus, rest assured. I only wish that their Eids could be as special as my Christmas was… and I feel like I’m failing them a bit in that. I want, desperately, to do more… and despite my efforts, I haven’t achieved that yet. I haven’t made Eid as special as it should be, I haven’t made it as warm and wonderful as the Christmas of my childhood. I suppose it’s a work in progress.

How do you feel about Christmas and similar holidays? How does your family celebrate Eid? If you’re a convert… how do you reconcile the two without compromising your faith? I’d love to hear how other parents are handling it. Please share your own experiences.

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Journal: The View From Where I Sit

http://goo.gl/3azxG4 – Chorus of Blue

image

I was spurred to go on a bike ride this afternoon. It’s the first I’ve taken to really go out and explore on my own since I got this bike a couple weeks ago. I traveled along the partially paved bike path until I ran out of paving. Traveled along wistfully, surrounded by half-woods, searching for something. Some special place to call my own. Some little cove to steal away to in the early morning hours and write. I was searching for an escape from my life.

I imagine that’s no uncommon need for most people these days. There is always too much; too much work, too much responsibility, too many bills, too many kids, too much fighting, too much debt, too much social media, too much bad news… too much of everything. Everyone seems to need to escape. I would love to be the person who can relish in the now. Laugh at her messy house, dote on her devilish darling kids, plug away at her to-do list, and write about it all with such frankness and honesty that the masses nod in unison at this rare truth I’ve found the courage to share.

But that’s not me. At least, it’s not today. Today, I am riding my bike, desperately trying to get away. Getting away usually means finding some quasi-wooded area, a creek, very little traffic and a lot of natural quiet. This also means getting away from the half-hood that I live in and venturing into the ‘good ‘ neighborhoods where they care enough about creating a nice natural environment that they provide carefully sculptured “natural parks” where things appear just a little more wild than, say, trimmed grass, basketball courts and rubber swings.

There are usually less beer cans around too.

So today I’ve found such a wild place and I am relaxing on the grass, listening to the wind shaking the leaves above me. The view from where I sit is beautiful. And calm. And mostly quiet. So why do I feel a sense of sadness and bitterness? Why does the beauty of it all eat away at me?

As I rode away from the half-hood I call my home, I noticed the way the bike path only went 100 feet in the direction of my neighborhood, then broke off into rocky gravel, trash and broken glass. I had to turn around and head in the other direction. When I crossed the street that path went on significantly longer and led me away from my own neighborhood into the safety and comfort of a ‘better’ community. The loveliest thing in our hood is the golf courses we don’t visit. And apparently the need for a relaxing bike path from one end of the hood to the other is either unheard of or no one gives a damn. Welfare moms and struggling college students don’t need to escape their reality. And they certainly don’t need “natural parks” to sit and reflect.

I know I sound bitter, but never has the disparity of wealth been more apparent to me than in Wichita, Kansas. You can literally cross a street and go from $400,000 homes with manicured lawns, sculpted concrete fountains, high privacy fences and long winding driveways to tiny squatting brick houses, with broken toys in the yard, no sidewalks, and trash piled up at the curbs. Its uncanny. And incredibly unsettling.

I grew up in Los Angeles, California and Seattle, Washington and the separation of rich and poor there is a bit more subtle. Hoods are hoods… they are usually separated from nice areas by major streets, commercial districts, or gradually shifting property values. Its not often that you can look across the street from your run down trailer park and see a goddamn mansion. In Wichita, the separation is stark. And its a painful reminder of what you do not, and in many cases, cannot and will not ever have.

Sitting here, bitter, against this young maple, looking up at the gorgeous colors of fall, relishing in the scent of grass,  the slight sweetness of tree bark, the subtleties of fall. Enjoying the absence of loud music, the scent of stale beer, and the arguing that has become the theme song for life in the hood, my peace is only mildly disturbed by the approach of a white family. They’ve come to this idyllic outdoor scene to spend time together. Dad carries an infant nestled cozily in his arms. Little blonde-headed girls bobble about poking sticks at the soft earth. Ella wanders off and mom calls her back, they pose for a quick photo, try to get a younger girl, Emma, to smile. They are surprisingly quiet… not a hundred feet from me and I can only make out the occasional chuckle or soft words. They settle down with a blanket, picnic-style, some of the kids climb a nearby tree. It’s all very lovely… and I think: I have every intention of doing this very same thing with my family.. and often.

The major difference between us and them is that they easily walked to this location. It was nothing unusual or out of the way. Me and my kids will have to hobble through the hood for a mile or more to get here. We will probably look out of place. We will never be able to call this place our own. This will never be our community. That’s a painful reality to face. We have to leave our community to reconnect with each other, escape the piss and pain of the hood, just to relax.

Now, my goal is to one day move our family into such a place. A community with wild places carefully sculpted into the environment. A place where we can literally walk into our own backyard and reconnect with nature. Where there are not drive-bys at the end of the street and arguments from the couple in the alley every damn morning. I have no doubt that the concrete and chain link fencing that is the landscape our community has some deep psychological effect on us and on our children. I have no doubt that growing up with nature and beauty and quiet so easily accessible does something to the heart; affects our sense of hope, our aspirations. I believe with every sinew of my being that the hood is a prison designed to keep you there. Carefully shaped into a valley of despair where the steep hills of hope are too high to climb and the view is always invariably bleak. 

I don’t want that for my children, for my family or for myself. I have seen what it’s like on the other side, beyond the walls of this valley. I have seen what its like over the hill and beyond the tracks… I couldn’t help but see it… these city planners are constantly rubbing it in my face. I have seen it and I want out. I want the sculptured slice of nature at my fingertips, the moist earth of nearly dry creeks between my toes. I want maple trees and l pines. I want a little less concrete and a whole lot more quiet. I want my need to escape to be just a little less prevalent and I want the extent to which I must go to find that escape to be a little less far.

Literally.

If I ever get out, God-willing, remind me about this note. Remind me to finish paving that bike path from 13th street to 17th. Remind me to give the welfare moms, and struggling students, the single dads, and city workers just a little piece of quiet. Remind me to bring a little nature back to the hood.

I’m happy that I found this place and I will probably bring my kids here, regardless of how out of place we may look and seem. The view from where I sit is beautiful… and I’d like to keep it that way.

This post is a part of the #tenminutes series, a challenge to write for ten minutes, every day, no matter what. To learn more visit: Ten Minute Challenge and join the movement!

TEN MINUTES CHALLENGE DAILY PROMPT
“The View From Where I Sit” –  Either sit exactly where you are or go out and find a space you enjoy and snap a photo. Put that photo at the top of your page and title this piece, “The View From Where I Sit” and begin writing about your view. If you get stuck try focusing on the five senses. What do you hear, smell, taste, feel, and see?

Note: This can become a story, a poem, a rant, an article, a journal entry, a song… whatever form it takes just go with it. When all else fails in the face of writers block, just begin by making a list. What words come to mind in this view? What emotions do you feel? For an extended activity, return to this place on another day, with the same view, and see how this imagery makes you respond a second time. How does your mood affect your perception. What’s changed? Please do share. I love to see your work. Ready? Set. Write forth! #tenminutes


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Journal: The View From Where I Sit

http://goo.gl/574qlD – Chorus of Blue

image

I was spurred to go on a bike ride this afternoon. It’s the first I’ve taken to really go out and explore on my own since I got this bike a couple weeks ago. I traveled along the partially paved bike path until I ran out of paving. Traveled along wistfully, surrounded by half-woods, searching for something. Some special place to call my own. Some little cove to steal away to in the early morning hours and write. I was searching for an escape from my life.

I imagine that’s no uncommon need for most people these days. There is always too much; too much work, too much responsibility, too many bills, too many kids, too much fighting, too much debt, too much social media, too much bad news… too much of everything. Everyone seems to need to escape. I would love to be the person who can relish in the now. Laugh at her messy house, dote on her devilish darling kids, plug away at her to-do list, and write about it all with such frankness and honesty that the masses nod in unison at this rare truth I’ve found the courage to share.

But that’s not me. At least, it’s not today. Today, I am riding my bike, desperately trying to get away. Getting away usually means finding some quasi-wooded area, a creek, very little traffic and a lot of natural quiet. This also means getting away from the half-hood that I live in and venturing into the ‘good ‘ neighborhoods where they care enough about creating a nice natural environment that they provide carefully sculptured “natural parks” where things appear just a little more wild than, say, trimmed grass, basketball courts and rubber swings.

There are usually less beer cans around too.

So today I’ve found such a wild place and I am relaxing on the grass, listening to the wind shaking the leaves above me. The view from where I sit is beautiful. And calm. And mostly quiet. So why do I feel a sense of sadness and bitterness? Why does the beauty of it all eat away at me?

As I rode away from the half-hood I call my home, I noticed the way the bike path only went 100 feet in the direction of my neighborhood, then broke off into rocky gravel, trash and broken glass. I had to turn around and head in the other direction. When I crossed the street that path went on significantly longer and led me away from my own neighborhood into the safety and comfort of a ‘better’ community. The loveliest thing in our hood is the golf courses we don’t visit. And apparently the need for a relaxing bike path from one end of the hood to the other is either unheard of or no one gives a damn. Welfare moms and struggling college students don’t need to escape their reality. And they certainly don’t need “natural parks” to sit and reflect.

I know I sound bitter, but never has the disparity of wealth been more apparent to me than in Wichita, Kansas. You can literally cross a street and go from $400,000 homes with manicured lawns, sculpted concrete fountains, high privacy fences and long winding driveways to tiny squatting brick houses, with broken toys in the yard, no sidewalks, and trash piled up at the curbs. Its uncanny. And incredibly unsettling.

I grew up in Los Angeles, California and Seattle, Washington and the separation of rich and poor there is a bit more subtle. Hoods are hoods… they are usually separated from nice areas by major streets, commercial districts, or gradually shifting property values. Its not often that you can look across the street from your run down trailer park and see a goddamn mansion. In Wichita, the separation is stark. And its a painful reminder of what you do not, and in many cases, cannot and will not ever have.

Sitting here, bitter, against this young maple, looking up at the gorgeous colors of fall, relishing in the scent of grass,  the slight sweetness of tree bark, the subtleties of fall. Enjoying the absence of loud music, the scent of stale beer, and the arguing that has become the theme song for life in the hood, my peace is only mildly disturbed by the approach of a white family. They’ve come to this idyllic outdoor scene to spend time together. Dad carries an infant nestled cozily in his arms. Little blonde-headed girls bobble about poking sticks at the soft earth. Ella wanders off and mom calls her back, they pose for a quick photo, try to get a younger girl, Emma, to smile. They are surprisingly quiet… not a hundred feet from me and I can only make out the occasional chuckle or soft words. They settle down with a blanket, picnic-style, some of the kids climb a nearby tree. It’s all very lovely… and I think: I have every intention of doing this very same thing with my family.. and often.

The major difference between us and them is that they easily walked to this location. It was nothing unusual or out of the way. Me and my kids will have to hobble through the hood for a mile or more to get here. We will probably look out of place. We will never be able to call this place our own. This will never be our community. That’s a painful reality to face. We have to leave our community to reconnect with each other, escape the piss and pain of the hood, just to relax.

Now, my goal is to one day move our family into such a place. A community with wild places carefully sculpted into the environment. A place where we can literally walk into our own backyard and reconnect with nature. Where there are not drive-bys at the end of the street and arguments from the couple in the alley every damn morning. I have no doubt that the concrete and chain link fencing that is the landscape our community has some deep psychological effect on us and on our children. I have no doubt that growing up with nature and beauty and quiet so easily accessible does something to the heart; affects our sense of hope, our aspirations. I believe with every sinew of my being that the hood is a prison designed to keep you there. Carefully shaped into a valley of despair where the steep hills of hope are too high to climb and the view is always invariably bleak. 

I don’t want that for my children, for my family or for myself. I have seen what it’s like on the other side, beyond the walls of this valley. I have seen what its like over the hill and beyond the tracks… I couldn’t help but see it… these city planners are constantly rubbing it in my face. I have seen it and I want out. I want the sculptured slice of nature at my fingertips, the moist earth of nearly dry creeks between my toes. I want maple trees and l pines. I want a little less concrete and a whole lot more quiet. I want my need to escape to be just a little less prevalent and I want the extent to which I must go to find that escape to be a little less far.

Literally.

If I ever get out, God-willing, remind me about this note. Remind me to finish paving that bike path from 13th street to 17th. Remind me to give the welfare moms, and struggling students, the single dads, and city workers just a little piece of quiet. Remind me to bring a little nature back to the hood.

I’m happy that I found this place and I will probably bring my kids here, regardless of how out of place we may look and seem. The view from where I sit is beautiful… and I’d like to keep it that way.

This post is a part of the #tenminutes series, a challenge to write for ten minutes, every day, no matter what. To learn more visit: Ten Minute Challenge and join the movement!

TEN MINUTES CHALLENGE DAILY PROMPT
“The View From Where I Sit” –  Either sit exactly where you are or go out and find a space you enjoy and snap a photo. Put that photo at the top of your page and title this piece, “The View From Where I Sit” and begin writing about your view. If you get stuck try focusing on the five senses. What do you hear, smell, taste, feel, and see?

Note: This can become a story, a poem, a rant, an article, a journal entry, a song… whatever form it takes just go with it. When all else fails in the face of writers block, just begin by making a list. What words come to mind in this view? What emotions do you feel? For an extended activity, return to this place on another day, with the same view, and see how this imagery makes you respond a second time. How does your mood affect your perception. What’s changed? Please do share. I love to see your work. Ready? Set. Write forth! #tenminutes


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Fireside Chat: Inspiring Spaces

http://goo.gl/K54GWv – Chorus of Blue

I often fantasize about getting away from the city. It’s a longing for quiet inspiration, reconnecting with nature, and a place to reflect that has made me seriously consider moving my family out onto a farm. Granted, we don’t know anything of animal husbandry (that’s a word, right?), and our farming/gardening experience is minimal to say the least… but I love home repairs, refurbishing things, and above all… I love the quiet. And not that artificial soundproofed quiet, but the noisy quiet of nature. With cicadas chirping, birds squawking, the breeze through the trees, frogs croaking, the crunch of dry leaves and bugs buzzing all about me. Its that kind of quiet that I yearn for. The noisy peace of outdoors.

I would love to go a year without any computers, smart phones, or video games… I imagine a whole life without them would be nice. Sure, I couldn’t run my business and design my products without a laptop. I couldnt build my platform or gain readership very quickly… in this digital age it’s sink or swim, but I’d love to give it a try. Id love to not need all this technology that hurts my head and boggles my mind. That disturbs and distracts. That disconnects us from everything that matters.

Sadly, my family, especially my kids, probably wouldn’t be as much on board. (Though,  I imagine they would love it after they stopped harping over what they were missing and started appreciating what they were gaining.) But, alas, that’s not easy move to make. So, instead of dreaming of this idyllic life on a farm, I have to start smaller… with my own mini-space: a writing studio.

Now, as it is, I don’t really have the ability to create my ideal writing studio where we live now. Luckily, we’re renters, so that’s not a permanent problem. While I could probably build a pretty awesome studio in the back yard, finding  some old shed on craiglist, hauling it here, rebuilding and gradually shaping it into a dream space of privacy and peace… one of the most important elements: surrounding/environment would definitely be missing. We live in the city… and not the best part of the city, either, lol.

So, for now, I dream, I build it in my mind: I imagine. I see a space set off from our main house, in a wild wooded area, with water somewhere nearby. It has lots of light from tons of huge windows… French doors that take up an entire wall and open up to a nice porch-patio. There’s a fireplace, a simple, but heavy refurbished desk, an antique daybed with a mishmash of gorgeously soft pillows of warm reds and oranges. There are soft throws everywhere, hardwood floors that creak a bit and layered in rugs, and lots and lots of candles and lanterns to light the space at night.

During the day it seems bright and open, uncluttered but homey, soft and summery. At night it becomes warm and cozy, with natural firelight all around. There are fireflies in the fields around me, dragonflies buzzing about the water… maybe a small pond or creek. The only unnatural noise is maybe a train in the distance. There’d be a small wood burning stove… or a gas stove if I wanted to go up a notch in impatience, lol. Somewhere to brew tea and coffee… and somewhere to store bread and butter; I like to eat.

The air outside would be scented with pine trees, lavender blossoms, gardenia bushes near the porch, a great magnolia tree out back, and climbing jasmine everywhere. And my cat would hang out there… hiding from the children. Keeping me company on late nights. An old record player would be nice… the crackle of it is so lovely. And Id have a small space out back to paint, blank, stretched canvases, metallic tubes of paint, brushes soaking in tin coffee cans… I would paint now and then, for pleasure… but maybe the paintings would supplement my income. Be curated by some local shop that promotes local artists. That would be nice.

In my mind we’d own some big property… and the walk out to my studio would take 10-15 minutes from the main house. It would be far enough away that I couldn’t hear the kids playing and near enough that I could escape at a moments notice. It would be nice if there was a view… maybe of some great forests of pine below, mountains in the distance… anything but the city that I’m so weary of. And it would be mine… all mine. No danger of intrusions, of children breaking this or that, husbands piling clothes on the floor… it would be my very private, very personal writing space.

I don’t know if I’ll ever have this dream studio, but I believe I will… someday, insha’Allah.

Have you ever taken the time to fully imagine your dream studio? What would be the absolute necessities? What could you not live without? Is it in a noisy city, glittering with city lights? A quiet cottage? A rustic cabin in the woods? How about a mobile studio to travel the across the country? Or do you simply need a small room in the corner of your house? A cozy den with the kids playing about? Tell me about your perfect writing studio… and how close you are to realizing that dream. can’t wait to hear from you all. Til then… thanks, as always, for reading, folks. See you by the fireside.

This is a part of the fireside chat series. Casual conversations amongst writers about writing.

I’ve begun a Pinterest Board for my Ideal Writing Studio… perhaps it will serve as inspiration for your own. It’s shared below. :) Enjoy!


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Journal: New Bike, New Experiences

http://goo.gl/iKGkgZ – Chorus of Blue

I recently got a bike. Its exciting, really. Its been a while since I’ve ridden a bike and, being that I don’t drive these days, a bike offers a whole new level of freedom and independence for me. I’m riding more and more frequently, as my behind gets used to the excruciating pain of riding for the first time in years (yes, I’m ordering a new seat), and hope to eventually explore new areas of Wichita, find new inspiration, and maybe even join some writers circles and workshops! Being homebound has been a real hampering on my writing, so I’m really praying biking makes a big difference.

Naturally, at this point, I’m thinking of all the many ways I plan to customize my bike to fit my style and needs. Currently, its a Schwinn hybrid in light blue, stock everything. Oh, but how it yearns to be an iridescent cream color with brown leather & wood accents! I’m seeing wooden baskets, leather bags, a little bell, all kinds if fun stuff… So it’s a project in the making, I suppose, and I can’t wait to get started!

Will it affect my writing? Maaan, I hope so. Freedom, new adventures and the scent of leather always seem like a good start. ;)

This post is a part of the #tenminutes series, a challenge to write for ten minutes, every day, no matter what. To learn more visit: Ten Minute Challenge and join the movement!

TEN MINUTES CHALLENGE DAILY PROMPT
“Fiction: Travel” –  Write a story about a group of friends traveling on a road trip. Where do they stop? What is the purpose of the road trip? Who do they end up meeting along the way?

“Poetry: Travel” – Write a poem about some of your most memorable experiences while in a transit. This can include experiences on a bike, skateboard, bus, subway, train, airplane or in a car. Ready? Set. Write forth! #tenminutes


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Video: Reaching Your Writing Climax

http://goo.gl/tEcyzI – Chorus of Blue

Once you get into the habit of writing you will eventually reach your writing climax, a plateau in your desire to write. How do nurture and maintain your passion and still manage a normal life? Does writing take precedence over housework? Child rearing? Spousal needs? Let’s explore that. #tenminutes

This post is a part of the #tenminute challenge. To learn more visit: Ten Minute Challenge and join the movement!