Shopping with Toddlers is FUN!

So, for the most part, my kids are amazing. They are sweet and precious and their laughter makes my heart feel all warm and tingly, and I feel like the best mom. For about five, maybe ten minutes. You know, before the laughing, sharing tender carebears morph into screaming, growling, bottomless pits of need that seem to operate on the MAX volume setting. Then my head hurts, my nerves ache, and I reach for the aceteminophen.

When I picked my one and three-year old up from preschool this past Friday, I was so excited. We were going to start the weekend off with a great shopping trip! Yay! My daughter could get herself new boots, my son needed new shoes, and I needed a purse and epipen holder for my newly diagnosed mango allergy. I somehow thought that this was going to be FUN! The kids were excited to see me, they laughed and giggled in the car.  My husband and I shared that look that said "we are so blessed" and squeezed each other's hands. Then, tiredness of a whole week of school, playing, and learning set in, and the high-pitched whining and grunting fest began. All parents (and uncles or anyone who has been, um, "fortunate" enough to be trapped on the highway in 6pm traffic in a busy city, with a three-year-old and a one-year-old) know the drill. It all started with a simple, "hey, he has something I don't!" that went something like this:

Daughter: "Mooooooooooommmmmmy! I want his binky!"
Me: "That's his binky, sweetie, and you only use binkies at night-time, remember?"
Daughter: 
Me: "Oh, sweetie, it's okay, we're going to go to the store and if you can hold out until we get home, I'll watch Boxtrolls with you and we can have popcorn!"
Daughter: (thinks about this) "Okay."
Son: "GggggggggaaaagaaaaaaghGGGHH-GHGHHHH!!!!!!!"
Daughter: <Crying at the top of her lungs> "MOOOOOOOOOOMMY!!! HE TOOK MY BLANKET!!!"
Me: "How did he do that? He can't reach your blanket unless you gave it to him?"
Daughter: "No, he reached over here and tooked it! He did!"
Son: "ggaah-gaah-gah!" *giggles*
D: "I WANT MY BLANKET! GIMME MY BLANKET!"
Me: "When we get to the store, I'll get you your blanket back."
S: <screaming> "GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHH!GHHHHH!!! GHHH!"
D: "It's okay, I taked it back."
Me: "....."
S; <continues screaming because there's nothing so tragic as having some new toy that is immediately taken away from you>
D: "He lost his binky, Mommy."
Me: his

 binky in her mouth and a defiant look on her face, and takes a few breaths before deciding whether Anna and Kristoff are going on timeout, or if there will be no Boxtrolls later>

Let's just say, that the above summarizes the first five minutes of the post-dinner drive to the vintage store where we were going to be responsible citizens and purchase sustainable, reused items. Instead, we got to the store and found nothing, and after chasing our children around the store, three fits, one bruised shin and crushed toe, and another 30 minute drive, one attempted accidental shoplifting by a three-year-old, we returned home where I promptly ordered everything online.

So, the moral of the story is shopping is NOT fun with toddlers. I'm pretty sure toddlers at least half the reason online shopping is so popular. And, don't get me wrong, I try to be green, I really do. I'm a hippie at heart and would love for nothing better than to shop local and purchase only items that have been thoroughly vetted by a life-cycle analysis for the sustainability of the manufacturing of every single component. But, the screaming. My hippie, "you can talk anything out if you just put enough love in your voice" attitude was not prepared for the sheer determination of toddlers hell-bent on being unhappy about something. You just have to ride the storm and wait until they become reasonable balls of adorableness again.

So, for the time being, most of my shopping will be done online. Plus, it shopping online has these amazing benefits:

1. You won't spend the worst two minutes of your life screaming your toddler's name because she decided to play hide-and-go-seek behind the check-out-stand and you become convinced that someone has snatched her and you're going to spend the next few decades wondering why you had left your toddler leash in the car because now your child has been kidnapped, and the worst of the worst is going to happen and did you really need those organic grapes anyway?
2. You won't get those judgey glares from folks as your toddler throws an all-out screaming fit because you won't let her take the life-sized Elsa doll home, which is compounded by your 1-year-old deciding that if the world is ending, he's pretty unhappy about it, too.
3. No lines. Seriously. Waiting in line as you watch the count-down click past bed-time and watch the kiddos slowly turn into writhing monsters is the worst. There's nothing you can do unless you want to abandon your shopping (and the last 45-minutes to two-hours of your life) and run away in defeat.
4. No finding odd things in your cart (who knew I wanted to try coconut chip pumpkin chai coffee? I didn't!)
5. No discovering random things in your toddler's pockets that require you to turn-around and return to the store in the "we didn't buy this" walk of shame.
6. No screaming.
7. You can drink while you shop and no one but your husband/spouse/partner/dogs will know.
8. Did I mention no screaming?

Seriously, my children are the best. I just don't want to shop with them. Yet? I've heard four-year-olds get better? Right? I can hope? Right?

Surrounding Yourself with Good: How we Chose our Children's Godparents

This post has been brewing in the back of my head since before my daughter was born. Sometimes people walk into your life and create what at first seems like a subtle ripple in the waters of your life, and only when you look back do you see that what started as a ripple, actually became a tidal wave.  A tidal wave of acceptance, warmth, humor, and love; a wave that picked you off your feet along the way and swept all those tangled weeds of self-doubt away with the tides and leaves you feeling whole. 

When we were expecting our daughter, my husband and I began what became a lengthy discussion as to who we wanted to be our daughter's godparents. The role of a godparent was extremely important to me, because I am who I am in no small part thanks to the role of my godmother and godfather. My godfather passed away when I was very young, but to this day I remember his humor, patience, and kindness. My godmother was a constant presence in my childhood. She was patient, kind, and unafraid of questioning my sheer determination on every front, even in my rebellious teens. Her compassionately-spoken word, even if it was correcting an erroneous belief or behavior, somehow checked me and made me think about the person I wanted to be, and how my words and actions were interpreted. We didn't always agree, but she made me think about my beliefs, and made sure that my passions were well-founded. Was she perfect? No, but she was still our saint. She was my mother's closest friend, and a soul-sister if she ever had one.

So, when choosing our the godparents for our daughter, my standards were pretty high, but we were both very realistic and treated this matter very carefully. In many respects, we are lucky. We have a wonderful group of intelligent, loving, caring friends, but this only made the choice more difficult. In the end, our choice was perfect. We chose two people who embody the following statement to the fullest:

“Surround yourself with the dreamers and the doers, the believers and thinkers, but most of all, surround yourself with those who see the greatness within you,
even when you don’t see it yourself.” -Edmund Lee

On so many occasions, these two individuals have shown how truly they are dreamers, believers, and thinkers. But even more importantly, we see every day their capacity for love, friendship, compassion, joy, camaraderie, humor, and the joy in learning and sharing that love of learning with others. They take joy in the accomplishments of other people and exude love and acceptance in a way that I have always found inspiring. They laugh easily, love easily, step in to lend a hand when needed, and were some of the first people to teach me the concept of paying it forward. 

One has been like a brother to me for nearly 16 years, and the other has been like a sister since I first started training at martial arts. And something I noticed about these two folks in particular - by being around them, I was becoming a better person. 

When we settled on their names unanimously, we were gleeful.  It took us a while to ask them, since we were fearful that, after all our thought, they might say no.  Turns out, they said "yes" within a minute, and I cannot describe the a surge of relief I felt. Our children are the most precious things to us in this world, so knowing that if something were to happen to us, that they would be left in the care of these two amazing individuals, alongside their equally amazing children? They would be raised in an environment of loving support, tolerance, and kindness? I can't describe the relief. No one can love a child like their parents, but I know these two would be as damn close as you could to loving our children like their own. Because that's how they roll!  

These two have been more than a safety net - they have been an anchor. When you feel like you might get lost at sea, it is so helpful to have those friends who will tell you the truth, and will also give you the mirror so you can see for yourself that your world isn't as dark as it seemed.  

So, remember, when you're looking at the people you hold close, the people you spend the most time with, ask yourself - do they see the greatness within you? Are you able to be unapologetically YOU around them? If not, find those people who are the dreamers and the doers around you - they're the ones who make you feel good about yourself because they are simply good to the core. 

Those people are the people you want in your life. More than that, they're the people you want in your children's lives.

Drowning in the Dark - Finding Your Way to Forgiveness

It has been a long time since I last wrote, but as my son approaches his very first birthday, I'm feeling a little uptick in energy that means my fingers are itching for something new, and Facebook is just not cutting it.

But, the thing I want to write about today isn't my son or daughter and their adorable antics - it's about forgiveness, and a point when I thought things were at their darkest. My sister recently wrote a post about forgiveness and asked me about a dream I had after a tragedy in our lives. You can find her post here: Until I was Free.

As background, well over a decade ago, my husband and I were married. It was one of the happiest days of my life. It wasn't perfect, because my mother showed up that morning and told my husband she wouldn't be at the wedding. I was in my room getting dressed, but I heard her, I could hear the panic in her voice, but before I could come out to plead with her, Nick had used his compassionate powers of persuasion to convince her she had to be there. After the wedding, my mom's illness became worse. She would show up at our house and rant and yell. She left voicemails for me telling me I was the devil incarnate, demonspawn (her most used adjective for me) and she wished I had never been born. Nick began screening and deleting these voicemails, because it had become just too much for me. It was bad enough watching my mom slip away mentally, but to be the object of such hate was more than I could bear.

Our honeymoon was the first chance for me to escape. For three weeks, I didn't have to worry that I would be woken up in the middle of the night by the woman I called mother yelling under my window, the rattling of her trying to break into my house at 3:00 a.m., to do who knows what. It took a while for me to unwind, but I think it was about 1.5 weeks into the honeymoon before I felt I could breathe and let go of all that hurt, fear and anxiety I had been clutching close to my chest. For the first time, I felt like the world was actually going to be okay. And I reveled in the beauty of Greece, the food, the relaxation, the different culture, and did I mention the food?

When I returned, my world was turned upside down. While I was off re-learning to enjoy myself on my honeymoon, a friend from high school, Lucas, had killed himself, and murdered Skye, someone else from my high school. I wanted to say he had "taken someone else's life", to dance around the sheer brutality of it, but that's what it was. It was murder.  It was suicide.  

I was simultaneously racked with guilt and angry at Lucas. I had known Skye in high school and from ballroom dancing - he was a rare soul who just radiated kindness and compassion. I never saw him without a smile on his face, and I never saw or heard him speak an unkind word about anyone, no matter how deserving.  The reason I was racked with guilt is pretty simple - I had grown up with mental illness in my life. I knew the signs. I knew when someone was drowning in a darkness of their own creation.  I saw Lucas lashing out at people, I saw the spark in his eyes slowly disappear until it was entirely consumed by an emptiness. It was the same aching emptiness I saw in mom's eyes when she sank into a depression, and would hurt herself. I once found my mom sitting on the stairwell to the basement with a kitchen knife in her hands, crying. I was maybe 12 or 13 - that's when she confessed that the scars that run up and down her arm that she had always told me were from her attempt to take a knife away from my autistic uncle when they were children - she had lied. She said that sometimes she would "hurt herself so she could feel something - anything." As a kid, I didn't know what to do when someone I loved was hurting, so I took the knife away and held her and told her I loved her. I made her promise me to never hurt herself again. We never talked about the knife again.

Lucas's emptiness was also deep, but he would hurt others so he could feel. I started to see the pattern, as he became less charming and more focused on mounting verbal attacks, in tearing me (and others) down so he could feel better about himself. 

I recognized this on some level, but, I think 20 year old me couldn't cope. So, after he had verbally abused our brother, and I found him licking the ear of a sleeping under-aged friend, I blew up. I just couldn't take it. For the first time, the mousey-Raven blew up and, more surprisingly, held her ground. I confronted him, told him his behavior was inappropriate. When he tried to tell me I was over-reacting and being hysterical, I stuck to my guns, I remembered my self-defense class and identified exactly what he was doing that was inappropriate, and when he still wouldn't believe me, I swore. If you know me, you know I *hate* being angry, I hate confrontation of all kinds, but I yelled at him: "Get the FUCK out of my house." He said his friend lived there, too, and I said "I don't give a fuck, so long as I live here, you are not welcome. Do not talk to me, do not speak to me, get the FUCK out, and don't come back. If you don't get out now, I'll call the police." I literally walked forward, yelling at him to get the fuck out of my house until I had backed him out of the door and slammed the door on him. Then I ran to my room, shaking and crying. This all took place in front of our friends, whom I think were totally surprised, and possibly horrified, because his behavior was so commonplace. It was just Lucas being an asshole.

I remember that scene vividly, and when I found out about the murder-suicide, it all came back to me. I had cut him out. My other friends hadn't - they still saw him, but I had not done it in a constructive way.  Some time after I returned, a mutual friend called me and conveyed that Lucas had a parting message. He had taken this friend out before the tragic events and asked him to convey to me how sorry he was for the way he treated me. That he'd recognized I had been a victim, and he'd taken advantage of it. He wanted me to know how sorry he was if he'd ever hurt me, but that he could see I was doing much better now. 

I'll admit, that didn't help my guilt. I knew Lucas was mentally ill. I'd seen it in Mom, I'd seen it in others, I knew the signs. So, I was mad at Lucas for Skye, I was mad at him for all the hurt he'd caused everyone around him, but I was mad at myself for not recognizing the signs, for kicking him out/shutting him out, because I didn't know enough to take him aside and say, "Lucas, this isn't right. What you're doing, isn't right. You need help. I can't give you that help, but I can be here for you while you get it. Please, start seeing someone, and I will support you. If you don't, THEN, I'm afraid you are no longer welcome here." But, in all fairness, I was young and silly, and hurting myself. 

So, when I learned about what happened, I felt terrible. My friends told me there wasn't anything I could have done - that if I had continued to be in his life, I, too, might have been hurt. What I did then - it was self-protection and I needed to do it. But, at the time their words fell on ears that weren't listening. 

After a few weeks of intense guilt and crying myself to sleep every night thinking about the hurt and pain that would drive someone into that kind of darkness, I drifted into a fitful sleep. I was suddenly in Monroe Park, where my siblings and I used to play as children. I was my 11-year-old self, and holding the Express (my favorite kitten who had died in an accident when I was a kid), surrounded by  other kittens playing in the sun-filled grass. It was magical. A warm breeze teased the grass and I felt an intense wave of peace roll over me. As I pet and cuddled my sweet kitten, whom I hadn't seen in over a decade, I saw feet in front of me, and I looked up in surprise. It was Lucas, standing above me. His head was surrounded by a halo of sunlight such that I could barely make out his features, but I knew it was him. As he stepped closer, he gave me a huge smile, the likes of which I hadn't really seen since high school, and held his arms out. I stood up, and he embraced me and said "It's okay, Rachael. I'm okay." I felt those words to my very core and I woke up with them ringing in my ears. Somehow, the heaviness was lifted from my heart.  I realized that he was gone, but all his pain was gone, too. He had taken a light out of this world that we couldn't bring back, but I needed to stop dwelling on his pain and his hurt. I needed to stop drowning in the darkness his world had become at the end.  

In that moment, I understood. In that moment, I forgave him and I forgave myself. 

Remembering Her Light, Four Years Later

In many ways, today is remarkably similar to this very day four years ago. This day back then, like now, was pretty typical of the Willamette Valley - cloudy, rainy, with interspersed moments where the sun breaks through the clouds, and we Eugeneans feel the promise of Spring. We feel the hope that the light brings with it.

Four years ago, my mom passed away.  Her passing was peaceful. A harpist played music for her for an hour and we watched as her face relaxed, listening to the music. After the harpist left, my little sister and I began manicuring her nails. Within minutes, her breath slowed, and we each put down our instruments and held one of her hands. I whispered in her ear that I loved her, and that I would share with the world the light she brought into it, that I would remember her light. Just as she released her last breath, the sun shone through her window, and I felt the darkness in which she had lived so much of her life was finally lifted - that she was finally free.  With everything I had just told her, about remembering her light, I knew with every fiber of my being that she was at peace.

After that moment of release, however, my own world was plunged into what felt could only be an interminable darkness. I had lost my mother - a piece of my soul, a piece of who I was. As many of you know, who have lost loved ones, I ached in a way I had never thought possible. I tried to smile, but I felt a gaping hole in my heart. I felt ashamed for all the things I did and didn't caring for Mom before her death.

Today feels so similar to that day, except I feel that hope again. I feel the promise of Spring and better things. As I have relayed previously, in my blog Three Years and Some Change, I feel my mother is here with me. I don't see her in the streets as much as I used to, as I wrote about in my previous blog. But I do feel her with me.

As my family gets ready to accept our second child, I feel closer to my mother than ever. When my two-year-old daughter told me: "I love you, too" the first time, or when she curls up next to me on the couch, I feel the joy I know my mom experienced. Whenever I begin to feel that pang of sorrow while thinking about Mom, I remember that joy. I remember the look Mom got on her face when she described how much she loved us. I remember how she told me that I wouldn't understand the joy, sheer terror, and love that being a parent involved until I had a child of my own, and I know now she was right. Now, I feel her in my own hand. She's there when I hold my daughter's little hand as we cross the street, when I stroke my daughter's hair (much like she stroked mine), when I put on my daughter's little shoes and she leans on me for balance. I feel the same little tug of pride intermingled with sadness I am sure she felt whenever my daughter tells me confidently, "No, Mommy. I got it."

I still feel my mother everywhere around me, but mostly, I feel her inside of me. I know she is still with me. Every day. And while she didn't get to meet my daughter, or my soon-to-be born son, I know has already met them -because she is a part of me, and will always be a part of me.

So, Mom, I wanted to tell you again: I love you, and I will always remember your light. I am still working on sharing that light with the world, but I'm getting there.

Your loving daughter, now until the end of time,

The Rambler

Fear

I have had this poem sitting on the back-burner for a while, as I contemplated how fear stifles creativity and positivity. Through a collaboration with a friend and artist, Pieter Karlik, I now have a couple of visual representations.

I want this poem to speak for itself, so I won't give it a long introduction, although a part of me would like very much to do just that. Without further ado, here it is, first in chalk:

And in watercolor:

As always, thank you for reading, and have a wonderful day.

Long time gone...

Wow, has it really been nearly three months since my last post? Really? Sheesh, I have been completely lax.
Just to catch up everything in a nutshell (so I can spend future posts on more interesting topics), here's a brief, uninteresting report of what this Rambler has been up to in her long absence (yes, I apologize, I spoke in the third person... I admit I am a dork. Deal with it.):

In my long absence, I can report that I am 20 weeks along with lil' Critter #2, which two year-old Critter #1 is not too happy about. Critter #1 has taken to ignoring all references to Mommy's growing belly, and has instead decided the whole world is hers. The chant around my house has become a variant of "My phone! My crayon! My computer! Mine mine mine mine!" I'll admit, I have a really hard time suppressing laughter at her vehemence over her possession of things. For instance, there's the teepee she got for Christmas - she keeps trying to push our large mastiff/lab mix out of it, while screaming "My teepee! My teepee! Out, Bash, out!" Vash (not "Bash" as my daughter likes to call him, is named after the Humanoid Typhoon from Trigun), of course, just sits there, not budging, while my two-year-old becomes very miffed. I don't know if it's just lack of sleep, but these scenes cheer my up and warm the cockles of my heart.

Also, my hyperemisis gravidarum has wrapped itself up nicely (thank freakin' God). I no longer wretch when I brush my teeth, accuse people of "smelling like death" if they brew or drink coffee.

Not too much has happened in the writing world for this one. I should have a poem nearing completion sometime in the next week or so, I am still brainstorming/early writing my next project "Shieldmaiden", and I sent a solicitation to a second agent for Waking Dreams, which was promptly rejected. That means of the nine agents I researched as being vaguely open to not only my genre, subject, accepting new writers, etc, I only have seven more agents to query. Yay? After that, there are four publishing houses I can query. Then, the final resort... SELF-PUBLISHING. And of course, edit, edit, edit. Seems like a bit of a scary, exciting world. But I am game! If the traditional course fails, which I imagine it will. I'm a first time author in a competitive world, with a very tough break-in genre, and, well, in spite of my wishes and hopes that Waking Dreams is an absolute stellar, perfect little diamond in the rough, chances are it's a rough little piece of coal that could use some pressure to become the gem it could be.

Aside from that, like all of you, I weathered the holidays (only a little worse for wear), and am feeling the holiday "Why the f*&k did I eat all that?" blues.

So, that's sort of my last three months in a nutshell. I hope everyone out there has been kind to themselves and their loved ones and are gearing up for the New Year!

Love and Peace to you in the New Year! (sorry, channeling a little bit of Vash the Stampede there).

Silence

Finding my voice has been an odd kind of journey. Taking criticism is hard, but it's an absolute must for any writer or artist, because it helps you grow and learn what kind of criticism is constructive and will help you grow, and what you can leave at the door for what it is.

I am not a perfect writer. I am not a great poet. But do I like writing? Hell, yes. Am I going to continue writing? Hell, yes, again! And, if one other person enjoys the ride, then I feel like it's worth it. So I can say I don't find it funny when I read diatribes directed at bloggers and Facebookers, the ones that pose as witty critiques but are really directed critiques of people struggling to find a way to express themselves through social media.

Communication is difficult. People use words and images in different ways. Will our language skills grow and evolve as we age and truly find not only ourselves, but our voices? Definitely. But haranguing, ridiculing (however subtly) or otherwise making people afraid to speak is not the way to do it. The only thing that promoting silence and staunching self-expression does is staunch creativity and fan the fires of fear and self-reproach.

We can't become better writers, better artists, hell, better human beings if we do not hone our modes of self-expression.

So, with all this in mind, I wrote another poem this week. I hope you enjoy it!

   This photo is copyrighted by Cole Thompson. Permission to use the photo was granted by the artist - please visit Cole Thompson Photography and Cole Thompson Photography Blog to learn and see more of his creative work.  

Peace and a day with courage and love to you all.

-The Rambler

On Sorrow

So, I have already informed most of ya'll that I was a pretty morbid, or even "emo" kid. Among the treasury of poems I memorized, in addition to "Too Late" which I already discussed in my post, A Grieving Love, was the following poem by Robert Browning Hamilton:

“I walked a mile with Pleasure;

She chatted all the way;

But left me none the wiser

For all she had to say.

I walked a mile with Sorrow;

And ne’er a word said she;

But, oh! The things I learned from her,

When Sorrow walked with me.”

My young life felt full of sorrow, to be fair, and I felt my hardships made me wiser than my more joyful, carefree classmates. I read at an advanced level (although my fear of tests made me score poorly), I hated the nonsense most kids talked about, and I felt like I never fit in. So this poem spoke to me for many, many years. I often felt that joy was cheap and meaningless. That in order for something to actually carry substance, it had to be touched by grief, touched by sorrow. 

Recently, I have really been re-evaluating my worldview, something I will probably always do, and I've really been re-examining this poem. I believe grief has helped forge me into the sympathetic, forgiving, if flawed person I am today. I will always be grateful for that. There will be times I walk with sorrow later on, grief that will come and will show me how much more I have to learn from Her, but should I live walking constantly in Her shadow? Should I feel every person's heartbreak, see the sadness in every person's step, and live my life engulfed in a protective blanket of sorrow? Probably not. Have I lived like that for some time? No, but this thought has niggled at my mind whenever I feel myself laughing too loudly or reveling in just how blessed I am.

So, with those thoughts in mind, I wrote the following poem:

   This photo is copyrighted by Cole Thompson. Permission to use the photo was granted by the artist - please visit Cole Thompson Photography and Cole Thompson Photography Blog to learn and see more of his creative work.  

  

We all carry burdens, but joy is so precious when it is here - what is the harm in allowing it in? There's nothing to fear from laughing with abandon, and there is no sense in worrying that you may seem foolish. What is a fool, anyway?

May happiness follow you all everywhere, on whatever journey you take.

-The Rambler

Quick-Slow

Here's a little poem I wrote for my daughter, in one of those many moments where I was so happy, I was damned sure my heart was about to burst.

I hope everyone is having a wonderful weekend. I know I am!
-The Rambler

Musings on Expectations

I once was (and, in all honesty, still am to some degree) a creature of expectation. Perhaps it was part of being a dreamer - I spent so much of my time with my head in the clouds or in a wistful  future, I wove intricate little plans for myself of what may be, would be, and could be. I hoped and dreamed up a world of wonders for myself and my family, a world away from the hurt I had grown accustomed to, and I wove into that world a certain degree of expectations about who I am.

My name means "lamb" and my mom often called me her little lamb. She thought I was innocent, sweet, and pure - and I think I tried to be all those things for her. And for me, because more than anything I wanted to be good. I wanted to be nice, to treat people kindly, and to be the best person I could be.  Hell, I still want these things!

But then there's the other side of expectation - you build yourself into what you expect (or believe others expect) and if you fall short of what you envisioned you would be, well, your world comes crashing down around you. The same goes of expectations of others - if they fall short, or even do something other than what you had expected or dreamed they might do, in your fairy tale version of the world, you feel crushed. You taste and feel disappointment. And what maybe should have been sweet, is bitter simply because it was not what you had expected.

I spent a lot of my childhood waiting - waiting for the promised camping trip, fishing trip, swimming pool visit that never happened. It broke my Mom's heart to see her kids waiting on the porch for a father who never showed. He forgot, things came up and he simply forgot to tell us he couldn't come, or he thought it was the next weekend - he would make it up to us with an even better trip - a trip that usually didn't happen.

The excitement turns to disappointment, which turns to a feeling of sadness, to self-doubt. If Dad doesn't want to see me, what does that say about me?  I saw other dads pick their children up from school, and I felt envious, because I didn't really know what it was like. You know, to have a dad pick me up and lift me into the air with that look of joy and pride I saw in those other dad's faces. You know, the look I see in my husband's eyes when he spins my daughter around in a circle and they fall into a heap giggling.

So my hopes became tinged with an expectation for disappointment and sadness. An expectation that I would always be Rachael the Unloved. That when someone forgot something trivial, perhaps it meant I was still the Unloved. The Unimportant. 

Now, I'm old enough to know it doesn't mean anything. Children are precious and a gift, and that Dad didn't make time for us, well, that was and is his own baggage. There were other things going on - of course - a child can't even begin to understand the worlds and relationships of adults. But I don't need to make excuses for him, or judge him, or even waste a moment caring. It was what it was.

But, all that being said, I want to leave my expectations behind me. It's obviously an ongoing battle, that I believe I am winning (some days are better than others), but progress is progress!

So, here's my final version of my poem on Expectations. You may have seen earlier drafts, but I decided they sucked - er, um, what I mean to say, is - I decided that they were a little too rough around the edges. So, I may be deleting them. If you read and preferred a previous draft, feel free to let me know and I can send it to you.

Otherwise, here it is:

Okay, I should say that one might get the impression that I am emo or depressed from this blog.  But I should state - writing is cathartic for me. If I feel a moment of disappointment, or a worry of expectation, than writing about that pain, fear, or guilt - well, the mere act of writing it down, getting it on the page and out of my head - that is as good as a sigh of relief. It gets out and lets me get on to thinking about better things.

Like, how nice it is sit in this moment, with a happy heart, listening to my daughter's breathing over the monitor and the keys clacking as my husband works next to me. Thinking about the run we just finished, the life we are leading, and the places we are going.

And in this moment, this moment without expectations? All I can think is that I have a truly wonderful and blessed life.

Ten Years and some change

So my husband and I just celebrated our tenth anniversary. It was the most fun we've had in quite some time. We ate, we drank, we walked by the beach and marveled at how far we've come.

All in all, the last ten years have been nothing short of amazing. My love for my husband has grown over the years - I have seen him emerge from his teenage years into a responsible, caring, silly man. And now, seeing him with our daughter and pursuing his dream to be a doctor? Well, that love has become even more intense. He can still make me laugh, even as he drives me insane.

Still Guilty of PDAs after 10 Years

On a completely different note, my own life seems to have gotten a bit off track.

I am not really a medievalist anymore. I like to say I am, but I don't live, breathe, and eat the medieval world and literature any more. I am not reciting Old English to begrudging college students like I once imagined I would be doing at this stage in my life. My dreams of being a writer are, well, active, sure, but I am not being paid to write (not yet, at least).

What happened? Where did that spark, the love of all things old and medieval go? Nowhere. It's still here. It all comes down to money - I don't have it!

Then, these last few weeks, well, I've just been feeling tired. Not a type of tired that sleeping will cure. It's been a bone-tired, stretched-too-thin exhaustion, that has made me feel close to breaking. Is it pushing myself to read and write, being a mom, and working full time, and just feeling like I'm not quite doing anything justice? Is it fear of what may come, what might not come, and the failure that now is so much closer?

Perhaps. Or, maybe it's that I feel like I'm spending a lot of time on things that don't really matter. I'm watching my daughter grow up and I feel like I'm missing it. I get back from work and I am too wiped out to write, recently, or do much of anything.

Maybe it's just that I truly needed this vacation. Vacations are good for the soul after all, and this one certainly has been. It's let me get back in touch with me, not the tired, frazzled, cranky person I felt I've become become. I feel like I need to let myself become more grounded and centered again. I need to find that focus on the positive in life, rather than how short I am falling from where I want to be. Or stressed by those things outside of my control.

All in all, I'm feeling a lot more at peace, thanks to a vacation and visiting family. I have a lot of self-discovery and struggling to do, but that's okay. I'll figure it out. Or I won't. And that'll be okay, too.

Family 

Queries, Synopses, and other forms of masochism

Wow. So, I have been thinking about the querying process for quite some time. I did my research and narrowed my list down to only those agents I think would consider my novel and its genre. And that was disheartening. Not many agents are accepting horror novels from first time authors. But I did not let that dishearten me! I am the Rambler! I am ever optimistic.

So, I carefully made my list, gathered from the 2012 Writer's Market book (a must have, really). I then took my little list from the book and researched each of the names on each agent/agency's respective website, and watched as the list narrowed. Agents were no longer accepting submissions. Or, they were no longer accepting submissions in my genre. Or, they just weren't taking any new clients. Completely understandable, really. And my list shrank even more.

That was five months ago. I looked at my list, and I wasn't disheartened! I am the Rambler, after all, and cheerful optimism in the face of adversity is my thing! So, I decided to write my first synopsis of Waking Dreams, even as I stared at my itty, bitty list of prospective agents.

And about five months ago, I decided to go through and finish my third edit of Waking Dreams instead of finalizing my queries - which was a good call. It really needed it, and I think I smoothed out some relatively rough areas. Once I finished that third edit, I approached the synopsis and querying process with renewed vigor. After one week, I was still staring at an empty page. Okay, that's not entirely true. It had the following written, in beautiful typeface, the font painstakingly chosen after the course of hours:

Synopsis of Waking Dreams

a novel by R.R. Wolfgang

It looks really, pretty, right? As pretty as simple words on a page can be, when you're not trying to shock or awe someone with your graphic aptitude (of which I have none). But I was pretty pleased with myself.

Anyway, I spent a lot of time researching how to write a synopsis, how to write a query letter, and finally, I did what I really needed to do - I just started writing. Then I deleted everything I had just written, turned to my husband and said: "This sucks. This really really sucks. Why does this suck so much?" (Note: there may have been a few expletives in the above bit of dialogue. Maybe. Okay, there were a lot of expletives.) 

After about ten minutes of groaning at my keyboard, hitting my head against the keyboard (quite literally, I'm afraid), I finally decided to poke around my files. Lo! I found a file dated from January entitled "Synopsis"! I was thrilled. I opened it eagerly, thinking I would be able to escape the pit of self-loathing I had somehow crawled into... Only to discover yet another blank, empty page staring back at me. This page didn't even have a title.

Sighing, I went back to my real synopsis, deleted the gibberish brought about by my head-banging frustration, and set down to it. It took a while, and I had several breaks to run out and get the "This sucks! My synopsis sucks sucks sucks! What does that say about my novel? Gah! This sucks!" - but, eventually, I finished the first draft. 

And, after another week, I am happy to say that I did submit my very first query yesterday. I am relatively pleased with it - I say "relatively" because right after I hit send, I decided I should have kept the paragraph in about the background to Waking Dreams, but, c'est la vie. It's done, baby! I am not expecting anything of this very first query, but it feels pretty good to have submitted it! 

Writing, Parenting, and the Struggle for Self Improvement

Well, I am feeling increasingly like a real writer, mostly because I spend most of my free time (when I'm not chasing Amara, cleaning house, doing laundry, running errands or just sleeping) writing.

While writing the story, "Under the Shadow of the Moon", I went through my usual process:

1. Wrote the story, feeling absolutely brilliant and clever.

2. Edited immediately after, still impressed with my own cleverness and astounding writing acuity.

3. Waited the requisite minimum of three days (I call this the "Three Day Rule") to let the story sit.

4.  After the minimum of three days passed, I began the real round of editing. At this stage, I usually question my sanity - I mean, how on earth could I possibly have thought myself incredibly clever having written the drivel and inanity that streamed across the page? 

5.  Waited the required time it takes me to remind myself that there must be some merit to the story, if I took the time to write it (and enjoyed the process).

6.  Final step? I rolled up my sleeves and finished editing it to the point I was happy with it again.

Even after the editing process is complete, I usually have a number of improvements to make, but that's actually awesome. It means I'm improving, and really, isn't that the goal of being a writer? Heck, being alive?

Part of my renewed vigor at writing is because I enjoy it and, even when I'm not writing, I feel like I am a writer. I owe it to myself to do something I love, to hone this skill, and to show Amara that it's okay to follow your dreams, even if it takes you a long time to get where you're trying to go, or maybe never get there at all.

Sometimes it's just about the journey.

And that really cuts to the crux of it. The other driving force behind my renewed vigor has a lot to do with my goal as a mother. To show my daughter that it never hurts to put yourself out there, even if the criticism can be stinging. When it comes down to it, we do have some choice in how we respond to those negative voices outside of our head. We can grow from it, or choose to let it stop us from being who we want to be. 

We actually had a conversation about this a while back with Nick's folks. Times change, and each parent tries to do their best raising their children. I know I will (and probably already have made) many mistakes, as all parents probably feel like they do.  My story as a parent is still being written, but I hope in the end I will succeed at my primary goals as a parent:

1. Love.  My primary goal is that Amara know she is fiercely loved.  I want that love to carry her and fill her with confidence, because in being loved and in loving, she can go anywhere and be anything, with a happy heart.

2. Confidence and Fearlessness. I want Amara to grow up unafraid. I don't mean I want her to ignore danger or the wisdom being aware of your surroundings brings (see the Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker). I want her to have the courage to be herself, in spite of the many obstacles life may throw at her. I want her to know that fear should not be a driving factor in her life choices - whether it's the fear of failure, fear of the unknown, fear of your own voice, or fear of breaking the mold. Fear shaped my childhood, and grappling with fear has shaped my adulthood. If I can give her the confidence to follow her dreams and the ability to recognize the inhibiting effects of fear, well, I'm on my way.

3. Compassion.  Compassion is a difficult one to teach, but it really starts with recognizing your own feelings in every equation, then adding empathy to the mix. Everyone is fighting their own battle. It's easy to get caught up in our own day-to-day struggles, and to fall into the "This is so hard.. Why did x do y and hurt my feelings?" We live in our heads, experience our lives through "me-centered" lenses, and we have to acknowledge that our experiences factor into who we are and how we see things. But we also have to realize that we are just a small piece of the equation. To really experience empathy, you have to break out of your own head, and imagine what it's like to shoulder someone else's burden for a while, and see if we are still upright.  Everyone crashes. Everyone hurts. Everyone laughs. Everyone cries. Everyone has someone who loves them, and everyone loves someone so much it hurts. If I can help her see how connected we all are...

4.  Let her be her. I don't want Amara to be some "better me." Mostly, I want her to be her. I want to let her discover the world, enjoy it, feel the grass between her toes, and show the world who she wants to be. Does she want to dance? Then, by god, I will move the world so she can dance. Does she want to sing? I will do what I can to make that dream come alive. Does she want to do martial arts? Soccer? Write? Whatever path those two little feet take, you can bet I will do my best to clear the way - but not stand in the way. Nor will I turn into a "helicopter parent." When it comes down to it, she's the kid and I'm really along for the ride.

So, those are my four primary goals. Who knows what the future will bring. I just know I'm a pretty lucky mom.

-The Rambler 

A Grieving Love

So, I was a pretty morbid kid. By all rights, I'm a pretty morbid adult.  As a kid in 4th grade, my first novel was a horror/fantasy novel by Dean Koontz, called Twilight Eyes.  By the time I completed 5th grade, I had read almost everything Dean Koontz and Stephen King had published (except "It" - as a ten-year-old girl reading about the rape of a 10-year-old girl... I had to wait more than a decade before I was able to pick that book up again). As an adult, I enjoy writing horror and graphic violence doesn't bother me.

I have been spending a lot of time recently thinking about the person I want to be for Amara. It's been a constant journey, one that started as soon as Nick and I decided we wanted to have a child. Now that she's here and becoming a little person so fast, it's all the more real. I need to start modeling better behaviors for her, so she can see me trying to be the best person I can be.

The other day, feeling completely at peace and zen-like (possibly because Amara was still asleep and I had a full night's sleep and coffee), I stepped out of the shower, and suddenly remembered a poem I memorized as a kid with my older sister:


Too Late
by Nora Perry

What silences we keep, year after year
With those who are most near to us, and dear!
We live beside each other day by day,
And speak of myriad things, but seldom say
The full, sweet word that lies within our reach
Beneath the common ground of common speech.

Then out of sight and out of reach they go —
Those close, familiar ones who loved us so;
And, sitting in the shadow they have left,
Alone with loneliness, and sore bereft,
We think with vain regret of some fond word
That once we might have said and they have heard.

This is the cruel cross of life — to be
Full visioned only when the ministry
Of death has been fulfilled, and in the place
Of some dear presence is but empty space.
What recollected services can then
Give consolation for the "might have been"? 

For some reason, stepping out of the shower with the entire poem ringing in my head with such clarity after more than two decades, I realized how much this poem shaped me to be the person I am.  It is a large part of why I feel compelled to be grateful. Yes, I memorized 'Too Late' after I watched my godfather (one of the best men I ever knew) fight a losing battle to cystic fibrosis and how that affected my godmother, the amazing and kind lady I still call aunt. It's impossible as a kid not to see the power grief has over your loved ones. The grief etched in their eyes, the lines on their face, that hollow ache in their voice... It makes you very aware of the fact that you can lose people you love. I have already written pretty extensively on my fear of loss (see my post Letting Go), so I won't go into that more here.

For those of you who know me, you'll probably notice I apologize a lot and say "thank you" a lot. For those of you who've known me a while, then, you've probably heard me say "I love you", because, heck, I do. If you've tolerated me for more than a few years, then by, gosh, you can bet I think of you fondly.

But my epiphany left me with a whole new view of myself and the narrow way I view love. By allowing loss be my impetus to express love, I have created a world in which loss is the very center of my world.  How much more morbid can you get? While loss and sorrow may have shaped the person I have become, a person I am happy to be, I am no longer that sorrowful Raven, feeling "alone with my loneliness".  I have friends and family, and I daresay they know I love them.  And yes, it is important to me that the people in my life know that I love them.

I am thankful for all the tools that shaped me to be the kind, compassionate, and loving (if very flawed) person I believe I am (ok, endeavor to be) today.

But a love based on loss is a grieving love.  It predicts the end - it knows and fears what will come (not what may come). If loss is your center, the end will always be inevitable. It knows all joy is fleeting, and is waiting for the final hammer to fall. All relationships are tumultuous. But I want more than to be waiting for the end. I want the joy I have in each friendship, each moment, I want that to be my center. I want to express love simply so each person knows that they are loved, not because I fear that I may never have a chance to express that love again, in the worst of worst worlds.

My daughter, my husband, my siblings, my daughter's godparents, my in-laws, my friends - they all have my love, and I find joy and peace in that now. There is no sadness or worry anymore.

Just joy. So, thank you, Nora, for giving me focus, but I won't be needing you anymore. I won't be afraid of the might-have-beens anymore, because I am living in the here and now. From here on, I will do my best to just be.

-The Rambler

Under the Shadow of the Moon

As promised, here's another short story. I hope you enjoy!

Under the Shadow of the Moon

By R.R. Wolfgang

The girl stepped out from under the canvas shelter, pulling her cloak tight around her shoulders and tucking her hood against the heavy downpour. A quick survey of the mud-covered street told her there was not much to see here.  Rust-colored shacks, doors closed tight against the wind, and only the dimmest of light seeping from behind closed shutters and doors. Each shack looked nearly indistinguishable from the shack next to it.

The girl was lost.  There was nothing familiar about this place.  Try as she might, not a single memory came forward about this place or about anything from more than the moment before. She did not know where she was. She did not know who she was.  She remembered nothing. The more she tried to pinpoint any single memory, the more it flitted just out of reach.

Perhaps this should have been unsettling, but it wasn't. It wasn't anything. 

The girl was cold and her boots were wet through and through. She looked down at her pale hands, stark against the boring brown of the mud, and back up into the clouded skies. In that moment, a knowing seeped into her being. This was a desolate and unkind place.  It reeked of unfriendliness. Anger. She had to get away. Far away.

Instead, the girl was caught in the middle of the lonely road, not sure which direction to go.  Until something caught her eye. There, rising into the night's sky along the Eastern road stood a tree like nothing she could have imagined. Even on a dismal day like this, it defied the bland grayness of its surroundings.

The contrast of its full branches against the dark skyline behind it should have been ominous, but somehow it wasn't. The shimmer of the rain on its leaves somehow made the tree shine against the dark gray of the clouds. It seemed surreal. Otherworldly.

With great resolve, she set her jaw and made for the tree.  Its thick branches would certainly provide a safer cover than any hut in this town, if her gut was to be trusted.

As the girl slogged through the ankle-deep mud, she was surprised that she had no desire or inclination to knock at any of the passing doors. Perhaps there may have been a friendly face behind one of those doors - but she doubted it. There was no laughter in this place. Even when she strained to hear, there was nothing. Under the sound of the heavy rain, there was only an equally heavy silence.

No, behind each door, something grim waited. Not for the rain to stop, but for the last shades of light to disappear beyond the horizon. Only then would the doors open. A chill shook her small frame then. She did not want to be near this place when true night fell. So she walked.

After what felt like hours, the girl finally left the town behind her.  The road to the tree still stretched far ahead.  While the tree itself had grown against the horizon, it still seemed so far away. And although she could barely feel her feet, the girl forged ahead, forcing one foot in front of the other until the monotony of it was mindless.

As she walked, a numbness seeped into her being. Each step became increasingly difficult and the girl felt those little memories dance further and further out of her reach. Daylight was all but gone and some unknown fear tickled at the back of her mind. She glanced back over her shoulder.  The town was now a good distance behind her, but something seemed profoundly wrong about it. It stirred.  For a moment, it seemed as if each building rose from the ground and shook the rain and mud from its wooden frame. Could that be possible?

No, it must have been her imagination. She shook her head and looked again. There. A ripple that spread from one house to the next until each building seemed taller. And then they moved.

The girl tucked her hood back over her hair firmly and tried to run.  It was like moving through honey.  The tree continued to stretch farther and farther into the sky. At some point, the rain stopped and the sun set, but the tree still shone in the night. Its branches bent and twisted to some unseen and unfelt breeze, reflecting the glow of the moon.

The closer she drew, the brighter the tree grew. Bathed in its light, the girl forgot how numb she felt. She forgot the nagging fear of the monstrous town that shambled behind her.  The tree stretched out ahead of her, above her, and spanned wider than the road by more than ten times. She could smell it now - a clean smell of earth, leaves, and grass. It smelled alive.

The girl approached the magnificent trunk and now, underneath the thick foliage of its branches, she felt safe. Just then, the ground vibrated beneath her feet. She did not have to look behind her to know that the monstrous shacks were closing in around the tree. She felt them, all those rambling shacks, their anger and rage pulling at her. They wanted her to give in. To give up. She dared not turn and look, for fear of what she would see. In seeing, she knew, to her very core, she would cease to be.  So the girl did not turn - she did not look behind her.

Instead, the tree drew her to it. Some soft melody sang to her from its branches and leaves.  Although her ears still felt a roar of silence, she heard the music.

Finally, the girl was close enough to touch the tree. Only then did she see its true form. It was breathtaking. The bark was of a silver hue that, even lacking her memory, she believed she had never seen before. It glowed - not the glittering of rain in the fading daylight - it was the tree itself that shed light. Veins of silvery light traced their way intricately down the tree's form. It was as if the tree had captured the very essence of the moon.

Again, somewhere in the distance, she heard that whisper of a haunting melody.

The ground shook again and this time the tree shook with it, a brace of its silver leaves falling towards her. Lost, the girl felt sad. She had led the town here, to this beautiful tree. It could protect her, she knew it, but at what cost?

The girl raised her hand and gingerly touched the tree's bark, she closed her eyes and she fell...

                        ...into the nothingness.

Ssssseellllleeeeeennnnnnnnnaaaaaaaaa....

The girl heard something and her eyes shot open. Her neck and back ached. She could feel that. In many ways, her body still felt numb. She blinked and sat up, stretching her arms and yawning. She was still under the tree, but the world around her had changed. In fact, the tree had changed. It was still as majestic as it had been a few moments ago, but everything was different. 

It was a few moments, wasn't it? 

The tree... She touched the tree. That was the last thing she remembered. Yes, it was all she remembered.

The bark was no longer silver and gray, but a rich brown and gold.  The leaves were a brilliant red, shining a coppery glow in the bright rays of the sun. The girl leaned back into the soft wood and felt immediately at home. She had been afraid of something, but she couldn't quite remember it. Much like she couldn't remember anything else. She looked up into the thick net of branches and foliage and reveled in the soft bark at her back.

She heard that music again. Yes, she had heard it before, if she could just remember where. The tree shook, and she felt a rhythmic thumping. A fear rose in her throat. Something was so familiar about that rhythm, that melody. She just couldn't quite place it.

The tree hummed then. She felt it. In its wordless song, it told her not to be afraid. It would protect her. She leaned back and felts its roots embrace her. She felt warm for the first time as she closed her eyes and fell once more into the nothingness.

Ssssseellllleeeeeennnnnnnnnaaaaaaaaa....

The girl woke again feeling profoundly unsettled. Something was different. Something was wrong. The tree rattled and shook, and in the night's sky, the branches were nearly devoid of its once brilliant foliage. The bark was silver again and she felt the cold seeping back into her skin.

"Please," she screamed at it, even as she realized no words left her mouth. Her fingers sank into the bark, pieces falling away at her fingertips. She felt nothing. "Please, tell me what I must do."

The song came back to her again, closer, with its haunting sadness. She fell against the tree, eyes swimming with tears, she tried to speak again.

"Please, tell me what I must do to save you."

She thought it answered her, but she did not understand. It breathed the word into her soul, a word etched with sadness and hopefulness.

Live.

That didn't make sense. Did it want her to run? Where to? She didn't know where to go. She closed her eyes against the tears, feeling the soft, brittle branches embrace her as she held its glowing silver bark in her hands. She felt the ground shake again, and the tree shook with it, just as she fell into the bright light of the moon.

SSSSseellllleeeeeennnnnnnnnaaaaaaaaa....Ssssseellllleeeeeennnnnnnnnaaaaaaaaa.... Sssselleeeennnaaaa...

That sound it was familiar. She heard it getting closer and closer, louder and louder. Yes, and the music, that drum beat, so familiar. So loud. It was so shrill. Her head swam and she tried to push her eyes open but just couldn't.

It was too hard. She tried to open her mouth to scream, but again, no sound came out.

SSSSseellllleeeeeennnnnnnnnaaaaaaaaa.... Sssselleeeennnaaaa...

SELENA!

The girl opened her eyes, and, as the world sped up around her, she remembered.

"Oh, my baby, thank god," a woman cried as she wrapped her arms around Selena's shoulders. The ambulance hit a bump, and the whole vehicle shook slightly.

"It's okay, Mom," she said, stroking her mother's silver-red hair. "Everything's going to be okay."

Through the small shaded windows of the ambulance, Selena could see the warm glow of the moonlight.  And she felt safe.

On This Day

On This Day

By R.R. Wolfgang

Here I sit, quill in hand, and I am aware. I feel at peace. I feel everything. The quill is light in my hand, its feather soft against my cheek. As I write, I feel and hear the scratch of the nib against the parchment. I feel the smudges of ink drying on my fingers. I feel the breeze drifting through the window, and close my eyes. For a moment - just a moment - I almost forget there are bars in the window, casting long shadows on the solid dusty granite floor of my cell.

Still, today, I tell myself I do not see the bars. Today, I feel the pen in my hand and know that soon I will be free.

Of course, I could write these words with a thought, a whisper or thrill of my mind, but then I would not feel the lightness of the quill or the dry parchment. I would feel nothing. Still, a voice in my head rages at this mundanity. It rages at my fate.

I am, after all, Queen Syrices. I have a myriad of other names, of course. The Dread Queen, Dark Queen, Queen of Shadows, and of course, the Deathspeaker. The list of my pseudonyms was read aloud at the Grand Hearing, along with the list of my alleged crimes. Some charges were fair. Perhaps even just. I could deny the charges, like so many do, with their dying breath crying their innocence. But I know who I am. I know what I am, and I know what I have done.

Kin-slaying. That was the first of my charges, and the most egregious, according to the laws and customs of this land. Of my land. I cringe to even write the word. It haunts me. I did not speak the word that ended my sister’s life, as I was accused. But I might as well have, for I did not speak the word that would have saved her. I saw her death in my dreams, as true a dream as I ever had, but I said nothing. I did nothing. And in my inaction, I condemned her to a death both long and painful.

As an apprentice in the Arts, I was taught the same rules as my brothers and sisters at the Academy. There is no greater power than to know what the future holds. To know what is to come, what will be or what may be, to hold a person's life in your hands - there is great power and great responsibility. For every vision a wizard sees, the wizard has a choice - to pluck from that vision the truth and to give the subjects of the vision a chance to change their fate, or to follow the darker path. The path of inaction - to see a death and do nothing. That is murder, according to the laws of my people. By those laws, I might as well have cast the ill-fated spell that ended my sister's life.

Of course, my guilt in her murder is relative. While I did not speak the word that killed my sister, I can truly say that if given the chance, I would have. I would have weaved a spell of such agony and treachery, she would have been days dying, not mere hours. Dear Cherys, she would experience the sorrow, helplessness and rage I felt as I watched my beloved people die. The people she had condemned to death, for nothing more than a title, a ruined building and a silver circlet. I would have killed her with my own hands, if given the chance. I would have reveled in the warmth of her blood running down my hands, staining my gown.

But that opportunity never surfaced. Years went by, and not once did she send a message, magical or otherwise. I glimpsed her in my dreams at times, the only magic that she allowed me to keep. And eventually, my anger diminished and I felt sorrow at her death.

Regicide. That is another of my charges. Did I slay King Gerad? Yes. Yes. Many times yes. And with great pleasure. I killed the ignorant pig, and his cousin, and even his wretched mother. I spoke the words, the Words of Death, in plain view of my hand-maids, the cooks, and the guards. Even the stable boy probably heard me through the window overlooking the common yard.

Yet not one of those souls did anything to stop me. It took three breaths to chant the full Words of Death, and not one soldier raised a sword, not one laid a hand on me, or shouted a word of interruption. Perhaps they, like the king, did not realize my magic had returned. Or, perhaps the rumors of my magic had spread to them and they feared me. I like to believe they, too, felt relief when that man and his pitiful family choked on their expensive wine, and died in a pool of their own vomit and blood.

By that act, I bound myself to this fate. The fate of all magic-wielders in these dark times. Some say the king looked beyond the dark stain of magic when he chose me as his queen. I know for a fact, however, that he chose me after looking upon my visage in the scrying pool of a hedge witch. A witch he later had murdered for the crime of using magic. I was fated to be his queen, she had told him. The most beautiful woman in all the lands. I like to believe this hedge witch had seen her own death. That somehow, she believed that by sending King Gerad to me, she was sending him to his own death.

Of course, King Gerad began his courtship quite politely by asking for my hand in marriage. But his reputation as a mage-slayer proceeded him and I refused. I knew him to be a tyrant who used his magicians for his own ends, and killed all those who would not bow to him.

Somehow, each refusal made me all the more enticing. I captivated him. Perhaps I was that obstinate nag that needed to be broken. Perhaps he was simply curious to see if he could deceive the High Sorceress, rumored to be the most powerful wizard in the whole of the Thirteen Lands. To this day, I do not know what he hoped to achieve. Any soothsayer he hired no doubt told him of the many weavings this future would hold.

Yet when King Gerad came humbly into my throne room, and kneeled before me and the council of wizards, something seemed changed. When he presented that ring to me, all those years ago - oh, how it sang to me! Such a bittersweet tune. And the auras weaved such an intricate net, veins of silver and gold twisted together around the most brilliant ruby I had ever seen. I was instantly intrigued. More than intrigued - I was enchanted. I had never seen a magic quite like it. To this day, I do not know how my sister managed that spell. She could not have been alone - how many of my brethren, my sisters, how many conspired with her? I asked that question many times over the years, and I cannot fathom the answer. What did the king promise them? Riches, power? Or, more likely, that he would free their beloved from captivity?

Still, when he gave me the opportunity to try the ring, I could not resist it. Every fiber in my being screamed a warning, but how could it possibly be a threat to me? There I stood, in the middle of the Wizard’s Hold, dozens of wizards, witches and sorcerers there to come to my aid. What hurt could possibly come from trying on one tiny ring, just to feel and explore whatever magic it might have held?

But as soon as that ring was on my finger, I was powerless to remove it. Nor could I use my magic to stop what happened next. I watched, helplessly, as King Gerad's men and his own wizards destroyed everything I loved and held dear. I, the High Sorceress of the Wizard’s Hold, watched my Hold, my Alabaster Tower destroyed. My sister, Cherys, was paid her fee and rose in my place as the High Sorceress of the Wizard’s Hold, and the few wizards and witches remaining. To this day, I do not know if they rebuilt my Alabaster Tower.

After that day, I became the king’s prisoner. Later, his captive queen.

Of my many sins, no doubt you wonder if I regret the murder of my King? He brought ruin down on everyone I held dear and opened my eyes to the pleasure in the world of darkness.

So, my answer is no. Even at the brink of peace, I do not regret killing that man. I remember it with glee. Many of my wizards looked to me, waiting for me to speak a Word that would save them, but I found I had no voice to speak. If I had been able to undo that spell, well, the king would have been dead sooner, and I would have more friends in this world. But I could not undo that spell, try as I might. In the end, it was through the king's own folly I escaped my bonds, not through any craft on my part. He became wary of the empire my sister was slowly rebuilding and sent for her death. I could have told him of the consequence of his actions, but I did not. I rejoiced when I dreamed my dream, and planned my revenge. Had he truly expected the bond to hold, after the sorceress who cast the spell died, taking all her magic with her? Did he really, after all these years, know so little of magic? Or did he tire of life?

Do I regret what I did afterward? Yes. I suppose I do. That charge brings a new sorrow, a new guilt. I cannot explain my actions, any more than I cannot excuse them. With my eyes open as they are now, I can only say that this last charge - this I do regret.

Tyranny. When King Gerad's guards fell to their knees and swore allegiance to me, I cannot explain the darkness that filled my soul. Here were my captors, either silent observers in my abuse, or men who spat on my skirts when the king was not looking. These people had brought sorcerers and witches to the common hall and made me watch as they tortured and murdered them. And now, bowed at my feet, they expected mercy?

I granted no mercy that day. I heard the tales and whispers around the city and the countryside. I knew it was called the Red Day. They say I made a crown from the teeth of my victims and a bodice from the skins of the guards. That on that day, the blood of my enemies came to my hips, and I drank from the bitter pool. Those are crude, silly lies. I did no such thing. There was nothing left of the men and women I killed. Nor did I bathe in nor drink the blood of my vanquished enemies.

Their deaths were quick and hollow, those guards and maidens who laughed and threw food at my fallen brethren. At the time, I thought I relished each kill. In truth, I was no more happy when I went to bed that night, surrounded by my new guards, and my loyal handmaidens. My sleep was fitful, but I awoke and my rage was still unquenched. I sent my men, sworn by magic and true to my soul, out with warrants for all the lords and ladies loyal to my dead husband. Oh, my men were fast. They beat the horses of all the other rumor-mongers.

When the lords and ladies arrived, expecting a fine ball in honor of the king's anniversary, how surprised they were! I alone greeted them, on my new alabaster throne, surrounded by unfamiliar faces.

I lined the walls of the castle with their corpses, of course. As anyone who reads this little missive already knows. Contrary to popular opinion, I did not kill the pregnant mothers or babes. No, only those of age were on the end of my Word.

I think it was years before my rage subsided. My handmaiden, my closest confidante, she warned me I was becoming soft. That my softness was a weakness in this world, but I do not believe that is so. I suppose my end began when I remembered my Master's voice once more, telling me of the Rules of Magic. When the memory of the screams of my friends dying slowly became mere echoes. When I no longer saw their blood on the walls every time I closed my eyes. Only then could I begin to remember what it was to have friends. To love. To feel the joy of life.

If that is a weakness, I am glad I weakened. I am glad that I no longer wake up each morning, wondering whose death will be on my conscience by the day's end. This morning, I woke up before the sun and felt relief for the first time in a decade.

Ah, there is the gentle tap at my door. Dear, timid Arcimen has come for me. As he promised, he has brought me my judgment. A small vial of simple crystal resting on a velvet pillow. He also brought a chalice filled with the Akiarian wine I so adored while I ruled as the Dread Queen. Dear boy. So brave, but I could see his hand shake as I reached towards him. I took the vial but waved away the wine. I saw no purpose in ruining such a lovely wine with the bitterness of this foul cocktail. I uncorked the vial and downed the liquid with one drought.

As Arcimen promised, I feel it working immediately. Gratefully, he relieves me of the vial and backs carefully out of my cell, locking it firmly behind him. I cannot help but smile. Even today, I am feared, in a cell, in the highest tower, engraved with magic solely intended to keep me inside. But that does not bother me. Not today. 

I fear that I must lay down soon. The quill grows so heavy in my hand, but that is of no matter. In writing this simple missive, I have but one simple wish.  

Know this, dear Reader - on this day, I, Syrices, the Deathspeaker, will finally be free.