My 1st Time Reading my Story Out Loud!

Sooo,

What's up? I will be heading to work in 45 minutes but I wanted to post this snipet real quick. As I told you before I was taking a creative writing class. To get my creative writing jucies flowing. The class project last week was to create a bio on a author that really moved you, take a piece from them and recreate it in your own words.

I was like ok, this would be easy. It had to be only a few paragraphs.

I did it. And I thought my piece was mediocre. I knew for sure I was going to get bad reviews. I chose Stephanie Meyer, the author of The Twilight Saga.

I got up there and read my bio. Then I read a page from her book. I started getting alot of questions before I even started to read my actual piece. I enjoy controversial issues, lol.

I took a deep breathe and I began to read my piece. After I read it, the teacher told the students to write notes on what they thought about my piece. Then to ask me questions or add comments on what I could do to make it better.

This is the piece I wrote:

My hands shook and my insides trembled with an icy sting of fear as I stood there, in my weak human form. Unable to shout out for help nor intervene for the monster that I loved.  My legs felt heavy and unmanageable. Like I was carrying the weight of two mountains. My own body held me paralyzed in that humid dungeon as I watched on. Edward. My dear Edward. Fighting for the love of his life, his eternal soul mate. Me. I felt helpless. Why hadn’t he changed me already? Into a perfect, cold vampire. I was tired of him postponing my rebirth. I was tired of him and his family always being in danger. Why? Because of me. Having to risk their well-being for the safety of a human girl who couldn’t otherwise protect herself. Why did he have to be so, so, so Edward? 

Even though he was a soulless, lifeless vampire, he was my soulless, lifeless vampire. And I yearned to be the exact same way, no matter what the cost to be with him forever. And ever. He was the epitome of perfect. Perfectly etched out of a marble carving. Never getting old. Never tasting movement. He was frozen in time and space. And I would have to be frozen as well if I wanted to be with him. It was too much at stake if I didn’t. If I had become a vampire then they would leave us alone. For good this time.

I was prepared at that moment to give myself up to him. For him to turn me into one of his kind. It played in the back of my head like a broken record. His stone cold hands reaching for my face in slow motion. His bright golden eyes would study mine. To find a hint of fear. But there would be none. Only acceptance. He would inch toward me and taste my sweet human lips once more. His facial expression in total bliss and appreciation for my total body surrender. My blood was so sweet to him. I couldn’t even imagine how much self control it took not to rip me apart at that very moment. My blood like cocaine. An addiction that would never be satisfied.

I got many great reviews! I was so shocked. They said that the enjoyed my word play, the way I brung life to the characters.

Deep sigh of relief...

See, if you stop criticizing yourself you would be surprised.

Until next time.... :)

The Great Weight Debate

Bigger is always better. The more the merrier. Large portion sizes, hidden fat traps and magic diet pills. It’s all so very overwhelming to me. And to every other “fat ass” on this planet. In 2005, I lost an astonishing 80lbs. Oh, how excited everyone was. More so than myself. No breasts left, no stomach-just a wide set of hips that will never leave me.

What they didn’t know is that I became obsessed with it. Skinny model photos splattered my room walls. Crying almost every night became the usual for me. Dear God, why can’t I be 5’9 and 120lbs?

A combination of no carbohydrates and starvation did me no justice. It depleted me both physically and emotionally.

A spring break trip to my grandma’s house was the last straw. She looked worried when she seen me, “You look sick. What’s wrong?” I broke down and said, “I’m so hungry.”

And this sad moment catapulted me into a non-exercising, could-give-a-hell-less-about-losing-weight type mentality. I had been derived of my one and only love. Food. And I was never going to let it get away from me again. That is until I packed on the 80lbs I lost…and then some. At this point, I believe that my body hates me. It’s been tricked by me. Confused by me. Used by me. The resentment is there and I don’t blame it.

I was in denial about being-big for some years until someone called me “the fat one”. It hurt. A lot of my friends are in the one-digit clothing sizes. And don’t exercise and eat what they want. No guilt there. Curse them! But deep down inside I know it’s not their fault. And they complain how they want some of my curves. Please go ahead and take whichever roll, tire, dimple and crinkle that you want. Be my guest. If I could make a business out of selling my “curves” I would be a millionaire…maybe a billionaire.

So, six months ago, I went on a die…lifestyle change and lost 50 lbs. ok, things are going good or so I thought. Then I hit a plateau. And just stopped losing. The dreaded plateau. Now I have about a lot more to lose and just like that it came to a teeth chattering, bone splintering halt. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Go to jail. In this fat flabby body.

The scale and I have a love-hate and more hate relationship. Especially when it gives me the wrong number. One day, I threw the scale into the closet and then shut the door behind it as if it would come out and taunt me. The number on the scale set my mood for that day and many other days. And I hate that. Something so insignificant like that could throw me into a tizzy. I am to blame for letting my weight spiral out of control. But there are other culprits out there to assist in me feeling like crap when I don’t hit my weight loss goal for the week.

The air brushers and the photo croppers. How dare you make me feel bad under false pretences? How dare you take part of Demi Moore’s hip out that magazine cover to make her look way skinnier than she already is? Are any of these models even real? Because we the population are dying to get these results that were never attainable in the first place. Setting ourselves up for disaster before the strive even begins. That’s deep.

I think that we should probably dig deeper into ourselves and see what’s real and what’s fake. And set attainable and realistic goals-weight loss or otherwise- in life. Believe half of what you hear and none of what you see. Powerful statement to all you air brushers and digital photo modifiers. Weight loss and living healthy are still my goals but not my last or only. No matter what, I’m still me inside and supposedly that’s what counts.

It's All About Me...

Well, Well, Well…my long awaited debut. It’s been quite some time now. I am actually writing a blog! I know what I am doing but at the same time, I don’t. This is an introductory post. This post will give you a glimpse of my life and what to expect. I strongly encourage that you visit this blog frequently and critique if necessary. Email me with concerns or things you want to me address in a blog or post. Ok, I’m getting side-tracked now. Yes, I am a blogging virgin! Lol. But you are probably wondering why. Not why I am a blogging virgin but why I am creating a blog in the first place. Why is she so important? Why should I even read this crazy lady’s blog? I will begin.

I was born in 1987, to one parent. My mommy took care of me. My father was (usually) awol. His name isn’t even on my birth certificate. I know him. And he knows me. And I rather not know him. But hey…what can you do about dead beat daddies? Anywho. My mom raised and home-schooled us. All five of us. I am the 2^nd oldest. Hey! No home-schooling jokes. So at parent teacher conference, your mom was the parent and the teacher? Haha, I have heard that joke a trillion times…smh.  

She put us in Tae Kwon Do when I was a kid and I got my 1^st degree black belt at 16. An ass-kicking, Black, Muslim girl. I get made fun of about that as well. I had a very good childhood. Like any other kid. I was so determined when I was younger, even in my teens. I always thought that things were possible. And I could do anything. I always wanted to travel the world and see new things. Write novels on the beach.

I graduated at 16 and went to college at 17. I graduated college at 20 years old. To this day I don’t know what happened or how it happened. I struggled. Boy, did I struggle. I was the 2nd youngest in the business class to have graduated in 2008 (the 1^st was an 18 year old Indian, go figure). I was crazy motivated back then…my God! What happened to me? I’m so critical now.

I never thought I would graduate. Never. Weird. But I did. The crazy thing is that I wanted to be a writer. But I didn’t want to get an English degree because I would end up being a teacher. And God knows I cannot….I repeat…Cannot be a teacher to kids. So I took business up. Not knowing that years later I would utterly hate it! With capital letters, hate the retail management field. How nasty and full of racism and sexism was in the corporate culture. I wanted nothing to do with it.

I used to write articles, presentations, poems and short stories when I was younger. I loved reading. I was the only kid who spent all my allowance of books at Borders. I lived in the local library. They knew me by name there. I would go everyday and sit and read books in that comfy chair and then I would take at least three home with me. And do it again the next day.

When I got into my 2^nd year of college I stopped thinking about becoming a writer, author and my dreams went to a halt. I put my love on the backburner.  I did finish a novel before that but got discouraged and decided not to get it published.

I would write short stories here and there. But I would never finish them because I felt that I wasn’t good enough and that I could never sell my work or that people would even like it. Who was I? Just a Black Muslim girl with a business degree. I wasn’t a writer. An artist. There was nothing special about me that would draw in an audience. That would captivate people. It was impossible and I was afraid of failure. Still is.

Recently, for fun I started thinking up some characters and a plot for a fiction novel. I wrote a few pages last summer then stopped. I grabbed it again this fall and wrote a few more pages and stopped. It was scaring me. I wasn’t going to succeed, why am I wasting my time?  I should be looking for a job instead.

My father-in-law recently passed away. He told my husband that he didn’t regret anything in his life before he passed. That hit me hard. I do. I regret things that I have done and didn’t do. I didn’t want to be like that. Regretting. Woulda, shoulda, coulda. Anyone can die at any moment. And I didn’t want to go out like that.

I signed up for a creative writing class about a week ago. I only been there twice but it’s like a breath of fresh air. They have poets, songwriters and novelist such as myself. I feel a sense of belonging. I want this class to get my creative juices flowing and what I can do to be a better writer. I’m tired of always criticizing myself. And telling myself that I am not good enough. I am good enough. Dammit! I am woman, hear me roar!

I am my biggest enemy. I am my biggest mountain. I am the one who is stopping myself from getting where I want to be. No one else. So, I want to stick to this. Help me out people. I want to blog regularly. So I can create an audience. So I can have the support I need to carry on through this journey. I am writing a book. I am going to finish my book. And I want to get my book published. Hook, line and sinker.

It’s all about The Juicy Details

Much Love,

            Leah J