I want to thank everyone for their concern.  I am aware that my writing and my mood outside of my writing was very dark for awhile.  I was pretty depressed for some time.  Then, without warning, I disappeared. 

Well, I am still here.  I am still writing in my spare time.  Currently, I have just started revising a story I wrote while in this depressing period.  I will probably post the unfinished story on here.  I have also been trying to outline a novel I started a few years ago.  At the time, the piece had no direction.  Now, I am excited to begin creating the characters, twisting the plots, and describing what I feel is a good story. 

I do not have a lot of spare time to write, however.  I am currently working full time in the restaurant business, taking summer classes, playing tournament softball, and trying to have a social life. 

I plan to keep up with writing on here, so if I am not posting at least a little something every couple of days, demand one. 

Yours in Writing,
Kate

(*Interesting event happened today that I am about to share with you in a slightly dramatized narrative.  I should mention that I have been in a sort of foul mood off and on for the past 6 months.  I have my good days.  I have my bad days.  I have days that are neither.  Every day I want to get away.  I want to escape into the pages of favorite books of mine.  Since that is not possible, I am stuck with my own thoughts however good or bad they may be.  Nonetheless, the story:*)



     My mind was distant as I searched the empty wall behind the monitor for a thought, or even a word to get me started.  Nothing came with the earth-shattering finality I had hoped for.  Thus, I continued to search the vast abyss of my vocabulary for a starting point. 
     I could feel my ears begin to buzz as the occasionally did when I was sleep deprived.  Writers block sure did suck, especially when you were a writer predestined to write something of tsunamic proportions.  To me it was a crippling illness which I was fated to suffer through for life.
     I felt the buzzing growing louder and seemingly vibrate the three-and-a-half legged wooded chair I suffered myself to lounge on.  I had written nothing in two years, not anything of interest, anyway.  My brain was on freeze mode and it was my fingers that had to suffer.  They hung perpetually over the keyboard.  They were hawks waiting for the perfect moment to strike, a moment that would never come. 
     Now, I began to question whether the buzzing really was in my mind or in the place some scholarly experts like to call reality.  Those scholarly experts are all young men and women barely out of grad school.  A few years in their so-called reality would prove to them that we are all suspended in a unreality created by lies and imaginations. 
     That was no ordinary buzzing.  The glass in my walls began to rattle violently.  Nothing ever happened to me.  Nothing worth writing about.  My brained had ceased working on tangible thoughts during the daytime.  It had sold its portion of my soul to the dreamworld.  Dreams sure could have a mind of their own.  I was glad no one could truly read someone else's mind.  Mine was sure to result in a questions regarding drug use and insanity.  I was never diagnosed with an issue in either subject, but there was always tomorrow.
     That was no buzzing at all.  I stretched my neck backward to get a better look out the window.  There was something out there.  Oh, aliens!  The words had reached my minds ear.  I failed to repress a laugh.  My fun was short-lived.  One of those Fraudian mental beings that we all have had shot the first voice a dirty look which quelled my fun.  The looker was, no doubt, the superego.  Who else would care how loud I laughed alone in a shadowy room?  Who else would care why?
     It was no use.  Though my room was not particularly bright, the darkness outside had me beat by about three lightbulbs.  I could see nothing outside the window.  Yet, the spinning-buzzing noise continued to grow louder. 
     By the time I had shut off all three light bulbs, my room was literally shaking.  Blinded by the sudden lack of light, I army-crawled to the nearest window.  There was something out there, and it could very well be aliens. 
     Suspended about 200 feet above the ground was a flying craft of some sort.  The powerful spotlights surrounding the body of the flying device gave me enough of an idea as to the general shape and size of the object.  Clearly, we were not being invaded by giant Klingons. 
      After a few seconds of creative thinking, I decided to give that up and think logically.  Disappointed in the fun that reality had taken away from my moment, I decided that the craft was most certainly a helicopter. 
      What happens when I begin to think is I can't stop thinking.  My second brilliant question was why?  Why was there a mysterious helicopter outside my window waking up babies and scaring dogs to cower tail-tucked behind couches?  This is the real scary part.  Nothing made sense.  Not logically anyway. 
     Nothing made sense until I heard another noise above the sound of the spinning.  A banging sound had reached my ears from two floors below.  It wasn't deafening, but the fact that I could hear anything at all was a sheer miracle. 
     So I hid.
     I suffered through each day living with my parents only because they didn't charge rent.  We barely saw each other anyway, which had its benefits (certainly) but also its downfalls.  They were both at meetings and not expected home for another two hours.  We had a dog too.  I like to call him the sane one.  Wise pup.  At the age of seven, the beagle knew no other life than to sleep, waddle, and eat.  Occasionally he relieved himself, but he was neither trained nor tall enough to let himself out.  When no food was involved, the dog would not leave the safety of the couch. 
     So, naturally I hid.
     The only reasonable explanation was that an intruder had figured out our lock (or at least figured out that we had not used it) and let himself in.  The helicopter must be looking for this fugitive. 
     So I grabbed my phone and hid in the closet. 
     The spinning was growing fainter by the second as was the vibrating.  I feared what I might here when the copter completely left. 
     So I sunk deeper into the closet and hid my face in my hands.  (If you can't see him, he can't see you.)
     There were other noises.  Certainly other noises.  I heard footsteps, there was no doubt about footsteps.  The sound of heavy footfalls, banging pots, hoarse whispering, and, eventually, breathing reached my perked eardrum.
     So I crawled out from my hiding spot and looked for an answer.  I needed to lock the door only 14 stairs below me.  There was no way I would get down there without being noticed.  A distraction. There had to be a distraction.
     Desperately, I searched the room for something to throw.  Books and clothes were options but dull ones at best.  I needed something that the criminal or criminals wouldn't expect.  Something soft.  Yet something hard.  Something small and big at the same time.  Something like a -- like a cat. 
     My eyes flashed to the fur ball sleeping comfortably on a pile of clothes I had decided to use as a floor ornament.  She was the perfect size and shape.  She had everything going for her.  Throwing her down the stairs was a perfect distraction. 
     I picked her up and crept closer to the stairs.  Footsteps were coming toward the open doorway below.  There wouldn't be much time. 
     The cat curled against my hand as I lifted her in a position that would present an easy enough cat-cannon.  The figure was nearing my door.
     I inched closer to the stairs. 
     Suddenly, a shadow figured by its creator entered my view.  I nearly fell down the stairs.
     "There's left-overs in the fridge if you get hungry.  I'll see you later.  I'm going to be late."
     I nodded, dumbstruck, as my father disappeared beyond my sight.
     "And stop torturing that cat," he called back to me.
     I set the cat down on the carpet, and she angrily stalked off downstairs.  I followed her as far as my door.  My father had clearly proved that the house was safe.  I locked the door for good luck and returned to the keyboard.
     That's when the tapping began.




(*Hope you enjoyed.  I'll spend a little more time on another one in the future.

Yours,
Kate


P.S.  Alright, I caved.  I'm attempting to write the story that I was unable to bring myself to even begin earlier.  However, the writing is no short of choppy and as of yet makes very little sense.  I don't know if writing it will do any good or will ever be anything more than another blog and another woe story.  However, if it touches one soul and convinces him or her not to make the same mistakes I have, then I have succeeded and can die happy.  If you would like to read along, the blog name is HowIDestroyedLife.