Self Known

Once upon a time, there was a princess with a fear. Now, this princess did not fear the arrival -- or lack thereof -- of her prince. She did not fear peas under mattresses, letting down her hair, or the loss of glass slippers (such shoes were awfully uncomfortable anyway!). She feared her duty to her kingdom. Now, the princess was next in line for the throne, but she knew that her loyalties to her people began long before the crown would be placed upon her brow. There were hearings where great hoards of people gathered to ask the King for advice on their troubles. She would listen in and come up with entirely different solutions than her wise father and their royal ruler. Every week she would attend a banquet or party of some kind with her friends and listen to their gossip and troubles. They would give each other advice while she listened, piecing everything together without a word. These were the moments she would replay in her head until it kept her up at night ...

We have a big library downtown near the community college. It's a bit shady when you visit because you'll have to squeeze down an alleyway if you want to park in the parking garage for easy access. You can almost tell on the way in what it's going to look like because the accents against the concrete floor are bright colors -- sharp lime and sky blue. You ride the elevator one floor up, completely oblivious and honestly, not ready for the doors to open. Everything is white. You see peeks of marble around the corner, and the eye candy of empty space lures you in, allowing the elevator to close after you with a ding. An invisible cable from the center of the building winds around your waist, pulling you in. Around the corner, the building explodes, and it's no longer just white and marble, but beautiful stone, pillars, and wooden hand railings. Above there are decorative balls that look they're metal feathers silently welded to one another. Security asks how y...

Honestly, the things that work for all the big shot writers have always scared me. "I push through the writer's block." "I get up at 5AM to watch the sunrise as I write 1,000 words. Once I hit that goal, I stop and starve myself until the next day so I can continue writing." "I'm J. K. Rowling." "Writing is my life. Without it, I would die." It scares me because I don't work that way. I never have. I came into the writing game "late" so to speak. I only really  started when it felt like the real world wasn't safe enough for me to live in anymore, and in order to escape, I had to make up my own. I would write for hours, staying up late (which was just past 10 o'clock back in those days -- nowadays "late" is after midnight), hiding the light of my laptop from my parents and always thinking about my work. I'm no longer like that now. Don't get me wrong! I love writing! I love...

This is a concept I came up with a million years ago * but I am just getting around to expressing. I guess some ideas take longer to formulate than others... * Approximate Humans fight for their rights all the time. It's time for your favorite characters to fight back as well. I feel like everyone has read a book that clicks with them. That book that you want to share with friends, family, teachers, and even random people on the street because you feel it's just that good. (Bonus points if you've actually told a stranger about your favorite book.) I know that when I talk and rant about a book to my family members their eyes tend to glaze over, or their attention flits back to what they were originally doing. I don't blame them. I'm not the best at explaining things verbally. But that's not going to stop me from spreading the love I have for The Book . On the flip side... There is a small chance that when you do share your book, and someone does pick...

*blows dust off keyboard and wipes screen with sleeve* Yo. *taps device* You still there? It's been awhile. BUT I'M BACK. Did you miss me? Or more importantly, did you miss Sienna and her friends? ;) Especially that Lief boy. I mean come on now... Thank you for waiting for patiently for this *cough* last *cough* update. What? Who said that? Hey! Come back here! - - - Sienna was silent for the rest of the day. Her smother would have been very proud. She’d always asked Sienna to stop talking so she could hear the person on the other side of the phone. “Sorry, what was that? There was a pest buzzing around my ear.” At least Sienna knew what it was really like to have pests buzzing about her ears. The tent Lief had stuck her in lived across from the paddock the green people kept their livestock in. Fat flies skirted in through holes and tried to wash their hands on her sweaty forehead. Lief hadn’t unbound her or left her with any sort of instructions. He had...

People are wild flowers waving in the wind. The ones that are the sweetest, prettiest, and have all their petals are chosen first. Uprooted with a sweaty fist. And its fellows watch in awe and wonder, wishing they were between those fingers. Wishing they had been chosen. Dubbed Beautiful Enough to be picked. But the uprooted are placed in a glass vase. And they rarely see the sun. They are isolated. Seen only by the eyes of the person who condemned it in the first place. Without nutrients, light and friends this Special Flower child -- this Chosen One -- doesn't realize until too late that its life has leaked out and fallen from its scalp. They are dry. Brittle. And then replaced. The cycle repeats again. Just like what happens with the human race.

Wassup? I can't believe it's been two weeks since the last update of The Tree Folk ? I took a pause in updates to gather my strength and focus on some other things, but now I'm back and alive as ever! Thank you so much for the encouraging comments you leave. You have no idea how much good a few kind words can do for a soul. Especially one that is hypersensitive when it comes to sharing her writing... I wish I could express how thankful I am for you . But words just don't cut it. When we last saw Sienna she was meeting Prince Gorrell (hehe) and had taunted Lief. Anyone have any ideas as to where this will lead? Feel free to comment your theory below... Without further ado, The Tree Folk , part 4. Did you miss parts one through three? No biggie! Visit this page to catch up . - - - By that point, Sienna was completely lost. Of course, the talking tree wasn’t her biggest problem. Now there were pasty princes and this green boy who was comedically name...

When I was younger, all I wanted to do was dance. I took classes until taking classes meant you were serious about becoming a professional ballerina. I had been dancing for so long that I thought that's what I wanted. But I only wanted to dance . Months before my intense dance training stopped, things were going south (emotionally especially). UNTIL I got an idea. It was for a book -- the best book ever to be written! -- and I was to call it The Memory Keepers.  That was my focus for those last few months of pain. Writing helped me escape. When I stopped dancing, I had loads of time. So much time that I practically went crazy. I had cut myself off from all my ties and everything was free, so... I wrote. And somewhere in the process of trying to escape what was happening and doing it successfully, a dream grew. I want to become the best YA author the world has ever seen . But dreams are hard. Here I am almost five years later and I feel like I...

And here we are with part three. By the time this post is up I will be back from camp. (Dear Future Rosie: was it swell? Also, has the zit on your forehead gone away yet?) This year I was a counselor (shudder/wink) -- how crazy is that? Crazy awesome. Kind of like what's happening to Sienna right now, eh? #thatsegwaytho - - - In case you missed them, here are parts  one and two . - - - Was this truly happening? Was this tree talking to her? It was. And it kept talking, as though it were perfectly normal for it to talk. She looked around at the men who had dragged her there. Surely they had some sense to understand that this was crazy too. But they only sneered when she laid her eyes on them. “Sienna, are you paying attention? We don’t have much time.” “I’ve finally gone mad.” “They always say that,” someone behind her retorted. The tree laughed, only to be cut off by what sounded like a fanfare. Sienna’s captors went rigid as the leaves border...

Who's ready for part two?! I am so happy to have received the feedback I did for part one. Thank you so much to those who commented and suffered through that post sending out like 8 times. -.- You make my day. <3 Alright, let's get on with it, shall we? Last time we saw Sienna she was being mummified by vines. Let's see if she can figure out what's going on and get herself out of this mess... - - - They dragged her along, the three of them chattering in warbled voices. She strived to understand, to grasp at information that would give her the knowledge she’d need to navigate the situation. But for the most part, it sounded like birds chirping together in an intense commutative soprano. She tried not to panic. Because the more she did, the more moss she snuffed up her nose. Eventually, the tweeting stopped and the air around her stiffened. They stopped dragging her along the ground, and the few moments of silence that followed were deafening. Th...

There's something I haven't done in a long time. And that is, share a story. I've written loads for you guys over the years, but when it comes to novels, I'm always -- hm, what's the proper word for it? -- terrified  to share what I've written. Mostly because I get this notion like it needs to be edited and make sense and I need to reread it and *brain overloads and nothing gets done* BUT NOT TODAY! Okay, well, I did edit this but that's beside the point. I'm sharing a snippet of a current WIP, my dear friend, and I am entrusting its growth to you. :) Without further ado... - - - “Stupid Craig and his stupid rules and his stupid protein bars and—AGH! GO AWAY BUG. And his stupid trooper scarf thing! Well here you go, Craig!” She ripped the bandana off her throat, stomping on it for good measure. “There! Now find me!” The forest around her was eerily quiet. She turned around in a circle, a small breeze brushing her arms. She watched a...

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Dec 16th, 2014 People with small hands remind me of frailty, purity and loss. The bones in their fingers are small, their skin holding in their tendons and muscles. The scars of the small-handed folk, along with sight of the slips between their fingers fills me with an overflowing sort of joy. Small hands are one of the things that make me happy. Why? Because small hands know loss. If we had to hold our watery lives in our hands, the souls with tiny palms wouldn't be able to cup it all, and the parts of them would slip through their finger-cracks. Do you have small hands?

There are no rules when it comes to writing what you want to write. There are absolutely no boundaries. You're allowed do as you want, for whoever you want to do it for. You can use your words for anything you'd like - good or bad, healing or dismantling, expressing or not. And it doesn't matter what anyone else says. They're your words. You control them. (You think I would have learned this sooner.)

What makes you happy? Caffeine at six in the morning? Whipped yogurt that tastes like key lime pie? Water sipped from your favorite glass? How about that book you read? The one with the ending that made you cry. When I ask this question, and when you ask yourself this question, you should be sitting down on your bed, or holed up in a cozy corner. You should be lying awake at night, studying the ceiling full of faintly glowing sticker stars your parents put up there for you when you were six. You should be ready to close your eyes and get deep with yourself. You should be prepared to roll onto your left side, then your right side, then roll onto your back before shifting onto your belly. You should want to know the answer. "What makes me happy?" When pursuing happiness, you have to want it. You have to want it with a fiery passion. You have to be willing to step out of your comfort zone - away from your fear - and into what's right for you. Whatever that may be...

Do you remember me? The girl who watched. Waited. Hoped. Prayed.   Do you remember the words we shared? Our exchanges. Glances. Nods. Gestures. Do you remember what I looked like? The dull color of my eyes. The height difference between us. The freckles on my nose. Do you remember what it was like to see me? The sharp inhales. Steeled glances. Small smiles. Do you miss me? I miss you. So much. It hurts. I wish I could have stayed. I wish I could have gotten to know you better. I wish I could have said   the things that were on my mind. But I kept my mouth shut. Something I regret, even months later. Do you regret? Part of me wishes you do. Part of...

Withdrawn. May 1st, 2014 4:10PM When I speak, or even bother to open my mouth at all, people snap their heads in my direction, and I let my words out with a hesitance. Their eyebrows crinkle, and sometimes they frown. But they always--always--say,  what? So I repeat what I had to say, a reluctance in my tone. If I'm lucky, they heard me. But usually I'm asked to repeat what I just said. Again. I end up repeating myself for the third time--this time shouting as I do so. They flinch and I flinch, retreating back into my head. It wasn't meant to sound so harsh. These experiences, they make me regret my words. Regret that I ever had anything to say at all. Because all they receive is polite laughter or a scowl. They make me draw back into myself and keep my mouth shut on certain topics. I've withdrawn within myself. Keeping it in because, in all honesty, is what I have to say important? To anyone? Or am I so far within myself, that when I speak my tongue c...

If you haven't fallen into the depths of depression or anxiety, self-hurt or hatred, then you may want to turn back while you can. But before you go, let me congratulate you, dear reader, on your success, for so many wonderful human beings have broken down because they see world around them as unfair or--in a way--lost. Life as we know it tends to get complicated as we grow up, taking in the our surroundings with a new and mature sense. When we were younger we saw the world through a "glitterized" film, a sparkling place full of possibilities and giggles, chocolate milk bubbles and friends. But we've grown, haven't we? From our childish minds that have been hit with reality, we recoil from this new found, fear-inflicting feeling. We discover the world for what it truly is; people trying to live. I do not know any other way to put this but my dear friends the world is  dying . The people around us are  dying . We all think we're alone because our no one a...

Hiding to se/peek. Se/peeking to find. Finding to wo/ander. Wo/andering to hide. xx Nicole Rose

Us. The moment I met you, your name was imprinted on my skin. It was like a small scar. I could hide it, and no one would know what you did to me. No one would know about the impression you made on me. Our first conversation felt like a breath of fresh air. Like I was coming up out of the water, my lonely desperation spraying you as I heaved. I jumped at the chance to be your friend--acquaintance--distant companion. I don't know why. Maybe it's because of the marks you left on my skin. As we grew together, from distant companionship to closer than friends, the imprint turned into an inked tattoo. It blossomed so fiercely I didn't know whether or not to be embarrassed and hide it, or to sport it around with a high chin, and swayed hips. I studied you when you weren't looking. I searched to see if you had the same marks as I. To see if I made an impression. But your skin was smooth. Flawless. Left untouched. And then one day, I cracked. I came out to you....